"Are they twins?"

"No, but they look alike, and they look like Will, too. They're all little boys, and they all look alike."

Ellen burst into laughter, and it felt good.

"Well, it's the truth." Her father warmed to the topic, moving closer. "Didn't anybody ever say to you, 'Hey, you look just like somebody I know?' That ever happen to you, Elly Belly?"

"Sure."

"Of course. It happens to me all the time. I look like people, who knows? Handsome men. George Clooney, maybe." Her father grinned. "That's all you got goin' on here. Don't worry about it."

Ellen's heart eased a little. "You think?"

"I know. They look alike but they're not the same kid. Will is ours, forever. He's ours. ours." Her father gave her an aromatic, if awkward, hug, and Ellen knew he believed he had closed the deal.

"You sold me, Dad."

"I'm always selling somebody, kiddo." Her father grinned again. "But it's easy when you believe what you sell, and I believe this. Relax, honey. You're getting all worked up over nothing. Forget all this nonsense."

Ellen wanted to believe him. If Will wasn't really Timothy, then it all went away and they could be happy again.

"You seein' anybody?"

"Huh?" Ellen didn't know when the topic changed. "You mean, like a date?"

"Yes, exactly like a date." Her father smiled.

"No."

"Not since what's-his-name?"

"No."

"Not interested in anybody?"

Ellen thought of Marcelo. "Not really."

"Why not?" Her father puckered his lower lip, comically, and she knew he was trying to cheer her up. "A knockout like you? Why put yourself up on the shelf? You should go out more, you know? Live a little. Go dancing."

"I have Will."

"We'll sit for him." Her father took her hand in his, encircled her with his other hand, and started humming. "Let me lead, you follow."

"Okay, okay." Ellen laughed, finding the box step of the fox trot, letting herself be danced around the kitchen to her father's singing "Steppin' Out with My Baby" as he steered her from the small of her back, his firm hand a perfect rudder.

"Will, come see your ol' Pops!" he called over his shoulder, and in the next minute, Will came thundering into the kitchen.

"Ha, Mommy!" He ran to them, and they took his hands and the three of them shuffled around in a ring-around-the-rosy circle, with her father singing and Will looking up from one to the other, his blue eyes shining.

Ellen couldn't sing because of the sharp ache she felt inside, a sudden pain so palpable that she almost burst into tears, and she wished that her mother were still alive to take Will's hand and dance with them in a circle, all four of them happy and whole, a family again.

But it was an impossible wish, and Ellen sent it packing. She looked down at her child with tears in her eyes and all the love in her broken heart.

He's ours.

Chapter Thirty-nine.

It was late by the time Ellen got Will home, having had dinner at the clubhouse with her father. Will and his repertoire of napkin antics had been the focus of attention during the meal, which had helped her forget about Timothy Braverman, at least temporarily. She wondered if G.o.d had intended children to provide such a service for alleged adults. We were supposed to be taking care of them, not the other way around.

She read Will a few books before bed and tucked him in, then went downstairs to close up the kitchen. The cardboard box of her mother's things sat on the butcher-block counter, and Oreo Figaro crouched next to it, sniffling it in his tentative way, his black nose bobbing to and from the box.

Ellen stroked his back, feeling the b.u.mpiness of his skinny spine, regarding the box with a stab of sadness. It was so small, not even a two-foot square. Could a mother be so easily disposed of? Could one mother be so quickly traded for another?

You could swap 'em out, and n.o.body would know the difference.

Ellen opened the lid of the box, and Oreo Figaro jumped from the counter in needless alarm. Stacked inside the box was a set of photographs in various frames, and the top one was an eight-by-ten color photo of her parents at their wedding. She picked it up, setting aside her emotions. In the picture, her parents stood together under a tree, her father wearing a tux and his I-made-my-quota smile. Her mother's smile was sweet and shy, making barely a quarter moon on a delicate face, which was framed by short brown hair stiffened with Aqua Net. She had roundish eyes and a small, thin nose, like the tiny beak of a dime-store finch, and at only five-foot-one, Mary Gleeson seemed to recede in size, personality, and importance next to her larger-than-life husband.

Ellen set the photo aside and looked through the others, which only made it tougher not to feel sad. There was a picture of her parents in a canoe, with her father standing up in the boat and her mother laughing, but gripping the sides in fear. And there was another of them at a wedding, with her father spinning her mother on the end of his arm, like a puppeteer.

Ellen set the photo down. She remembered seeing it and the others at their house, and now they were all being exiled, along with that part of his life. She resolved to find a place for them here. No mother deserved to be forgotten, and certainly not hers.

She went to the cabinet under the sink, got a spray bottle of Windex and a paper towel, and wiped the dust from the top photo. She cleaned all of them, working her way to the end of the stack until she noticed that between two of the photos was a packet of greeting cards, bound by a rubber band. The top one was a fortieth wedding anniversary card, and she took out the packet and rolled off the rubber band. She opened the card, and it was from her father to her mother, the signature simply, Love, Don. Love, Don.

She smiled. That would be her father. He was never big in the elaboration department, and her mother would have been happy just to have the card, on time. Ellen went through the other cards, all saved by her mother, but the last envelope wasn't a greeting card. It was an envelope of her mother's stationery, the pale blue of the forget-menots that grew by their sugar maple in the backyard.

Ellen knew what it was, instantly. She had gotten a note like that from her mother, too, written right before she died. The front of the envelope read, To Don. To Don. The envelope was still sealed, and she ran her fingertip along the back of the flap, double-checking. Her father had never opened the note. The envelope was still sealed, and she ran her fingertip along the back of the flap, double-checking. Her father had never opened the note.

Ellen didn't get it. Had he really not opened the note? Didn't he want to hear the last words of his wife, written after she knew she was going to die? She wasn't completely surprised, but she slid a nail under the envelope flap, and tugged the note out, its paper thick and heavy. The top flap bore her mother's embossed monogram, MEG, in a tangle of curlicues, and she opened the note, welling up at the sight of her mother's handwriting.

Dear Don, I know that you have always loved me, even if you have forgotten it from time to time. Please know that I understand you, I accept you, and I forgive you.

Love always, Mary

Ellen took the note and went to sit down in the dining room. The house was still and quiet. Oreo Figaro was nowhere in sight. The windows were inky mirrors, the dark sky moonless. For an odd moment she felt as if she were suspended in blackness, connected to nothing in this world, not even Will, asleep upstairs. She held the note in her hand and closed her eyes, feeling its heavy paper beneath her fingers, letting it connect her to her mother through s.p.a.ce and time. And at that moment, she knew what her mother would say about Will and Timothy, in that soft voice of hers. It was what she had written to Ellen in her final note.

Follow your heart.

And so there in the quiet room, Ellen finally let herself listen to her heart, which had been trying to tell her something from the moment she first got the card in the mail. Maybe her father thought it was crazy to worry, but inside, she knew better. She couldn't pretend any longer and she couldn't live the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She couldn't feel like a criminal when a cop pulled her over. She couldn't hide Will from his friends and neighbors.

So she vowed to follow her heart.

Starting now.

Chapter Forty.

Ellen entered the lawyer's office and took a seat, surrounded by bronze, gla.s.s, and crystal awards, like so many blunt instruments. She had met Ron Halpren when she did the series on Will's adoption, having interviewed him for his expertise on family law, and she counted herself lucky she could call on him on such short notice.

"Thanks for meeting me on a Sat.u.r.day," she said, and Ron walked around his cluttered desk and eased into his creaky chair.

"That's okay, I'm in most Sat.u.r.day mornings." Ron had light eyes behind tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses, a halo of fuzzy gray hair, and a s.h.a.ggy graying beard to match. His frame was short and pudgy, and he looked like Paddington Bear in his yellow fleece pullover and thick jeans. "Sorry we're out of coffee. I was supposed to bring it in, but I forgot."

"No problem, and thanks for accommodating Will." Ellen gestured to the secretary's desk outside, where Will was eating vending-machine Fig Newtons and watching a Wizard of Oz Wizard of Oz DVD on the computer. DVD on the computer.

"It's great to see him so healthy. What a difference, eh?"

"Really." Ellen shifted forward on the chair. "So, as I said on the phone, I'm seeing you in your official capacity, and I want to pay for your time today."

"Forget it." Ron smiled. "You made me look like Clarence Darrow in the paper. I got tons of clients from that press. I owe you. you."

"I want to pay."

"Get to the point." Ron gestured toward the door. "I hear the scarecrow singing. We don't have much time."

"Wait, let me ask you something first. Is what we say absolutely confidential?"

"Yes, of course." Ron nodded. "How can I help you?"

Ellen hesitated. "What if a crime is involved? I didn't commit it, but I know, or I suspect, that a crime has been committed by someone else. Can you still keep this confidential?"

"Yes."

"So if I tell you about this crime, you wouldn't have to report it to the police?"

"I'd be barred from so doing."

Ellen loved the authoritative note in his voice. "Here goes. I think that Will could be a kid named Timothy Braverman, who was kidnapped in Florida two years ago."

"Will? Your Your son Will?" son Will?"

"Yes."

Ron lifted a graying eyebrow. "So the crime in question is the kidnapping?"

"Yes, it was a carjacking gone wrong, and the kidnapper murdered the boy's nanny."

"Those are past crimes, unless we consider the fact that you retain custody of a kidnapped child as a continuing crime, which I don't think it is. You did legally adopt him."

"Here's what I need to know. If Will is really Timothy, what are my legal rights? Could the Bravermans, his birth parents, take him from me? Would I have to give him up if they found out or if they came and found us? Wouldn't it matter to the court that he lived with me for two years?" Ellen had so many questions that they ran into each other on the way out of her mouth. "That I'm the only mother he's ever really known? Would that-"

"Please, slow down." Ron held up his hands. "Tell me how you found this out, about Will."

So Ellen told him the story from the beginning, showing him her adoption file, the composite drawing, and her computer printouts of Timothy and Will at their various ages. "By the way, my father thinks I'm crazy. He's the only other person I've told."

Ron studied the photographs on his desk, even placing the composite tracing over the photo enlargement of Beach Man. Finally, he looked up at her, his expression grave behind his gla.s.ses.

"What do you think?"

"You're not crazy, but you are speculating." Ron's gaze remained steady. "The composite drawing is the linchpin, and you can't support your belief that Will is Timothy Braverman by comparing the composite with a photograph. It just isn't reliable enough. I see some similarity, but I can't be sure it's the same person."

Ellen tried to process what he was saying, but her emotions kept getting in the way.

"I'm not an expert, and neither are you. Composites, as a legal matter, cannot stand alone. Any one of my first-year law students can tell you that a composite is merely an aid to the identification and apprehension of a suspect. They're not a positive identification." Ron shook his head. "You don't have enough information on which to base any conclusion that Will is the kidnapped child."

It was the same thing her father had said, only in lawyerspeak.

Ron continued, "Now, the first question you should have is whether you have an obligation to go to the authorities with your suspicion. Answer? No, you don't."

Ellen hadn't even thought of that.

"The law doesn't impose responsibility on the citizenry to report crimes that are so speculative in nature."

"Good."

"That's not to say that you couldn't voluntarily report your suspicion to the authorities, if you wished. I'm sure there are fingerprints of Timothy Braverman on file, or blood tests that could be done, or DNA a.n.a.lysis that would determine if Will is Timothy." Ron tented his fingers in front of his beard and looked at her directly. "Obviously, you're concerned that if you tell the authorities and you're right, you would lose Will."

Ellen couldn't even speak, and Ron didn't wait for an answer.

"You're also concerned that if you're not right, you'd cause the Bravermans more pain and upset."

Ellen hadn't thought of them, but okay.

"Let's take a hypothetical. a.s.sume for a moment that you're right. Will is Timothy."

Ellen hated the very sound of the sentence. "Could that even happen?"

"Hypothetically, it's easy, now that I give it some thought. All that is required for a valid adoption is a birth mother to produce a birth certificate, which is easy enough to fake. Unlike a driver's license or a pa.s.sport, it doesn't even have a photo." Ron stroked his beard. "And she has to supply a signed waiver of her parental rights, from the birth father, too, which is also easy to forge, and she could make up the father's name. There are plenty of cases from mothers who put a child up for adoption without the father's consent. They're very common."

Ellen was remembering the elementary school, where Charles Cartmell's house was supposed to have been. The Charles Cartmell that n.o.body had heard of and who didn't exist.