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  Even if their connection was ending before it ever really began, she loved him. She loved him as much as he loved her.

  He savored her look as long as he could. Then he blinked back tears, turned to the paparazzi, and flashed his famous smile. “Hey, guys, let up.” He held out his hands, his expression frozen for the cameras. “I’m all yours.”

  “Who was she, Dayne?” It was a big, bearded guy. One of the regulars. He was out of breath from running up the beach, but even so he kept snapping pictures. “We’ll find out eventually. Come on, tell us.”

  “Yeah, Dayne.” The other guy was a wiry twentysomething—new to the shady business of lurking around the back doors of celebrities. “Make it easy on us. Give us her name.”

  “All right.” He shrugged and gave them a practiced grin. In the distance he heard Katy pull her car onto the highway and speed off. “You caught me. Another day, another actress. What can I say?”

  “Was it Kelly Parker? It looked like Kelly.” The bearded guy had a line of sweat dripping down the side of his face. “Tell us it was Kelly and we’ll leave.”

  Dayne walked to his Escalade, watching them the whole time, smile still frozen in place. No one would’ve known that his heart was breaking in half. “Now, now . . .” He kept his voice upbeat, loud enough for them to hear. “Actresses get feisty when you give away their secrets.”

  “Then it is Kelly.” The young one jabbed his fist in the air. “I knew it!”

  “You guys are too smart for me.” Before Dayne climbed into his SUV, he waved big. “See ya.”

  His smile died the moment he slipped behind his tinted glass. She was gone. Katy was gone, and there might never be another moment like that between them again. Not ever.

  He turned the key in the ignition and backed up, leaving the photographers standing there wondering. Let them think it was Kelly. She would be with him soon enough. What mattered was that they didn’t know about Katy. That and they hadn’t seen his tears, hadn’t seen his heartache. As he sped off, he realized that he too was breathless. Not from running up the beach, like the paparazzi. But from pulling off the acting job of his life, smiling for the cameras, playing along.

  When all he wanted to do was collapse there on the pavement and cry.

  John Baxter settled back in the driver’s seat and tightened his grip on the wheel. The drive to Indianapolis couldn’t happen fast enough. It felt like a lifetime since his phone conversation with Tim Brown, the investigator, but it had only happened the day before. John had wanted to drop everything and head to the man’s office. But his appointment wasn’t until this morning at eleven.

  With no idea what was coming, John had called into his office and asked his secretary to reschedule his appointments. Now it was only a matter of willing the minutes to pass so he could look the investigator in the eye and hear the truth. Whatever the truth was.

  He flipped on the radio and hit the button for a country-music station. A commercial was wrapping up, and then the beautiful refrains of a song filled the car. A song he was familiar with. John recognized it before the first words. It was the group Lonestar singing their hit song “I’m Already There.” John leaned back against his headrest and turned up the volume.

  This was Elizabeth’s song, the one she’d listened to so often when she was sick. He remembered her once on the way home from chemotherapy, sitting beside him, thinner than before, her hair almost gone. “I love this song,” she told him. She’d reached for his hand. “If things don’t go the way we want, if things . . . don’t work out—” she smiled at him—“think of me when they play it, okay?”

  He listened to the words, words about that special person being there—even when it didn’t seem like they were. How that person would be there in the sunshine and the shadows, in the beat of a person’s heart or the whisper of their prayers.

  Tears stung at John’s eyes, and he realized something.

  It had been at least a week since he’d cried over losing Elizabeth. Not that he missed her any less. But the idea of missing her was getting more normal all the time, the rhythm of his routine without her more natural. He could still see her, of course. Still see her pale blue eyes, the way they jumped out, framed by her thick dark hair. The way it had been before the cancer. The trouble was sometimes the memories weren’t in color anymore. More like shades of gray.

  He listened to the song some more, hummed along—the way she had done whenever it came on. It was a rainy day, and snow hovered in the forecast, but John didn’t care. Elizabeth’s dying wish was enough to keep him warm even if he were to open all four windows.

  Her dying wish that somehow they find their firstborn.

  John clenched his teeth. God . . . why couldn’t we be taking this drive together, she and I? How come we didn’t find this investigator sooner? He waited for a response, but all that came to mind were the words on the plaque on his desk. Words from the nineteenth chapter of Matthew: With God all things are possible.

  All things.

  Then how come Elizabeth hadn’t found their son before she died? The questions rolled around like jagged stones in his mind. Or maybe God really did give people a window from heaven. Maybe Elizabeth was clasping her hands in excitement, as anxious as he was about the news that lay just ahead.

  And it would be news; it had to be. He’d spent a sleepless night replaying the investigator’s phone call. The man must have a find or detail, something important enough to have him come to Indianapolis in person to get the news. That could mean only one thing: Tim Brown, ace investigator, had found his son, his firstborn. It had to be that.

  John rejoiced over the possibility, but he had an equal amount of regret. Why hadn’t he tried this hard when Elizabeth was alive? She’d wanted the chance to meet their son so badly; the idea of it completely consumed her. But back then it hadn’t been a priority for him. All that mattered was keeping her alive, working with her team of doctors, and begging God for another year, one more month. One more day.

  At some point near the end of her battle, Elizabeth had peacefully let go of the fight to stay alive. Instead, she focused all her energy on finding their son, whoever he was, wherever he was. The child they’d been forced to give up. She was so adamant about making contact with him that the day before she died she’d convinced herself she had actually met him, that their firstborn had walked into her hospital room and shared an hourlong conversation with her.

  At first the drug-induced delusion had made him beyond sad. He had failed her, been unable to bring about her final desire. But now he felt differently about it. Perhaps the dream or hallucination was a gift from God, a way of easing Elizabeth’s pain in her dying days.

  John drew a long breath. A commercial came on the station, and he turned the channel to classical music. No more sad songs. Not when every song about love or loss seemed written for Elizabeth and him. He squinted and tried to read a road sign up ahead. Indianapolis—10 Miles. The roads were empty; he’d be at the investigator’s office in less than fifteen minutes.

  His thoughts rolled around some more. The issue with their firstborn son wasn’t as secret as it had been when Elizabeth was alive. Ashley knew now, and every few weeks she asked for an update. What was he doing about the search? Whom had he talked to? What investigator was working the case?

  She had an uncanny sense about the situation. Last night, hours after the call from Tim Brown, Ashley had phoned him. “Dad, I can’t stop thinking about him.” Her voice was soft, filled with emotion.

  John took a hopeful guess that maybe she was talking about her husband. “Landon?”

  She made an exaggerated sigh. “Dad, you know who.” She paused, and in the background he could hear Cole chattering away, something about having macaroni and cheese for dinner. Ashley lowered her voice. “My oldest brother.”

  Of course he knew. Ashley had started a dozen conversations this way since last fall when she found the letter Elizabeth had placed in an envelope marked Firstborn. Last night, th
ough, he hadn’t wanted to talk about his oldest son. He didn’t want anyone to know he was going to the investigator’s office until he had had time to sort through the information.

  “Honey,” he’d finally told her, “there’s nothing to say, no news. When I know something, I’ll call you.”

  He took the First Street exit and wound his way into the newer part of downtown. Tim Brown’s office was on the fourth floor of a white cement-block building. Snow began falling just as John found an empty meter on the street out front and parked his car.

  Five minutes later he stepped off the elevator and into the investigator’s sparse quarters.

  A woman at the front desk smiled at him. “Mr. Baxter?”

  “Yes.” John reminded himself to breathe. This was it; whatever had become of their son, he was pretty sure he was about to find out. He stepped forward and brushed a fine layer of snow off his coat. “I have an appointment with Mr. Brown.”

  “Have a seat.” She pointed to a pair of hard-back wood chairs. “Mr. Brown’s expecting you.”

  John did as she asked. The office didn’t have much of a view; the building across the street was newer and twice as tall. Without walking over to the window, that was all a person could see.

  He had expected the investigator to conform to the stereotypical image: slightly distracted and disheveled, lost in a mass of paperwork and flashing telephone lights. But Tim Brown was different. He was a fast-talking, intense professional, organized in his approach and with a keen eye for details. Details John had never even thought about. What sort of mission work had the adoptive parents done and where might they have done it? What church had they worked with? What was the name of the home where Elizabeth had lived during the last half of her pregnancy?

  They were obvious questions. But they couldn’t be answered in the court records—all of which were sealed.

  Tim Brown had told him there was nothing he could do to open court records. “We’re going deeper than that, Mr. Baxter. We’ll have to.”

  John had done his best to cooperate. When his answers were not quite clear or a little hesitant, Tim Brown had pushed him, asking three more questions for every answer John gave. “I’d rather have too much to check than too little,” he told John.

  That had been a week ago, and now here he was.

  The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall, and John drew a long breath. God, if it’s okay, can You let Elizabeth watch? Can You tell her how much I wish she were beside me right now . . . please?

  “Mr. Baxter?” Tim was a compact man with a runner’s build.

  John stood, and the two shook hands. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Sorry you had to come in. Like I said . . . the information is very sensitive.” A seriousness filled the man’s eyes. “Why don’t you follow me?”

  Something occurred to John as he followed him down a boxy hallway. Maybe the investigator wanted to give him this information in person because he’d found something terrible. Maybe their oldest son had enlisted in the service and been killed in action a decade ago. Or maybe he’d died in a car accident or from some sort of illness.

  Maybe he was behind bars for some heinous crime.

  Those were the sorts of details a PI couldn’t possibly feel comfortable sharing over the phone. Peace, God . . . give me peace. Be with me, whatever the news might be. . . .

  I am with you always, My son.

  This time there was no mistaking the small whisper in John’s soul. The words were part of Scripture, something he’d read a hundred times before. But he needed them now more than ever. He felt his shoulders relax a little.

  “Here we are.” Tim Brown opened a door halfway down the hall and moved straight to the simple office chair behind the desk. He motioned to the other one on the opposite side. “Have a seat.”

  John did. He took hold of the chair arms and focused on feeling the Lord’s peace once more. He was about to ask if the news was good or bad, but already Tim was opening a file half an inch thick at the center of his desk.

  “Mr. Baxter, I’ve found your son.”

  The room began to spin. John leaned forward, studying the investigator’s eyes, his face. Was the news that was coming somehow tragic or heartbreaking? John couldn’t read the man. He swallowed hard and found the words. “Is he . . . is he alive?”

  The man twisted his face, confused by John’s question. “Of course.” Then his expression eased. “You thought if I wanted you to come in person, then maybe . . .”

  “Well, yes.” John felt warm relief shoot into his veins. “I was concerned.” But not anymore. No matter what else the investigator had found, their son was alive. That much alone was enough to make goose bumps rise along his arms and neck.

  “Wow . . .” Tim Brown tapped his fist on his forehead a few times. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to put you through that. Sometimes I get so caught up in the answers in front of me that I expect a client to read my mind. I should’ve told you that I’d found him and he was alive. That much you could’ve known over the phone.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” John wanted the guy to move on. He slid to the edge of his chair and folded his hands on the desk. “What is it then? What did you find?”

  The man bit at the inside of his cheek and shook his head. “Once I located your son, once I figured out who he was, my search led me to another investigator in Los Angeles. The two of us have mutual friends in the business. He wouldn’t confirm anything, but he did say that he’d worked with your son in the past.”

  What? The room was spinning again. Their son had hired a private investigator at some point? Tim Brown was on a roll; John stayed glued to every word.

  The investigator shifted in his seat. “That got me thinking.” He stroked his chin. “If your son had hired an investigator, maybe he knew more about you than you knew about him.” He looked at the file. “Sure enough, I found a travel trail on the guy.” Tim looked up. “He’s been to Bloomington at least twice. Maybe more.”

  John could hardly exhale. Was the investigator serious? Their son had been to Bloomington? If so, he must know who they were. But then why had he come so far only to avoid making contact?

  “Let me see.” Tim moved his finger down a page partway through the file. “Here it is. The first time I have record of him traveling to Indiana was the summer before last.” He shot a look at John. “Wasn’t that when your wife died?”

  “Yes.” John gave him the date of Elizabeth’s death.

  “That’s what I thought.” He turned the file so John could see the dates. “Your son was in Bloomington the day before she died.” He paused. “Did you know that?”

  John sucked in a sharp breath. “Dear God . . .” He pushed the chair back and stood, clasping his hands at the back of his neck. He finished his prayer silently. Lord, did he find her? Did she really share an hour with him that day after all? He moved to the window and stared at the street below. Not for a minute had he believed Elizabeth. But if their son had come, if he’d shared an hour with her, then why hadn’t he stayed to meet the rest of the family? Surely Elizabeth would’ve told him that they were ready and willing—at least he was. The rest of them could’ve known soon after.

  He turned around and leaned against the windowsill. “She told me she met him that day, that he came in and talked to her while we were out getting dinner.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought . . . I thought she was delusional from the pain meds and cancer.” He squinted against the harsh glare of reality. “But if he found her, why didn’t he stay?”

  “First of all—” Tim pushed his chair back and kicked one leg over the other—“I hate to presume anything. I don’t know for sure if he spent time at the hospital. Just that it appears he was in town that day, and he left later that night.”

  “One day?” The pieces weren’t coming together, weren’t making sense the way John needed them to. He gripped the windowsill. “Doesn’t that seem strange?”

  For a moment Tim looked at the f
ile and then back at John. “Mr. Baxter, I have a lot more to tell you.” There it was again. The seriousness in the man’s face, the hint that this—whatever lay ahead—was the reason the investigator had called him all the way to Indianapolis.

  “Okay.” John crossed the room slowly and took his seat once more. “I’m listening.”

  Tim sorted through the file and made a sound that was more disbelief than utter amazement. “I’ve never had something like this happen in all my days as an investigator.” He studied John’s face and hesitated. “Mr. Baxter, your son’s in the entertainment business.”

  John slid forward in his chair. Another wave of relief washed over him. So he wasn’t in jail or in a mental facility. He wasn’t homeless or living an outcast’s life. “That’s it?” A small nervous chuckle came from his throat. The young man must be a producer or an agent. “That’s the big deal?”

  This time Tim laughed. “I don’t think you understand.” He flipped through the file until he reached a page near the back. “Your son’s an actor.” He pursed his lips. “One of the most famous actors of our day.”

  “An actor?” John recognized the feeling coursing through him. Back when the kids were very young, the family would sometimes spend an evening putting together a puzzle. The harder the better. The Baxters developed a technique after a while. Pull the edge pieces out first and try to make the frame. There was always a moment when the sections of the frame suddenly began coming together. That’s how he felt now. The picture wasn’t clear, but an image was definitely taking shape. He put his hands on the desk. “Would I . . . would I know him?”

  “Mr. Baxter—” he turned the folder around and pushed it toward John—“all of America knows him.”

  John leaned in and realized what he was looking at. There, taped to the bottom of the page, was a photograph cut from a magazine.

  A photograph of Dayne Matthews.

  John touched the image, stared at it, giving himself time to process the possibility. Again he was on his feet. He paced to the window and back, and for the first time—where his oldest son was concerned—he had more answers than questions. He stared at the ceiling and fought the light-headedness.