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name, I’ll grant you that, but still—it could easily be a coincidence.”
    “But you should see her! The resemblance is most uncanny. She looks just like a female version of Tony.”
    “That’s Cybil’s father, I presume?”
    “Yes,” Mrs. Drummond said, but it came out as a croak. “I remember him well to this day, although I never saw him again after…what happened. Cybil is just like him—the face, the hands, the movements.”
    I waited a minute, but she seemed to be done with her story.
    “Where do I come in, Mrs. Drummond?” I tried not to sound impatient.
    “Perhaps you could find out some things about this Cybil. Date of birth and such. And whether she’s a reputable person. You know, if her age fits, I’d like to approach her, talk with her, maybe ask her to have her DNA tested—but not without some reassurance about her background.”
    “Seems prudent to me, Mrs. Drummond,” I said.
    I looked over my notes. “Just how do you know she’ll be at this particular Moonstone at eleven on Thursday?”
    Mrs. Drummond smiled for the first time. “I’m afraid I played detective myself for a little bit there. You see, I was visiting Disneyland with my little nephew, Steven. That’s my sister Edith’s boy. I moved in with Edith after Earl died last year. Anyway, we were strolling through Downtown Disney, and there she was, coming out of the coffee store. I was thunderstruck. I wanted to follow her right then, but with Steven in tow, that was hardly an option.”
    She took a deep breath. “So then I basically set up camp at the Moonstone, hoping to see her again. Lo and behold, a week later—a Thursday—she shows up again, a little before eleven. My ears rang when she told the cashier her name. You know, for the order? The Thursday after, she was there again.”
    “You’ve never tried to follow her, find out where she lives?”
    “Oh, try I did,” Mrs. Drummond said, looking sheepish. “But my detective abilities don’t extend that far. I’m not a fast walker.” She sighed and touched her calf as if to illustrate. “Edema.”
    * * *
    I had hardly opened the apartment door when I heard Cathy call out my name.
    “Benson!”
    She flew toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I lifted her up from the floor. She was light as a helium balloon, but a lot shapelier.
    Cathy held me very tight. I could feel her breasts pushing against my chest. There was something obsessive about the passionate display of affection.
    “How was your day,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t get that far, because she closed my mouth with her lips. As we kissed, I noticed that her cheeks were damp.
    I had to expend some effort to pry her off me. She met my gaze, her chin lifted in an attempt to appear brave and fierce. But the film over her eyes told a different story.
    “What happened, honey?” I asked, holding both her hands. “Not your folks again, is it?”
    She nodded. “I just hung up five minutes ago.” Her eyes welled up, and she looked aside.
    Cathy was nineteen and a junior in college. That made me twice her age. An older man, with a disreputable job, wasn’t according to the liking of her parents, both Newport Beach doctors. Since Cathy had moved in with me three weeks ago, they’d been terrorizing her on an almost daily basis.
    I took her in my arms and stroked her back. Most of the time I figured if two adults loved each other and wanted to live together, it was nobody else’s business. But every once in a while, I had second thoughts and wondered whether Cathy was really mature enough to make these kinds of decisions.
    “You know, honey, if you want to reconsider the whole living together plan, I totally understand,” I said, but without much conviction. I had to admit it felt wonderful to have somebody to come home to.
    Cathy pushed me away and stomped her feet. “But I want to live with you. It’s just so frustrating that they don’t understand.”
    She yanked a tissue from the Kleenex