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leaned back in his seat. “We’ll let the sheriff save us the time and trouble on that one.” She’d never make it as a detective. Ninety-five percent of his job was to hurry up and wait. Sometimes the tedium became downright boring. No, Sophie couldn’t tolerate sitting still for any length of time, let alone being cooped in a car on a stakeout or behind a desk doing mountains of paperwork.
    “I’m hoping the sheriff spends his time finding out that this house belongs to my mother before he turns his attention to locating my dad.” Her voice grew soft, almost inaudible. “If he finds out Dad’s missing—or worse, that his identity isn’t what it should be—he just might think I don’t have a right to be here. He wouldn’t throw me out of my own home, would he?” She chewed on a fingernail and made an obvious effort not to squirm in her seat while she waited for Cain to reply.
    “Don’t worry about it, Sophie. If the sheriff asks you to leave, I’m sure it will be temporary until we get the answers to some of these questions. My parents have a five-bedroom home right off Main Street. The place stands empty most of the time, now that Holly and I have a place of our own. I’m certain they’d love to have you. You’ve met my dad. He’s the town pharmacist. Mom owns the hair and nail salon right next door.”
    Move into town? Live with strangers?
    Sophie’s blood drained to her toes. Her legs trembled. She knew if she tried to stand she’d land flat on the ground in a hurry.
    She didn’t want to move into town. She certainly didn’t want to move in with strangers. There was a world of difference between being friendly when you sold a piece of art to a person and actually sharing the same roof. She knew her social skills were good. She could discuss current events and carry on lively conversations with the best of them. But making friends—sharing personal thoughts and feelings—letting people get close—she’d never had the opportunity to do that before and the thought terrified her.
    “Do you think that will happen?” Sophie’s voice was a mere whisper. “Do you think the sheriff will throw me out of my home?”
    Her eyes shone with terror. Her paleness made Cain wonder if she was about to be sick.
    He reached across the table and clasped her hand. “It’ll be okay, Sophie. No matter what happens, I promise it will be okay.”
    Sophie nodded. She cleared her throat, seemed to gather her resolve again and asked, “So we’re letting the sheriff do the research on the title. What’s our next move?”
    Our next move, indeed. Cain didn’t have one.
    The Charlottesville police department had already done a thorough investigation into Anthony Clarkston and the road was a dead end. The man didn’t exist. His identification papers were as phony as Sophie’s. Cain was a good investigator. But he had no idea how to locate a man who was smart enough not to leave a paper trail. He hesitated to make the next statement but knew he must.
    “We start searching each state morgue for unidentified male bodies.”
    She paled more, if that were possible, and simply nodded. “Good. I need to know—either way. Not knowing is torture. Can I help? I can make telephone calls or look things up on the internet or send emails. Whatever clerical stuff you need, I’m your gal.”
    Sophie Joy Clarkston climbed another rung on his admiration ladder.
    “Have you looked through all your belongings?” Cain asked. “There must be something I can follow up on.”
    Sophie’s eyes widened and she flapped her hands in excitement. “I almost forgot. Wait here.”
    She dashed from the room and returned almost before he noticed she’d left. “Look.” She shook a photograph in front of his face. “I found this tucked away in my mother’s Bible when I was cleaning up last night.”
    He took the faded, badly wrinkled photo from her hand and stared down at the aged image. The picture had been taken at a distance so the