Though Ryan opened windows in the parlor and kitchen, little breeze penetrated to the windowless bedrooms in the back of the flat. Four hours into the task, my eyes itched and my shirt was saturated.

Cormier had stored many of his records in large brown or blue envelopes. The rest he'd placed in standard manila jackets, the kind you buy at Staples.

And Ryan was right. The guy was lazy. In some drawers he hadn't even bothered to set the files upright, choosing instead to dump them flat in piles.

Most envelopes were marked with the client's name in black felt-tip pen. Most file folders were labeled on their tabs. Both envelopes and folders contained contact sheets and negatives in shiny paper sleeves. Some contact sheets bore dates. Others did not. Some files held photocopies of checks. Others did not.

By early afternoon, I'd stared at hundreds of faces frozen in variations on "I'm so happy" or "I'm so s.e.xy." Some had caused me to linger, pondering that moment when Cormier clicked the shutter.

Had this woman curled her hair and glossed her lips for a disinterested husband? Was her head filled with hopes of rekindled romance?

Was this child thinking of Harry Potter? Of her puppy? Of the ice cream she'd been promised for cheerful compliance?

Though I'd set several folders aside, solicited the opinion of Hippo or Ryan, in the end, I'd added each to my stack of rejects. Some resemblance, but no match. The girls were not among the cold case MP's or DOA's of which I was aware.

Hippo was shuffling paper on the far side of the room. Now and then he'd stop to Dristan a nostril or swallow a Tums. Ryan was across the hall in Cormier's office. It had been almost an hour since either had sought my opinion.

My lower back ached from lifting armloads of folders, and from leaning at an ergonomically inappropriate angle. Rising from the small stool on which I was balanced, I stretched, then bent and touched my toes.

The shuffling stopped. "Want I should order pizza?"

Pizza sounded good. I started to say so.

"Maybe phone Tracadie?"

"Give it a rest, Hippo."

I heard the thup thup of paper hitting wood. Then Hippo's face rose above the far row of cabinets. It looked parched and cross. of paper hitting wood. Then Hippo's face rose above the far row of cabinets. It looked parched and cross.

"I told you this Bastarache is a real piece of work. It would have been useful to have some people keep an eye on you from a distance in case things got close."

He was right, of course. Hippo's informants were legion. He could have kept track of us, and perhaps learned who else was doing so.

"Who's the blonde?"

"My sister." So he had had gotten feedback. Probably after my call. "We talked to Obeline. That's all. We didn't do any prowling around." gotten feedback. Probably after my call. "We talked to Obeline. That's all. We didn't do any prowling around."

Hippo did the hanky thing on his brow and neck.

"Do you want to know what we learned?"

"Is the skeleton this kid you knew?"

"I'm holding out for the pizza."

Hippo circled his row of cabinets. His shirt was so damp it was almost transparent. It was not a good look.

"Anything you don't eat?"

"Knock yourself out."

When he'd gone, I remembered. Ryan hates goat cheese.

Little chance, however, that Hippo would think outside the traditional sausage and cheese box. If he did, tough.

I got through another shelf before Hippo returned. I was right. Toute garnie Toute garnie. All dressed. Sausage. Pepperoni. Green pepper. Mushroom. Onions.

As we ate, I described my visit to Tracadie, repeating the encounter with the two thugs outside the bra.s.serie. Hippo asked if I'd caught any names. I shook my head in the negative.

"Bastarache's henchmen?" Ryan asked.

"Most of those guys are too stupid to hench." Hippo tossed his crust into the box and scooped another slice. "That don't mean Bastarache can't jam you up."

"All I did was visit his wife."

"The wife he beat up and set on fire."

I was determined to ignore Hippo's bad temper. "I'll send the DNA samples off tomorrow."

"Coroner likely to cough up the dough?"

"If not, I'll pay it myself."

"You put skeletal age at thirteen or fourteen," Ryan said.

"This kid was sick. If illness slowed her development, I could be low on my estimate."

"But Obeline said her sister was healthy."

"Yes," I said. "She did."

At five-fifteen, I heaved the last stack of files from the back of the bottom drawer of my eighth file cabinet.

The first was a glamour shot. Claire Welsh. Pouty lips. Pouffy hair. Pushy-up cleavage.

The second was a toddler. Christophe Routier. On a tricycle. In a rocker. Hugging a stuffed Eeyore.

The third was a couple. Alain Tourniquette and Pamela Rayner. Holding hands. Holding hands. Holding hands. The contact sheet was dated July 24, 1984.

Where was I the summer of '84? Chicago. Married to Pete. Mothering Katy. Finishing a doctorate at Northwestern. The next year Pete switched law firms and we moved to Charlotte. Home. I joined the faculty at UNCC.

My eyes drifted to the double row of gray metal cabinets. I felt overwhelmed. Not merely by the thought of plowing through that immense repository of human stories, but by everything. The dead and missing girls. The skeleton I was calling Hippo's girl. Evangeline and Obeline. Pete and Summer. Ryan and Lutetia.

Mostly Ryan and Lutetia.

Suck it up, Brennan. You were colleagues before you were lovers. You are colleagues still. He needs your expertise. If someone intentionally harmed these kids, it's your job to help nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. n.o.body cares about your personal life.

I opened the next file.

20.

S CRAWLED ON THE TAB WAS THE NAME CRAWLED ON THE TAB WAS THE NAME K KITTY S STANLEY.

Kitty Stanley stared into the lens, blue eyes rimmed with impossibly long lashes, amber curls sprouting from a black cloche hat pulled low to her brows.

In some shots, she sat with her arms circling a chair back, head resting on them. In others, she lay on her stomach, chin propped on interlaced fingers, feet raised, ankles crossed. Several frames showed tight facial close-ups.

The intensity. The heavy, straight brows.

Adrenaline flowing, I opened an evidence packet, chose a print, and held it beside Cormier's contact sheet. The strips of images were so small it was hard to evaluate.

Dumping everything from my lap, I found a hand lens on a cabinet top and compared the faces under magnification.

Kelly Sicard. Ryan's MP number one. The girl had lived with her parents in Rosemere, disappeared in '97 after a night drinking with friends.

Kitty Stanley.

Kelly Sicard.

Both had blue eyes, amber hair, and Brooke Shields brows.

Kelly Sicard was eighteen when she disappeared. Kitty Stanley looked maybe sixteen.

I flipped the contact sheet. No date.

Kelly Sicard.

Kitty Stanley.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

After studying the images for a very long time, I was convinced. Though lighting and focal distances varied, the girls shared the same high cheekbones, narrow interorbital distance, long upper lip, broad jawline, and tapered chin. I didn't need calipers and a computer program. Kitty Stanley and Kelly Sicard were one and the same.

Sicard looked so young. I wanted to launch my voice through the celluloid and speak to her. Ask why she'd come to this terrible place to pose for this man. Ask what had happened to her after that day. Had she gone to New York to pursue a dream? Had she been murdered?

And why the alias? Had Sicard hired Cormier without telling her parents? Lied about her name? Her age?

"I have Sicard." It came out dead calm.

Hippo shot to his feet and reached me in three strides. I handed him the lens, the photos, and the contact sheet.

Hippo squinted at the images. He really needed a shower.

"Cretaque!" Over his shoulder. "Ryan! Get your a.s.s in here."

Ryan appeared instantly. Hippo pa.s.sed him the lens and photos.

Ryan studied the images. He was also in need of soap and water.

"Sicard kid?" To me.

I nodded.

"You certain?"

"I am."

Ryan dialed his cell. I heard a faraway voice. Ryan asked for a woman I knew to be a crown prosecutor. There was a pause, then another voice came on the line.

Ryan identified himself, got straight to the point.

"Cormier photographed Kelly Sicard."

The voice said something.

"No date. Looks like a year, maybe two before she went missing."

The voice said something else.

Ryan's eyes rolled to me.

"Yes," he said. "I'm sure."

By seven, we'd searched half of Cormier's files. The three of us looked like Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, and the Scarecrow, sweaty, dirty, and discouraged.

We were all cranky as h.e.l.l.

Ryan drove me home. Except for a few exchanges concerning Cormier and my visit to Tracadie, we rode in silence. No mention of Charlie or Korn or Lutetia.

In the past, Ryan and I enjoyed challenging each other with obscure quotes in an ongoing game of "Who said that?" Goofy, I know. But we're both compet.i.tive.

A one-liner rapped at my forebrain. "Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored."

Aldous Huxley.

Good one, Brennan.

I settled for congratulating myself.