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  She settles on U2. Her friend Jessie’s voice, girlie-giddy—drifts back over the years. “Bet I can guess your favorite song on Joshua Tree.”

  Amelia doesn’t want to hear that one right now, doesn’t need any reminders that she still hasn’t found what she’s looking for.

  She finds the perfect song and Bono’s voice replaces Jessie’s in her head, singing about a beautiful day as they cruise past horse-drawn carriages, joggers, and baby buggies. The park is a tapestry of gold leaf–dusted walkways and burnished foliage. Manhattan’s skyline gleams, stone and steel rising against a cloudless blue backdrop.

  Southbound traffic is heavy when they reach the FDR, and she arrives at the brick office tenement on Allen Street just ten minutes before her first appointment. Had she taken the subway, she’d have had time to go over the client’s paperwork. Now she’s going in blind.

  She hurries up three narrow flights, fingertips skimming the wooden banister, its nicks and scars worn smooth by countless hands. At the turn of the last century, immigrants had jammed generations into tiny apartments beyond rows of transom-topped doors. Amelia likes to think the place remains charged with their optimistic energy.

  As always, a wisp of wistfulness grazes her heart when she reaches the door bearing a brass placard Amelia Crenshaw Haines, Investigative Genealogist. Calvin and Bettina Crenshaw would have been proud to see how far she’s come; famed Cornell University professor Silas Moss even prouder. But her parents are gone, and her friend and mentor now resides in the Alzheimer’s wing of an Ithaca nursing home.

  She opens the door to her office. Sunlight falls through the tall window. Beyond a metal fire escape, maple boughs rise from courtyards below, swishing red foliage in the breeze. The tin ceilings, exposed brick, and hardwood floors are original, spared before her time in an electrical fire sparked by rats gnawing through first floor wiring.

  “Whole place was infested when I bought it,” her landlord had said—after she’d signed the lease. Seeing the look on her face, he’d assured her that he’d long since rid the building of rodents, but every time she crosses the threshold, she does a quick check for evidence. She knows what to look for, having grown up in a neighborhood where rats were the least scary thing that might leap out from a dark corner.

  Amelia opens the window. A warm wind drifts in, along with distant sirens, as she sits at her desk skimming the client’s electronic file.

  Lily Tucker had been found as a toddler at a New Haven, Connecticut, shopping mall in 1990. She hadn’t matched the description of any known missing children.

  She and Amelia have a lot in common. Lily is also African American, and had been raised by loving adoptive parents. But she’d been older when she’d been abandoned, and might have some memory of—

  Amelia’s cell phone buzzes with an incoming call. She smiles when she sees who it is.

  “Happy anniversary, Mimi!”

  Jessamine McCall Hanson is the only person in the world who’s ever called Amelia by that nickname.

  “Jessie, I can’t believe that with all you have going on, you never forget. You’re amazing.”

  “Don’t get too excited. This is pretty much the only thing I remember. I mean, last night, the power went out? And the first thing I thought was, ‘Crap! I forgot to pay the electric bill again.’”

  “Oh, no. They cut you off?”

  “Nah, it was just a thunderstorm. But I do keep forgetting to pay it. This middle-aged thing sucks, Mimi. My brain is total mush.”

  Funny—whenever Amelia hears her old friend’s voice, still with that giddy-girlie upspeak she’d had when they met, her mind’s eye pictures a young woman on the other end of the line. Yet Jessie is in her late forties now, a wife and mother with a master’s degree in social work and a busy career as a therapist.

  And Jessie, too, is a foundling, a kindred spirit she’d met through Silas Moss.

  Amelia asks Jessie how he is.

  “You know . . . the same. He’s been asking for you.”

  “Asking for me? Come on, he has not.”

  “Well, not asking. But he misses you. Whenever I tell him about you, he smiles, like he knows. He’s still in there somewhere, Mimi. Come see him. All of us.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “Why can’t you? We have plenty of room. Chip and Petty are away at school.” Jessie’s oldest son and daughter had been born Paul and Paige, long lost to their mother’s penchant for nicknames.

  “No foster kids?”

  “Not right now. Theodore’s been going through some stuff at school again, so we’re taking a little break from fostering.”

  “Oh, no. What’s going on?”

  “He’s just . . . it’s . . . complicated, you know?”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought things were better for him.” Jessie’s youngest child has special needs and has endured bullying and academic challenges over the years.

  “They were, but . . . I wish I could talk to you in person.”

  “Let’s plan a girls’ weekend at my place.”

  “What about Aaron?”

  “If he’s not traveling, he’ll make himself scarce. He’s good at that.”

  “Mimi, are you guys okay?”

  “Sure we are, we’re just . . .” She settles on Jessie’s word. “Complicated. I don’t know . . . maybe it’s just me, reading too much into things. I wish I could talk to you in person about this, too.”

  “Then come to Ithaca this weekend. It’s Apple Harvest Festival, and you only schedule morning appointments on Fridays, right? Take an afternoon bus, and you’ll be here in time for happy hour. Just like old times.”

  “Not this weekend, Jess. It’s our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Aaron’s planning some kind of surprise, and—” Hearing a knock, she curtails the call. “I have a client. We’ll talk soon, okay? Thanks for calling. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mimi.”

  Tucking away her phone and her wistfulness, she opens the door to one of the most stunning young women she’s ever seen.

  Amelia is five foot nine. Lily Tucker is taller. A model, maybe. She certainly has the willowy build and the looks. Her hair is cropped short, enhancing her delicate facial bone structure, glowing ebony complexion, and exotic wide-set eyes. She’s effortlessly glamorous in a simple white tee shirt, black blazer, designer jeans, and flats, with sunglasses on her head and an oversized leather bag over her shoulder.

  “Sorry I’m late. Metro-North was running behind.”

  “And here I thought it was the only commuter line in this city that runs like clockwork. I guess I’m glad I never moved to Connecticut. Come on in. I’m Amelia.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you on TV.”

  Lily sets her bag on the floor and settles on the couch, lanky legs crossed. Amelia sits on the opposite end, her back propped against the cushy leather arm, like a friend settling in for a chat.

  “First things first,” she says.

  “Oh, right. You take cash?”

  Amelia smiles. “You can pay at the end of the session, and sure, that’s fine. I’ll give you a receipt. But that’s not what I was talking about. The first thing for me is explaining what I do, and why.”

  She shares her own story with Lily, who asks about her home life, whether she’d been raised with siblings.

  “No, it was just the three of us—my adoptive parents and me.”

  “What about aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins . . .”

  She shakes her head. “My parents had relatives back where they’d come from, but no one had money to travel and visit.”

  “So you never met any of them?”

  “Just once.”

  Bettina’s favorite Auntie Birdie had traveled to New York from Marshboro, Georgia, when Calvin had passed away in 1989. Birdie’s grown daughter, Bettina’s cousin Lucky, had scraped up the plane fare.

  “We couldn’t bear the thought of you handling this sorrow all alone, child,” Auntie Birdie had told Amelia, soundi
ng so very much like Bettina. “At least when your mama died, you had your papa to lean on. Now, you lean on me.”

  Amelia had taken comfort in the elderly woman’s presence, sensing a visceral connection to a stranger with whom she didn’t even share a blood bond. Auntie Birdie had invited her to visit her mother’s hometown the following summer. But by that time, Amelia had met Aaron. He and her future in-laws had filled the gaping hole at last. For a while, anyway.

  “Are you still in touch with them?” Lily asks.

  “With my mother’s relatives? No, her aunt died not long after I met her, and I never did meet the others.” She shrugs. “Anyway, my adoptive parents loved me with all their hearts, and I miss them both every day. But I also miss the strangers who brought me into this world, and I’ve spent my entire adult life searching for them.”

  “Have you found any leads?”

  She shrugs. “Not really. But I won’t give up.”

  “Even after all these years?”

  “Would you?”

  “Never. But I’d think, you know, being on TV, you’d have an easier time finding information.”

  “I don’t talk about my personal search on the show. I’m just a consultant, not a guest.”

  “Maybe if they featured your story on an episode . . .”

  “They won’t. I’m not a celebrity.”

  The Roots and Branches Project delves into the genealogical pasts of prominent Black people—mainly entertainers, athletes, and politicians. Her television exposure has brought her more new clients than she can handle, and greatly increased traffic to her website, where her own story is featured. Maybe one day, someone will see it and come forward with a relevant lead. Maybe not. But it’s been gratifying to help others discover their own roots.

  Amelia takes notes as Lily recaps a happy childhood in a wonderful home where she still lives with her adoptive family. She paints an idyllic picture, recalling backyard pool parties and weekly board game nights around the kitchen table, girl scout camping trips, high school clubs, college honors . . .

  “You were really lucky, Lily. It sounds like you’ve had the perfect life.”

  “Too good to be true, right?” She looks down, toying with the piping on a throw pillow, probably staving off guilt over seeking the parents who’d presumably deserted her when she already has parents who love her.

  “Does your family know you’re meeting with me today?”

  “No. I don’t know what they’d say about it, but, you know, I needed to try.” She reaches into the leather bag and pulls out a battered manila folder, handing it over to Amelia. “These are newspaper clippings about how I was found in the mall.”

  “Can I keep them?”

  “Yeah. I brought the ring, too. Only that, you can’t keep.”

  “The ring?” She really should have gone over that paperwork.

  Lily hands over a small jewelry box. It’s plain, white, not from Tiffany, not ribbon wrapped.

  Amelia lifts the lid. A strangled cry escapes her as she recognizes the object inside.

  It’s a little gold initial ring, with tiny sapphires set on either side of an engraved letter C, filled in blue enamel.

  Chapter Two

  On the southbound approach to the Thousand Islands Bridge, mingling with the car radio’s drone, the Angler hears—or does he merely sense?—movement in the backseat. Maybe it’s pure paranoia-driven imagination as Customs looms around the bend. The dose of Rohypnol he’d administered back at the farm should last at least a few more hours. Long enough to get into the US so this second victim, if later found, won’t be traced right back to Canada.

  It had seemed like a good plan back at the farm, where he’d congratulated himself on his restraint. He could have killed the kid on the spot, but then what? He couldn’t paddle back out in broad daylight and sink a second victim alongside the first. If Monique ever floated to the surface, the cops wouldn’t find any obvious connection to him, but the kid is different. Dangerous. It would have to wait. He couldn’t risk transporting a dead body across the border. Even a live one is dicey, unless he’s sound asleep.

  The Angler glances into the rearview mirror, craning his neck until he spots tousled blond hair against the seat.

  “Hey. You awake back there?”

  No response, but that means nothing. The kid never has much to say, even when Monique was around.

  He rolls to a stop beside the uniformed border patrol officer and lowers the car window.

  “Good morning. Where you headed?”

  “Boston.” The Angler hands him two passports and nods toward the backseat. He’d come up with the story listening to sports radio. “We’re going to watch the Blue Jays beat the Red Sox tomorrow night.”

  “You sound pretty confident about that, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah. Huge fan,” he lies, watching the man examine both passports and peer into the backseat. “Poor little slugger was so excited about the trip he didn’t sleep a wink last night. He’s making up for it now, though.”

  The officer makes no comment.

  The Angler is glad he’d thought to throw a blanket over the kid from the neck down. Not just so that he’d appear to be napping, but to hide the dirt cellar filth and the fact that his shoes had been lost somewhere along the way.

  He sees the man glance at the tackle box on the passenger’s side floor.

  “Hoping we can do a little fishing, too, while we’re there.”

  “You got a license for that?”

  Damn.

  “Don’t need one when you take a charter.” It’s a guess, probably true, but if this guy knows anything about fishing in Massachusetts, he might question it.

  “Mmm,” is all he says.

  He braces himself for more tough questions, but the ones that come are innocuous. No, he’s not transporting anything into the country; yes, this is a short trip.

  “I’m a welder at a sheet metal manufacturer,” he says. “Taking a couple of days off from work to spend with him.”

  It’s a semitruth. He’d called in sick this morning.

  “And his mother?”

  “Oh, she’s . . . she passed away. I’m widowed. Just the two of us now.”

  He sees something flicker in the man’s gaze. Not sympathy. Suspicion?

  But it’s the truth. Even the widowed part—in his heart, anyway.

  The first time he’d seen Monique, she’d been dressed in white. Like a bride, he’d told her. All those years together—he could have ended it, but he’d chosen not to. Because he’d been committed. Because he loved her.

  And now look. Look.

  Tears sting his eyes and he swallows hard. He’s going to miss her, dammit.

  The officer hands back the passports and motions him to drive on, saying, “Have a good trip. Go Jays.”

  “What?”

  “The game.”

  “Oh! Right! Go Jays!” The Angler drives on, exhaling only when the bridge has disappeared in his rearview mirror, and he’s turned west to continue into New York State instead of east, toward New England.

  He tucks the passports back into the glove compartment. One is his own; the other, his son’s. No, not the sleeping child in the backseat, but a handsome blond boy who looks very much like this one, and lives, along with his mother and sister, in a comfortable suburban Ottawa town house.

  Pulling a rolling suitcase, Stockton Barnes steps out of his Washington Heights apartment building onto the sunny sidewalk. All is quiet at the construction site across the street. The workers are on a break. So are the toast-nibbling trio of elderly neighbors who park themselves in a row of webbed lawn chairs every morning, like aging groupies awaiting a free Sheep Meadow concert.

  Carl, Dabney, and Harvey are there to witness—and criticize—the erection of a new apartment tower that will block the sunlight from their rent-controlled apartments. Barnes, whose dim one-bedroom overlooks the air shaft, can live without the dilapidated coffee shop razed to make way for the tower. He can al
so live without the early morning jackhammers, but that phase should be finished by early next week, the three old men say, before peppering him—and each other—with questions.

  “What’s with the valise?”

  “Yeah, are you going somewhere?”

  “Of course he’s going somewhere. Why else would he have the valise?”

  “Who says valise anymore? Get with the times.”

  “Listen to Mr. Hep Cat over here.”

  Suppressing a smile, Barnes tells them that he’s going on vacation, opening the door to fresh commentary.

  “To the beach, in hurricane season? What are you, nuts?”

  “Don’t you watch the Weather Channel?”

  “Did he say he’s going to the beach?”

  “He’s wearing flip-flops. You’re going to the beach, am I right?”

  Barnes nods. “Yes, Carl, you are right.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not in Barbados because there’s a hurricane coming.”

  “Not a hurricane. A tropical storm.”

  “Eh, you’re both wrong. It’s a tropical depression!”

  Barnes, too, has seen the weather report. “Don’t worry, fellows. I’m not going to Barbados.”

  “Then where? Boca? No? But somewhere in Florida, right?”

  Barnes shakes his head. “No, not—”

  “Oh, I know—Mexico! No?”

  “Bahamas?”

  “Fiji?”

  “Fiji? Who the hell goes to Fiji?”

  “You got a problem with Fiji? Is it Fiji?”

  Barnes just shakes his head again, and they keep guessing and he keeps shaking until—

  “Hey, get a load of that!”

  All three of them fixate on something behind Barnes. He turns around. Beyond a row of parked cars and double-parked delivery vehicles, an extraordinary vehicle has rounded the corner from Saint Nicholas Avenue.

  Vintage Rolls-Royce. Gleaming turquoise paint job. Top down. Nice.

  “Looks like a ’57 Silver Cloud. That for you?”