It was almost two weeks later, and Kerry was still basking in the satisfaction of the now concluded trial. She had gotten her murder conviction. At least the sons of the murdered woman would not have to grow up knowing that their mother’s killer would be walking the streets in five or six years. That would have happened if the jury had fallen for the manslaughter defense. Murder carried a mandatory thirty-year sentence, without parole.

Now, once again seated in the reception area of Dr. Smith’s office, she opened her ever-present briefcase and pulled out a newspaper. This was Robin’s second checkup and should be fairly routine, so she could relax. Besides, she was anxious to read the latest about the Jimmy Weeks trial.

As Frank Green had predicted, the consensus was that it would not go well for the defendant. Previous investigations for bribery, inside trading and money laundering had been dropped for lack of sufficient evidence. But this time the prosecutor was said to have an airtight case. If it ever actually got started, that is. The jury selection had been going on for several weeks, and there seemed to be no end in sight. It no doubt makes Bartlett and Kinellen happy, she thought, to have all these billable hours piling up.

Bob had introduced Kerry to Jimmy Weeks once, when she had bumped into them in a restaurant. Now she studied his picture as he sat with her ex-husband at the defense table. Take away that custom-tailored suit and phony air of sophistication, and underneath you’ve got a thug, she thought.

In the picture, Bob’s arm was draped protectively around the back of Weeks’ chair. Their heads were close together. Kerry remembered how Bob used to practice that gesture.

She scanned the article, then dropped the newspaper back into her briefcase. Shaking her head, she remembered how appalled she had been when, shortly after Robin was born, Bob had told her he had accepted a job with Bartlett and Associates.

“All their clients have one foot in jail,” she had protested.

“And the other foot should be there.”

“And they pay their bills on time,” Bob had replied. “Kerry, you stay in the prosecutor’s office if you want. I have other plans.”

A year later he had announced that those plans included marrying Alice Bartlett.

Ancient history, Kerry told herself now as she looked around the waiting room. Today the other occupants were an athletic-looking teenage boy with a bandage across his nose and an older woman whose deeply wrinkled skin suggested the reason for her presence.

Kerry glanced at her watch. Robin had told her that last week she had waited in the examining room for half an hour. “I wish I’d brought a book with me,” she had said. This time she’d made sure she had one.

I wish to God that Dr. Smith would set realistic appointment times, Kerry thought with irritation as she glanced in the direction of the examining rooms, the door to which was just opening.

Immediately, Kerry froze, and her glance became a stare. The young woman who emerged had a face framed by a cloud of dark hair, a straight nose, pouty lips, wide-set eyes, arched brows. Kerry felt her throat constrict. It wasn’t the same woman she had seen last time-but it looked like her. Could the two be related? If they were patients, surely Dr. Smith couldn’t be trying to make them look alike, she thought.

And why did that face remind her so much of someone else that it had brought on a nightmare? She shook her head, unable to come up with an answer.

She looked again at the others seated in the tiny waiting room. The boy had obviously had an accident and probably had broken his nose. But was the older woman here for something as routine as a face-lift, or was she hoping to have a totally different appearance?

What would it be like to look into the mirror and find a stranger’s face staring back at you? Kerry wondered. Can you just pick a look that you want? Was it that simple?

“Ms. McGrath.”

Kerry turned to see Mrs. Carpenter, the nurse, beckoning to her to come to the examining rooms.

Kerry hurried to follow her. Last visit she had asked the receptionist about the woman she had seen there and been told her name was Barbara Tompkins. Now she could ask the nurse about this other woman. “That young woman who just left, she looked familiar,” Kerry said. “What is her name?”

“Pamela Worth,” Mrs. Carpenter said shortly. “Here we are.”

She found Robin seated across the desk from the doctor, her hands folded in her lap, her posture unusually straight. Kerry saw the look of relief on her daughter’s face when she turned and their eyes met.

The doctor nodded to her and with a gesture indicated that she should take the chair next to Robin. “I have gone over with Robin the follow-up care I want her to take to insure that nothing impedes the healing process. She wants to continue to play soccer, but she must promise to wear a face mask for the rest of the season. We must not risk the slightest possibility of those lacerations being reopened. I expect that by the end of six months they’ll no longer be visible.”

His expression became intense. “I’ve already explained to Robin that many people come to me seeking the kind of beauty that was freely given to her. It is her duty to safeguard it. I see from the file that you are divorced. Robin told me her father was driving the car at the time of the accident. I urge you to warn him to take better care of his daughter. She is irreplaceable.”

On the way home, at Robin’s request, they stopped to have dinner at Valentino’s in Park Ridge. “I like the shrimp there,” Robin explained. But when they were settled at a table, she looked around and said, “Daddy brought me here once. He says it’s the best.” Her voice was wistful.

So that’s why this is the restaurant of choice, Kerry thought. Since the accident, Bob had phoned Robin only once, and that had been during school hours. The message on the answering machine was that he guessed she was in school and that must mean she was doing great. There was no suggestion she return his call. Be fair, Kerry told herself. He did check with me at the office, and he knows that Dr. Smith said she is going to be okay. But that was two weeks ago. Since then, silence.

The waiter arrived to take their orders. When they were alone again, Robin said, “Mom, I don’t want to go back to Dr. Smith anymore. He’s creepy.”

Kerry’s heart sank. It was exactly what she had been thinking. And her next thought was that she only had his word that the angry red lines on Robin’s face would disappear. I’ve got to have someone else check her out, she thought. Trying to sound matter-of-fact, she said, “Oh, I guess Dr. Smith is all right, even if he does have the personality of a wet noodle.” She was rewarded by Robin’s grin.

“Even so,” she continued, “he doesn’t want to see you for another month, and after that, maybe not at all, so don’t worry about him. It’s not his fault he was born without charm.”

Robin laughed. “Forget the charm. He’s a major creep.”

When the food arrived, they sampled each other’s choices and gossiped. Robin had a passion for photography and was taking a basic course in technique. Her present assignment was to capture the autumn leaves in transition. “I showed you the great shots I got of them just as they started to turn, Mom. I know the ones I took this week with the colors at peak are terrific.”

“Sight unseen?” Kerry murmured.

“Uh-huh. Now I can’t wait till they get dried up and then a good storm starts scattering everything. Won’t that be great?”

“Nothing like a good storm scattering everything,” Kerry agreed.

They decided to skip dessert. The waiter had just returned Kerry’s credit card when she heard Robin gasp. “What is it, Rob?”