“It’s him,” he said finally, the sound broken. “It’s my baby. My Dylan.”

“How can you be so certain, Harlan?” Reed asked as gently as possible.

“A father knows his own son.”

Reed glanced at Treven’s stunned expression, then at Rachel’s horrified one, before turning back to Harlan. “I hate to do this to you, but look again. It’s been years, these remains are-”

“I know my own son! My Dylan… my sweet, sweet boy.”

He broke down sobbing. Rachel put her arms around him, her own tears flowing.

Reed collected the photographs. “We’re trying to establish if there’s any viable DNA-”

“We’ll pay for any tests,” Treven offered, “if that will give us the proof-”

Harlan turned on him. “What more proof do you need? I was his father. I know my son!”

“This is too important to make a mistake on. What if you’re wrong and he’s not dead? What if he’s-”

“Uncle Treven,” Rachel said sharply, “that’s enough! I’m taking Dad home.”

He went with her without resistance. As soon as the interview room door had shut behind them, Treven turned to Reed. “I don’t care what it costs, we need proof that’s Dylan.”

“I understand completely, Treven. But it simply may not be possible.”

“Nothing is impossible. That’s been my lifelong credo. There must be something you can do.”

Reed thought a moment. “We could turn the skull over to a forensic sculptor. The re-creations can be uncanny. However-”

“Yes, let’s do it.”

“However,” he continued, “the best reconstructions are still generalized, and baby skulls are exceptionally difficult because the facial features aren’t fully formed yet. Our best bet is still DNA, if we’re able.”

“I want it all, every test. We’ll pay.”

“I appreciate that. But at this point, it’s not about money.”

“It’s always about money,” he said. “My brother needs closure. If this will give it to him, I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”

“Harlan expressed conviction,” Reed said softly. “It seems to me that it’s you who needs the closure, Treven.”

“My brother’s an emotional mess. I think we can agree on that. An hour from now, he’ll be doubting himself. You wait and see.”

Reed thought of Rachel, her pain. And then of Alex. Her mother. The entire community. Closure, he thought. A funeral. A way for the family to move completely past this.

“I’ll see what I can do. There are procedures that need to be followed.”

“Harlan ID’d him. So the remains are ours now. Isn’t that the way it works?”

“It’s not that simple. Or that immediate.”

“I’m Treven Sommer. I can make it simple.”

Reed held on to his temper by reminding himself of what this family had endured. “The remains cannot be released to you or anybody else until forensic testing is complete. When that’s happened, I’ll see what I can do.”

Reed could see Treven wasn’t happy with his answer. Obviously, when you were Treven Sommer, you weren’t accustomed to waiting.

“All right, Dan. But just so you know, I’m prepared to sue the department if it comes to it.”

Tuesday, March 9

4:00 P.M.

The jewelry designer Alex had been pointed toward lived in a California-style cottage on Brockman Lane right here in Sonoma. He had agreed to meet her and take a look at her mother’s ring.

He came to the door, a charming gnome of a man in a red plaid flannel shirt and pants held up by suspenders. “Max?” she asked.

He broke into a broad smile. “You must be Alexandra. Come in… come in.”

She followed him into the cottage. She found it as charming and unique as the man, filled with all sorts of art, from traditional to contemporary. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Max. I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Nonsense. I have lots of time. Too much.” He motioned her to follow him. “I don’t get many visitors. And certainly not ones wanting to talk about my designs. That was a lifetime ago. Come, I’ve made us some tea.”

In the kitchen, Alex watched as he set about pouring. She noticed that his hands shook badly.

“Would you mind?” he asked, indicating the full cups.

“Not at all.” She carried them both to the small kitchen table, then went back for the milk and sugar. They both sat.

While she doctored her tea, he talked. “When my friend Janice called me about you, I was delighted. As you can see, I can’t design anymore.” He looked at his shaking hands. “I used to do such delicate work.”

“I’m sorry. That must be very distressing for you.”

“You would think.” He chuckled. “But God has surely blessed me. Talent and success as a young man and an old age surrounded by love. May I show you something?”

He was obviously not in a hurry to get to the reason for her visit, which suited her fine. She stood and let him lead her to the center hallway, which was decorated with framed photographs. She smiled as he pointed out himself as a young man and commented on a picture of his late wife, calling her the love of his life.

He stopped on a family portrait. “My daughter, Angie, and her three girls. How could I complain?”

“They’re a lovely family.”

He gazed at it. “In the end, it’s all about family. That’s all we have that means anything.”

His words hit her hard. She struggled to keep it from showing, but lost the battle.

“I’ve upset you,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I lost my mother recently. And she was… it’s been difficult.”

He patted her hand. “Tell me about the piece you brought me.”

“It was my mother’s.” Alex slid it off her finger and handed it to him. “I found it in her things after she died. It’s so unusual, I wondered-”

“It’s not mine,” he said curtly.

“Excuse me?”

He handed it back. “It’s not one of my designs.”

“Oh.” Confused by his change in tone, she wasn’t certain how to respond. “Is there anything you can tell me about the design or materials?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

Alex frowned and held it out again. “The inscription, BOV, I wondered if that could have been a local organization or-”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t tell you anything about it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and she noticed he wouldn’t even look at the ring. “But I wish you luck.”

Disappointed, Alex slipped the ring back onto her finger. “Any suggestions where I might look or who I might contact?”

“No. I’ve never seen… I would remember. It’s an unusual design.”

He knew more than he was letting on, she felt certain. But why keep information from her?

She laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Max. It was my mother’s and now she’s gone. I’m just trying to learn more about her. About her life here. She was my only family.”

His expression softened. “Some stories aren’t meant to be known. Maybe this is one of them.”

“Please. Her name was Patsy Sommer. You may have known her.” He looked as if she had struck him. “You did know her,” she said.

“Everyone did after that horrible thing with her baby. Sweet little boy. How anyone could…” He let out a heavy-sounding breath. “I’m tired now. You have to go.”

He herded her toward the door. When they’d reached it, she opened her mouth to ask him one more time if he was certain he knew nothing of the ring’s design or inscription. He stopped her by gripping her hands tightly.

“Be careful, Alexandra,” he said. “And remember what I said. Some stories are meant to be left untold.”

A moment later she was outside, the door snapping shut behind her. He hadn’t given her a chance to do more than mumble another “Thank you.” He had wanted her out of his house, and as quickly as possible.

Why? She walked slowly to her car, thoughts whirling. What did he know that he wasn’t telling her? And how could she get him to change his mind?