“When JFK, the president, got shot, they had to swear in the vice president right that day. Same fuckin’ day. You know why? They had to show the world that just ’cause a great man died, the line of power was okay. The country was in good hands.” Browning shifted closer in his fake alligator shoes. “You know, man, you’re all fucked up over Anthony. You got to get clear, man. You been in a funk for a year, mopin’ like a little baby.”

Star’s neat head snapped around. He didn’t like to be talked to that way.

“You heard me. You need somebody to tell you the truth, man, not like those yes-men you got. You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it. You hear me, stop cryin’ and do somethin’. But don’t let it fuck up Harris, man. Lotta money to be made on Harris. A career to be made on Harris.”

“Fuck you!” Star shoved Browning in the chest, and the man flew off his feet and crashed backward into the lockers.

Star stood in the hot shower. Water pounded on his shoulders and coursed down the muscles of his naked body. His skin was sleek as a Thoroughbred’s, a rich, dark chestnut. Thick veins ran close to its surface and snaked down his forearms. Star stood under the water, his head thrown back, trying to keep his mind blank. Trying not to think about Anthony or the bitch who capped him. Or Browning, with the alligator shoes.

You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it.

Star twisted the knob on the wall, turning up the water temperature. He let the hot water hit his shoulders. His muscles tingled. His veins opened wide as tunnels. Star imagined blood gushing through them like a red tide, rushing to the muscles. He felt bigger, stronger. Pumped.

You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it.

Star squeezed his eyes shut tight and twisted the knob ’til the shower was hot as he could stand it. Then, hotter. Water scorched his biceps and blistered his chest. He opened his mouth and steaming water rushed in. His tongue was on fire. Star could take punishment, everybody said so. Blows that buckled the knees of other men, sending them to the canvas like they were prayin’ to God. But this was a blow that Star never took in the ring. This was a hurt like nothin’ he ever felt. He couldn’t make it stop and he couldn’t take it neither.

You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it.

Hot water rained like flames from heaven, and suddenly Star roared. He never made no noise in his life, not in all his fights, but he kept roaring, not knowing where in him the sound came from. He heard it echo off the tile walls, turning the shitty shower into his den. He roared louder and louder until his skin burned like the sun. It made him feel strong and clear like never before. Star got tougher in the fire, like steel.

And then he knew what he had to do.

At home, Bennie set the envelope to the side of a makeshift plywood table and arranged the photos while Grady Wells watched. A tall, skinny North Carolinian with light, curly hair, Grady had been Bennie’s associate and was now her live-in lover. They were renovating an old rowhouse together, rebuilding the shell floor by floor, even though Grady was a business lawyer who had as little spare time as Bennie. They talked about getting married in the house if it didn’t collapse first.

“Okay, that’s everything,” Bennie said, whisking sawdust off the plywood with her hand. “You ready to examine Exhibits A, B, and C?”

“Ready,” Grady said. He leaned against the two-by-fours that would reinforce the dining room walls. His gray eyes scanned the photos from behind gold wire-rimmed glasses, and he had already changed into the white DUKE T-shirt and jeans he wore to work on the house. “You say her name’s Alice Connolly?”

“Yes. Now. The first photo, Exhibit A, you saw already. It’s the one with the airmen in front of the plane, the one I showed my mother. Exhibit B, the second photo, is of the same pilot, Bill Winslow, my father. Holding two babies about the same age.”

“The same age?” Grady leaned over the black-and-white picture and compared it with the pilots’ group photo; a young, fair-haired man in a white T-shirt and rolled-up blue jeans was sitting on a brick step, grinning. It did appear to be the same pilot and in his arms were two infants swaddled in white blankets. “I can’t tell if they’re the same age. The photo’s so grainy and the babies so tiny, I can’t see their features.”

“Me neither. They could be twins, but who knows? It’s Winslow, though.”

“How do you know for sure? You never met your father, did you?”

“No, but I think it is. Maybe he came back for this photo, I don’t know. That’s his name and his eyes are like mine. Now, this is Exhibit C.” Bennie picked up the last photo, suppressing the emotion it evoked. It was a picture of her mother and two other young girls, seated on a round stool at the type of luncheonette counter that didn’t exist anymore. Her mother’s eyes were fully made-up and her dark hair pin-curled around her ears. She had a rich mouth, vivid with lipstick, and her body curved amply in a sweater set and a slim skirt with a slit up the back. “Check this out, Grady. The hot number is my mother.”

He grinned. “She looks so pretty. How old you think she was?”

“Sixteen, seventeen. A lot younger than I am now. Isn’t that weird?” Bennie gazed at the photo. She was far too old for it to be a revelation that her mother had a life before she came along. The revelation was that she was ever healthy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of your mother that you haven’t taken. Let me see that.” Grady slid the photo from Bennie’s hand and flipped it over. There were tufts of torn black paper in its four corners and on the back, in a feminine script, was written, FOR BILL. “Interesting,” he said.

“That’s my mother’s handwriting. I’m supposed to believe she gave the photo to Winslow, who gave it to Connolly. Who says she’s my twin.”

“Do you believe her?” He raised a faint eyebrow.

“No, of course not. Although it’s strange that she had these pictures, especially the one of my mother.”

“Wait a minute.” Grady handed Bennie the photo with a frown. “This is a photo of your mother with two young women. The photo could have come from anywhere. Connolly could be the child of one of the other women.”

“But it says ‘For Bill’ on the back, in my mother’s writing.”

“Maybe Connolly forged it.”

“Yeah, but how?” Bennie turned. “And what about the tufts of paper on the back of the photos? It looks like they were all taken from the same photo album.”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like you being manipulated by some con.” Grady folded his arms and his T-shirt edged up over slim, ropy biceps. Golden hair covered his forearms, and his wrists were narrow, so his Swiss Army watch seemed crudely oversized. “Does Connolly look like you?”

“There is a resemblance, a definite resemblance.”

“A resemblance doesn’t cut it for identical twins.” Grady pursed his lips. “Identical twins look identical. They come from a single egg, fertilized by a single sperm that splits. The DNA in identical twins is the same, and I’m sure you can test for it. Why don’t you ask Connolly for a blood sample and we’ll find a lab?”

“That’s bizarre, don’t you think?”

“No. Not if you’re even considering representing this woman, which I hope you’re not, by the way.”

“You don’t think I should represent her?”

Grady laughed softly. “Under no circumstances should you represent her.”

“Why not?” Bennie didn’t necessarily want to represent Connolly, but she didn’t like being told she shouldn’t. “Because she could be my twin?”

“Not exactly.” Grady shook his head. “Whether she’s your twin or not, you shouldn’t represent her. You don’t know who she is.”