"I know him!" Charlotte's eyes popped open, and they were terror-stricken. "I know this Joseph Mills person!"

"Oh. Well, that's nice-"

"Nice?" Charlotte's mouth fell open, then snapped shut. "I had head-banging, mind-blowing, totally anonymous sex with that man thirteen years ago! And I'm talking minutes before Kurt proposed to me! Do you hear what I'm saying, Bonnie? He popped my cherry while Kurt was waiting to pop the question!"

"Oh. Oh, dear," Bonnie managed.

"And Kurt thought I was a virgin when we got married. It was really important to him. But I lied, Bonnie! I had sex with this guy in the weeds! Three times! And he was… oh, my God… nothing has ever been right since!"

Charlotte swayed, her arms hanging at her sides, the scotch spilling onto the carpet. She looked like she might faint. She began to sob.

Bonnie jumped up and grabbed her by the upper arms. "Charlotte. Look at me. Tell me right now-did he hurt you? My God, honey-did he attack you? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Charlotte shook her head and the tears slipped down her cheeks. She looked away briefly, then steeled herself. "Actually, Bon," she whispered, a look of pleading in her eyes, "I think I may have attacked him."

Her name was Charlotte.

Charlotte Mary Nelson Tasker was a thirty-five-year-old registered nurse who ran an errand service. She had two kids. She was a widow.

Joe blinked, skimming the computer file one last time, rereading the obituary for the man who'd been her husband. Kurt Lewis Tasker was a local boy, an All-State lineman who became a popular sports columnist for the Cincinnati Enquirer, apparently known for his straight talk and good humor. He left work early one Thursday with what he thought was a touch of the flu. He dropped dead a few hours later from a congenital heart defect no one knew he had.

The obit photo showed a robust, friendly looking guy with wide shoulders and questionable taste in ties. The color picture showed him at work on the sidelines at a Bengals game, curly brown hair, a lopsided grin, and pale, laughing eyes. He looked like a good guy. Joe read again how he was mourned by fellow journalists, coaches, players, and readers.

Joe felt a sad smile creep across his face, recalling the little girl he'd seen at the patio table-Henrietta was her name-realizing that she looked just like this man except for the flaming red hair. The other Tasker kid was named Matthew according to the file, and if memory served him correctly,.which it always did, the boy looked more like his mom.

Joe rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He must have read this stuff ten times since Roger sent it to him-everything he'd ever wanted to know about what had happened to his mystery woman, all in one convenient little 400 kilobyte file.

Her name was Charlotte-Charlotte!-and she would have been just twenty-two that day. All this time he'd thought of her as a Kim or a Jenny or a Terri, but she was a Charlotte. It sounded kind of old-fashioned and stuffy in his opinion, and it made him chuckle to put that name with those memories.

It was Charlotte who pressed her sweet little hips into him when he pinned her against the car. Charlotte who happily opened her mouth to his kiss. Charlotte who rolled with him in the weeds, tore at his clothes, and whispered, "Hurry, oh please hurry!" when he fumbled with the first condom wrapper.

It was Charlotte who gave herself to him over and over, shuddering on top of his body, tight as a clenched fist around him.

It was Charlotte who said, "I don't have a name and neither do you, all right?"

It was Charlotte who kissed him good-bye with such hunger that she broke his tooth.

Joe shut down the computer and turned off the light. He wandered into the smaller bedroom and dropped his clothes to the floor, then slipped under the cool, clean sheets in the nude.

He lay there a long time-minutes, hours, he didn't have a clue-staring at the indistinct patterns in the ceiling of this strange room, sensing her next door, swearing to God that he smelled honeysuckle through the barely open window, and knowing that if he didn't get out of this house and this town, he'd lose his mind.

Charlotte.

He'd found her.

Joe clenched and loosened his fists as they lay at his sides, wondering for maybe the thousandth time in his life whether he'd taken her virginity that day. It had always bugged him. Not because she'd been hesitant or unsure of herself or afraid, but because she'd been so incredibly snug. And at one point, after making her come with his hand, he'd seen bright red blood streaked down the length of his fingers.

But here's what had forever baffled him-what would a virgin be doing acting like a wild thang? Why would a spectacularly beautiful woman who'd held out to the age of twenty-two suddenly decide to give it up to a stranger on the side of the road? It made no sense, and he'd never been able to figure it out.

Joe rubbed his entire face and sighed. If, in fact, he'd been her first, it was something he needed to know. Because that would mean she'd given him the most precious gift imaginable. And his mama had taught him to always say thank you.

Besides, if he was Charlotte's first, that would mean she would always remember him-right? It would make him special to her, if solely for that one reason… right? So if he walked over to that cute yellow house and knocked on the door with the wreath on it, she'd answer, smile at him, and know exactly who he was.

Wouldn't she?

The only person he'd ever told about Charlotte had been Steve Simmons, his partner and the best friend he'd ever had. Joe grinned in the dark, remembering how Steve had helped him in his attempts to find her, the mystery girl in the 1992 Mariner Blue Mazda Miata with Maryland tags.

One hundred and two. That's how many people they called, wrote, or visited looking for her. Nobody fit her description and no one said they had loaned their car to a young redhead that day.

Joe chuckled softly to himself, recalling the night an exasperated Steve observed, "Damn, Bellacera. I have never seen you do the chasing before."

And wasn't that the truth?

But, with Steve's help, chase he did, with nothing to show for it. She was out there somewhere, though. He knew she'd been driving one of the 102 cars. He hadn't imagined her. She'd been real. She'd been hot and sweet and funny, and right before Christmas he'd been sitting in the dentist's chair about to let Dr. Lavin of the Quantico Dental Clinic put a cap on that tooth.

But he just couldn't go through with it.

Joe had gotten used to the little chip at the juncture of his two incisors. He'd become attached to the only proof that she'd ever been his. And if he fixed it, it would feel final, like he'd given up on ever finding her.

Joe laughed again to himself in the dark, then heard the sound of his laughter die away. He flipped over onto his stomach and turned a cheek into the pillow.

Life had swept him away that winter. He and Steve got their first assignments with the Administration. They went to El Paso together, four years of gritty border cases. Then there was Houston and Mexico City and it became clear that he'd picked the kind of work that would forever leave him drained and needing his space. The women he'd managed to hook up with all had the same complaint-his job left no room for a relationship. And they were damn right.

No wonder DEA agents had a divorce rate of about 75 percent.

Somehow, Steve had managed it better. Maybe he was just a more laid-back guy, or maybe Reba was such a wonderful woman that it made it worth the effort. But Steve found a way to balance a wife and kid with his job, a way to mix his work with a real life.