Myron looked at it. It was an artist's rendering of a woman nearing thirty years of age.

“It's from MIT,” she explained. “My alma mater. A scientist there has developed a software package that helps with age progression. For missing people. So you can see what they might look like today. He made this up for me a few months ago.”

Myron looked at the image of what the teenage Lucy might look like as a woman heading toward thirty. The effect was nothing short of startling. Oh, it looked like her, he guessed, but talk about ghosts, talk about life being a series of what-ifs, talk about the years slipping away and then smacking you in the face. Myron stared at the image, at the more conservative haircut, the small frown lines. How painful must it be for Sophie Mayor to look at this?

“Does she look familiar at all?” Sophie asked.

Myron shook his head. “No, I'm sorry.”

“You're sure?”

“As sure as you can be in these situations.”

“Will you help me find her?”

He wasn't sure how to answer. “I can't see how I can help.”

“Clip said you're good at these things.”

“I'm not. But even if I were, I can't see what I can do. You've hired experts already. You have the cops-”

“The police have been useless. They view Lucy as a runaway, period.”

Myron said nothing.

“Do you think it's hopeless?” she asked.

“I don't know enough about it.”

“She was a good girl, you know.” Sophie Mayor smiled at him, her eyes misty with time travel. “Headstrong, sure. Too adventurous for her own good. But then again I raised Lucy to be independent. The police. They think she was simply a troubled kid. She wasn't. Just confused. Who isn't at that age? And it wasn't as if she ran off in the middle of the night without telling anyone.”

Against his better judgment Myron asked, “Then what happened?”

“Lucy was a teenager, Myron. She was sullen and unhappy, and she didn't fit in. Her parents were college math professors and computer geeks. Her younger brother was considered a genius. She hated school. She wanted to see the world and live on the road. She had the whole rock V roll fantasy. One day she told us she was going off with Owen.”

“Owen was her boyfriend?”

She nodded. “An average musician who fronted a garage band, certain that his immense talent was being held back by them.” She made a lemon-sucking face. “They wanted to run off and get a record deal and become famous. So Gary and I said okay. Lucy was like a wild bird trapped in a small cage. She wouldn't stop flapping her wings no matter what we did. Gary and I felt we had no choice in the matter. We even thought it might be good for her. Lots of her classmates were backpacking through Europe. What was the difference?”

She stopped and looked up at him. Myron waited. When she didn't say anything, he said, “And?”

“And we never heard from her again.”

Silence.

She turned back to the mounted deer. The deer looked back at her with something akin, it seemed, to pity.

Myron said, “But Owen came back, right?”

“Yes.” She was still staring at the deer. “He's a car salesman in New Jersey. He plays in a wedding band on weekends. Can you imagine? He dresses up in a cheap tuxedo and belts out Tie a Yellow Ribbon' and 'Celebration' and introduces the bridal party.” She shook her head at the irony. “When Owen came back, the police questioned him, but he didn't know anything. Their story was so typical: They went out to Los Angeles, failed miserably, started fighting, and broke up after six months. Owen stayed out there another three months, certain this time it had been Lucy who was holding back his immense talent. When he failed again, he came back home with his tail between his legs. He said he hadn't seen Lucy since their breakup.”

“The police checked it out?”

“So they said. But it was a dead end.”

“Do you suspect Owen?”

“No,” she said bitterly. “He's too big a nothing.”

“Have there been any solid leads at all?”

“Solid?” She thought about it. “Not really. Several of the investigators we've hired think she joined a cult.”

Myron made a face. “A cult?”

“Her personality fit the profile, they said. Despite my attempts to make her independent, they claim she was just the opposite-someone needing guidance, alone, suggestible, alienated from friends and family.”

“I don't agree,” Myron said.

She looked at him. “You said you never met Lucy.”

“The psychological profile may be right, but I doubt she's with a cult.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Cults like money. Lucy Mayor is the daughter of an extraordinarily wealthy family. Maybe you didn't have money when she first would have joined, but believe me, they'd know about you by now. And they would have been in touch, if for no other reason than to extort vast sums.”

She started blinking again. Her eyes closed, and she turned her back to him. Myron took a step forward and then stopped, not sure what to do. He chose discretion, kept his distance, waited.

“The not knowing,” Sophie Mayor said after some time had passed. “It gnaws at you. All day, all night, for twelve years. It never stops. It never goes away. When my husband's heart gave out, everyone was so shocked. Such a healthy man, they said. So young. Even now I don't know how I'll get through the day without him. But we rarely spoke about Lucy after she disappeared. We just lay in bed at night and pretended that the other one was asleep and stared at the ceiling and imagined all the horrors only parents with missing children can conjure up.”

More silence.

Myron had no idea what to say. But the silence was growing so thick he could barely breathe. “I'm sorry,” he said.

She didn't look up.

“Til go to the police,” he said. “Tell them about the diskette.”

“What good will that do?”

“They'll investigate.”

“They already have, I told you. They think she's a runaway.”

“But now we have this new evidence. They'll take the case more seriously. I can even go to the media. It'll jump-start their coverage.”

She shook her head. Myron waited. She stood and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. “The diskette,” she said, “was sent to you.”

“Yes.”

“Addressed to you.”

“Yes.”

“So,” she said, “someone is reaching out to you.”

Win had said something similar. “You don't know that,” Myron said. “I don't want to douse your hopes, but it could be nothing more than a prank.”

“It's not a prank.”

“You can't be sure.”

“If it was a prank, it would have been sent to me. Or Jared. Or someone who knew her. It wasn't. It was sent to you. Someone is reaching out to you specifically. It might even be Lucy.”

He took a deep breath. “Again I don't want to douse your-”

“Don't patronize me, Myron. Just say what you want to say.”

“Okay… if it were Lucy, why would she send an image of herself melting into a puddle of blood?”

Sophie Mayor did not wince, but she came close. “I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe it's not her. Maybe it's her killer. Either way, they're seeking you out. It's the first solid lead in years. And if we make it loud and public, I fear that whoever sent this will go back into hiding. I can't risk that.”

“I don't know what I can do,” Myron said.

“I'll pay you whatever you want. Name a price. A hundred thousand? A million?”

“It's not the money. I just don't see where I can help.”

“You can investigate.”

He shook his head. “My best friend and business partner is in jail for murder. My client was shot in his own home. I have other clients who rely on me for their job security.”

“I see,” she said. “So you don't have time, is that it?”

“It's not a question of time. I really have nothing to go on. No clue, no connection, no source. There's nothing to start with here.”

Her eyes pinned him down. “You can start with you. You're my clue, my connection, my source.” She reached out and took his hand. Her flesh was cold and hard. “All I'm asking is that you look closer.”