“I just got here!”

“You can keep staying in the apartment. Stay as long as you need to. I’ll come home on Sunday and we’ll put our heads together and figure this out. Maybe if we sit down and talk to the person you owe—”

“You don’t know who you’re talking about, Syd. You don’t know these people. They’re not the kind of people you sit down and talk to.”

“Then we go to the police.”

He threw up his hands. “An even worse suggestion.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Micah, I’m thinking on the fly here. I just want to make sure none of this lands on the Muirs. They have enough going on. I’d like to keep your problem—our problem—from spilling over to them.”

He stared at her for a moment that stretched with simmering pressure. Shook his head. “No, you had it right the first time. It’s my problem.”

“Micah—”

“Don’t worry, you made it clear where you stand. I won’t trouble your precious Muirs anymore.”

She should follow him as he stalked from the kitchen. Try to stop him from stomping through the hall and into the dining room and on to the front door. But her legs wouldn’t move.

Was she really going to let him go? What if he’d only bought a one-way ticket to get here? Would he even have money for a flight home? Frustration clawed at her, both her heart and her mind torn between hurrying outside after him or going upstairs instead, making sure Indi was okay.

How had everything changed so quickly again? This morning she’d been an eddy of happy emotion, still dizzy from the night before. So all-consumed by thoughts of Neil that she’d very nearly let go of the idea of unraveling her parentage.

But she’d just told Micah she’d be home on Sunday. And she had to go. She couldn’t leave him to grapple his way out of his latest mess alone.

But what was she to do about Maggie? About Neil? About the whisper at each beat of her heart: Stay, stay, stay.

She pulled out the photo Micah had brought her. She probably should’ve showed it to Maggie earlier. Told her they’d been looking for the wrong person—or at least searching for a man with the wrong name—for days now. Not JP. JR. Could still be a name or initials . . .

Or Junior. It could stand for Junior.

She peered at the photo, taking in the slight tilt to Diana’s smile, the hint of amusement or maybe mischief embedded in it. And CarleeAnn—such high cheekbones and large green eyes with specks of brown. I have the same color of hair as Diana. The same color of eyes as CarleeAnn. She supposed if she looked hard enough, she could convince herself she took after either one.

And the young man in the middle . . . sandy hair with just a hint of ginger, blue tee. There was a logo on the pocket of the tee. Blurry considering the age of the photo but . . . had she seen it before?