A vicious man might take twisted satisfaction in raising the kidnapped child of his enemy in the world created by the Blackstones’ avarice. According to Liam, Crocket took him out of school in the eighth grade and put him to work as a stove-tender, shoveling coal into an open furnace. Liam went to union meetings, where he learned to hate the owners of the steel mills. While normal parents read their children bedtime stories, Crocket showed Liam autopsy photographs of people killed in factory accidents. Someone who would do that to a child might gladly turn away from the reward to carry out his perverse revenge.

They spent two hours examining every piece of paper in the box but found nothing documenting Liam’s life before the age of five. It was frustrating, because the lack of evidence couldn’t prove anything.

But at six o’clock Janet Malone returned home, and then the real battle for proof began.

Liam’s mother was a tiny, birdlike woman with calloused hands, a narrow face, and faded auburn hair rolled into a bun. Liam took the lead in the uncomfortable interrogation. The grilling went on for over an hour, and Janet never budged from her insistence that she was Liam’s natural mother.

“I want the truth,” Liam said, pacing the worn rug before his mother, who sat stonily at the kitchen table with an untouched cup of tea before her. “Why did you baptize Michael and Connor, but not me? Why isn’t there a birth certificate for me?”

“Maybe because I had just delivered a ten-pound baby and didn’t have the strength to pop out of bed and run all over town collecting paperwork,” Janet retorted.

Patrick’s initial instinct had been to protect Janet from Liam’s aggressive tone, but she was a tough, scrappy woman who proved capable of defending herself.

“You took pictures of the other babies, but not me,” Liam said. “Why not?”

“Because the doctor said Connor wouldn’t survive the week, and Michael had already died when we got his picture made,” Janet defended. “There was no fear of you dying. You squalled loud enough to wake the neighbors.”

“I was six years old before you got around to having my picture made,” Liam said. “Why so long?”

Janet folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t know anything about how demanding a baby can be. If you would get married like any decent son your age, you’d have a passel of your own and wouldn’t wonder why I didn’t have the time to take you to a photographer’s studio. Why don’t you settle down with Nora Cunningham? Her ma told me that girl is getting tired of waiting for you.”

“I’m not going to marry Nora Cunningham,” Liam growled.