There were a lot of Christine Fletchers in the world, as it turned out, and none of the dozens Shallie had contacted over the years had admitted to leaving a two-year-old daughter behind at the Painted Pony Motel a quarter of a century ago. More like thirty-plus years now.

She’d studied grainy photos online, hoping to spot a resemblance to herself, since she’d never seen a picture of Christine, hard as that was to believe. She’d surfed social media sites, pored over newspaper archives, looked at birth and death records in more states and counties than she cared to remember. She’d checked out cemeteries, mental hospitals, halfway houses and prisons.

All without a single lead.

So, here she was, back at good old square one. Her (mostly amicable) divorce from Rob had sparked an even greater need to know about Christine Fletcher—who she was, who her people were, what she’d been about. Della and Norm were both gone, of course, and Bethanne might be anywhere, including a pauper’s grave in some unknown place, but Russ was still around, and if he knew anything, Shallie was going to get it out of him, one way or another.

She also meant to question as many of the locals as she could corner; some of the older people might remember Christine and be willing to talk.

Had Christine been mentally unbalanced, as Russ and Della and Norm had all claimed? Maybe. Parking a toddler in a crappy motel room and taking off for the unknown wasn’t exactly normal behavior.

But wasn’t mental illness a better excuse than not loving a child enough to keep her?

“Who was she?” Shallie asked, surprising herself. She hadn’t planned to jump in like this; the plan called for patience. Caution. “My mother, I mean.”

Russ shook his head. “You know who she was,” he said with an exasperated sigh. Perhaps he was missing a rerun of some stupid reality show or merely wanted to drink in peace, but he wanted Shallie out of there, that much was obvious. “Crazy Christine. Mom’s hal sister.”

“Okay,” she said, resigned, taking out her billfold. Russ knew more than he was saying, she was sure of that, but she didn’t have the energy to probe. Not tonight. She’d try again tomorrow, see if she could coax some forgotten detail from his booze-soaked brain. Not that Russ was a bad guy, and who knew what he might remember. Maybe if she asked the right questions…

“Put your wallet away,” Russ told her with a dismissive wave. “This is on me.” He turned to the wall and retrieved the key for Room 2.

“I don’t mind paying,” she said evenly.

Russ folded his arms, shook his head again. “You’re family,” he said, with a note of mockery or, worse, pity.

Shallie put her wallet back in her purse. Moved, key in hand, to the outside door.