“You always said you wished you had a sister or a brother,” Stephen reminded her. “Every time Chrissie bugs me and I tell her to get lost, you tell me how bad it was for you growing up without any other kids.”

“I do, don’t I?” Tiffany said, touched by the irony of her predicament. Throughout her childhood and awkward teenage years, she’d felt so alone growing up with only her mother and a grandmother as family—three women who depended solely upon each other. Every night on her knees by her twin bed, she’d prayed for a sister or a brother.

Or a father.

Old, forgotten loneliness crawled into her heart—the same painful feeling of being alone in the world she’d hoped would disappear when she married. She’d bound herself to an older man, from an established family, with two kids of his own, and had hoped to raise three or four children of her own and become part of a huge, chaotic and happy family. Philip had come up with his own plans. More children hadn’t been a part of them.

Clearing her throat, she turned toward the police station. “Come on, kiddo. We’d better get this over with.”

Stephen looked as if he’d just as soon drop dead, but they walked past parked cars and spindly trees until they came to the wide double doors of the century-old building.

“This is a waste of time,” Stephen grumbled.

“I don’t think so.” She pushed the door open. “Come on.”

Inside the police station there was no air-conditioning and the few windows that were open were barred or screened, reminding Tiffany of where they were. The offices were now smoke free, but the walls and ceilings were stained by years of cigarette smoke that had hung cloudlike in the corridors and rooms. Stephen’s feet seemed to drag on the industrial carpet, but they made their way through a maze of hallways to Sergeant Pearson’s battle-scarred desk. Papers, memos, photographs and books were piled high. Three near-empty coffee cups were placed strategically around a computer screen.

A thick-set man with a crew cut that didn’t much hide the fact that he was going bald, Pearson sat at his desk. He cradled the earpiece of his phone between a meaty shoulder and his squat neck, and managed to scribble notes on a legal pad covered with doodles.