The words hung in the air for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” Myron said. “I tried to hang on.”

“I’m not blaming you. Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“So we don’t know for certain it was Rhys.”

“I can’t say for sure, no,” Myron said.

Brooke looked at Win. Win said nothing. She turned back to Myron.

“On the other hand, we have no reason to believe it isn’t my son, do we?”

Win spoke for the first time. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Do we know for certain the other boy is Patrick?”

“Yes,” Brooke said. “At least, Nancy says he’s Patrick.”

“She’s sure?” Myron asked.

“That’s what she and Hunter say. They’re divorced now, you know. Hunter and Nancy. They broke up not long after.”

She didn’t say after what. She didn’t have to.

“We all flew over together. The four of us. Back together again. I don’t remember the last time we even talked to each other. We’re still neighbors. We should have moved out, I guess, but . . . she always blamed me. Nancy, I mean.”

“Seems unfair,” Myron said.

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t patronize me, okay?”

“Not my intent.”

“The boys were at my house. It was my au pair. I should have been home watching them. If the roles were reversed . . . Whatever; it was a long time ago.”

Win asked, “Is there any independent confirmation that the boy is Patrick?”

“Like what?”

“Like DNA.”

“I mentioned that. I guess they’ll do it eventually, but right now there is some sort of legal mumbo jumbo. Patrick—I mean, assuming it’s Patrick—is a minor, so they need to get permission from his parents.”

Win nodded. “And yet there is no concrete proof Nancy and Hunter are the boy’s parents.”

“Irony, right?”

“So what has Patrick said?” Myron asked. “Where have they been? Who took them?”

Brooke picked up the mug, looked at the contents for a second, then downed them. Myron and Win watched and waited.

“Patrick hasn’t said anything yet.”

Silence for a moment.

“He’s that wounded?”

“Apparently. It’s not like they let me see him. Only family allowed in the hospital room.”

“How serious are the injuries?”

“Nancy says he’ll survive, but he’s been pretty much out of it. Talk about irony. For ten years, we don’t have a clue about Rhys. Not a peep. Now suddenly there is someone who can give me answers, and I can’t even talk to him.”

Brooke closed her eyes and rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger. Myron reached out to touch her shoulder. Win stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Anyway,” she said as her eyes opened, “we are holding a press conference this afternoon. As you know, the media has gotten some of the story. Now it’s time to release the rest.”

“It’s been three days,” Myron said. “Why the wait?”

Brooke stood and turned so she could lean her back on the bar. “So, day one, two detectives or whatever they call them from Scotland Yard sit Chick and me down. ‘We have a dilemma,’ they say. If we go to the press and splash Rhys’s age-progression photograph all over the place, there are, the detectives explained, two things that might happen. One”—Brooke raised her index finger—“we mount pressure and find Rhys. Two”—the middle finger joined the index—“we mount pressure and whoever is holding him kills him and dumps the body.”