That sounded like my mother. I remembered her telling my dad once that she loved Vicky, but she hated how much Vicky liked to gossip and stir the pot. At the time, I didn't really know what that meant but as I got older and got to know Vicky, I could see where my mom had been coming from.

"Do the police have a suspect?" Mark asked.

"Not that they've told me."

"Well, I'm sure they'll find whoever did this."

"I hope so. You might want to speak to Inspector Greenman. I know he's interested in talking to my mother's friends."

"Do you have his number?"

"I do." I pulled out my phone and gave him the number. "Thanks for doing that. He needs all the help he can get."

"I don't know a lot, but I'm happy to share what I do know. Is your mother allowed visitors?"

"I'm not sure. She's in critical condition, so I don't think so. It might just be family only."

He shook his head, his gaze darkening as his lips tightened. "Well, please tell your mother I was asking about her and that I'll visit as soon as I can."

"I'll do that when she wakes up. She's not conscious at the moment."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I was hoping for better news. I'll pray for her."

I'd never seen prayer do much good, but I wasn't about to turn down the offer. "Thank you. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison."

"Please, call me Mark. I didn't get your name."

"I'm sorry. It's Brynn. Brynn Landry."

He nodded. "I still can't believe your mother didn't tell me she had a daughter. You said you haven't seen her in a while, why is that?"

"We were estranged when I was a child," I said, not wanting to go through the whole story again.

"Well, I believe Laura will be all right," Mark said confidently. "She's a strong woman. You'll get your mother back."

"I hope so." I said goodbye, then hurried toward the parking lot. I was almost to my car when I saw a man walking across the street. He looked familiar, and when he turned his head, I let out a gasp.

My heart pounded against my chest. I had to be wrong. It couldn't be my father. He couldn't be in San Francisco, at the school where my mother worked.

Belatedly, I moved toward the street, but the man had disappeared.

I had to have imagined the resemblance. I'd been thinking about my dad. That's why I thought I'd seen him. But as the rationalizations filled my head, I had trouble believing them.

I'd seen what I'd seen. I pulled out my phone. I had no messages or voicemails. Why hadn't my father called me back? Was it because he was here in San Francisco? Did he know about Mom being shot?