“You can get a look at some of the information provided on birth certificates through census records.”

“How long after a census is taken is it released to the public?”

“Seventy-two years.”

“Thank you.”

Leah walked toward her parking space. Ian O’Reilly wouldn’t have been born seventy-two years ago, so the census would be no help. Bonnie O’Reilly, however, likely would have been born by then if Joyce had estimated her age accurately.

As soon as she settled behind the wheel of her Honda, she logged into YourHeritage.com. She clicked on the tab for census records and began typing in Bonnie’s last name—

Stopped.

Joyce had said that Bonnie was a single mother when they worked together. But if Bonnie had been married back when she’d had her child . . . then O’Reilly was likely Bonnie’s married name. When the census was taken more than seven decades ago, Bonnie would have been a girl. Her last name would not have been O’Reilly. Her last name would have been her maiden name.

Still, it was worth a shot to search for census records for Bonnie O’Reilly. Maybe Bonnie had never married. Or maybe she had, but had kept her maiden name all her life.

Leah filled in the scant information she knew about Bonnie and ran a search for census records pertaining to her.

No promising matches whatsoever.

She lowered the phone to her lap with a frustrated exhale.

The second Sebastian entered the coffee shop and saw Leah, he knew something was wrong.

His workday had passed incredibly slowly because he’d looked at his watch every few minutes to see how many hours remained until his afternoon break and the chance to see Leah. Now he was finally here. She sat at a small table inside the crowded interior, two cups of coffee before her, talking to someone on her phone. Her eyes blazed accusation at him.

A quicksand sensation overtook his chest. A sinking down, down, down.

“I see,” she said to the caller. “Thank you very much for your time.” A pause. “All the best.” Another pause. “Good-bye.”

She pushed her phone into her purse and frowned. Then she carried her cup from the shop. He followed, throwing away his drink when he passed the trash can because, if she was mad at him—which she was—then he definitely couldn’t stomach coffee.

She marched into the mouth of a nearby alley, her shoulders stiff beneath the same bright pink sweater she’d worn the day of the farmers market. Brick buildings, dumpsters, and weeds lined the sides of the alley. Above, white clouds that looked like whipped cream blocked the sun.

They faced each other. Her, beautiful. Him, standing very still in his pale blue business shirt and gray suit pants. “What’s wrong?” he asked.