He heard his pulse pounding in his brain. First the “sightings” and now this?

“Is that—?”

“Yeah.” The photographs were clear and crisp. In color. Jennifer walking across a busy street. Jennifer sliding into a light-colored car, make and model undetermined. Jennifer sitting at a tall café table in a coffee shop. The last picture was taken from the street, her image captured through the window of the shop. In front of the window was a sidewalk with pedestrians passing by and portions of two newspaper boxes in the foreground. He recognized one as USA Today, and the other the L.A. Times.

Narrowing his eyes, Bentz looked for a reflection of the photographer in the large window, but saw none.

This was nuts.

“Old pictures?” Montoya asked.

“Not if the dates from the camera are right.”

“Those can be changed.”

“I know.”

“And with Photoshopping and image altering and airbrushing, pictures can be made to look like anything someone wants them to. Other people’s heads on someone else’s body.”

Bentz looked up from the disturbing photos. “But why?”

“Someone just fuckin’ with ya.”

“Maybe.” He turned his attention to the document and his jaw grew hard as granite. The single page was a copy of Jennifer’s death certificate. Scrawled across the neatly typed document was a bright red question mark.

“What the hell is this?” Montoya asked.

Bentz stared at the mutilated certificate. “A sick way of telling me that my first wife might not be dead.”

Montoya waited a beat, watching the expression on his partner’s face. “You’re kidding. Right?”

“Does this look like a joke to you?” Bentz asked, pointing at the death certificate and scattered pictures.”

“You think this is Jennifer? Nah!” Then eyeing his ex-partner, “You’re messing with me, right?”

Bentz filled Montoya in. Until this point only his kid, who had been in his hospital room at the time he’d awoken from his coma, had any idea that Bentz had seen his first wife. Kristi had dismissed his vision of Jennifer as the result of his coma and too much medication. After that first sighting, he’d kept his mouth shut and his daughter, caught up in preparing for her wedding, hadn’t brought up the subject again.

“Wait a second,” Montoya said when Bentz paused to take a drink. “You’re saying you believe she might actually be alive?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Otherwise you’re chasing a ghost.”

Bentz scowled. Felt the heat of Montoya’s stare. “I’m not chasing a ghost.”

“Then?”

“And I’m not going out of my mind.”

“Which leaves…what? You believe that someone’s dressing up to look like your ex and then gaslighting you? Is that what you’re thinking, that you’re caught up in some kind of weird scenario straight out of a Hitchcock movie?”

“As I said, I don’t know what to believe.”

“You tell this to Olivia?”