Nothing was wrong with the baby or her pregnancy. The baby’s fine.

But the pain didn’t let up. She cast a glance at the open photo album and fought another hard, wrenching abdominal cramp.

The baby’s FINE!

She began to pant, to let out her breath in short little huffs as the cramping continued and she could barely think.

The baby’s fine, the baby’s fine, the baby’s fine!

She gritted her teeth against the pain and the horrid, deplorable thought that she could be losing the tiny life within her.

And then she felt the blood.

Warm and oozing, just a trickle.

She was bleeding. Damn it all, she was bleeding.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bentz demanded as he crossed the stained concrete slab of the parking structure.

“Covering your sorry ass.” Montoya had his service weapon trained on the suspect.

Walking up to her, Bentz still couldn’t believe how much she looked like Jennifer. “Jada…” Beyond her resemblance to his ex-wife, he was sure he didn’t know her. “Who are you?”

When she didn’t respond, Montoya filled him in. “Her name is Jada Hollister and she’s a theater major at Whitaker Junior College. A wannabe actress. Friend of Fernando Valdez.”

“I bet.” Seething, Bentz stared at the imposter. He had to restrain himself from tearing her limb from limb. “Where’s Olivia?”

“What? Who?”

“My wife. My real wife. Where the hell is she?” he demanded.

Her cool demeanor, the act she’d perfected, remained in place. “I have no idea.”

Bentz’s temper exploded. “I’m through fuckin’ around, you got it? Now where the hell is my wife?”

“I’d tell him, if I were you,” Montoya said.

She put her hands on her hips. “But I don’t know.”

“Think real hard,” Bentz advised.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped at him. “What is that, like a line from a really bad B Western?”

A car drove down from an upper level and the driver, an African-American woman with a flamboyant scarf wrapped around her head, saw the gun in Montoya’s hand and hit the gas of her Mercedes wagon. As she wound her way down, Bentz saw that she was on her cell. She’d be calling 9-1-1.

“The LAPD is going to be here shortly,” Bentz said, his voice deathly quiet. “And I guarantee they’ll go so much easier on you if you tell us where we can find my wife. Now.”

“But I don’t know,” Jada insisted, her brow furrowing. She followed the path of the disappearing Mercedes.

“Your name is Jada Hollister?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And you’re friends with Fernando Valdez.”

“If you can call it that.”

“He paid you to pretend to be Jennifer?” Bentz asked.