“I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale,” said Dr. Wolfe, firmly. “But I’m sure if you were to speak to Mrs. Brewer—”

“That’s not possible,” said Seb as he bowed his head.

The headmistress’s expression softened and she took a closer look at the stranger.

“I’d better be going,” said Seb, “or I’ll miss my train.” He wanted to run, but his legs were so weak he could hardly move. When he looked up to say goodbye, the headmistress was still staring at him.

“You’re Jessica’s father.”

Seb nodded as the tears welled up uncontrollably. Dr. Wolfe walked across, removed the picture from the wall, and handed it to the stranger.

“Please don’t let them know I was here,” he begged. “It will be better that way.”

“I won’t say a word,” said Dr. Wolfe, offering him her hand.

Cedric Hardcastle would have been able to do business with this woman; someone who didn’t need to sign a contract to keep her word.

“Thank you,” said Seb, handing her the flowers.

He left quickly, clutching the painting under his arm. Once he was outside, he walked and walked. How stupid he’d been to lose her. Doubly stupid. Like the bad cowboy in a B movie, he knew he had to get out of town, and get out fast. Only the sheriff could know he’d ever been there.

“Union Station,” he said as he climbed into the back of another cab. He couldn’t stop staring at My Mom, and would have missed the neon sign if he hadn’t happened to look up for a moment.

“Stop!” he shouted. The cab drew into the kerb.

“I thought you said Union Station. That’s another ten blocks.”

“Sorry, I changed my mind.” He paid the driver, stepped out onto the pavement, and stared up at the sign. This time he didn’t hesitate to walk into the building and straight up to the counter, praying that his hunch was right.

“Which department do you want, sir?” asked the woman standing there.

“I want to buy a photograph of a wedding that I’m sure your paper would have covered.”

“The photographic department is on the second floor,” she said, pointing toward a staircase, “but you’d better hurry. They’ll be closing in a few minutes.”

Seb bounded up the stairs three at a time and charged through some swing doors with PHOTOS stenciled on the beveled glass. On this occasion, it was a young man looking at his watch who was standing behind a counter. Seb didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Did your paper cover the Brewer and Sullivan wedding?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check.”

Seb paced back and forth in front of the counter, hoping, willing, praying. At last the young man reappeared carrying a thick folder.

“Seems we did,” he said, dumping the folder on the counter.