“We had two main things to go on. One, of course, was that you had a son—although we never dreamed he’d still have the same name. The other was what you said about ‘success in work I love.’ I knew it had to be something that called for education—those books you were always reading, even as a kid. So Ryan started with the colleges, alumni publications, yearbooks, stuff like that. He and his whole agency. Give him credit: even with computers, it was a massive job. I must have looked at a thousand pictures. No luck. Then, just when we were both ready to give up, he had the idea of finding out what professional conventions were in Toronto when the letter was mailed. There were a dozen, but the psychologists were the ones who seemed most likely. And … voila!” He laughed.

“When he showed me photographs of you, I told him he was crazy. He had to explain about plastic surgery. I was naive, I suppose. We went to Boston, and I spied on you from a distance. I knew right away that it was you—something in the way you walk, more than anything else. That was two years ago.” “Two years! Then why did you wait till now—with all this nonsense that I still may slap you for? Why didn’t you say anything, contact me?”

“I almost ran up to you right there on the street. But something told me to wait. ‘She’s been hiding for this long,’ I thought. ‘She must have a reason.’ I didn’t know what it might be. To tell the truth, I thought it might have something to do with Philippe’s death. So I waited.”

“Then why now?”

“Partly, because I couldn’t wait any longer. But partly, because things have changed.”

“What do you mean? What’s happened?”

He waved a hand. “Later. Let it wait a bit, now that you’re here. Relax. You must be tired.”

“I slept well enough, thanks to your man Ryan.” She realized that she was staring at the empty sleeve. “Your poor arm, Malik. I saw the Sandra Waters interview. I felt so—I don’t know: I just wanted to take care of you.

His dark eyes smiled. “The usual reaction. Don’t worry, Baby Sister, it hasn’t cramped my style. The illustrious Dr. Kissinger was wrong: power isn’t the ultimate aphrodisiac—pity is. The maternal instinct. I was never able to excite it before. Now I can hardly shut it off.”

“Idiot,” she said hugging him again. “Dear idiot.”

“One piece of bad news,” he said quietly. “I may as well tell you now: Father died.”

“No! Oh, my God!”

“Yes. A bad stroke, and then he just slowly … fell to pieces.”

A terrible wave of guilt swept over Jenna. “Oh, Malik, he never knew that Karim and I were alive.”