“Honey?” she says questioningly to Corey. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” He gives a little laugh. “What is going on? This is Alicia Merrelle,” he adds to his wife. “Owns Golden Peace. My wife, Cyndi.”

Cyndi gasps and goggles at Alicia. “You own Golden Peace? That place is inspirational! I have your DVD, my friend did the retreat…how can we help?”

“We’re looking for my father,” I plunge in. “He’s called Graham Bloomwood, and we think you knew him years ago. Unless…” I add uncertainly to Corey, “there’s another Corey Andrews who puts eagles in his paintings?”

Cyndi laughs. “Only one Corey Andrews, isn’t there, babe?”

“Great!” I say, encouraged. “So, you went on a trip with my dad in 1972. A road trip. There were four of you.”

Something tells me I’ve said the wrong thing. Corey’s face barely moves, but I can see it in his eyes. A flicker of hostility.

“In 1972?” Cyndi wrinkles her brow. “Corey would have been too young for a road trip back then! How old were you then, honey?”

“I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” says Corey tightly. “If you’ll excuse us.”

As he turns away, I can see tiny scars behind his ears. Oh, for God’s sake. This is about his personal vanity. That’s why he’s denying he knows Dad. Cyndi has hurried to help a fallen child, but before Corey can disappear too, Mum grabs his arm.

“My husband’s missing!” says Mum dramatically. “You’re our only hope!”

“Look, I’m sorry, but you must be the same Corey,” I say firmly. “I know you are. Has my dad come here? Have you heard anything from him?”

“This conversation is over.” He glares at me.

“Are you in touch with Brent or Raymond?” I persist. “Did you know that Brent’s been living in a trailer? My dad says he’s got to ‘put something right.’ Do you know what that is?”

“Please leave my property,” says Corey flatly. “It’s my daughter’s birthday party. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Can you give us Raymond’s surname, at least?”

“Raymond Earle?” says Cyndi brightly, rejoining the group. “That’s the only Raymond I ever heard Corey talk about.”

I glance at Corey, and he looks livid.

“Cyndi, don’t talk to these people,” he snaps. “They’re just leaving. Go back to the party.”

“Cyndi, where does Raymond live?” I quickly ask. “Isn’t it Albuquerque? Or San Diego? Or is it…Milwaukee?”

I’m just plucking places from the air, hoping it’ll prod her into answering, and it works.

“Well, no, he’s down near Tucson, right?” She glances uncertainly at Corey. “Only he’s a bit nuts, isn’t he, babe? Total recluse? I mean, I overheard you talking….” She quails at Corey’s look and falls silent.

“So you are in touch with him!” I feel a surge of frustration. We’re so on the right track. But if this stupid plastic-faced idiot won’t help us, we’ll be stuck again. “Corey, what happened in 1972? Why’s my dad gone on this mission? What happened?”