“No trace of your guy, at least not in Texas. A handful of Bellamy Smiths, even a Bellamy Smythe, but all old-timers. None even close to matching your description. I checked all the relevant registries. Probably worth broadening the search, but not unless you’re certain that’s his real name.”

“His accent is definitely Texan.”

“Could be a fake.”

“Possible, but I doubt it.”

“And you don’t have any more specifics? His professional credentials would be a good place to start. We could easily track him down with those, provided he’s given you his real name.”

“Yeah, that’s going to be tricky. Mom’s tight-lipped about the whole thing. I could try to trick it out of them, but to be honest they’re all over my crap. I don’t know what else to do. No point contacting the police because Mom’s adamant that everything’s fine.”

“Uh-huh. But they’d be able to verify his ID and his credentials. If you told them you suspected he was there on false pretenses, they’d be obliged to investigate. That would clear everything up, or at least validate your suspicions. On the other hand, your mom…”

“Would hate me for not trusting her. And like I said, she doesn’t have long left. Something like that could kill her—the stress of it.”

“She doesn’t seem under any kind of duress as things are?”

“Not really, no. She’s actually enjoying herself more than I’ve seen her in ages. It’s good to see.”

“Then I hate to say it, but maybe you should trust her. Maybe this guy is genuinely helping her.” Marty paused. “What does your gut tell you about him, Rose?”

“That he’s got too many secrets…” She glanced up to her mom’s window, but the oblique angle didn’t allow her to see anything more than the sunset’s dazzling reflection on the glass. “But also, that he’s not lying necessarily. It’s hard to explain. He seems like a sweet guy, but there’s a dark side—that’s where the secrets lie. I just wish I knew the truth about what he’s doing here. I don’t dislike him, but I dislike not knowing. Does that make any sense or am I just crazy?”

“Yeah. It’s like those Jehovah’s Witnesses, the genuinely nice ones. You don’t dislike ’em until they start talking about what’s good for you, what’s going to save your soul and all that jazz.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s not a Jehovah’s Witness, Marty.”

“I know, but I’m just saying—”

“’S’okay. I get it. Thanks for trying to understand. Listen, I’m going to fish a bit more, see if I can get one of them to bite. If that doesn’t work…I don’t know.”

“Check his wallet,” suggested Marty.

“I don’t think he has one.”