Focus.

Thomas is a reporter, skilled at influencing his subjects. We’re evenly matched in that regard. He knows how to mine information. He’s a dangerous adversary but could still be a valuable asset. With effort, I look away from his hands.

“I don’t think we should tell Heidi the truth,” Thomas says.

“Seriously?”

“Can we agree that something hinky went on with your adoption?”

“Hinky? . . . Yes.”

“Heidi was involved. If we come at her directly, she probably won’t let us in the front door.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’m a reporter doing a story on the unsung heroes of the foster care system in Oregon—caseworkers. Heidi’s name came up during my research as a champion for children. I’d like to talk to her about her work.”

He really is a good liar, quick on the draw. “Then why am I here?”

“You’re my girlfriend. I promised to join you and our dog at Manzanita for the day but this was on the way, so you agreed to stop.”

I sniff. “What happened to your journalistic integrity?”

Thomas shrugs off the jab. “First, we don’t know if Heidi has that much to do with your story.”

With a smirk, I say, “Go on. Your rationalizations are fascinating.”

“Second. You might not believe this, but I actually want to find out the truth about your past for both of us. Okay?”

I consider. For the moment we’re on the same side. Once Thomas gets what he’s after, he’ll use it against me. But this isn’t over. Hana used to read me fairy tales. Her favorite was “Hansel and Gretel.” The siblings, left to starve in the woods, were lured into the home of a cannibalistic witch. Gretel ultimately tricked the witch into climbing into her own oven, bolted the door, and let her burn to death. My mother thought the moral of that story was, Never go inside a stranger’s home, even if you’re starving. But to me, it was always, Use your wits.

“Okay,” I agree. “Tell Heidi your little story. But Max might’ve already warned her about me.”

“It’s possible. We’ll know pretty quickly. Do you still want to do this?” he asks.

My gut sizzles. “Let’s go.”

We follow a curved path of stamped concrete dotted with bearded garden gnomes in red hats. Heidi Hiddleston warily opens her front door after our third knock. She’s taller than me, well over six feet, very thin, and her wavy, dyed red hair has a quarter inch of white roots that runs the length of a middle part. Her eyes are dark blue, the white on the right side marred by a squid-like broken blood vessel. She’s put together neatly in tan slacks and a pink collared shirt but purple dishwashing gloves that reach almost to her elbows detract from the look of a retired teacher. Deep lines stretch from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. They remind me of the old man in my snow globes who gleefully worked his marionettes. I’d peg her age as mid-sixties. Will she recognize me?