“Took me about two minutes to figure it out after you walked into the bar the other night. If I worked it out, others will too.”

“What about the email?” Jessica asked. “Are you John Doe?”

McCool shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He slowly lowered his hands and let them hang loosely by his sides. “I’ve spent the last twenty-five years worrying this would happen. That you would show up one day looking for answers.”

“Did Tony—Rob—kill Eleanor Lavelle?”

McCool shook his head. “No.”

“Was he my real father?”

The old man stared at his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye.

This was a very different Mack McCool from the aggressive one who had yelled at her in the bar just hours earlier.

“Tell me,” she said.

“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so.”

“Who is my real father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who the hell was Rob Young?”

“Believe me—the less you know, the safer you’ll be. He loved you, and he loved Eleanor. That’s all you need to know.”

“Bullshit.” Jessica took a step toward McCool, the gun still raised. “Tell me who he was and why he took me from that house.”

“No.”

“I’ll find out anyway. It’s what I do.”

McCool shook his head. “You won’t find out about him. Rob Young wasn’t his real name. You’ll get nowhere. Go back to New York, Jessica. Forget about Eagle Rock. Just remember the man who loved you like you were his daughter.”

She took another step closer to McCool and pressed the barrel of the baby Glock to his forehead. “I want to know the truth.”

“You’re not going to shoot me, Jessica.” He put his hand to the barrel and gently lowered the gun. He backed away from her. “I hope this is the last time I see you. Stay safe. And trust no one. Including your journalist friend.”

“What does that mean?”

McCool didn’t answer her. He just turned and walked away in the direction of York Boulevard without looking back. Jessica watched him shuffle off into the darkness until she couldn’t see him anymore.

She had no intention of taking his advice.

Jessica’s eyes fell upon her truck, still parked next to the motel sign. She pulled on sneakers and a pair of jeans. Stuck the Glock in the waistband and made her way to the Silverado. The yearbook was on the passenger seat where she’d thrown it after leaving the high school in Van Nuys.