She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. The blood work had to be wrong. Any other possibility was unthinkable. Impossible. There had to be a mistake.

She tried to puzzle it out, turning the cell phone over and over in her hand. Its smooth metallic finish caught the light from the harsh overhead fluorescents, and she flipped it open on impulse. The tiny, multicolored screen showed the menu and on impulse, she pressed the button for the call logs. On the screen appeared a sharp-focus highlighting of the last call that had been received. It should have shown that it was her father, but the caller’s name didn’t read DAD or even HARRY.

Instead, it read: MOZART.

Huh?

Why would Jack call her father Mozart? Puzzled, she flipped through the menu to the address book and skimmed the address list. The names were in alphabetical order, and she skimmed them: BACH, BEETHOVEN, BRAHMS, CHOPIN, HANDEL, LISZT, MAHLER, MENDELS-SOHN, SCARLATTI, SCHUBERT, SCHUMANN, SHOSTAKOVICH, SIBELIUS, TCHAIKOVSKY, VIVALDI.

What?

They were all composers. But Jack didn’t know anything about music; her father was the music expert. What was going on? It looked as if the names were some kind of code, on a cell phone she hadn’t even known existed.

What was happening? Who was Mozart? Had Jack heard from Harry? Had he lied about that? Why would he? Was Harry really okay? Suddenly, she didn’t understand anything. The miscarriage. The abortion pills. A secret phone with coded addresses. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her mouth went dry. She needed answers.

She pressed the button for MOZART, thumbed back to the call log, and pressed the button for the MOZART profile. It contained no real name, no email and no other information except for the phone number, which had too many digits. What did that mean? Then she realized there was a country code in front of the number. She didn’t know which country it was, but she knew it was an international number.

She pressed the buttons for two more profiles, HANDEL and LISZT. Both profiles were international calls, too, with no other information, like real name, email, or home phones. Why would Jack have a cell phone entirely—and solely—of international numbers? He’d never even traveled abroad; she was the world traveler of the two.

What about the baby?

She pushed the button and recalled MOZART, whoever the hell that was. The phone rang three times.

“Vukasin,” answered a man, in a thick accent she couldn’t identify.

She pressed End, her heart hammering. Who was Vukasin? What was going on? She couldn’t puzzle it out fast enough. Something was horribly wrong, and Jack would be back any minute. She didn’t know what to do. Confront him? Then she realized that this Vukasin guy could call back and blow her cover.

There was only one thing to do.