Bishop glared at them. “Physical evidence? Witnesses? No, or she’d be in cuffs already. Amelia, let’s go.”
Amelia cocked her head and studied Foster. She was the one Amelia was up against. Her father had always taught her that outthinking an adversary was only a victory if the adversary was a worthy opponent, that you could take no pride in besting an inferior. Foster had set a trap for her, and she’d taken the bait. Well played.
“Not yet.” Amelia smiled sweetly, as if butter wouldn’t melt. She wasn’t a fool. She hadn’t been raised by a fool either. Cue look of concern, soft eyes. Amelia remembered what was expected. “I saw it on the news this morning. I was so upset. Is she going to be okay?”
“Have you ever met Dr. Silva?” Foster asked.
Amelia ran through the choices in her head . . . no or yes, truth or lie. She went with the lie. “Early on in Bodie’s stay. She had questions about our family and our childhood she hoped I could answer.”
“And did you?” Li asked.
“Some. I gave her as much as I could. I wanted to help my brother.”
“Why was she shocked then to hear he had a twin? You?” Foster asked. “She ID’d your photo as the woman who attacked her but didn’t have your name.”
“I assume Silva is in critical condition,” Bishop said. “Heavily medicated after such a violent attack. She can’t possibly be in her right mind. She could be confused, disoriented. This is clearly an unreliable victim account.” He searched their faces. “But you know that already. A conversation, you say, but this is you trying to get us to do your work for you.” He smiled. “No dice. Amelia.” He gestured for Amelia to get up.
“But I want to help,” she said. “I was at my studio last night. I stayed pretty late. Unfortunately, I have no one to vouch for me. I was alone.”
Li laid a copy of the CPA ad on the table. “Let’s talk about your father, or, as you called him, Uncle Frank?”
Amelia’s heart began to race. She could feel the corners of her mind beginning to fray. She looked down at the ad but didn’t reach for it. “My father is dead. You’ve obviously talked to Joie. I don’t know who that man was. I only said he was my Uncle Frank so that she would calm down. She was practically hyperventilating.”
“What about your mother?” Foster asked.
Bishop scraped his chair back from the table. “Why is any of this important? What are you two up to?”
“While looking into your brother, we found a few inconsistencies we’d like to clear up,” Foster said. “We can’t find Tom Morgan anywhere prior to opening up his business in Naperville years ago, and there’s no death record for him now. Where did he die? And exactly when?” She waited for Amelia to answer, only she didn’t. “And your mother, Priscilla Morgan? Same situation. No death record. No history.”
“But we were looking under her real name,” Li said. “Priscilla Jensen. Her married name. Her maiden name is Walsh. Your father was Niles Jensen. Here’s your birth certificate.” Li slid it across the table, then laid another down next to it. “And here’s your brother’s.”
Amelia stared at the certificates, knowing everyone was watching her. She couldn’t think. Jensen. Walsh. Not Morgan? It was a lie. Cops lied. The words on the paper appeared to dance as she focused so hard on them. Niles Jensen. “Is this your idea of a joke?” she said.
“We think we might know what happened to your mother, but we’re still looking into it,” Li said.
“Meanwhile,” Foster said, “we stopped by your studio earlier today and had a chance to see your painting again.” She opened her folder and slid photos of the painting out, fanning them out on the table. She pointed to Silva’s face. “The paint was still wet on this one.” She pointed to the others. “A backpack. Phones. I don’t get the padlocks, but there are plenty of them. Can you tell me why your painting appears to corollate with the murders we’re working on?” She pointed to the unidentified faces. “And can you tell us who these two women are?”
“Whoa,” Bishop said. “Stop right there. Are you about to charge her with something?”
Amelia couldn’t take her eyes off the names—Priscilla and Niles— and she felt herself fracture as the floor seemed to drop from beneath her feet.
Niles. Not Tom.
“Amelia? Amelia.”
She realized it was Foster talking. “Your painting. Can you explain it to us?”
Their eyes locked. “No, I don’t care to.”
Bishop stood. “That’s it. We’re gone.” He opened the door, beckoned for his client to leave with him. “Not a shred of evidence. Silva met her before. The wonky ID was certainly fueled by pain meds. Then birth certificates and her own painting.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to try harder than that.” He wiggled his fingers for her to come, but Amelia couldn’t get her legs to move. She couldn’t move, couldn’t force herself to leave. The detectives were staring at her. Could they see?
“Your father died in a car accident two years after you and your brother were born,” Foster said, as though sensing what Amelia so desperately wanted.
Li slid the accident report toward her, along with a copy of Niles Jensen’s driver’s license photo. “Quite a resemblance between you and him. Same eyes.”
To Amelia it sounded like their voices were coming from far away. She couldn’t take her eyes off the photograph. It was true. She could clearly see her eyes, Bodie’s, staring back at her. She hadn’t seen any of their features in the man who’d raised them, the man who’d groomed her to kill, but it hadn’t mattered until now.
Foster leaned forward. “Priscilla Jensen went missing with her babies in 1990. She went out shopping and never came back home. Her twins—Anika and Boden Jensen—were never found. Your father searched for you. Filed a missing person report. I think the loss ruined him. The report on his accident says his blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. He barreled into a tree.”
“Your mother’s disappearance is still open,” Li said. “You and your brother, however, are a different story. We could confirm with DNA, but I think we know what we’re looking at. Now, we’re wondering who Tom Morgan is and why he chose to raise you as his own.”
Amelia could feel herself floating further and further away from the person she’d thought she was just a few moments ago. Li placed a missing person flyer down next to the other things. MISSING stenciled across the top got her attention, but not as much as the photographs beneath it, one of a young red-haired woman and the other of two infants lying on a baby blanket.
Amelia drank in her mother’s face—every line, every curve—seeing it for the first time that she could remember. Beautiful. Young. Happy. Big blue eyes. She reached down and ran her fingers across her mother’s cheek as she felt herself disappear. The truth. Finally. It was in her mother’s crooked smile, in the shape of her nose, the rise of her forehead.
Everything he’d ever told her was a lie.