"Oh, I do, Dr. Sheridan," Amy Sachs said solemnly. "Don't forget, I was very familiar with her voice from watching her on Henderson County . For three years I never missed that program. Like clockwork, Tuesday nights at eight o'clock, my mother and I were in front of the television to see it." She paused, then added, "Unless I was working, of course, which I tried not to do on Tuesday nights. But sometimes they'd have to ask me to come in because someone was sick, and then my mother would tape the program for me."

"Well then, I'm sure you would know Laura's voice. Amy, will you tell me yourself how Laura sounded to you on that call?"

"Dr. Sheridan, I have to tell you she sounded funny. I mean funny different. Just between us, my first impression was that maybe she was hungover, because I know she had a drinking problem a couple of years ago. I read about it in People. But now I really think Jake was right. Ms. Wilcox didn't sound like she'd had too much to drink; she sounded nervous-very, very nervous."

Amy's voice lowered to its usual near-whisper. "In fact, Sunday night, after I talked to Ms. Wilcox, when I went home I told my mother that she reminded me of the way I used to sound when our elocution teacher in high school was trying to make me talk louder. I was so scared of her that my voice would start to quiver because I'd be trying not to cry. That's the best way I can describe how Ms. Wilcox sounded to me!"

"I see." Jean, help me! Please, Jean, help me! I was right, Jean thought. This is not about a publicity stunt.

Amy's triumphant smile at being able to describe her reaction to Laura's voice vanished almost before it appeared. "And, Dr. Sheridan, I do want to apologize that your fax yesterday got caught in Mr. Cullen's mail. We pride ourselves on our prompt and careful delivery of faxes that come in for our guests. I have to be sure to explain that to Dr. Fleischman when I see him."

"Dr. Fleischman?" Jean asked, her curiosity aroused. "Is there any reason why you would explain that to him?"

"Well, yes. Yesterday afternoon, when he came in from his walk, he stopped at the desk and phoned your room. I knew you were in the coffee shop and told him that he could find you there. Then he asked if you had received any new faxes, and he seemed surprised when I said you hadn't. I could tell he knew you were expecting one."

"I see. Thank you, Amy." Jean tried not to show how shocked she was at what the desk clerk had told her. Why would Mark ask a question like that? she wondered. Forgetting that she had intended to get a container of coffee, she walked numbly through the lobby and out the front door.

It was even colder outside than she had expected, but the sun was strong and there was no wind, so she decided she would be okay. She slipped on her sunglasses and began to walk away from the hotel grounds, headed no place in particular. Her mind was suddenly filled with a possibility she did not want to accept. Was Mark the person who had been sending the faxes about Lily? Had he sent Lily's hairbrush to her? Mark, who had been so comforting when she had confided her anguish to him, who had covered her hand with his and made her feel that he wanted to share her pain?

Mark knew I was dating Reed, Jean thought. He told me himself that he saw us when he was jogging at West Point. Did he somehow find out about Lily? Unless he's been sending the faxes, why would he be concerned that I hadn't received one by mid-afternoon yesterday? Is he behind all this, and if he is, would he hurt my child?

I don't want to believe that, she thought, agonized by the prospect. I can't believe that! But why would he ask the clerk if I'd received a fax? Why didn't he ask me?

Not thinking about where she was going, Jean walked through streets that she had known intimately as a child. She passed Town

Hall without seeing it, went as far along Angola Road as the turn-off from the highway, retraced her steps, and finally, an hour later, went into a combination delicatessen-coffee shop at the end of Mountain Road. She sat at the counter and ordered coffee. Dejected and once again deeply worried, she realized that neither the cold air nor the long walk had succeeded in helping to clarify her thinking. I'm worse off than when I started, she thought. I don't know who to trust or what to believe.

According to the large red stitching on his jacket, Duke Mackenzie was the name of the scrawny gray-haired man behind the counter. He obviously was in the mood to chat. "You new around here, Miss?" he asked as he poured the coffee.

"No. I grew up here."

"By any chance, were you with that twenty-year reunion group from Stonecroft?"

There was no way of not answering the man. "Yes, I was."

"Where in town did you live?"

Jean gestured toward the back of the store. "Right up there on Mountain Road."

"No kidding? We weren't here then. Used to be a dry cleaner on this spot."

"I remember." Even though the coffee was almost too hot to drink, Jean began sipping it.

"My wife and I liked the town and bought this place about ten years ago. Had to do a complete renovation. Sue and I work hard, but we enjoy it. Open at 6:00 a.m. and don't close till 9:00 p.m. Sue's back there in the kitchen right now, making all the salads and doing the baking. We just do short-order stuff at the counter, but you'd be surprised how many people stop in for a quick cup of coffee or a sandwich."

Only half-listening to the torrent of words, Jean nodded.

"Over the weekend some of the Stonecroft alumni dropped in here when they were walking around town,” Duke continued. "They couldn't believe how property values have gone up. What number did you say you were on Mountain Road?"

Reluctantly, Jean told him the address of her childhood home. Then, anxious to get away, she gulped most of the rest of the coffee, even though it was burning her mouth. She stood up, put the twenty-dollar bill on the counter, and asked for a check.

"Second cup's free." Duke was clearly anxious not to lose her ear.

"No, that's fine. I'm running late."

While Duke was at the cash register making change, Jean's cell phone rang. It was Craig Michaelson. "I'm glad you left a forwarding number, Dr. Sheridan," he said. "Can you talk without being overheard?"

"Yes." Jean stepped away from the counter.

"I have just spoken to your daughter's adoptive father. He and his wife are coming into this area tomorrow and would like to have dinner with you. Lily, as you called your daughter, knows she is adopted and has always expressed an interest in knowing her natural mother. Her parents want that to happen. I don't want to go into too much detail over the phone, but I will tell you this much: it is virtually impossible that your daughter ever met Laura Wilcox, so I think you have to assume the last fax is a hoax. But because of her present location, you can be assured that she is safe."

For a moment, Jean was so stunned that she could not say a single word.

"Dr. Sheridan?"

"Yes, Mr. Michaelson," she whispered.

"Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?"

"Yes, of course."

"I will pick you up at seven o'clock. I suggested that having dinner at my home would give the three of you privacy. Then, very soon, perhaps as early as this weekend, you will meet Meredith."

"Meredith? Is that her name? Is that my daughter's name?" Jean realized her voice was suddenly high-pitched, but she could not control it. I'm going to see her soon, she thought. I'll be able to look into her eyes. I can put my arms around her. She did not care that tears were streaming down her cheeks or that Duke was staring at her and absorbing every word she said.

"Yes, it is. I didn't mean to tell it to you now, but it doesn't matter." Craig Michaelson's voice was kind. "I understand how you feel. I'll pick you up at the hotel tomorrow evening at seven."