Darlene Gardner - The Truth About Tara

“It’s not what you think,” he said hurriedly. “I was driving over to the school, hoping to talk to you. And then suddenly, there you were.”

She should have been alarmed, but his eyes, a velvety-brown shade, seemed kind. His voice was so low it was almost soothing.

“Why would you want to talk to me?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

If she had, she’d remember.

“My name’s Jack DiMarco. I’m visiting from Kentucky.” His accent was soft, evident only in the slight rounding of his vowels. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

“How to say what?”

He opened his mouth, closed it then withdrew a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans and unfolded it.

“Maybe this will help you understand,” he said, holding the paper out to her.

Tara had a premonition that she didn’t want to see whatever was on the paper. She didn’t know what had gotten into her this morning. She wasn’t normally so anxious. Careful not to touch him, Tara took the paper. On it was the photo image of a young woman with golden-brown hair, a high forehead, wide-set eyes and an oval face with a rounded chin.

Tara’s free hand flew to her mouth. “This looks like me.”

“I think so, too,” the man—Jack—said. “Except for the hair. Yours is more reddish-brown.”

It made no sense. Why would this stranger have a drawing of her? She waved the paper at him. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a computer-generated photo done by a forensic artist,” he said. “My sister pushed for an updated version of it. She’s a private investigator.”

Tara caught only the first part of his answer because she was reexamining the photo. Underneath it in large block type was the name Hayley Cooper. The smaller print below the name blurred as she belatedly recalled his last two words. Her chin came up. “You’re a private investigator?”

“I’m not,” he said. “My sister is. Since I was coming to the Eastern Shore, anyway, she asked me to check out a lead on one of her cases to see if it was worth pursuing.”

“What case?”

“A missing-person case.”

Tara’s shoulders relaxed. She breathed in air that carried the familiar smell of salt water and late-spring blooms. Without reading the rest of the print, she extended the sheet of paper back to him. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not Hayley Cooper and I’m not missing.”

“You don’t understand.” He nodded down at the piece of paper. “That’s an age progression. It’s an approximation of what the missing person would look like today.”

Tara’s stomach tightened as the tension returned. She remembered a magazine article a few years back about Jaycee Dugard, a missing child who’d been found after being held against her will for eighteen years. The magazine had run Jaycee’s current photo and her age-progression one side by side. They’d looked remarkably alike.

“What does this have to do with me?” Tara asked.

“Maybe nothing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Here’s the deal. My sister is investigating the case of a three-year-old who was abducted twenty-eight years ago from a shopping mall in a little town outside Louisville.”

“And?” Tara prompted.

His mouth twisted. “Is there any chance you could be her?”

It felt as if all the blood rushed from Tara’s head. She fought not to sway. The stranger was watching her carefully, as though she were a specimen under a microscope.

“That’s crazy,” Tara said.

“You’re about the right age,” he said. “Hayley would be thirty-one in a few weeks.”

“I’m thirty-two.” Tara needed time to gather her composure while she assessed how to handle the situation. The next few moments could be crucial. “What led you to me?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “That photo I showed you, my sister made sure it was posted on all the missing-persons websites. She’s gotten dozens of tips, too many to physically track down every one herself.”

Tara wanted to find out more about the websites, but it was more important to convince the stranger he was wrong about her.

“I’ve lived in Wawpaney my whole life,” Tara said. “I’ve never even been to the Midwest.”

He tilted his head. “Are you sure? Most people don’t have memories from their first few years.”

Tara had only one, although it had never made any sense. She’d gotten good at banishing the memory, if that were truly what it was. It had been years since she’d awakened abruptly from a deep sleep with her body shaking and tears dampening her cheeks.

“I’m sure I wasn’t abducted.” She managed to laugh. “The neighbors would have been awfully suspicious if a three-year-old suddenly joined the family.”

Before he could respond, she added, “Besides, I’ve seen baby photos of myself. You have, too, right?”

A corner of his mouth kicked up. He seemed to relax. “I’m from a family of six,” he said. “My mom takes so many photos she should have bought stock in Kodak.”

“My mother, too.” Tara was relieved the hand that still held out the paper to him wasn’t shaking. This time he took it.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” he said. “My sister warned me the lead probably wouldn’t pan out. Most of them go nowhere. But you’ve gotta admit, that photo looks an awful lot like you.”

“I’m sure age progression isn’t an exact science.” Tara needed to get away from him as soon as she possibly could. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to school. Class is starting soon.”

“Of course.” He seemed about to say more, but she didn’t give him a chance, passing by him and continuing on the cracked, narrow sidewalk to Wawpaney Elementary.

She was fortunate that Jack DiMarco wasn’t the private investigator in his family. Otherwise, it might not have been so easy to convince him she wasn’t the grown-up version of Hayley Cooper. She forced herself to act normally and walk at a measured clip, resisting the urge to glance back to see if he was still studying her.

She couldn’t afford to do anything that would make him suspect that most of what she’d just told him were lies.

* * *

MOST DINERS THAT LOOKED like old railroad cars were actually cleverly designed fakes. Or so Jack had heard. The place with the silver exterior where he stopped for breakfast just outside Wawpaney, though, had to be an exception.

The inside was long and narrow, with a counter lined with stools running the length of one side of the diner. Opposite the counter were booths with windows that overlooked the parking lot. It seemed as though the floor rumbled when Jack stepped inside, as though the railroad car still had some miles left in it. That could have been his runaway imagination, though.

He took a seat at the end of the counter and looked over a plastic menu with fingerprint smudges—it ran the gamut from breakfast to dinner. Home-cooked entrées, tried-and-true favorites and dishes with fresh ingredients populated the menu. The scent of bacon and eggs filled the air.

The place was nearly full, although it probably held no more than thirty or thirty-five customers. Conversational voices blended together to create a continuous hum.

Jack looked up from the menu, surprised that a waitress was standing across the counter from him, waiting. Her curly black hair framed a round, friendly face. She was so short they were almost at eye level, although he was sitting down.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t notice you there.”

“You must be a tourist.” She balanced one hand on her hip. “The locals all know the menu by heart.”

“The food must be good here,” he said.