Clay’s news from yesterday should have kept me on cloud nine for a while, but most of what I’d felt after he left had been numb. I supposed it made sense, not really knowing how to feel after such a sudden change in the case, but when I’d gotten up this morning, I still felt like I was just going through the motions.

Maggie had come in this morning full of her usual bounce and levity, and I’d been tempted to ask her to leave simply because I wasn’t sure I could handle her today. Instead, I’d smiled and told her that if no one came in by noon, she could go home. She’d said goodbye less than twenty minutes ago, leaving me alone in the office.

I barely noticed the difference.

I’d made progress on my whiteboard by steadily making my way through a list of every Scott Browne in the area where Salome had sent Helen eight years ago. It wasn’t a name as common as John Smith, but it wasn’t exactly overly unique either. According to Salome, he was the one whose name went on the birth certificate as the biological father since his partner was half African-American, half-Haitian, and the baby was white. If, by some chance, he and Michael Farmer had split up, the child would’ve most likely stayed with Browne.

The next one I found was in Nunn, Colorado, not too far from the address Salome had given me. I dialed the number, and after the second ring, a kid answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, may I speak to Scott Browne, please?”

“Just a minute,” the child said politely before yelling, “Dad! Phone!”

This was a landline, I realized with surprise. This probably wasn’t the family I needed. I didn’t know of anyone under the age of thirty-five who still had a landline. This Scott Browne was probably the little kid’s grandfather, not father.

“This is Scott Browne. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Hi, my name is June Lewis, and I’m calling from the Foundation for LGTBQ Adoptive Services.”

“Uh, I’ve never heard of them.”

The hesitation was small, barely noticeable. I probably wouldn’t have even registered it if I hadn’t been paying close attention.

“It’s a new foundation,” I said, working to keep my voice upbeat without sounding overly hopeful. I had to keep up my cover.

Contacting adoptive parents was difficult enough, but I was dealing with an illegal adoption. The parents of Helen’s last baby, whoever they were, had to be worried about legal ramifications if they were caught, not to mention the possibility of losing the child they’d raised for the last eight years. I needed to be careful I didn’t scare them away.

“Our foundation has been specifically created to assist LGBTQ families looking to adopt, and ones that have already adopted,” I continued with the spiel I’d created for this specific task. “Our records show that you inquired about adoption a decade ago, but nothing more recently.”

I paused, waiting for him to say what the other Scott Browne’s had said. That they didn’t have kids. That they hadn’t adopted kids. They weren’t interested in adoption. They weren’t gay.

“My husband and I had been considering adoption, but we ended up going with surrogacy.”

I didn’t think I imagined the nerves I heard beneath his words. “I would still love to talk to you in person about the ways you and your family could support the foundation.”

“But, my daughter is not adopted.”

Yeah, my PI’s intuition was pinging off the charts. He was on edge.

“That’s all right,” I said cheerily. “You don’t have to be an adoptive family to support the rights of LGBTQ families to adopt.”

“Of course, we support – look, send me an envelope with an address where I can send a check. I’m not really interested in doing anything else.”

The call ended before I could say another word. Someone else might’ve chalked it up to Scott simply not wanting to talk to someone he considered a solicitor, but my gut said there was more to it than that.

I needed to go to Nunn and make visual confirmation.

An hour later, I parked across the street from a nice, two-story house. Salome hadn’t met Scott or Michael in person or seen a picture, but Scott had provided a few identifying features for Helen, and then Salome had given them to me. They weren’t much, but they should be enough to confirm whether I was on the right track.

I planned on waiting for hours, sitting in the car until it was either too dark to see or until someone got suspicious. This wasn’t exactly a busy street, so I was guessing it’d be the latter.

To my surprise, however, I hadn’t been there more than forty minutes before the front door opened and three people came outside. The little girl wore a hat, but some of her chestnut brown hair had escaped, blowing wildly in the wind.

One of the men had darker skin and a lean, lanky body. I could hear his laugh even though my windows were closed, and the sound of it made me smile. The other man was stocky, probably a good three inches shorter than me, with broad shoulders and a bit of a gut that his bulky coat didn’t disguise. His hair was a burnished copper, and he had the sort of fair skin that the sun probably wouldn’t be kind to.

All these things matched the description I’d been given of Michael Farmer and Scott Browne, which meant that, unless something was off, these were the people I’d been looking for.

I glanced at my dash. I’d come with the intention to just do visual confirmation, but it hadn’t taken as long as I’d planned. It was a risk to make face-to-face contact without having a plan, but I was feeling a bit impulsive.

I waited until Michael took the little girl inside before I got out of the car. Scott had his back to me when I approached, and I shuffled my feet in the snow to let him know I was coming. He looked up from the small section of sidewalk he was clearing when I was only a few feet away and gave a little wave.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hi.” I gave him a wide smile. “Scott Browne?”

He frowned. “Do I know you?”

“Not exactly.” I kept my stance relaxed, my tone easy. “My name’s Rona Quick, and I’m a private investigator.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re that woman who called about some LGBTQ adoption foundation earlier today.”

I held up a hand. “I’m not here for any sort of legal thing. I don’t want to make any trouble for you and your family. Please, just hear me out.”

He glanced behind him, and I saw his hands tighten on the shovel. “All right.”

“Your daughter’s biological mother had numerous other children, and one of them hired me to find the others. She just wants to know her brothers and sisters. I promise you, she doesn’t want anything that will hurt her sister.”

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Why don’t you come inside so we can talk?”