As I zipped down the Wiki entry to the sources, a line caught my eye, under “see also” links to related entries. A link for changelings. When I read that, I heard Rose’s voice.

You have no idea what a fairy circle is, do you? Which is shocking for a changeling child.

Changeling. A fairy child left in the place of a human one, to be raised by the unknowing parents. It applied to me metaphorically—my adoptive parents having raised me not knowing my true heritage.

I looked at the photo of Ciara. Another thing we had in common? A chill skittered over my skin.

I ran a Facebook search on Ciara Conway’s family. Her mother and brother had pages. I clicked her mother’s link for photos and skimmed until I found a family shot of all four Conways, taken a year ago. I enlarged the photo and stared at the screen.

Ciara Conway was not her parents’ child.

Everyone knows genetics does wonky things. A family of blue-eyed blonds can have a green-eyed, red-headed throwback to some previous generation. But the resemblance will still be there, in deeper ways—the shape of the face, the eyes, the cheekbones. That’s what was missing between me and my adoptive parents.

It was also missing between Ciara and the Conways.

Yes, there were similarities in the coloring. She was dark-haired. So was her father. But Ciara’s hair was as dark as Gabriel’s. Her coloring superficially resembled his and Rose’s. Black Irish: black hair, pale skin, blue eyes. While she didn’t closely resemble either of them, she could have passed for a Walsh better than for a member of her actual family.

No. I was jumping to conclusions. That damned Wiki entry had seized my imagination and made off with it.

I would show Gabriel the pictures, and he’d point out facial similarities, along with the general impossibility of my theory. The DNA confusion must be a lab error or misidentification of the body. Both were more likely than “switched at birth.”

I was forwarding my conclusions to Gabriel when I got an e-mail from him. It was his usual terse missive, more like an elongated text message.

Heard from police contact. Conways advised by anonymous call. So-called psychic. Male. No name. Said Ciara alive. Urged to have DNA tested. Call traced to pay phone. Can still meet with Conways but see little point. Will talk tomorrow.

Anonymous call? From a supposed psychic? I wasn’t even sure where to go with that. I finished my e-mail to Gabriel, hit Send, shut down my computer, and went to bed.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I was still drifting off to sleep when my cell phone rang. Ricky’s number illuminated on the screen.

“Hey,” I said as I answered.

There was a pause. One so long I repeated the greeting before Ricky said, “Hey. Are you . . . ? You’ve gone to bed, right?”

“Yes, but I’m not asleep yet.” I pulled myself upright, smile vanishing as I heard his tone, cautious and strained. “It didn’t go well with your dad?”

“I just . . . I need to see you. Can I come by?”

“Of course. Where are you?”

Another long pause. “Outside.”

“You’re here?”

“Yeah. I came straight here, hoping you were still awake, but then I saw your light was off and got your good night text and . . .”

“Come on up.”

—

I was barely at the door before Ricky rapped, just once, almost hesitant, as if I might have fallen asleep. When I opened it and saw him, I thought, It’s over. Don’s told him to break it off. The club comes first.

His gaze lifted to mine. A bruise was rising on his jaw, purple and red, and his lip was split, smears of blood on his chin where he’d wiped it off.

“Oh,” I said. I reached to touch his face, but he caught my hand.

“I’m fine,” he said, and came inside, shutting the door behind him. “I’m fine now.”

His lips came to mine, and I held back, thinking of his cut, trying to be gentle, but he pulled me to him, his kiss hard and hungry, the faint taste of blood on my tongue.

I laced my arms around his neck, fingers in his hair as he swung me back against the wall, hands pushing up my nightshirt, fingers hooking in my panties. Then he paused, breaking the kiss, panting slightly as he whispered, “I need you.”

“Yes,” I said.

—

Afterward, we were on the floor, half in the front hall, half in the kitchen. Ricky lay on top of me, catching his breath. He glanced up as something snagged his attention.

“Hey, TC,” he said.

I craned my head back to see the cat, sitting there, staring at him.

“Probably not the best way to make his acquaintance,” Ricky said.

“It’s not you. I swear, the first night Gabriel stayed over, TC sat on the couch and stared at him all night. He’s assessing the situation. Determining how likely you are to steal his food and his blanket.”

“I’ll leave him to his bed and find my own.” He started to rise. “Your room’s through there?”

“It is.” I pushed up on my elbows.

“Uh-uh. I got you out of bed. Least I can do is get you back there.” He scooped me up.

“Mmm, impressive,” I said.

He laughed, and I reveled in the sound, the look in his eyes, relaxed and centered now. He carried me to the bed and set me on it while he stood at the side.

“You okay with me staying tonight?” he said.

“I’d be more concerned if you finished your booty call and scrammed.”

“It wasn’t a booty call.”

“I know,” I said, reaching for him. “I was teasing. Come to bed. Talk to me.”

He stripped off his shirt and socks and slid into bed.

“You told your dad about us,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“And . . .” I touched the purpling bruise on his jaw. “He wasn’t happy.”

“Yeah.” A pause, then his eyes widened as he made the connection. “No. He didn’t—” He shook his head. “Definitely not. He’s never laid a finger on me. That was . . .”

He took a deep breath and propped himself on his side, facing me. “We had some shit to do earlier. Territory issue. New guys. Not bikers—just punks with bikes who fancy themselves a club. They want territory, and they’ve decided, since we’re the smallest club, they’ll take ours. We’ve been trying to stomp them without causing serious trouble. Dad doesn’t like trouble. It’s bad for business. Anyway, we went to have a conversation, and the asshole in charge decided to come at me instead. He figured he had ammunition. That picture of us in the Post.”