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.