Page 111 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

She took the page, studying the various sequences of three squares lined up with different features of her face and body in them.

“They used biometric identification—narrowed in on key identifiers that are unique to each person. The squares on the left are from the child in the Fourth of July photograph. The images in the middle are from the picture your mom sent via email, and this one on the right is from the video footage I found on YouTube. They froze a frame of your face for another comparison.”

She studied the red arrows pointing to specific features and the comments next to them. “Eyebrow arch is identical. Curvature and angle of ear is a match. Small Y-shaped vein along right temple visible in all three images. Distance from hairline to eyebrow is identical.” There were notes about her eye shape, corneas, and fingers, and comparisons of the lengths of various bones. “Everything matches.”

“Perfectly.”

“And the woman in the picture with me? They think she’s my mother?”

He sighed, nodding. “They did an age progression of the little girl in the Fourth of July photograph and added twenty-two years. Typically, the forensic artists like to track down pictures of the parents from the age the child was when they were abducted to help create the best likeness possible, but that wasn’t an option here. Since we’re assuming the woman in the photo can’t be that far off from the age you are right now, it made it a little easier to generate an image.” He took out another page from the folder, along with the original picture she found at the library, and handed them to her.

“Oh, God,” she shuddered out as she stared at the composite image that looked so much like her. Her gaze wandered to the woman—her biological mother—and she handed them back, fighting to get out of her seat belt, then out of the passenger side door when the cabin suddenly had no air. She hurried to the safety railing and clutched the cool metal, gulping in each breath. This was real. She could finally say without a doubt that she looked like her mother. She would officially be able to pick her out in a crowd.

Nate came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t.” She pulled away and took several steps toward the Tahoe, terrified that the cold, hollow feeling engulfing her would never go away. She stopped, fisting her hands against the overwhelming waves of reality. This had been so much easier when a faceless person had dumped her off at a diner. “She left me,” she said as she heard Nate approaching. “The woman in the picture brought me to a restaurant and walked away.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.

She fought him for a moment, needing to handle this alone—the only way she knew how.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.

She froze in his firm grip, the tears coming in torrents as she struggled to hold back her sobs. “She left me, Nate.”

“I know and I’m so sorry.”

She turned, staring into the sympathy radiating from his eyes, and collapsed against him, finally letting go, allowing herself to weep wildly for the first time in two decades.