Page 101 of Not a Word

“Was there ever a time, growing up, when things seemed particularly tense around your house? Your parents were going through a difficult time?”

Holden appeared to think. “Not really. I mean, there was the whole Wiffel-Smith scandal, but that happened after Dad left, so it didn’t hit him that hard.”

“Anything else?”

He shrugged, managed a small grin. “There was me. I was a huge pain in the ass for my parents since I was in my teens.”

McCabe nodded, decided to switch gears, ask what she’d wanted to from the moment she’d laid eyes on him.

“Who’s Tom?”

“Tom?”

“Ever go by that name? Is Thomas a middle name?”

“Nope.”

“No one’s ever referred to you as Tom?”

“How many times do I have to say it?”

“How about Leah Kennard? You know that name?”

“I hadn’t heard of her until yesterday.”

“Your father never spoke of her? Maybe you met her at some point?”

Holden shook his head. “I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Let me help you with that.”

McCabe went into her purse and brought out the driver’s license she had taken from the wallet in Leah Kennard’s handbag. “Not a great shot, but this is her.”

He took it between his thumb and index finger, studied it, handed it back. “Nope.”

“Then how would you explain this?” From her purse she brought out the small photo album she had taken from the drawer in Kennard’s bedroom, handed it to Holden.

He opened it to the first page, where Kennard had written, in calligraphy, “My Boy Tom.” What followed were pictures of Holden from different periods in his life, often in shots where the other people who might have been in them had been cut out.

“What is this?” he said, leafing through the pages. He looked back at McCabe. “This is me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t— I don’t understand.” His puzzlement and distress were genuine. “Why would she have these? Why’s everybody else cut out?”

“You tell me.”

“How would I know? Some of these go back years. Here’s one where I had a beard. I shaved that thing off like ten years ago. What the fuck?”

“There has to be a reason.”

“Well, I have no idea what it is!” He tossed the book onto the kitchen table, shook his head, paced.

He dug his phone from his pocket and entered a number.

“Who’re you calling?” McCabe asked.

“The only person who might be able to explain this,” he said.