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Two photos appeared onscreen. Michael Sanders looked nothing like his parents, nor did he have any siblings she could compare him with—he was an only child.
“Display Sanders’s birth certificate, Iz.”
“Onscreen.”
Bingo. Michael Sanders was adopted. His birth mother and father were one William and Barbara Ryan. “Iz, see what you can dig up on these two.” She pointed to the two names.
The boa began to whirl. “I’m starting to stress here, darlin’.”
Sam grinned. “You’ll live.”
“Three companies found using a design similar to that logo I scanned.”
“Display.”
The names appeared onscreen. There was a textile manufacturer and a plastic surgeon, neither of which was what she was after. But the third name probably was; it was an adoption agency.
What were the odds that that adoption agency was the one Michael Sanders was adopted through? Whoever this Joe Black really was, he seemed mighty aware of just what was going on. But did that make him a friend or an enemy?
She didn’t know. But she had a suspicion that he was neither; that the connection between them was deeper, more mysterious—and more dangerous—than anything like mere friendship.
“Information found on adoptive parents, Frank and Margaret Sanders.”
“Hit me with it, babe.”
“Frank Sanders was born in Sydney in 1955 and worked with the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. Margaret Sanders, née Johnson, was born in Melbourne in 1956 and worked as a waitress while attending night school. She became a doctor and worked at the Royal Women’s Hospital. The two married in 1990, after Frank Sanders transferred to Melbourne. They adopted a child, a five-year-old girl named Rose Pierce, in 1995.”
She stared at the screen, wondering if she’d heard right. Rose Pierce? The elusive sister of Emma Pierce? Why, then, was Michael Sanders listed as their son? “Anything else?”
“They were killed in an automobile accident in 2020.”
Which was the year Michael Sanders was born. She frowned. “They adopted only the one child?”
“According to the records, yes.”
She rubbed a hand across her eyes. This didn’t make sense. If they adopted only Rose, why, then, did the records list squeaky-clean Michael as their son?
“We got anything on Rose Sanders, then?”
“Searching.”
At least they now knew the reason why the initial search for Rose Pierce had come up blank—though the adoption should have come up.
Unless, of course, someone had deliberately buried the information. It was only due to her search on Sanders’s parents that she’d even discovered Rose Pierce.
“What agency was Rose adopted from, Iz?”
“Goes by the name of Silhouettes.”
A chill ran down her spine. That was the same adoption agency that used the pin’s logo. Joe Black had pointed her to Rose, not Michael. He obviously knew a hell of a lot more than he was letting on. “Get me a warrant, Iz. I want to go through their files.”
“Warrant on the way, sweetie. No current information on Rose Sanders available.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Her driver’s license lapsed in 2040. There’s been no record of utility payments since then. No credit transactions recorded. No usage of Medicare card.”
“No death certificate?”
