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re Rose Duval. Start from the beginning and then tell me why you’re coming forward now.”
“No, I’ll start with that,” she said, her color rising. “I came because I read about it in the papers and it triggered something in my mind.” She touched her temple. “I started remembering things from before.”
“Before?”
“Before the ‘accident,’ that’s what my mother called it. Car accident. I wasn’t in the car seat the right way and my mother rear-ended the car in front and I fell forward and hit my head. I-I was unconscious for a couple of days and then when I woke up I didn’t remember anything. And so my mom, she thought maybe that was for the best.”
“She told you that? What’s her name?”
Delacroix slid into the room. She was carrying three sodas.
“Where’s Herman?” Greta asked, obviously panicked.
“With another deputy.” She placed a can in front of Greta and one in front of Reed, then popped open the third and settled back into her seat.
“I said I don’t want this,” Greta said, pointing at the diet soda.
“Sorry.” Delacroix looked at Reed. “Just assumed.”
He said, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Greta said, her anger flaring a bit. “I don’t like this. I want Herman here, with me.” From the other side of the table Greta looked from Delacroix to the now-closed door. “This isn’t right.”
“You were telling me your mother’s name,” Reed reminded her.
“I’ve got that,” Delacroix said. “Beth Morgan Smith, she’s your mother, and your father is Ronald Smith. Right?” she asked.
Greta, appearing dumbstruck, nodded.
Apparently she didn’t realize how quickly the department could look up documents, court records or any violations anywhere in the country via the Internet.
“Yes,” she said, playing with her hair a bit. “Yes, that’s right. Ronald’s my dad.”
“So did they adopt you?” Delacroix asked.
“What?”
“Well, you call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad,’ but if you’re really Rose Duval, they would have to be your adoptive parents, right? Because Margaret and Harvey Duval would be your biological mother and father.”
“I don’t know. Well . . . yes. Of course.”
“No paperwork?” Delacroix pushed. “What about a birth certificate?” She took a swallow from her drink, but her gaze never left Greta’s.
Greta blinked, started fiddling with her hair, her composure slipping. “I-I think they used my sister’s. I think she died and they just had me take over her information.”
Nodding, Delacroix said, “But there should be some record of that. Of her death.”
“I-I don’t know.” More flustered than ever, she shook her head, the shiny barrette sliding farther down, her recently pinned back hair falling into her eyes. “Herman needs to be here with me. He knows all this. Where’s my husband? I want him here with me or . . . or I want my attorney!”
“I think he said he was already calling a lawyer, and you came to us,” Reed reminded her. “Of your own volition.”
“Because I saw on the news that you were looking for me! That woman who talks for the police, she was on the air telling people to call in with tips or come in here. Marlow, I think her name was, and she had this image that she showed, a computer thing, and it looks just like me!”
Delacroix leaned forward. “So you saw the image and thought, what? Wow! There I am?”
“It was Herman. He saw the news and . . . and since, well, you know, I have this weird childhood, he asked me about how I came to be with Mom and Dad.”
“And what did you tell him?”
