Her mother. Her mother was that cool blonde on her laptop. She’d told him this woman was her grandmother. He grabbed the picture and held it close to his face.Grandmother? How could he be so stupid? Judging by the woman’s hair and clothing, this photo belonged to the eighties. This woman was too young to be Kacie’s grandmother—but not too young to be her mother.He reread the label in the corner of the picture, the label that tagged this woman as a homicide victim.The Phone Book Killer had murdered Kacie’s mother twenty years before. The reality of it slammed against his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.He hunched over the table, flattening his hands against the surface on either side of the picture. The aches and pains of the car accident flooded his body until he became a single ball of hurt.“Ryan.”He turned his head, and his eyes flicked over the naked woman standing before him, her arms crossed over her perfect body. Her delectable breasts heaving with every harsh breath.
