Book Excerpt: Lisa Scottoline's 'Most Wanted' - Chapter One & Two

Excerpts from Lisa Scottoline's new novel, "Most Wanted," now in stores.

Christine Nilsson walked to the closed door with anticipation. She knew everyone was waiting for her inside the teachers' lounge, ready to surprise her. She'd guessed what they were up to, leaving their classrooms after the dismissal bell, then her principal summoning her for a "quick meeting," even though there was no such thing at Nutmeg Hill Elementary. It was sweet of them to throw her a good-bye party, especially on the last week of school when everybody was crazy-busy. She felt grateful and loved all of her fellow teachers, except Melissa Rue, Resident Blabbermouth.

Christine reached the lounge door and plastered on a smile, then stopped herself before she turned the knob. She could manufacture enthusiasm like a professionally cheery machine, but that wouldn't do. Her friends knew the difference between Teacher Enthusiasm and Real Enthusiasm, and she didn't want to fake anything. She was going to truly enjoy every minute of her party, which was the end of her teaching career, at least for now. She had finally gotten pregnant and she was going to stay home with the baby, embracing her New Mom status like an immigrant to the United States of Parenthood.

The notion flooded her with a hormonal wave of happiness, plus residual Clomid. Pregnancy may have been a breeze for other couples, but it had been a three-year struggle for Christine and her husband, Marcus. Thank God it was over, and she was looking forward to painting a nursery, buying a crib, and fetishizing motherhood in general. She'd read the baby books and visualized her baby at its current stage, two months old and curled like the most adorable shrimp ever. She couldn't even wait for her baby bump, so she could wear ugly maternity clothes. A smile spread naturally across her face, and she knew it would remain in place throughout the party, if not forever. She opened the lounge door.

"Surprise!" everybody shouted, a gaggle of female teachers with end-of-the-day grins, their makeup worn off and their hair slipping from ponytail holders. There were only two men, Jim Paulsen, who was rail-thin and taught gym, so he was obviously called Slim Gym, and bearded Al Miroz, who taught sixth-grade math and was the faculty trivia expert, whom they called Trivi-Al. Bowls of pretzels and potato chips sat atop the counter next to paper plates, Solo cups, and liter-size jugs of Diet Coke. The damp aroma of brewing coffee permeated the air, and the bulletin board held notices from the district, under a sign: The best way for students not to act like the school year is over is for teachers not to act like the school year is over. Under that, someone had written, GET OVER YOURSELF!

Everyone hugged Christine, filling the small windowless lounge, which had a few fake-wood tables and chairs, a donated coffee-maker, an old microwave, and a brand-new TV playing cable news on mute. They'd won the TV as a consolation prize in a contest for Teachers' Lounge Makeover, but they'd deserved first place. Burn in hell, Dunstan Elementary.

"Thanks, everyone!" Christine said, overwhelmed by their kindness, and she felt how much she would miss them, after eight years at Nutmeg Hill. She was the reading specialist on the Instructional Support Team, helping students who had reading issues, and she'd grown closer to her friends on the faculty since her fertility drama. They all knew bits and pieces of her story and they'd been kind enough to ignore her premature hot flashes from Pergonal or to schedule meetings around her doctors' appointments. Christine was grateful to all of them except Melissa Rue, who'd caught her throwing up in the ladies' room and blabbed about her pregnancy. Everyone had assumed that one of Christine's fertility procedures had been successful, but only her best friend, Lauren Weingarten, knew the whole truth.

"Girl!" Lauren shouted, her big arms outstretched, in a loose white blouse and black cropped pants, enveloping Christine in an embrace that smelled of fruit-scented Sharpies. Lauren was the Academic Coach at school, so she taught the faculty whichever new curriculum came down from Common Core, which they all called Common Enemy. Lauren's oversized personality made her the most popular member of the faculty: their Pinterest Queen, Ed-camp Organizer, and Head Energizer Bunny. This, even though Magic Marker covered her arms like defensive wounds.

"Thanks so much, honey," Christine said, touched, when Lauren finally let her go.

"Were you really surprised?" Lauren's dark eyes narrowed, a skeptical brown. She barely had crow's-feet, but she had beginner laugh lines because she loved to joke around. Her dark brown hair was pulled back, trailing in loose curls down her back.

"Totally," Christine answered, smiling.

"Yeah, right." Lauren snorted, her full lips curving into a grin, and just then there was a knock on the door.

"What's that?" Christine asked, turning.

"Aha! Now you will be surprised!" Lauren crossed the room and opened the door with a flourish. "Ta-da!"

"Hey, everybody!" Christine's husband Marcus entered to applause and laughter, ducking slightly as he came through the doorway, more by habit than necessity. Marcus was six-foot-two and 215 pounds, built like the college pitcher he had once been.

He must have come straight from the airport because he still had on his lightweight gray suit, though his tie was loosened.

"Babe!" Christine burst into startled laughter.

"Surprise!" Marcus gave Christine a big hug, wrapping his long arms around her, and Christine buried herself against his wilted oxford shirt, its light starch long gone.

"I thought you were in Raleigh."

"It was all a ruse." Marcus let her go, meeting her eye in a meaningful way. "Your boss gets the credit. I just do what I'm told."

"Well, thanks." Christine smiled back at him, reading between the lines, that the party was the principal's idea and he had gone along with it. She turned to Pam, who was coming forward holding a flat box.

"We'll miss you, Christine, but a baby is the only acceptable reason to leave us." Pam beamed as she set the box down on the table. "I brought this from a bakery near me. No grocery-store sheet cake for this occasion."

"Aw, how nice." Christine went over to the table, with Marcus following, and everybody gathered around. She lifted the lid, and inside was a vanilla frosted cake that read in purple script, Good-bye and Good luck, Christine! Underneath was a drawing of an old-school stork in a hat, carrying a baby in a diaper.

"This is too cute!" Christine laughed, though she felt Marcus stiffen beside her. She knew this couldn't have been easy for him, but he was putting on a brave face.

Pam looked over at Christine and Marcus. "The stork is okay, right? I know this isn't your baby shower, but I couldn't resist."

"Of course it's okay," Christine answered for them both.

Pam smiled, relieved. "Great!" She looked up at Marcus. "Marcus, so, do you want a boy or a girl?"

"I want a golfer," Marcus shot back, and everybody laughed.

Lauren handed over the cake knife. "Christine, will you do the honors?"

"Grab your plates, kids!" Christine eyeballed the cake, then started cutting pieces.

"Isn't somebody going to make a toast?" Melissa called out from the back of the crowd. "Marcus, how about you?"

"Sure, right, of course. Yes, I'll propose the toast." Marcus flashed a broad smile, his blue eyes shining, but Christine knew what he was really thinking.

"Go for it, honey!" she said, to encourage him. "They hear enough from me."

Lauren snorted. "Ain't that the truth."

Everybody chuckled, holding their plates and looking at Marcus expectantly. They didn't know him as well as the other husbands because he traveled so much, and Christine could tell they were curious about him from the interest in their expressions. Lauren used to joke that Christine had the Faculty Alpha Husband, since Marcus was an architectural engineer who owned his own firm in Hartford and probably made a better living than many of the faculty spouses, most of whom were also educators. The running joke was that it took two teachers' salaries to make one living wage. But Lauren had stopped making her alpha-husband joke when it turned out that Marcus was completely infertile.

He'd been devastated by the diagnosis of azoospermia, which meant, literally, that he produced no sperm. It had come as a shock after they had been trying for a year and couldn't get pregnant, so Christine's OB-GYN referred her to Dr. Davidow, an RE, or reproductive endocrinologist. Christine had automatically assumed that she was the problem, since she was thirty-three years old and her periods had never been super regular, but tests revealed that she was perfectly healthy. Dr. Davidow had broken the news to them, choosing his words carefully, cautioning that male infertility was "a couple's joint problem" and neither husband nor wife was "to blame."

Marcus had taken the diagnosis as a blow to his ego, as well as his manhood, and it was a revelation for them both that a handsome, masculine college All-American could be completely infertile. Marcus attacked the problem with characteristic goal-mindedness; he ate enough kale to start a farm, since vitamin A was supposed to raise sperm counts, and he avoided tighty whiteys, bicycling, and hot tubs, the last not proving a problem since he thought they were disgusting. As a last resort, he even underwent the TESA procedure he'd dreaded, whereby Dr. Davidow had operated on his testicles in an attempt to find viable sperm, but it didn't succeed.

I'm really shooting blanks? Marcus had said when it was all over, still in stunned disbelief.

***

They'd entered therapy with Michelle LeGrange, a psychologist employed by their fertility clinic, Families First, and she had taught them that the key word was "acceptance." Christine and Marcus had come to accept that they had a choice, either to adopt or to use a sperm donor. Christine would've gone with adoption so that Marcus wouldn't have felt left out, which Michelle told them was common among infertile men who didn't make a "genetic contribution." But Marcus knew that Christine wanted the experience of being pregnant, and he'd said in one session that he wanted a child to be "at least half-ours." Michelle had suggested that wasn't the best way to think about the decision, but there it was. After more therapy and tears, one night, they'd been sitting at the kitchen island, having take-out Chinese for dinner.

Marcus looked over, chopsticks poised. I made a decision. I think we should go with a donor.

You sure? Christine hid her emotions. It was what she wanted, too, but she didn't want to pressure him.

Yes. We tried everything else. Marcus set down his chopsticks, moved his plate aside, and pulled his laptop toward him. Let's find this kid a father.

Not a father, a donor.

Whatever. Let's do it. Let's make a baby.

So they'd gone on the websites of sperm banks, which had the profiles of their donors online, so you could search the physical characteristics of each donor before you chose, and, in the beginning, Christine and Marcus felt uncomfortably like they were on Zappos, shopping for people. They wanted a donor who matched their blood type and phenotype, their physical traits, so the child would look like them. Marcus was an ash blond with a squarish face, heavy cheekbones, and a strong jawline, and his parents were of Swedish ancestry. Christine was petite, five-three, with an oval face, fine cheekbones, a small, upturned nose, and long, straight, brown hair; her father was Irish-American and her mother Italian-American. Christine and Marcus both had blue eyes, his rounder in shape and hers more squinty but wide-set, and they both had decent teeth, never having worn braces.

Christine got used to the idea of shopping for a donor online, admittedly sooner than Marcus did, and she became obsessed with checking the bank websites, like Facebook for the infertile. She could "Like" and "Favorite" donors, and the banks refreshed their pages throughout the day - New Donors Daily! - although the tall blond donors were often Sorry, Temporarily Unavailable! Try Again Soon! Finally, Christine narrowed it down to three choices, the way she had when they'd bought their first house.

Donor 3319, Marcus had said, which was Christine's first choice as well. Donor 3319 was on the Homestead Bank and had kept his name and identity anonymous, but he had nevertheless, like many of the donors, provided two photos of himself, one as a child and one as an adult. Donor 3319 had round blue eyes like Marcus', lemony-blond hair a shade darker than Marcus' but more like her highlights, and a medium build, like a combination of them both. He reportedly had an outgoing and friendly personality, plus he had been accepted to medical school, which had been the clincher for Marcus. What had made the decision for Christine was that she'd loved the expression in his eyes, an intelligent and engaged aspect that showed interest in the world around him.

So they had phoned Dr. Davidow, who ordered Donor 3319's sample, and when Christine was ovulating, she returned to Families First, where Dr. Davidow performed IUI, or intrauterine insemination, injecting the pipette of sperm inside her while she held hands with the nurse. Unfortunately, Marcus had been called back to a job site in Raleigh the night before and so was out of town when their child was conceived, but that was form over substance. He was back for the home pregnancy test, which they weren't supposed to take but did anyway, its happy result confirmed later by the doctor. And, in the end, Christine had gotten pregnant and Marcus was going to be a father, a fact he was still trying to wrap his mind around as he stood before the teachers in the lounge, about to make a toast.

"Everybody, let's raise a glass, or a paper cup, or what have you." Marcus grabbed a Solo cup of Diet Coke from the counter and hoisted it high. "To all of you, for being such good friends to my wonderful wife. Nutmeg Hill is a great school, and she will miss all of you, I know."

"Aw," Christine said, feeling a rush of love for him.

"Hear, hear," Pam said, nodding.

Marcus turned to Christine, smiled at her with love, and raised his cup to her. "And to my amazing wife, whom I love more than life, and who truly deserves the happiness and joy to come."

"Thank you, honey." Christine felt her throat catch at the glistening that came suddenly to his blue eyes, and she put her arms around him while he set the cup down and hugged her back, emitting a tiny groan that only she heard.

"Love you, babe."

"I love you, too."

"Get a room!" Lauren called out, and everybody chuckled. The party swung into gear, and Christine circulated with Marcus, introducing him to those who hadn't met him and saying good-bye to all of her colleagues, whom she would miss. They exchanged teary hugs, and the party wound down until only a handful of people were left: Christine, Marcus, Lauren, Pam, and Trivi-Al, who turned on the TV while they cleaned up.

Suddenly Trivi-Al gestured to the TV screen. "Oh look, they caught that serial killer."

"What serial killer?" Christine asked idly, gathering her good-bye gifts.

"That serial killer they've been looking for, they caught him in Pennsylvania." Trivi-Al pressed the button on the television to raise the volume, and the voice-over said, "Zachary Jeffcoat, here being transferred, remains in custody outside of Philadelphia for the stabbing murder of nurse Gail Robinbrecht of West Chester, which took place on June 15. The FBI and Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia authorities also link him to the murders of two other nurses . . ."

"Al, really?" Lauren said, annoyed, as she picked up dirty cake plates. "Don't be so weird."

The voice-over continued, "The first alleged murder took place January 12, of Lynn McLeane, a nurse at Newport News Hospital in Virginia, and the second alleged murder was of Susan Allen-Bogen, a nurse at Bethesda General Hospital in Maryland, and took place on April 13 -."

"Al, please turn it off," Pam chimed in.

Trivi-Al ignored them, glued to the TV. "Oh, this guy's a freak, let me tell you. They call him the Nurse Murderer. I've been following this guy."

Christine finished her task and glanced at the TV, then did a double-take at the screen. It showed a young blond man in a rumpled jacket, his hands handcuffed behind his back as he was escorted to a police cruiser. A cop put a hand on the man's head to press him into the backseat, then the man glanced up with round blue eyes.

Christine felt her heart stop.

She recognized those eyes.

She would know that face anywhere.

The serial killer was their donor, Donor 3319.

Did you see that?" Christine asked, almost breathless, as soon as they left through the exit doors, alone outside the building. All she had been able to think about during the cleanup was Donor 3319, inwardly freaking out while everybody gathered the presents and then finally turned out the lights.

"See what?" Marcus asked, squinting to read his smartphone in the bright sun as they headed down the walkway to the parking lot. He'd slowed his usual lengthy stride to account for her since she had shorter legs.

"On TV, the prisoner, the serial killer?" Christine glanced over her shoulder to check if anyone was within earshot, but nobody was around. The scene was calm and idyllic, in contrast with the tumult inside her. Nutmeg Hill Elementary was in a rural pocket of Glastonbury, Connecticut, and though it was a Title I school, meaning it had an underprivileged segment, the building was relatively new, two stories of yellow limestone with modern windows, surrounded by acres of open pasture and cornfields.

"No, I didn't see him." Marcus pulled his car keys from his pants pocket. "You drove in with Lauren, right? My car is right over here. We can load the presents into my car."

"OK, but Marcus, the serial killer - " Christine couldn't finish her sentence, suddenly feeling that to say it aloud would make it real, and Marcus was barely listening anyway, scrolling through his email. They passed the playground with its new red, yellow, and cobalt plastic chutes and weather-treated timber, set on a square of perfect mulch. In front was an asphalt play area with bright yellow lines for the walking track and foursquare games.

"That was a nice party," Marcus said idly, still checking his email.

"Right, yes, they really went over the top," Christine heard herself saying. She couldn't stop thinking about their donor and the serial killer. She couldn't believe that something could go so horribly awry. Her heart fluttered like a panicked bird in her chest. She telescoped away from the playground with its newly planted trees, their slender trunks protected by white plastic sleeves. She wished she had a plastic sleeve of her own, one that would encircle her body, protecting her and the baby from harm, from threat, from everything, forever and ever.

"Babe, are you OK?" Marcus asked, pocketing his phone. They crossed to the visitor parking lot and reached his black Audi sedan.

"I'm fine," Christine forced herself to answer.

"But your face is red." Marcus opened the car door for her. "Is it the heat? Are you gonna faint?"

"No, I'm OK."

"Get in, and I'll turn on the air-conditioning." Marcus gestured at the passenger seat.

"OK, great." Christine let him guide her into the seat, then she put her quilted purse on her lap.

"OK, hold on." Marcus closed her door, hustled around the front of the car, climbed in the driver's side, and started the engine, which blasted the air conditioner. He aimed the vents at her, which blew initially hot, but cooled surprisingly fast. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks." Christine felt the chilly blast as a relief on her cheeks, which were burning. It had to be her blood pressure. She felt as if she were bursting, as if the news had an explosive force of its own.

"What's up? Is it the heat?"

"No." Christine had to tell him. She couldn't keep it to herself. "Marcus, the serial killer on that TV report looked like our donor. He looks like Donor 3319."

"What?" Marcus blinked.

"Did you see him? I swear, I think I recognized him."

"What are you talking about?" Marcus frowned in confusion, but Christine was already reaching for her phone, tucked in the side pocket of her purse.

"He looks like our donor. Let me check that video - "

"Of course he's not our donor." Marcus snorted, then faced front, shrugging it off.

"But he looked a lot like him."

"Don't be silly." Marcus put the car in reverse, still shaking his head.

"I know what I saw. Did you see the video?"

"No, and what's up with Al? What kind of guy follows serial killers?" Marcus backed out of the space, then drove toward the side entrance of the school, where they had left the gifts and leftover cake, because teachers never wasted anything.

"Hold on." Christine tried to log on to the Internet but couldn't. Cell reception was spotty around the school, which drove her crazy.

"What are you doing?" Marcus pulled up at the side entrance and parked.

"Going on CNN. They probably have the video on their website."

"You're not serious, are you?" Marcus looked at Christine like she was crazy or hormonal, which was an expression she'd seen on him in the past, not completely unjustified.

"I don't know, it was just weird."

"What was weird?" Marcus let the car idle, readjusting the lattice vent so that it blew on Christine.

"I just took a look at the TV, and it struck me all of a sudden - that's him. It was like I recognized him."

"You think that guy was our donor?" Marcus' lips parted in puzzlement. "He's just a guy on a news story."

"But he was blond and tall, and he had those eyes, his blue eyes - "

"A lot of guys look like that. My Dad does. I do." Marcus opened the car door, and the hot air blew in. "Stay here. Try to relax. I'll load the trunk and drive you home. I don't want you driving like this. We'll get your car later."

"I can drive, I'm fine."

"No, sit tight." Marcus got out and shut the car door, and Christine returned her attention to her iPhone. She tried again to get online but there was no service. She knew she'd have better luck near the office, so she opened the door and got out of the car. She walked down the sidewalk until she saw a bar pop onto the top of her iPhone screen, then logged on to the Internet. She typed CNN into the search function and tapped through to the news of the day until she got to the third story, with the heading SUSPECTED SERIAL KILLER APPREHENDED.

"Christine, I thought you had left!" Pam emerged from the front doors with a surprised smile, carrying three tote bags.

"Marcus is just packing up. Thanks so much again." Christine tried to put on a happy face, but she was dying to look at the CNN video. She slipped the phone into her pocket as Marcus returned to the car with the bags and started loading the trunk, which caught Pam's attention.

"Oh, I could've given him a hand," Pam said, waving to Marcus, who shut the trunk.

"Thanks. He's got it, and you're carrying enough."

"When are we ever not carrying enough? Did you see my new bag, by the way? My daughter gave it to me." Pam held out her largest tote bag, a floral Vera Bradley pattern, which was the real version of Christine's knockoff purse.

"Gorgeous. Teacher porn."

"Hey ladies!" Marcus called out, striding toward them, his hand in his pocket. "Pam, you sure know how to throw a party, thanks again."

"Happy to do it."

"Honey?" Marcus took Christine's arm and they walked as a threesome toward his car, which was in the same direction as the parking lot. They said good-bye to Pam again, and Marcus opened the door for Christine, then went to the driver's side of the car and got inside. "Why did you get out of the car?" he asked, putting the car in gear.

"To see the video."

"You're being silly." Marcus pulled out of the drive and headed for the exit.

"Maybe, probably. Let's just head home. In three blocks I'll be able to get better reception, on Glastonbury Road."

"Silly." Marcus reached on the console for the wraparound Maui Jims that he used for golf, and slipped them on his face. "Honey, he's not our donor."

"He could be. I mean, it's possible."

"No, it's not possible. It's out of the question. I can't even believe you're serious. They screen these donors."

"I'm sure they do some, but how much? And what?" Christine thought about it. She had never asked anyone the question about what kind of screening they did for donors. She remembered reading some boilerplate on the site and wished she had paid more attention.

"These are reputable banks. We were referred to them by Dr. Davidow. It's not like some fly-by-night operation."

"But still, it's not impossible. Someone committing a murder, or really any kind of crime, how do you screen for that?"

"Our donor must be a medical student by now. That guy they arrested wasn't a medical student."

"Maybe he was, we didn't hear the story." Christine thought that sounded improbable, even to herself, which made her feel a little better. They drove down the winding road toward the stone bridge. She checked her phone but there was still no reception. They'd be at Glastonbury Road in minutes. Sunlight dappled the asphalt from tall oaks lining the street, and the cornfield was a solid block of leafy green, fairly high for mid-June.

"Anyway, you only have one day left of school. Amazing, huh?"

"Yes, but I want to get this video up. Then I want you to look at it and see if I'm crazy."

"You're crazy." Marcus chuckled, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. He steered the car onto Shire Road, and Christine logged on to Safari, then navigated to the CNN site, tapping the heading of the news story on her iPhone screen, then enlarged it with her fingers to read it better.

"It says, 'Zachary Jeffcoat, a Pennsylvania man, was arrested today - ' "

"See, already. It's not our guy. Our guy's from Nevada."

"Right, good, but let me read the story." Christine tried to focus in the jostling car. " '. . . was arrested today for the murder of Gail Robinbrecht, a 31-year-old nurse from West Chester, Pa. The murder is the third of three murders of nurses in Newport News, Va., and Bethesda, Md. Nurse Lynn McLeane, a pediatric nurse, was stabbed to death on Jan. 12, and Susan Allen-Bogen, an operating-room nurse, was also stabbed to death using the same MO, on April 13 - ' "

Marcus clucked. "The guy kills nurses? What's the matter with people? Nurses are great."

"Right, but it's weird that Donor 3319 was a medical student and the victims were nurses."

"The guy they arrested isn't a medical student."

"Right, I know." Christine was confusing herself. Her face still burned, despite the air-conditioning. She returned her attention to the iPhone screen. "It says, 'The murders gained national attention as the Nurse Murders.' "

"Does it say the killer is a medical student?"

"No, it doesn't." Christine skimmed the last two lines of the story. " 'The police commissioner is gratified that the suspect is in custody and thanks federal and state law enforcement for their hard work.' Hmmm. It doesn't say any more about him, like where he went to school. Even his age."

"There. It's not him. If he was a medical student, it would say so. That's a relevant detail."

"True," Christine said, but her heart was still racing. She scrolled down to the end of the story and tapped a camera icon for the video. A freeze-frame showing the group of police officers came onto the screen, and she hit PLAY. The video showed the police walking and, behind them, a thatch of blond hair bobbing up and down. She couldn't see the prisoner's face because the police blocked the view, and sunlight coming through the car window made it hard to see her screen. She hit PAUSE. "Can we pull over so I can see this?"

"Do we have to? We'll be home in twenty minutes." Marcus kept driving, his expression opaque behind the sport sunglasses. "I don't want to wait. Just pull over, it'll take a minute. We can watch it together."

"Fine." Marcus peeled off the road onto a gravel service road that traveled uphill into the woods, ending in a tall mound of discarded logs and tree limbs, then he put the car in PARK and shifted over toward her in the seat. "Let me see what you're talking about."

"Thanks." Christine hit PLAY, and they both watched the video, which showed the police walking below the frame and then, in the next instant, the tall blond prisoner walking with them, his hands behind his back.

"It doesn't look like him. Our guy's taller."

Christine pressed STOP. "You can't tell how tall he is from this."

"Yes, you can. Look at him in relation to the cops."

"But you don't know how tall the cops are."

"The cops look like they're just under six feet, which makes sense. They're not staties. Staties tend to be taller. Besides, you know I have eagle eyes."

Christine knew that was true. A lifetime of playing golf had made Marcus almost preternaturally skilled at guessing distances, and he had an engineer's sense of spatial relationships, which she lacked completely.

"Besides, he looks older than our donor. Our guy should be about 25, I think. That guy looks over 30."

"I can't tell how old the guy is from this picture. Anyway, a 25-year-old doesn't look a lot different from a 30-year-old." Christine squinted at the video image, which was still hard to see in the car.

"Yes they do. Our guy is young. A kid, a med student. This prisoner is not young."

"But we don't know when our donor entered med school. We only know that he was accepted." Christine gestured at the video. "Think about it. He's tired, not old. He's been on the run from the police."

"It doesn't say that."

"I'm assuming." Christine hit PLAY, and the video continued, the cops coming forward and the prisoner coming into view, from the waist up. He had on a rumpled navy windbreaker and a white T-shirt underneath, but she couldn't see his face because his head was tilted down. His blond hair caught the sunlight at the crown, showing its darker caramel tones. Christine pressed PAUSE. "That looks like our donor's hair color, doesn't it?"

"I don't know, I don't remember."

"I do." Christine scrutinized the man's hair, thinking that she remembered his hair color, only because she always spent time noticing variations of blond so she could tell her colorist what she wanted. She'd been highlighting her hair for a long time, but she was always looking in magazines to get new color ideas, so she had the blond vocabulary. "His hair color was tawny. Not ashy like you, but a warm golden, like caramel, not cool Scandinavian - " Marcus rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to make yourself crazy?"

"Let's keep watching." Christine hit PLAY and watched the video as a fine spray of the prisoner's bangs blew off his face. She remembered that she had noted the fineness of their donor's hair in the photo of him. She remembered she had even talked about it with Lauren.

Best. Hair. Ever. Lauren had said, eyeing the photo in Christine's phone. Do they charge extra?

It said in the profile that his hair is fine.

Oh, it's fine, all right. He's fine, too. Meow mix.

Please don't lust after my donor.

Christine pressed the memory from her mind, and she and Marcus watched in silence as the video played. In the next few frames, the prisoner was led to the police cruiser and put in the backseat. Marcus stiffened beside her, which told her that he wasn't completely dismissing her worries, and she held her breath, waiting for the telltale shot of the prisoner looking up, just before he was closed inside the squad car.

"Here!" Christine blurted out, experiencing the same flash of recognition that she had in the teachers' lounge. She hit PAUSE, freezing the prisoner, who was looking up. His eyes were round and blue. He had that same look about him, an aspect that regarded the world with curiosity and intelligence. She had thought the same thing when she first saw his photo online. She was a visual learner, she knew that about herself. This image, it was fixed in her brain. "I swear, that's - "

"Not him," Marcus interrupted, his tone dead certain. "That's not him."

"What makes you say that? I think I recognize him. I think it is him. It looks like him."

"No, it doesn't." Marcus frowned.

"How is it different?" Christine looked over, her heart in her throat, begging him to say words that would convince her. He had to convince her. She couldn't be right. She had to be wrong.

"Our guy had like a wider face, here, across his cheekbones." Marcus drew a line under his eyes with his fingers. "I remember thinking, pick him. My Dad has broad cheekbones like that and I have my Dad's cheekbones, the Nilsson cheekbones. Remember when you first met me, you said something about my cheekbones? I remember thinking, what is it with women and cheekbones?"

"What's your point?"

"I'm saying, look at the cheekbones of this guy in the video. They're not as broad as my Dad's. My Dad's a heavy-boned Swede, and I have the same cheekbones. That's what I liked about our donor, one of the things. There was Swedish in his background, the bio said it. You can check it." Marcus waved airily at the video. "He's not our guy."

"But what about the eyes?" Christine pointed, unconvinced. "They're big and round, like our donor's."

"A lot of people have big, round eyes. I do."

"But don't they look like the ones in the donor photo to you?"

"No, not at all." Marcus tapped her phone screen with his index finger, and the video ended, showing the prisoner shut inside the police cruiser. "Now can we go home?"

"Hold on a second." Christine tapped her phone, navigated out of Safari, and found her photos, then started swiping backward through the pictures of her cat, dog, and garden.

"What now? What are you doing?"

"Finding his picture."

"You have a picture of our donor in your phone?" Marcus peered over his sunglasses in surprise. "Why?"

Christine kept swiping. "I wanted to show Lauren."

"You could have showed her online. They sent it to us by email."

"Maybe, but I had it in my phone. I saved it." Christine felt vaguely busted. "I save pictures of everything, you know that. Everybody does."

"OK, whatever."

"Wait. Look." Christine swiped back through the photos of the nurses and techs at Families First, girl selfies with everybody hugging or making duck faces, and then she finally reached the picture of their donor as a little boy. She tried to look at it with new eyes, but she couldn't fight the feeling that he looked like the man in the video.

"Pssh." Marcus shook his head. "It's a little blond boy."

"You don't think that looks like the guy in the video?"

"No, and I don't think it's him."

Christine swiped to the next picture, which was their donor as an adult, and her heart stopped. She didn't know if she could say it out loud, but her brain was telling her something. She recognized that face.

"Nope." Marcus moved away and put the car in gear. "Granted, it looks a little like him, but it's obviously not him."

"How is it obvious?"

"I'm telling you, our guy has a wider face than the guy in the video." Marcus hit the gas, steering the car onto the main road. "The coloring is similar, I'll give you that, but blond people have basically the same coloring. Blond hair, blue eyes, light skin. My Dad always said we glowed in the dark."

"But what about the way he looks around the eyes, his aspect?"

"What about his aspect?" Marcus drove without glancing over.

"It's his attitude, the way he looks out at the world."

"I know what a person's aspect means. I just don't see what you see in his aspect. In any event, what difference does aspect make?"

"I feel like the guy in the video has the same aspect as our guy. Alert. Engaged. Intellectually curious." Christine's stomach clenched. Trees whizzed by, and cars were coming in the opposite direction. She thought Marcus was driving too fast but didn't say anything.

"So he looks curiously and intelligently at the world." Marcus snorted. "It's not our guy."

"I feel like it might be." Christine began to feel sick to her stomach, but she prayed it was only her hormones. Her first two months had been rocky, and she threw up every morning. The only time she felt good was after she had thrown up, which was a sorry state of affairs.

"Worry, worry, worry. You worry too much. Don't worry."

"It's worrisome."

"Tell you what, honey. When we get home, look at the video on the laptop. You'll be able to see it better on a bigger screen. If you want, call Lauren." Marcus looked over, but Christine couldn't see his eyes behind his wraparound sunglasses. All she saw was a reflection of her own frown, distorted in their dark curve.

"What if she agrees with me?"

"If Lauren agrees with you, then you're both nuts."