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clock glowed 2:30. Sleep was now out of the question, so I brewed myself a pot of strong coffee and settled down to read past issues of the Sun . Might as well make use of the unexpected time.
    Three cups of coffee later, I found what I’d been looking for. The first body, unearthed the previous June, had been so badly decomposed, the medical examiner’s report stated that cause of death and positive identification was probably impossible. He’d placed the age of the girl, based on the few skeletal remains, at somewhere between thirteen and eighteen years of age.
    The second body, discovered in late September hadn’t been positively identified until last month. Fifteen year old Charity Perkins from Tulsa, Oklahoma had been in trouble with the law and was a chronic runaway. Apparently, she’d become lost and fallen into a rocky wash. After two shaken ranch hands had reported the find, the autopsy revealed a sharp blow to the skull, presumably due to her fall. Homicide was not ruled out, but no trace of foul play, nor any link between the two deaths had ever surfaced.
    John Dexter’s last article insinuated that because of misplaced evidence by someone in the sheriff’s office, the data from the second girl had not been entered into the NCIC (National Crime Information Center), therefore hindering positive identification. He’d hinted none too subtly that the job had been bungled. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d been disliked. Some of his pieces were malicious and dangerously close to being libelous. I wondered why Tugg hadn’t taken him to task.
    I rejected the thought of a fourth cup of coffee and pulled out my notebook, adding the name of the one girl onto the spoke for dead teens and a question mark for the other. If both these events were accidental, was I on the right track, or did John’s cryptic note refer to different cases?
    The melancholy cooing of mourning doves alerted me to the fact that it was dawn. I yawned widely. It was almost time to get ready for work, but as I began to bundle the newspapers back into the box, curiosity concerning one of Ginger’s remarks overcame me.
    I rifled though the papers in the last box until one headline shrieked up at me: Wife of Local Rancher Killed! The photo underneath made my scalp prickle. It’s said that everyone has a twin somewhere in the world and while Stephanie Talverson was not that, there was a definite resemblance between us. Our noses were different, hers more pug, mine more aquiline, and she didn’t have my cleft chin. Our eyes were similar, but the hair was the most startling feature. We wore the same loose, curly style, but because the photo was black and white, I couldn’t tell if it was the same shade as mine.
    I looked up and stared out the window at the glowing horizon, now understanding the startled look Bradley had worn when we’d met. He must think of her whenever he looked at me.
    My assignment sheet was full when I arrived at the office. Lack of sleep left me groggy and lightheaded all day, and even during the busiest moments, the previous night’s episode bothered me.
    By late afternoon I had a throbbing headache. Behind me, I heard Bradley hang up his phone. With Jim gone, the room grew silent. Since hearing Ginger’s damning revelation, his presence had made me slightly jumpy, although the idea of him being a murderer seemed preposterous. Even though I didn’t know him all that well, he just didn’t seem to fit the part. Nevertheless, I’d had difficulty meeting his eyes all day.
    I sneaked a sideways glance toward him and froze when he turned in his chair and caught me. I averted my eyes immediately.
    “What’s going on with you? And don’t tell me you haven’t been staring at me oddly all day.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped back. I could hardly say, ‘Excuse me, but did you murder your wife?’
    He rocked back in his chair and grinned. “Don’t try to deny it. You’re captivated by me and