Carlotta Carlyle's garbage had been stolen. Two full wheelie-bins, jammed into the trunk of a midnight-raiding Pontiac Firebird. Which was why she didn't throw out the snapshot of the new-born baby. No letter, nothing written on the back, posted from a place where she knew no one. Maybe the start of some junk mail, teaser and campaign.
Then, next week, a second photograph. A one-year-old. The third, fourth, fifth. All the same little girl. Only after the sixth did she get the psychiatrist's call. One of his patients, the mother of a six-year-old who had died suddenly in hospital, of an illness with a 95% recovery rate. A grieving mother who wanted an investigation into one of the most prestigious medical facilities in Boston . . .
