* * *

We try several varieties of local vodka at a restaurant on the square back in Krakow, and try to brainstorm other ways we can approach this mystery.

“Okay, let’s think about Lia,” Zofia murmurs. “Lia’s a receptionist, right?”

“Seems to be.”

“But her great-grandfather once owned the building. Coincidence, or is there still a family connection?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Maybe the business is still owned by the family. Maybe Emilia became a doctor too, or maybe one of her children owns it now.” Zofia fishes her phone out of her pocket and a quick Google search later, we have a list of the GPs at the clinic. “Agnieszka Truchen is one of the owners. That’s got to be Lia’s mother, or at least a relative...”

We find a few dated and grainy pictures of Agnieszka online, but no social media, and all of her listed contact details point back to the clinic. Zofia is on her phone replicating my search, but I’m staring down at the photos on my own screen. As grainy as those images are, I think I can see a similarity to myself. I turn my phone back to Zofia.

“Do you think she looks like me?” I ask her.

“It’s hard to tell because the photos are so poor. But yes, it looks like there’s a resemblance there. Did you see her at the clinic today?”

“No, there were a few doctors coming out to get patients, but I would have noticed her.”

“We could call and ask to speak to her,” Zofia suggests, then she looks at her watch. “It’s not quite five o’clock...”

“They’ll recognize my accent...” I say weakly. Zofia grins.

“They won’t recognize mine.”

She finds the phone number on the clinic website, then she dials. I hear her speaking in Polish, but the call ends quickly and her shoulders slump.

“Agnieszka still owns the clinic, but other doctors do the patient care,” she sighs. “She retired a few years ago.”

“Of course she did,” I mutter, but then I brighten again. “What about Emilia herself? We could search for her on the phone directory?”

“Well, she had at least one child, so she’s almost definitely married, and given her age, I’d say there’s virtually no chance she’d have kept her surname,” Zofia says apologetically. We search anyway—but unsurprisingly, my eighty-seven-year-old great-aunt doesn’t seem to have a Facebook page. After that, we order a second mixed platter of local vodkas, and things get a bit silly.

“Well, if Lia won’t tell us where Emilia is, maybe we could get a private detective to track her down...”

“We could take out full page ads in the newspapers asking Emilia to contact us...”

“We could break into the medical clinic and see if we can find Agnieszka’s address...”

“Maybe I can cancel my return flight and wait in hiding outside the clinic until Agnieszka shows up for a visit and hope she’s more helpful...or at least helpful enough to not call the police...”

“Maybe we could steal some of Lia’s fingernail clippings and get a DNA test done...”

“Or we could offer a million-dollar reward for anyone who solves the mystery!”

At that, Zofia looks at me.

“Do you have a million dollars?” she asks hopefully.

I pause, then slump.

“I’m a stay-at-home mom, so no, not really.”

“Ah. That one sounded promising for a second there.”

We’re laughing a little too loudly when the waiter approaches with the bill, so we go for a walk to clear our heads, then share a delicious meal at yet another restaurant on the square. We chat about everything but my mission while we eat—I tell Zofia about my kids and the difficulties of leaving them. I even skim over the difficulties of leaving Wade alone with them, and the surprising realization I’m starting to form that just maybe, I’ve been holding on to Eddie a little too tightly. Zofia tells me about her work and some of the heartbreaking and hopeful family history searches she’s been involved with. I’m totally engrossed in the chat and enjoying the distraction from the awful dead end my search for Babcia has arrived at. Time gets away from us, so I gasp when I see the clock on the wall.

“I better get back and call my family,” I say, but despite the silliness of the evening, I’m definitely feeling better than I was. “Thanks for tonight though, Zofia.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’ll walk you back to the hotel and we’ll start again in the morning.” She smiles at me gently. “Don’t lose heart, Alice. We’ll think of something.”

* * *

I call back to Wade without texting first, because it’s now 10:31 p.m. Krakow time and that means 5:31 p.m. Florida time, and I know they’ll all be home. Callie answers the phone on the first ring, and she’s crying.

“Mommy,” she croaks.

“Baby!” I gasp. “What happened?”

“Daddy forgot to get me from French club and they were closing up and they called him but he didn’t answer and Mrs. Bernard got cranky and I couldn’t remember Grandma’s phone number and I didn’t know what to do,” she says, and then her eyes fill with tears again. A fresh tear slips from her eye and her voice is small as she whispers, “Mommy, can you come home now?”

“Oh, honey bear...” I whisper. The buzz from the vodka is fading rapidly. “But he got you eventually, right?”

“No.” She scowls. “Mrs. Bernard drove me to Daddy’s work and left me at reception. And the receptionist had to go find him because he was in a meeting.”

“So where was Eddie in all of this time?” I ask slowly. “Not at school, surely?”

“Oh no,” she says, but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, she adds, “He was with Daddy because he got sent home from school today because he had a meltdown in class and he threw a chair at Mr. Bailey. And Eddie had five accidents in his pants today but don’t worry, I put his dirty clothes into the washing machine already.”

“Why are you doing that instead of Daddy?” I ask, although it’s difficult to speak, because I am so enraged I can barely focus enough to ask the question.

“Daddy’s in his office on Skype back to his office. He had to finish his meeting,” Callie says. She turns the phone camera around, to show me two open cans of soup waiting on the bench. “Don’t worry, Mommy—I’m making Eddie dinner now.”

“No, Callie, no—” I gasp. “No, you don’t know how to use the cooktop, sweetheart—you’ll burn yourself.”