I’d been swamped with calls since, folks hoping I could help them with their adoption issues, too. This had forced me to create two flyers-“Tips for Locating the Child You’ve Given Up for Adoption” and the other titled “So You Want to Find Your Birth Parents? The Beginning Steps.” I was stuffing envelopes an hour a day now. Most people with a little computer savvy can locate who they’re looking for without a private eye’s assistance, and this seemed the best way to let them in on those secrets.

“Abby, we’d like you to sign on as a consultant to our program,” Chelsea said. “Since we work somewhat like a documentary, I was hoping we could tape an initial interview later today-we will edit extensively, so don’t worry about running on and on, or-”

“Taping?” I cut in. “When you’ve told me next to nothing? I’m not so sure about that. What does my being a private investigator have to do with consulting on a TV show?”

“In the story we’re currently producing, plenty. Wait until you meet our makeover candidate and her family. In fact, let me show you.” She opened her binder and slipped two photos from a plastic sleeve.

I took them from her. One was a Wal-Mart special eight-by-ten, the colors faded to blurry siennas and dull pinks. A teenage girl stood in the center of three younger children. The other was a four-by-six glossy snapshot of the teenager, but in this newer photo she was a dark-haired, hazel-eyed woman in her twenties with flawless nutmeg-colored skin and an expression that puzzled me. Fear? Anger? Sadness? Maybe all three.

Chelsea pointed to the snapshot. “You’re looking at a real heroine. She’s been raising her brothers and sister since she was sixteen. Isn’t she Penélope Cruz all over again? The camera eats her up.”