“My name is Alyssa. What’s yours?”

“Billie.”

“But … but Billy is a boy’s name.”

“Only if you spell it B-i-l-l-y. I spell it B-i-l-l-i-e.”

“There’s a boy in my class,” Alyssa said from the backseat, “and his name is Billy– Daddy! Look!” His child pointed across the street. “Isn’t that little white dog the cutest thing ever?”

If he ever said yes to a dog, it sure wouldn’t be a yappy ankle-biter like that one. “Uh-huh,” he said. When he had been forced to leave her favorite doll at the airport, Noah had soothed her tears by promising to replace it with a kitten.

“If I had a dog,” she said, “it would be big. Like the one you had when you were a little boy, ‘member, Daddy?”

How could he forget the gentle giant that had been more sibling than pet? “Cash. My dad named him Cash Money, because he’d been abused before we adopted him, and cost a fortune at the vet’s.”

Noah glanced over at Billie, and for a moment there, the woman in the passenger seat looked mildly interested. She pointed left. “You just passed my street,” she said.

Noah groaned. That meant driving up to Hamilton Street to make a U-turn in the post office parking lot. Halfway there, traffic on Main Street slowed, then came to a grinding halt. Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. Trapped at a dead stop between parked cars and the constant flow of traffic heading east, he and Alyssa–and Billie, too–might as well have bull’s-eyes painted on their foreheads… .

Dear Reader,

How many times have you wished you could escape your life and all its travails and tragedies? Or wanted to hop a plane or a bus–or just start walking–to get away from whiny kids, demanding bosses and inconsiderate neighbors, at least for a little while?

If you’re like me, the answer is “A lot!” At least, that was my answer, until I researched the Witness Protection program (WITSEC) and interviewed inspectors with the U.S. Marshals Service. These brave and dedicated people helped me understand that whether a witness goes undercover because he’s a bad guy turning state’s evidence or a good guy whose testimony will help get bad guys off the streets, life in the program is anything but easy.

Imagine receiving completely new identities and documentation, you’re moved far from home and warned that all connections with the past must be severed–if you hope to remain safe (and alive) and protect loved ones from potential danger. You’re told there’s no going back. Ever. Not for Grandma’s funeral or your niece’s wedding. The doctor and dentist you’ve trusted for years? He’ll never know why you didn’t keep your last appointment. Because for all intents and purposes, the old you is dead.

Sounds pretty bleak and lonely, doesn’t it? That’s because it is … and that’s why inspectors go above and beyond the call of duty, serving as parent, sibling, friend, confidant, counselor. Available 24/7/365, they help witnesses get beyond the temptation to reach into the past–and save lives. (According to the U.S. Marshals Service, no witness who has followed the rules has ever been located, injured or killed by the parties they testified against.)

But what if, in a moment of weakness, a witness doesn’t follow the rules? What if a child in protective custody unwittingly lets the cat out of the bag … and leads danger straight to her door?

That is the backdrop of the story you’re about to read. I hope you’ll enjoy this glimpse into the mysterious world of WITSEC, and that you’ll write (www.loreelough.com) to share your thoughts on the light I attempted to shed on a sometimes dark and dangerous lifestyle.

Not to give anything away, but … here’s to happy endings!

Loree

Saving Alyssa

Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOREE LOUGH

Once upon a time, bestselling author Loree Lough sang for her supper. (That little corner in pubs reserved for “the piano lady"? Well, that’s where she sat, strumming a Yamaha in cities all across the U.S.) Now and then, she blows the dust from her six-string to croon a tune or two, but mostly, she writes. With the release of this novel, she will have one hundred books on the shelves (fifteen bearing a Mills & Boon® imprint), and 4.5 million in circulation. Her work has earned numerous industry accolades, movie options and four- and five-star reviews … but she’s most proud of her “Readers’ Choice” awards.

Loree and her husband split their time between a home near Baltimore and a cabin in the Alleghenies, where she continues to perfect her “identify the critter tracks” skills. A writer who believes in giving back, Loree donates a portion of her income to charity. (Complete list at Giving Back page, www.loreelough.com.) She loves hearing from readers and answers every letter personally. You can connect with her at Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

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This book is dedicated to all WITSEC personnel, devoted to the protection of individuals and families for whom life in the shadows is a necessary way of life.

My heartfelt gratitude to the men and women of WITSEC who generously shared of their time, information and experiences, and made it possible for me to give readers a personal, accurate portrayal of life in the program. In order to protect each of them and the people in their care, I can’t identify them by name, but they know who they are, and how thankful I am for all the help and friendship!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“GIVE HER A couple of months,” George Webster had said, “and she’ll forget all about this. Kids are resilient.”

Easy for him to say. The agent’s little girl hadn’t spent the past eighteen months being shuttled from one safe house to another in the dead of night. The agent’s little girl hadn’t been asked to trade her big, bright, once-happy home for a series of windowless dumps where gunshots, angry shouts and screaming sirens disturbed her sleep.

Nate stopped pacing and looked at his four-year-old daughter, Melissa. The flickering blue-green glow of the cheap alarm clock gave off just enough light to see her, lying spread-eagled in the narrow cot beside his. The soft, steady sound of her peaceful breaths reminded him of the many nights when, because he’d come home too late to tuck her in, he’d stood beside her bed, staring like a mute fool, thinking perfection, from the moment of her birth to this. Tears stung his eyes and a lump ached in his throat. Greed and arrogance were responsible for every wasted moment that could never be retrieved.

The clock on the battered nightstand said 10:15 p.m. In a little over twelve hours, he and Melissa would board a Baltimore-bound plane and begin the final leg of their slow passage into the unknown. “Don’t think of it that way,” Webster had said. “Think of it as leaving all the bad stuff behind. Focus on starting a whole new life in Maryland.”

Easy for him to say, Nate thought again. But...something to hope for, anyway.

Hope. Pretty much all he had left, thanks to his own stupid choices. Choices that had brought them here.

Last night, when Webster had delivered the packet containing Nate’s and Melissa’s new identities, he’d also delivered what sounded to Nate like a well-rehearsed speech. He’d said he’d coached dozens of kids Melissa’s age, and felt reasonably certain he could stress the importance of sticking to the program and keeping secrets, all without terrifying her.

Reasonably certain. Webster had said the same thing on the day of the trial, when Witness Security had moved Nate from the courthouse to the first of four safe houses by way of a long, meandering route. And it’s what he’d said before each of three additional moves. The agency couldn’t guarantee safe transport. Couldn’t promise security, so what else could they say?

This time, at the conclusion of Webster’s instructions, Nate had heard a worrisome, unspoken postscript: if the details traumatized Melissa, those consequences would be his fault, too.

The chirrup of his throw-away cell phone startled him, and he grabbed it before it could wake Melissa. The glow from the phone’s display led him to the bathroom. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he flicked on the light.

“George,” he whispered, squinting into the brightness, “what time is it?”

“Nearly 9:00 a.m.”

Nate had spent hours, alternately pacing and staring at the jagged ceiling crack that jolted from corner to corner like a black lightning bolt. By his calculations, he’d dozed off at four, maybe four-fifteen. A good thing, he supposed, since he didn’t know when he’d next fall asleep.

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour, with breakfast. I’ll have that little talk with Melissa while she’s distracted by pancakes.”

They hadn’t eaten a meal—hadn’t done anything in public—since the trial. By now, the agent knew Melissa’s preferences almost as well as her own dad did. And pancakes were her all-time favorite breakfast food.

“Unless there’s traffic, I should be there by ten,” George said, and hung up.

Nate showered and dressed, then sat on the edge of Melissa’s cot. And as he’d done every morning since taking her from the only home she’d ever known, he sang her awake.

“Good morning, good morning, good morning....”

Long lashes fluttered as her lips formed a sweet smile. Stretching, she climbed into his lap. “Well,” she said, “what are you waiting for? Let’s sing the rest!”

Nate pressed a kiss to her temple, and they completed the song, together.

When they finished, she told him about the dreams she had had, another tradition that had started the morning after he had taken her from everything and everyone who meant anything to her. Melissa described how a talking ladybug had taken her for a ride, all the way around the world. And after that, she’d dreamed of a red-and-green parrot that sounded like George and told knock-knock jokes.

“Want to hear one?”

Even before he could answer, Melissa said, “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Boo.”

“Boo who?”

“What are you cryin’ about?”

Laughing, Nate hugged her, then covered her face with kisses.

“Daddy, stop. You’re tickling my cheeks.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself.”

“Knock, knock,” she said again.

“Time for your bath,” he interrupted. “George is on his way over with breakfast. You can tell both of us knock-knock jokes while we eat, okay?”

Melissa slipped on her Barbie slippers and headed to the bathroom. “Okay, Daddy.”

It amazed him that she’d never pressed him for answers; surely she’d wondered why they’d been living in bleak, dark rooms all these months. Why the last home-cooked meal had been prepared on a hot plate. Why they hadn’t visited grandparents or cousins, or talked to anyone on the phone except for George. What amazed him more was that she didn’t seem to miss any of that. Not even her mother. All very normal, according to the agent.

Normal. Nate didn’t think he could remember the definition of the word anymore, let alone experience the sensation.

“When you’re all clean and shiny,” he called to Melissa, “you can watch cartoons while we wait for George.”

“I like George. He’s nice. And funny.”

Yeah. Hilarious. The agent was solely responsible for every inane riddle and groan-inducing knock-knock joke now stored in Melissa’s subconscious. But at least he’d kept her laughing.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“I won’t.”

As he packed their meager belongings, Nate heard the telltale splash that told him she still hadn’t tired of the trick he’d taught her that first night away from home. If squeezing a wet bar of soap until it spewed into the air and landed with a plop could produce giggles after all they’d been through, it was worth the time and effort required to clean up the bathroom floor. Far more important than that, maybe George was right, and Melissa would adapt to their new life, quickly, and with no lasting aftereffects.

Nate folded the tiny pj’s purchased during George’s now-famous Fifteen Minute Walmart Expedition, and tucked them into the sparkly pink backpack that had replaced the purple one Melissa had carried to day care for two years. Using the list provided by Nate, George had also bought a week’s worth of clothes and shoes for dad and daughter, puzzles, crayons and coloring books, two Barbies and assorted outfits for each. While adding the last items to her pack, Nate cringed, because later today, Melissa would lose her favorite doll, Cassie, which had been hand-sewn by her mother while pregnant.

He didn’t have time for a lot of self-reproach, because George arrived just then with breakfast. Melissa loved the way the agent changed things up. Doughnuts one day, bagels and cream cheese the next, fast food from the local burger joint the day after that. Nate understood that the different types of food had nothing to do with surprising Melissa. Three meals daily, purchased from the same take-out place by a guy alone, would have sent up red flags.

Today, George produced pancakes from a big white bag. He opened foam containers and handed out plastic flatware, then dealt napkins as if he was playing cards, while Melissa shared last night’s dreams, unwittingly providing the opening that allowed him to introduce her to her new name.

“You know how to play the name game?”

“I guess so,” she said, pretending to feed her doll a bite of sausage.

“Excellent! Let’s pretend your name is Alyssa, and my name is Mr. Poopie Pants, and your dad is—”

“Poopie?” she echoed, wide-eyed. “But...but that’s a potty word!” She clucked her tongue. “You’re lucky Mrs. Cameron isn’t here. She makes everyone who says potty words stay inside when it’s playtime.” Melissa looked at Nate. “I know we’re not allowed to go outside, so how will we teach George about potty words?”

“I think we can let him get away with it. Just this once.” Melissa donned her but-that-isn’t-fair! look so Nate added, “But only because he didn’t know the rules.” Nate shook a warning finger at George. “But next time, mister...”

The agent chuckled while Melissa thought about it.

Brow furrowed, she said, “Not even a time-out?”

“Not this time.”

“Boy, are you lucky.” A sly grin lifted one corner of her mouth. “Okay then, Mr. Poopie Pants, if my name is Alyssa, what is Daddy’s new name?”

Present tense, he noted. And she’d said new name, not pretend. A lucky break? Or had she figured things out, all on her own? The latter, he hoped, because if she slipped up, even once, they could end up dead.

Dead.

The word caused an involuntary flinch. It didn’t seem as if she’d noticed his movement, but just in case, he stuffed a huge bite of pancake into his mouth to hide it.

“The guy with the chipmunk cheeks, you mean? His new name is Noah. And you both get new last names, too. From now on, your name is Alyssa Preston.”

“But why? Mommy told me that Melissa was her grandma’s name. And that her grandma was her favorite person in the whole world...until I was born.”

George scrubbed both hands over his face. If it was that tough answering a question he’d no doubt been asked before, Nate didn’t know how he’d manage his own remorse for being the reason she was asking it in the first place.

“Well,” the agent said, laying a big hand atop Melissa’s, “you know why we don’t go outside, right?”

She speared a bite of pancake and used it to draw figure eights in the syrup. Nate winced when she said, “Because it’s dangerous, and we don’t want to get hurt.” She rested an elbow on the table, leaned her head on her palm. “But,” she said, emphasizing the word, “I think it’s a dumb rule.”

“I know,” George said. “But sometimes it’s the dumb rules that keep us safe. One of the dumb rules is you can’t use your old name anymore.”

She sat up straighter. “Never?”

“Never, ever.”

She put her fork on the napkin and leaned back in the chair. If she’d seemed sad or confused, Nate might have been able to ignore it. But she looked resigned to her fate, and that made him hang his head. Everything that had happened to her—her mother’s murder, her own near kidnapping, living like an Old West outlaw...all because of him. He deserved to die for that, but she did not. Joining the WITSEC program didn’t guarantee that, but, God willing, she’d never end up like Jillian.

George folded large-knuckled hands on the small table. “Think you’re big enough to remember all that?”

Her brow puckered slightly as she said, “’Course I am. I’m four.” She brushed blond bangs from her forehead and brightened slightly. “We learned about rhymes in school. Alyssa rhymes with Melissa. I can remember that.” She pointed at Nate. “And Noah starts with an N, just like Nate.” She shrugged. “Easy peasy.”

George sent Nate a nod of approval, then fixed dark eyes on Melissa. “Your daddy wasn’t kidding when he said you’re smart for your age, was he?”

Yeah, his girl was smart, all right. Smart enough to pass for a first grader when she started school in the fall? Smart enough to maintain the charade, permanently? God help them if she wasn’t.

His mind whirled with the memory of those final seconds in the courtroom: he’d just opened the big wooden doors when a loud, gruff voice had stopped him. “Nate...Nate Judson!” He’d turned, saw soon-to-be former Senator O’Malley straining against the deputies’ grip. As the officers half shoved, half dragged him away, he had shouted, “You can run, but you can’t hide!”

Nate groaned inwardly as George and Melissa swapped knock-knock jokes. He sipped coffee from a foam cup, remembering....

The deeper the prosecution dug, the more evidence they’d gathered on O’Malley. The stuff they’d coerced Nate into testifying about was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Even now, more than a year after agreeing to turn state’s evidence, the senator’s threat made his blood run cold, because despite a lack of evidence linking O’Malley to Jillian’s murder, Nate knew the senator had ordered the hit. And if his hired goon hadn’t coughed, alerting the school’s staff, he would have succeeded in kidnapping Melissa, too. “Nobody turns on me and gets away with it,” the senator had said.

George’s voice broke into his thoughts, and Nate wrapped trembling hands tighter around his coffee cup as the agent asked Melissa, “So what’s your new name again?”

“Alyssa Preston,” she said, and spelled it.

He aimed a thumb in Nate’s direction. “And he is...?”

“He’s my daddy.” Then she giggled. “I’m teasing you. His new name is Noah Preston.”

George nodded in approval. “Here’s a trick question. What’s my new name?”

“That’s easy. You’re Mr. Poopie Pants.”

Chuckling, George slapped his meaty thigh. “By Jove, I think she’s got it!”

He wasn’t smiling when he stood and looked at his watch. “Guess we’d better hit the road. We don’t want to miss our flight.”

Nate recalled the order of events George had outlined on the phone last night. Once his badge got them through security, they’d board the plane from the tarmac, rather than at the gate. To further confuse possible O’Malley disciples, they’d change planes in Detroit, and again in Philly before landing at the Baltimore airport.

Nate sipped coffee, wondering if their Baltimore-based sitter had stocked the apartment kitchen with real mugs, as promised. Over the past few weeks he’d spent enough time on the phone, and in Skype conversations with Maxine—aka Max—to know that she’d stocked the pantry and fridge, and added to the Walmart wardrobe George had provided. Everything they owned fit nicely in their backpacks, the only luggage they’d need between this dismal room and their new home in Ellicott City.

Nate slung his bag over one shoulder, helped Melissa into hers. She’d been a real trouper to this point, going along with every change, accepting every loss, for no reason other than that he’d given his word that things would get better soon. Would she feel that way after her favorite doll, Cassie, “disappeared”? Maybe. But just in case, he had an ace up his sleeve, an idea born as he’d tucked her in bed the night before last:

“Will Santa be able to find our new house?” she asked.

“Of course he will.”

“But how will he get in? Does our new house have a chimney?”

Nate hadn’t noticed a fireplace in the pictures Max had sent to his cell phone, but it was a hundred-year-old building.... “I’m not sure,” he had said, “but even if it doesn’t, we’ll leave a door unlocked. You can tell him which one when you send him your wish list.”

“I’m only writing one thing...puppy!”

His heart ached now, just remembering how excited she’d been when she’d said it. Nate hated to disappoint her, but what choice did he have? Dogs barked, relieved themselves outside, needed to be walked, and he couldn’t afford the exposure. Maybe he’d surprise her with a kitten instead, and hope it would ease the pain of losing Cassie.

George opened the door as Nate exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Ready, cupcake?” he asked, tousling his daughter’s hair.

She was on her feet and beside the agent in an eye blink. Fortunately, George was big enough to block the exit. Goose bumps formed on Nate’s forearms. He needed to be on guard for that kind of thing from now on, because if she darted out of his sight, even for an instant...

A shiver snaked up his spine as she chattered excitedly about her first airplane ride, about meeting Max in person. Melissa didn’t realize that Maxine Colson, like George, was a WITSEC agent. All she knew was that her Skype pal would meet them at the airport and deliver them to their new home. Max had helped Melissa find Baltimore on the map, taught her that the city was famous for the Orioles and the Ravens, steamed crabs and people who called each other “hon.” Nate didn’t know a whole lot more than that himself. But they had the rest of their lives to learn, together.

As she climbed into the backseat of George’s boxy blue SUV, Melissa looked up at Nate. “Oh, Daddy...I mean, Mr. Preston? Can you belt Cassie in with me?”

She looked so proud about remembering his new name. Overwhelming sadness wrapped around him as he looked into her angelic face. “Sure thing,” he said, tucking the doll under the belt. “Now you behave yourself, and listen to Alyssa, okay, Cassie?”

Nate slid into the passenger seat. Alyssa. Alyssa Preston. Would he ever get used to calling her that?

George got into the car, and as he inserted the key into the ignition, she said, “Oh no!”

The agent met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “What...did we forget something important?”

“Yes! Something very important! We forgot to give Cassie a new name!”

He swallowed hard, adjusted the Windsor knot of his rumpled blue tie. “I only gave you one job to do,” said the hard, silent gaze he aimed in Nate’s direction. He’d stressed that, because of facial recognition software, Cassie, who was visible in nearly every family photo, could not go to Baltimore. So Nate had come up with a two-birds-with-one-stone plan: stuff Cassie into Melissa’s backpack as they entered the terminal, and when she wasn’t looking, leave the doll behind. A necessary evil to ensure his baby’s safety. But he hadn’t yet shared the idea with George.

“How about this,” Melissa said. “Cassie has blue eyes like Mommy....”

The men exchanged a worried glance, because they knew where this was going. Knew other things, too. Things Melissa was far too young to understand. She would never again see her teacher and preschool classmates, beloved grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, or visit her mother’s grave at the Rose Hill Cemetery. Because all ties to their old life were forbidden. Including Cassie.

“...so how about if I call her Jillian?”

That wouldn’t work even if they didn’t have to get rid of the easily identifiable doll. Melissa waited for the grown-ups in charge of her safety and her fate to respond. Instead, George fiddled with the radio dials as Nate looked for an imaginary something in the glove box. As a kid, he’d fallen from a tree, all the breath whooshing from his lungs in the hard landing. He felt that way right now.

George, having more experience with situations like this, regained his composure first. “Know what I wish?” he asked.

In the eighteen months since O’Malley’s arrest, Nate had come to terms with his widowhood and had adjusted to life as a single dad. He more or less accepted the fact that because of his transgressions, he would never practice law again. When he learned that the marshals had built an entire livelihood for him around his questionable knowledge of tools, he figured he’d get used to that, too...thanks to George’s savvy advice. How would he fare without the big-hearted agent to advise and reassure him?

“What do you wish?” Melissa asked.

“I wish you’d write to me, once you’re all settled in your new place.”

“Oh, I will. And you’ll write back, won’t you?”

“You bet I will.” George winked. “Sure am gonna miss you, kiddo.”

“Daddy says our new ’partment has a sophie-bed. You could visit anytime you want.” She looked at Nate. “Right, Daddy?”

Oh, how he loved this kid! “George,” he said, “our sophie-bed is your sophie-bed.”

Ten minutes into the half-hour drive to O’Hare, Melissa dozed off.

“So you’re comfortable, working with Max?” George asked.

Comfortable. What a weird choice of words. Nate pictured Agent Maxine Colson, who, after hearing about the nightmares, hand-flapping and stammering that plagued Melissa right after her mother’s death, had pulled strings and called in favors. Not only had she secured authorization to line up a child specialist, Max had also gotten permission to Skype with Melissa during those critical in-between months, easing the transition. During their often hours-long daily sessions, she’d listened patiently as Melissa recounted her days, recited entire plot lines of cartoons and movies she’d watched, and read The Velveteen Rabbit...seven times. Melissa was comfortable with the pretty redhead, and that was good enough for Nate. Still...

“I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with a stranger again.”

Nodding, the agent stared straight ahead. “I hear ya. But Max is good people. I know, ’cause I worked with her before she transferred to the Baltimore office. She’s great with kids, and keeps a secret better than a priest in the confessional. If you have problems, you can trust her with ’em.”

Nate snorted.

“Cynic,” George teased. “But mark my words, you’ll change your mind about her.”

His imagination? Or was there an unspoken “People in your shoes always do” at the end of George’s statement? Not that it mattered. Nate had no intention of unburdening himself with the woman. As far as he was concerned, she had one purpose: to keep Melissa safe.

Correction. Alyssa. He’d better get used to calling her that. Better get used to referring to himself as Noah Preston, too. Nate Judson, former assistant district attorney for the city of Chicago, former husband of Jillian, former part-time law professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, was as good as dead.

Yeah, he’d cooperate.

But he didn’t have to like it.

CHAPTER TWO

Three years later...

WALKING THE BROKEN mountain bike uphill would have been a challenge even without her sprained ankle. Billie hoped the owner of Ike’s Bikes had earned his reputation as the guy who could fix anything, because the Cannondale had cost, used, almost as much as her four-cylinder pickup had, new.

She rolled the bike between two others in the rack—a McLaren Venge, easily eighteen thousand dollars, and the slightly more affordable Scott Spark Limited. After clicking her spokes lock into place, Billie noticed movement on the other side of the shop’s floor-to-ceiling door. The owner of the Venge, she presumed, garbed head to toe in Gucci, just like her ex had worn.

A tinny bell announced her entrance, and Gucci waved. Billie pretended not to notice by sliding onto a stool at the counter and leafing through a dog-eared copy of Bicycling Magazine.

“Be right with you,” called a DJ-deep voice from the back room.

Billie tensed. If the shop’s regulars dressed like Gucci, could she afford to have Ike repair the Cannondale?

Another customer—a guy in threadbare jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt—appeared from the back room, nodding a cordial hello to her, then Gucci, as he left the shop.

“Been riding long?” Gucci asked her.

“Not really.”

And though she hadn’t encouraged conversation, he launched into the story of how his first bike had been a Cannondale. A great way to break into the sport, he said, without breaking the bank. But Billie barely heard him because she was too busy remembering how she’d come into possession of hers: her obstetrician had recommended mountain biking as a great way to get back into shape, physically and emotionally, after Billie’s baby was stillborn. Dr. Ryan had recently upgraded to a SuperSix, and made her a deal on the Cannondale she hadn’t been able to refuse.

Gucci pointed. “So what happened to the ankle?”

“Tripped.” He didn’t need to know that she’d taken a curve too fast and skidded off the trail on Pennsylvania’s Highland Plateau.

“Name’s Jeff, by the way.” He took a step closer, stuck out his right hand. “Jeff Graham.”

“Billie,” she said, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.” She wasn’t pleased to meet him, because his looks reminded her too much of her ex-husband, and triggered memories of the ugliness that had begun once he’d discovered her antibiotics had canceled out her birth control. Chuck had used the surprise pregnancy as an excuse to come clean about everything he’d been up to, including his affair with Amber. She hadn’t been his first dalliance, and probably wouldn’t be his last, but she’d do for now, because he didn’t want kids, and neither did she. As if the awful truth hadn’t hurt enough, he had accused Billie of getting pregnant on purpose, to trap him into staying.

“So I noticed you walked your bike here.” Jeff nodded toward the rack out front. “You must live nearby.”

She shook off the bad memory. “Couple of blocks.”

“I live in Oella,” he said, pointing east. “Rehabbed a hundred-year-old row house.”

He wasn’t guilty of anything, really, just making polite conversation, like any normal person. It wasn’t his fault that she hadn’t felt normal since Chuck had told her he was leaving, and that he refused to have anything to do with their child. Would he have stayed if he’d known the baby would die, even before she was born? Friends and family said they understood how losing her husband and child in the same calendar year could break her spirit. But that had been two whole years ago, they said; she’d healed physically, and it was long past time to get over it psychologically. Besides, what chance did she have of finding love or having another baby if she judged every man by Chuck’s callous behavior?

Get over it, indeed. If they saw the way she reacted to baby food commercials, kids in playgrounds and moms pushing their babies in strollers, they’d know Billie felt anything but strong. At least, not strong enough to survive loss like that again.

“Took years,” Jeff was saying, “but the place looks pretty good now, if I do say so myself.”

She met his eyes, and decided it wouldn’t kill her to at least be civil. “Sounds like a lot of work. And expense.”

“I’ll say! My wife thought I’d never finish. But I gave her my word that I’d be done before the baby was born. And I did. Now I’m working on an addition for the new baby.”

Being sociable hadn’t killed her, but now she was stuck passing time with this Jeff person, the total opposite of Chuck: married, with two children, and happy about it. Billie groaned inwardly, hoping he wouldn’t whip out his wallet and show her a bunch of home-and-family photos.

She caught sight of herself in the big mirror behind the counter. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that its purpose was to make the narrow shop appear wider. Too bad it couldn’t give the illusion that she was something other than an ill-tempered, self-centered—

A small girl skipped out of the back room, singing “What a Wonderful World,” as her shoulder-length ponytails bounced in sync with her stuffed bunny’s floppy ears. When she spotted Jeff, she lit up as if Santa himself stood before her.

“Mr. Jeff!”

Hoisting her in his arms, he said, “How are you today?”

“Happy to see you.” She looked behind him. “Where’s baby Jeff?”

“Home with his mom. Nap time, y’know?”

“Now that I’m seven, Daddy says I don’t have to take naps.”

The baby Billie lost had been a girl....

Jeff put the child down as she reported, “Daddy said to tell you it’ll take at least another hour before he can start on your bike. He’s having troubles with that other one.”

“No problem. Tell him I’ll come back this afternoon.”

As she ran off to deliver the message, Jeff shook his head. “She’s a handful, that one. I’d invite her to my place, give her dad a break from the constant noise and motion, but he won’t let her out of his sight.” He glanced toward the back room. “My wife took it personally at first, and to be honest, so did I. Took us a while, but eventually we figured out that some single dads never trust anyone.”

Billie had come here to drop off her broken bike, not to make friends or speculate about the shop owner’s parenting and social skills.

The child returned to say, “If you’re not in a hurry, Daddy wants to know if tomorrow morning would be okay with you.”

Jeff patted the top of her head. “That’s more than okay. In fact, it’s better than okay. Looks like I’ll see you in the morning, Alyssa m’dear.”

Billie blinked back tears. The name on her daughter’s angel-adorned tombstone at Philadelphia’s Cedar Hill Cemetery was Ciara Marie, but Alyssa had been her second choice for girls’ names.

Jeff paused at the door. “You might want to tell your dad there’s another customer out here.”

“Oh, he knows.” She pointed at the camera high on the entry wall, hidden among cable housings and adjusting barrels. “When the other man saw her come in, he said, ‘Whoa, she’s pretty,’ and Daddy said, ‘Yes, she is.’”

Laughing, Jeff said, “They’re both right.” He opened the door partway. “Your dad must have gotten distracted, got busy with something and forgot she’s here. Maybe you can tell him she sprained her ankle, and from the looks of it, ought to get home and prop it up.”

Alyssa glanced at Billie’s swollen, bandaged ankle. When she fixed her big blue eyes on her, the breath caught in Billie’s throat. Would her little girl have been this stunning...if she’d lived?

Alyssa faced the back room and bellowed with a power that belied her size. “Daddy! Daddy! Mr. Jeff says come out and talk to this pretty lady about her bye-sickle because she has a big fat hurt ankle!”

Billie cringed as a dark-haired man emerged from the back room, wiping grimy hands on a grimier rag. “Who needs an intercom system with a human speaker on the premises?” He bent to kiss her forehead. “For a li’l bitty thing, you sure do make a lot of noise.”

“Oh, Daddy, you always say that!”

The man smiled at Billie. “And yet she continues her quest to attempt to break the sound barrier.”

The wide eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s a sound barrier?”

He shot his daughter a wink. “It’s just a fancy way of saying noisy.”

She thought about it for a minute before asking if she could watch some television.

“The remote’s on my desk. But you know the rules....”

She did her best to mimic her dad’s baritone. “‘The cartoon channel only, and if the volume goes over number twelve, off it goes!’”

Billie watched as his gaze followed Alyssa into the back room. He loved her. That much was clear. But something more glimmered in those black-lashed green eyes....

Jeff opened the bike shop’s door all the way. “Catch you in the a.m., Noah.” Eyes on Billie, he said, “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

The little girl’s father stepped closer. “Noah Preston,” he said, “owner, repairman, candlestick maker. I’d shake your hand, but...” He showed her the rag again, then tipped his head toward the street. “That your Cannondale in the rack?”

Billie nodded, wondering why the sign out front said Ike’s Bikes if the man’s name was Noah.

“Bent the frame, eh?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Saw you limping earlier, so sit tight while I bring ’er inside for a closer look.”

She reached into her pocket. “You’ll need this to unlock it,” she said, dropping the key into his upturned palm.

One of her twin brothers had been a marine, and even after five years out of uniform, Troy still wore his hair “high and tight.” There was something about his ramrod-straight stance and no-nonsense word choices that told her he hadn’t always been a bicycle repairman. However, if the wavy, collar-length hair was any indicator, Preston had not been a jarhead. No, he had been something else. Billie had given up her job as a flight attendant and enrolled in law enforcement courses because Chuck didn’t like being alone, sometimes for days on end. But he hadn’t liked the long hours she spent hitting the books, either, so she focused on web design, and used study time to read mysteries and thrillers. The fact that Preston managed to keep an eye on Alyssa even as he unlocked the bike and carried it inside made her think maybe he’d been a cop. Had an on-the-job injury forced early retirement?

The bell above the door chimed as he elbowed his way back inside with her bike. “Did I hear you telling Jeff that you walked here with this thing?” He leaned it against the counter, then squatted to give it a once-over.

“Um, yeah.” She shrugged. “But only because I couldn’t ride it from Tongue Row.”

“Tongue Row? That’s what, six, eight blocks?” He stood, stepped behind the counter and picked up a spiral notebook. “Between that ankle and the bent frame, I’m surprised you got here at all.” He slid the notebook forward. Plopped a ballpoint on the top page. “Name and phone number,” Preston said, “so I can call you once I make a diagnosis. Please.”

That slight hesitation before he tacked on the courtesy reminded Billie of stories her mom had told about the rude, bossy surgeons in the O.R. Another scenario flickered in her imagination. But if Preston had been a doctor in his pre-bike shop life, he could well afford a customer database. Unless he’d lost everything in a malpractice suit.

“You have a computer, right?”

“Who doesn’t?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How long have you lived in Ellicott City?”

“Just under a year.” She met his steady gaze, blink for blink. He’d responded to her question, she noted, without really answering it. “And you?”

Preston shifted from one sneakered foot to the other. “A year, huh? Then you know how often we lose power around here. I like the added security of having customers’ names written down in good old-fashioned black-and-white.”

Another question unanswered, Billie thought, picking up the pen. She reminded herself that she’d come here to get her bike fixed, period. With any luck, she’d never need his services again.

He glanced toward the back of the shop, where Alyssa lay on her stomach in a beanbag chair large enough to accommodate her dad’s muscular frame. He relaxed...but only slightly.

Oh, yeah. There was definitely something off about this guy.

She’d bet the Cannondale on it.

CHAPTER THREE

NOAH LEANED BOTH elbows on the glass-topped counter, putting him at eye level with—he read what she’d written in the notebook—Billie Landon. Her real name, or was Billie short for something?

She slid the book back to him. “So eventually, you have to add this information to your database?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” She had gorgeous eyes. Big. Bright. The color of rich black coffee. “But don’t feel sorry for me.”

“Sorry for you? Why would I feel sorry for you?”

Both her eyebrows had disappeared into thick, sleek bangs. Not brown. Not red. What was that color?

He cleared his throat. “Because,” Noah began, “you’re probably thinking if I had half a brain, I wouldn’t duplicate my efforts.”

The brows reappeared, in a frown. “That isn’t what I was thinking.”

Oh, but it was. In his district attorney days, he’d interviewed enough victims and perps to recognize a distortion of the truth when he saw it.

She shrugged. “Word around town is that you’re a magician when it comes to bike repair. No one mentioned your mind-reading talents.”

He added quick-witted to the list. “No, not a mind reader.” But he’d looked into enough lying eyes over the years to know a fib when he heard one. “You’re right, though. My system means I have to do everything twice. But don’t worry. I only do a couple dozen jobs a week, so there’s no chance I’ll get carpel tunnel.”

A bold smile now, which only added to his suspicions about her. Why the flip-flopping emotions?

He took a half step closer, an interrogation tactic that sent a clear “I’m in charge” signal during his days as a district attorney. Noah didn’t know which unnerved him more, the fact that his nearness didn’t faze her, or that her nearness doubled his heartbeat. He straightened, took a step back. Crossed his arms over his chest. After three years, he should be comfortable with his single dad status. He’d cleaned up his act...too little, too late. But even if he were interested enough to pursue her, a wide gold band gleamed from the third finger of her left hand. Considering her injured foot, Noah wondered why her husband hadn’t helped her deliver the bike. Was the guy married to his work, the way he himself had once been? Or a safety nut who didn’t approve of mountain biking? Maybe there wasn’t a spouse at all, and the ring served as a deterrent to unwanted flirtation.

“How long do you think it’ll take to repair my bike? I have a race next weekend.”

“On that ankle? You’re kidding, right?”

She shot him a “who do you think you are?” look, and Noah supposed he had it coming. He moved to Billie’s side of the counter again, crouched beside the Cannondale. “The fork is bent, and so’s the down tube.” Three years ago, if anyone had told him he could list bike parts, let alone repair them, he would have called them crazy. “If they won’t hold a weld, I’ll have to order new parts. Your chain is history, and I wouldn’t put any confidence in this crank set, either.”

Billie groaned softly. “In other words, I’m really not racing next Saturday.”

“Well...” Noah stood up and, with one hand on the bike seat, said, “Not unless you believe in miracles?”

“Absolutely not.”

She’d answered fast. Too fast. It made him wonder what—or who—had turned her into such a pessimist.

“Do you need a deposit?” she asked.

Noah waved the offer away. “Nah.” He picked up the notebook. “I know where you live. And I have the Cannondale as collateral.”

Billie hopped down from the stool, wincing when she landed.

She’d walked the bike to his shop; going home the same way would cause further damage to her ankle.

“Tuesdays are slow,” he began, “but even if they weren’t, we’re practically neighbors. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, so why not let me drive you home?”

Billie stiffened. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“It looks like you stuffed a bowling ball into your sock. I’d bet my bike your doc told you to stay off it, keep it elevated. And iced down.”

“As a matter of fact, he did.” She exhaled a sigh of frustration. “So okay, I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.”

Noah had never been good at accepting help, either, and these past three years had only heightened his mistrust of people.

“My pickup is out back,” he said, aiming a thumb over one shoulder. “Give me a minute to load Alyssa into her car seat, and I’ll drive around front so you won’t have to traipse all the way through the shop and into the side alley.”

By the time he turned off the TV, secured Alyssa in her child safety seat—promising to make her favorite for supper—then flipped the store’s Open sign to Closed, locked the door and double-parked in front of the shop, fifteen minutes had passed.

“Sorry, got a little waylaid,” he said to Billie. While she slid into the front seat, he checked the locks on the Today’s Specials bikes in the rack outside the shop.

Alyssa leaned forward as far as the seat restraint would allow. “Does your ankle hurt much?” he heard her ask.

Billie sat stiff and straight, facing forward, even as he got into the driver’s side, as if being around his daughter was an imposition.

“No. Not much.”

“I twisted my ankle once, jumping on my bed. Is that what happened to you?”

“I fell off my bike.”

“Oh. Did your elbows get all busted up, too?”

“Broken,” Noah corrected. He put the car into gear. “Sounds more ladylike than busted.”

“But...I’m just a kid. Why do I have to talk like a lady?”

“Because I said so.”

As he turned onto Main Street, his daughter said, “My name is Alyssa. What’s yours?”

“Billie.”

“But...but Billy is a boy’s name.”

“Only if you spell it B-i-l-l-y. I spell it B-i-l-l-i-e.”

“There’s a boy in my class,” she said, “and his name is Billy— Daddy! Look!” She pointed across the street. “Isn’t that little white dog the cutest thing ever!”

If he ever said yes to getting a dog, it sure wouldn’t be a yippy ankle-biter like that one. “Uh-huh,” he said. When he’d been forced to leave her favorite doll at the airport, Noah had soothed her tears by promising to replace it with a kitten. Mouser was nice enough, as cats go, but certainly not the in-your-face pup Alyssa had always dreamed about.

“If I had a dog,” she said now, “it would be big, with a happy face. Like the one you had when you were a little boy, ’member, Daddy?”

“I sure do.” How could he forget the gentle giant that had been more sibling than pet?

Alyssa giggled. “Tell Billie his name.”

“Cash.” He didn’t know why, but he felt obliged to explain. “My dad named him Cash Money, because he’d been abused before we adopted him, and cost a fortune at the vet’s.”

Noah glanced over at her, and for a moment there she looked mildly interested. Then she pointed left, and he realized the route had captured her attention, not the story.

“You just passed my street,” she said.

Now it was Noah’s turn to groan, because it meant driving up to Hamilton Street to make a U-turn in the post office parking lot. Halfway there, traffic on Main Street slowed, then came to a grinding halt. While drivers around him raised their hands and muttered, Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. Trapped at a dead stop between parked cars and the constant flow of traffic heading east, he and Alyssa—and Billie, too—might as well have bull’s-eyes painted on their foreheads.

He held his breath. Checked the side mirrors. Glanced over his shoulder, looking for what, he didn’t know. Facing front again, he peered into the rearview mirror.

“What’s wrong, Daddy? You look...scared.”

“Nah. Just frustrated. You know how I get in traffic.”

He watched the concern drain from his daughter’s face, and just that fast, she was back on track.

“Oh, yes. Daddy hates traffic jams,” she said to Billie. “Sometimes he even gets so mad about it that he says bad words!”

Billie chuckled quietly, then pursed her lips and looked out the passenger window. Noah shook his head. What a weird time to miss Jillian. On second thought, it wasn’t weird at all. His wife had been so easygoing and easy to love. He didn’t need an Einstein IQ to figure out why the few women who had inspired a second glance since her death had done so: they’d been gorgeous, smart and outgoing— just like Jillian. He blamed loneliness for his knee-jerk, momentary attraction to Billie back at the shop.

“Did your mom think you were going to be a boy?” Alyssa asked. “Is that why she named you Billie with an i-e?”

A second, then two passed before she answered. “My granddad’s name is Bill.”

Alyssa clapped her hands. “Oh, I get it! Your mom wanted to name you after him, but when a baby girl popped out, it was too late to pick a new name!”

“It’s not my real name. It’s just what everybody calls me.”

If she didn’t want to share the name printed on her birth certificate, that was okay with him.

Traffic eased up, and so did Noah’s tension. They drove in silence for several blocks, until Alyssa noticed the Firehouse Museum. The next couple minutes were filled with what she remembered about its interior, where old firefighters’ uniforms and helmets, tools and dozens of model-sized fire engines had been displayed behind red velvet ropes or inside glass-shelved cases.

“Have you been there, Billie?”

“No.”

“Maybe we could go together.”

Noah glanced over at Billie, whose eyes were wide with surprise...and indecision.

“The museum is open on Saturday. Can we go then, Daddy, and show Billie all the neat stuff inside?”

“We’ll see.”

Alyssa thought that over while Billie shot him a half smile that said “thanks.” For sparing her from having to say no? Or for stalling the visit until she could walk around better?

“Oh! Daddy?”

Noah glanced at his daughter in the rearview mirror again.

“Do you mean we should wait until Billie’s ankle is okay?”

He nodded. “That would be a good idea.”

Alyssa leaned forward in her seat. “How long before it’s better, Billie?”

The woman turned slightly, and only long enough to say over her shoulder, “A week, maybe two.”

“Don’t worry.” Alyssa smiled. “I’ll think of something else. Something fun you can do sitting down.”

For as long as Noah could remember, Alyssa had been a natural-born caretaker. He watched as her forefinger tapped her chin. He counted backward, waiting for her to come up with an idea for an outing that would allow Billie to participate while seated.

Ten, nine, eight—

“Do we still have that coupon from T-Bonz? The one that says ‘Live Music on Saturdays’?”

Alyssa wanted a mom, like the other kids in her class. Noah got that. What he didn’t get was why she saw mother potential in just about every female who crossed her path.

“The music doesn’t start until eight o’clock,” he told her, “and you’re way too young to be up that late.”

“It’s just as well,” Billie said. “I have a website to design for a client by Monday.” She gestured. “There’s my stree—”

Noah made the right turn onto Old Columbia Pike, eliminating the need for her to point it out. “I fiddled around with a website for the bike shop.” He slowed the pickup, waiting for her to tell him which house was hers. “Put a day’s work into a page, and gave up when I lost the whole thing with one keystroke.”

Billie nodded. “Mistakes like that make up half of my business.” She paused. “That’s my place up ahead, right beside the jewelry shop. It says Hi Ho Silver on the sign. You can’t miss it.”

Noah braked and assessed the conditions of the road. Sharp curve. No shoulder. Two narrow lanes, and a sidewalk barely wider than the hallway between his kitchen and dining room. Even after all this time in Ellicott City, he disliked the inconvenience of having to drive through narrow alleyways to access his parking pad. Tongue Row—the road that passed a mere five feet from Billie’s front door—left no room for slowing down, let alone parking long enough for her to exit safely. “Maybe I should drive around back, drop you off—”

“Thanks,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt, “but there’s no need to go to all that trouble. I won’t get hit.”

“But will we?” he asked, with a glance in the rearview mirror.

Billie peered over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. If anyone rams you from behind, I’ll be your witness.” She got out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride. You have my number, so feel free to call whenever you’ve fixed the bike. Or...or you’re interested in talking about a website.”

She closed the door, and as he merged into traffic, Noah could see her in the side mirror, stooping to lift the doormat and retrieve her key. “Is she nuts?” he muttered. “Who does that anymore?” Evidently, she wasn’t as suspicious of people as he first thought.

Alyssa turned and waved, and Noah saw Billie smile as she returned it.

“She’s nice, isn’t she, Daddy?”

“I guess.”

“I wonder why she doesn’t smile more. She’s very pretty when she smiles, isn’t she?”

“I guess,” he repeated.

“Do you think she’s as pretty as Mommy?”

“No way.”

He pictured Jillian, tall, willowy, too girlie to test a mountain bike, let alone ride one hard enough to mess up an ankle.

Alyssa sighed quietly. “She reminds me of Mommy, kind of.”

“She does? How so?”

“Mostly, the way she looks at me.”

Noah might have asked what she meant, if Alyssa hadn’t lifted her shoulders until they touched her earlobes, a sweet, dainty gesture that always made his heart thump with fatherly affection.

“I saw her looking at you that way, too,” Alyssa said.

“She did?”

“Uh-huh. Did it make you think of Mommy, too?”

He hadn’t noticed Billie looking at Alyssa in anything other than a polite, neighborly way. As for how she’d looked at him, impatience came to mind.

“Look there,” he said, leaning closer to the windshield. “Emily is loose again.”

Their neighbor’s goose was a regular escape artist. One of these days she’d waddle into the road, and that would be the end of her...if the county didn’t cite Meb for allowing her to violate the noise ordinance by honking at all hours. Noah parked on an angle, effectively blocking the alleyway as he dialed Meb’s number.

“No answer,” he said after seven rings. “You sit tight while I put Emily back into her pen.” After pocketing his keys, he uncuffed his shirtsleeves, then reached into the glove box and grabbed a pair of worn leather work gloves usually reserved for stacking wood in the back of the truck. Last time he’d tried to save Emily from getting run over by a car, she’d nearly blinded him with a flurry of fluttering wings. She’d bitten him, too, leaving nasty bruises on his forearms. To add insult to injury, she infected him with a bad case of mites. When Meb had found out about the mites, he had brought Noah a giant bottle of Listerine. “Shower, splash this on and take some antihistamine,” the farmer-turned-artist had said. The home remedy had worked...after two miserable, itchy weeks. This time, Noah wasn’t taking any chances.

It took nearly twenty minutes just to catch her, and another ten to ease her into the wood-and-wire pen Meb had built for her. After securing the latch, Noah noticed that Emily’s food bowl was empty, so he refilled it by pouring pellets through the mesh. The only human allowed near the enclosure was Meb. The only one allowed in the yard was Meb. To Noah’s knowledge, no one had ever tried to steal the iron and steel sculptures that were Meb’s trademark...and his livelihood. And no wonder, with a crazy, biting, mite-infested goose standing guard!

When he finished, Noah smacked the gloves against his thigh, then peeled off his shirt and dropped it into the nearest trash can. Better to lose it than risk bringing parasites into the apartment.

“So what are you in the mood for tonight, kiddo?” he asked, parking the truck in its usual slot.

“We haven’t had spaghetti in a long time. With meatballs, and garlic bread, too.”

Her mom’s favorite meal. “You got it, cupcake.”

The moment they were inside, Alyssa grabbed her crayons and a stack of construction paper.

“I’ll be in my room,” she announced, “drawing a picture of Emily. I might need help, spelling some things for Meb.”

“Soon as we finish eating. I’ll call you when it’s time to set the table, okay?”

He grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser drawer as she said, “Okay, Daddy.”

While he filled the pasta pot with water, he thought about what Alyssa had said earlier, and tried to remember how Jillian had looked at him. Nothing came to mind. Not even with his eyes closed. Worse, he couldn’t see her at all. Maxine, his Baltimore connection with the Marshals Service, had warned him about this three years ago, but he hadn’t believed it.

“What kind of man shares years and has a child with a woman—causes her death—and can’t raise a mental image of her?” he’d demanded.

“First of all,” Max had said, “you didn’t cause Jillian’s death. Senator O’Malley did. As for forgetting what she looks like? Trust me. It’ll happen. And when it does, it will prove you’re healing. Because you’re normal.”

If she thought a quote from some required psychology course would help alleviate the fear, she was dead wrong, and he’d told her so. Besides, how could a person who’d never lost a spouse know what was normal and what wasn’t?

Much as Noah hated to admit it now, Max had been right about one thing: the day had come. She’d been off beam about that other thing, though, because he felt anything but normal. He could call her, put George’s “she’s a good listener” claims to the test...again.

Water from the tap overflowed the pot’s rim, shaking Noah from his daze. He emptied half the water down the drain, then carried the pot to the stove. He turned the burner on high, thinking it probably wasn’t a good idea to call Max. She knew every hideous detail of his past. That if he hadn’t joined forces with the corrupt senator, it wouldn’t have been necessary to choose between jail time and testifying against the man. If he hadn’t testified, the accident intended for him wouldn’t have killed Jillian, which prompted the decision to move from a fourteen-room house in Chicago’s River North neighborhood to a four-room apartment above a bike shop, living under assumed names, afraid to get close to anyone for fear that what happened to Jillian might happen to Alyssa.

Yeah, Max knew the details of his story and accepted the facts without passing judgment. Not that she needed to...

Noah despised himself enough for both of them.

CHAPTER FOUR

BILLIE SAT AT her desk, trying to get comfortable as she keyed in html code on a client’s website. Not an easy feat with one foot propped on an open file drawer. She missed her exercise ball, but since the accident, she’d had to make do with her old, non-ergonomically correct chair. That alone, she thought, hobbling toward the kitchen, was incentive enough to keep the ankle iced and elevated, per doctor’s orders.

The doorbell rang as she grabbed a fresh ice pack. According to the wall clock, it was nearly nine o’clock.

“What kind of nut drops by unannounced at this time of night?”

A peek through the front door’s sidelights told her: Troy, the oldest of her twin brothers, dodging moths drawn by the porch light.

She threw open the door. “Holy smokes, Troy, what are you doing here?”

“I, ah...” He chuckled quietly. “Good to see you, too.”

“Sorry. That didn’t come out right at all.” She wrapped him in a hug. “I’m just surprised to see you.” Stepping aside, Billie waved him into the foyer and tried not to stare as he dragged a big, bulging suitcase inside. “Good grief. Is there a body in there, or are you planning a trip around the world?”

He looked at the bag and shrugged. “I kinda left in a hurry, and just jammed stuff in there.”

“Uh-oh. What’s up?”

“Can we talk about it later?”

“How much later?”

“Feed me, and maybe I’ll feel like dredging up the bad news.”

“Always the tough guy, huh?” Billie pointed toward the hall. “You know where to stow your gear.” On the way to the guest room, he nodded toward the home office space she’d fashioned in one corner of the living room. “I’ll stay out of your hair. Promise. You keep designing those websites as if I wasn’t even here. This is temporary. I just need to get my head straight before I go ho—” He cleared his throat. “Before I go back...” he frowned slightly “...to Philly.”

He’d started to say home, and changed his mind. That worried her almost as much as the notion that her big, rough-tough marine brother, who’d earned a Purple Heart and a Silver Star in Afghanistan, had come here to hide. But from what? She hobbled alongside him and pointed at the hideous black soft cast the E.R. doctor had prescribed. “I’d never admit it to anyone else, but my ankle is killing me.” Silently, she acknowledged that if Noah Preston hadn’t insisted on driving her home earlier, it would hurt a whole lot more.

“What did you do to yourself this time?”

“Took a curve too fast during a race,” she said, limping along behind him. “You can have your Superman and Captain America. My hero is the tree that kept me from going over the edge.”

He rolled the suitcase into the guest room’s closet. “You’ve fixed the place up real nice. Hard to believe it’s only been a year since you moved in,” he said, glancing around. Then, pointing at her ankle, Troy said, “Let me guess. You’re planning to go out again, next chance you get.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I love cycling.” It had saved her, in more ways than one. But since Troy knew that almost as well as she did, Billie saw no need to remind him of those awful, scary months following the stillbirth.

“Maybe I’ll get a bike and go with you, see if riding can fix what’s wrong with my life, too.”

The sadness in his voice wasn’t lost on Billie.

“Another fight with Victoria?”

He only shook his head.

“You’re way too good for her,” Billie said. “I never understood what you saw in—”

“Do me a favor and drop it, okay?”

She took one look at his all-business expression and decided to press him for details later, after he’d had a meal and a good night’s sleep. “You still driving that small convertible?”

“Yeah....”

“Then we’re in luck. I traded my car for a small pickup, and it came with a double bike rack. I know where we can get you a great mountain bike, too...if Victoria hasn’t talked you into another cruise or something.”

“Billie, c’mon. Give it a rest, will ya? You don’t hear me asking when you last talked to that idiot you married, or how you can afford this place after caving to avoid a confrontation with the jerk—who took way more than he deserved in the divorce settlement—if you ask me. Or if you regret giving up your job as a flight attendant just because Chuck the Pilot didn’t like you being in the air when he wasn’t.” Her brother took a breath and plowed on. “Or if you’re sorry you left Philly, where the baby is buried.”

“Okay. All right. I get the message. I’m sorry! If I’d known you would bring up every awful thing in my past, I never would have—”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.”

And he looked it.

“I have a good mind,” she said, pretending to pout, “not to show you where the extra hangers and clean towels are.”

Troy laughed halfheartedly. “You’d only be punishing yourself....” Wiggling his eyebrows, he said, “Now show me what you’ve done with the place since we moved you in.”

Billie gave him a tour of the five-room cottage, and then headed to the kitchen to pour two glasses of iced tea. Troy carried the tumblers and followed her to the back deck, where she flopped onto a lounge chair.

“I can’t believe how much you did in such a short time,” her brother said. “The folks made it sound like you were living in an unfurnished shoebox.” He sat on the other lounge chair. “If I could find a place like this, I might never go back.”

Evidently, things with his fiancée were worse than Billie had thought. “I know you’re vulnerable right now, so maybe this isn’t the best time to tell you there are at least two houses for sale within walking distance.”

He didn’t comment, and instead gestured to her small, fenced-in yard. “Did you plant all that stuff?”

“Artfully dodged, Jack Dawson,” she teased. “And to answer your question, yes, I planted all that stuff. Gardening is way cheaper than a therapist.”

Troy reached across the space between them and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you’re doing well. You had us worried there for a while.”

“Us. What a laugh. I know the rest of the family meant well, but you were the only one who was really there for me after Chuck dumped me.” She returned the squeeze. “And whether you like it or not, I intend to be there for you, too.”

“I’m countin’ on it.” He leaned back, crossed one ankle over the other. “So are you seeing anybody?”

“Between the web design business and cycling, there isn’t time for stuff like that,” she answered. “Besides, I’m not exactly girlfriend material.”

“Yet.”

Billie only shrugged. Thankfully, he hadn’t quoted their parents: “It’s been two years, Billie. You need to get hold of yourself. Put Chuck in the past and move forward with your life.”

She had moved forward. New home, new job, new friends and hobbies. But she was far from ready to consider a new man in her life.

Troy stared up at the sky. “Yeah, this is great, all right.”

His stomach rumbled, and he explained, “Like I said, I left in a hurry.”

“What say I make us each a sandwich?”

Inside, he sat at the bar counter as she assembled the ingredients. “It’s almost as if you knew I was coming,” he noted.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Ham and Swiss on rye toast is my favorite sandwich, too, remember.”

They ate in a comfortable silence.

Billie thought of how their parents didn’t seem to have any trouble airing their grievances. Clearly, it was a trait she and Troy hadn’t inherited. He rarely talked about his overseas assignments, and even when he did, the discussions were tip of the iceberg, at best. Except for that night several months after the stillbirth, when he’d come to make sure she was all right. It had been the two-year anniversary of the roadside bomb that had wiped out all but four men in his unit.

“So how’s the website business?”

“I’m doing well enough to keep the wolf from the door.”

“I didn’t see the Cannondale anywhere around,” he said. “Did you wreck it in the accident?”

“It’s a little scratched and dented, but not totaled.” She remembered all the repairs Noah had told her he’d make. “The guy at the bike shop might need to order parts, but,” she said, pointing at the ankle, “I’m not going anywhere for a while, anyway. From the way he talked, it didn’t sound expensive. At least, I hope it won’t be. I hate to dip into the savings I’ve squirreled away for real emergencies.”

“Real emergencies?”

“The furnace is on its last legs, and so’s the water heater. And in a year or two, I’ll probably need a new roof.”

“Sounds like you’re planning to make Ellicott City your permanent home.”

Billie shrugged. “I guess I am.” She looked around at the mismatched flea market lamps she’d rewired, the cushiony sofa she’d reupholstered, the glass-topped coffee table she’d made from an old wire spool. Billie didn’t even care that “shabby chic” wasn’t chic anymore, because piece by piece, she’d rebuilt her life, just as she’d rebuilt the bar counter in the kitchen.

“Mom won’t be happy to hear you’re not coming home. She figured you would...eventually.”

“Soon as that twin of yours and his wife have a couple of kids, she’ll have happier things to distract her. Besides, this is the last place Chuck will think to look for me.”

“Todd and Dani aren’t planning to have kids for another year or two. Besides,” Troy added, “after accusing you of getting pregnant on purpose to justify cheating on you? Even Chuck isn’t stupid enough to get in touch with you.”

Billie harrumphed.

Her brother paused, then turned in his chair. “Whoa. Are you saying he did?”

“No. I haven’t heard from him since the house sold. I just don’t want him adding insult to injury by calling to say he sold all our furniture.”

“Or worse,” Troy added, “to announce that scuzzball he left you for is pregnant.”

That hurt far worse than Billie cared to admit.

“I still can’t believe he got more upset about losing your half of the house than about losing the baby.”

Billie shook her head. “Why would that upset him? He never wanted her.” Heart pounding with the bitter memory, she said, “He never believed she was his, anyway.”

“That’s bull. You know it, I know it and that no-good piece of garbage knows it.”

“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” she said, interrupting his tirade. “What’ll it be? Ice cream sandwich or chocolate marshmallow swirl?”

He glanced at the clock. “Ice cream. At ten-thirty. You’re kidding, right?”

She started for the fridge. “If we’re gonna be up all hours, rehashing our sad pasts, I want something to sweeten the atmosphere.”

“Our sad pasts,” he echoed. “If that means you expect me to spill my guts about what happened between Victoria and me...”

“I’m going to get it out of you sooner or later,” Billie said matter-of-factly.

“You still a fan of the evening news?”

“Are you still a jarhead?”

She knew what he’d say, and Troy didn’t disappoint: “Once a marine, always a marine.”

But ten minutes into the late-night news, he was dozing, one arm crooked over his face as he sprawled on the couch. The scene reminded her of happier times with her twin brothers. “Lost my job,” he said at last, without moving.

“No way. Why? Your boss loved you! I was there, remember, when he announced you were the new regional manager. Is he having money troubles?”

“No, he’s doing great. I’m the one who’s having troubles. Not money troubles, but...” Troy levered himself up on one elbow. “I just couldn’t live the lie anymore.”

“What lie?”

“Don’t get me wrong—I care about Victoria—but I’m not in love with her. I know you believe she thought of me as nothing more than a paycheck, but she’s really a great gal, and deserves to be with someone who’s crazy about her.”

He sat up, leaned both elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in the space between. “So I sat her down and told her the truth, then gave the boss two weeks’ notice. No big surprise...she gave me the weekend to clear out.”

Billie sat beside him. “Why do I get the impression all of this happened a long time ago?”

“Not that long,” he said dully. “Just two weeks.”

“You left the house two weeks ago?”

He nodded.

“Troy! Where have you been staying all this time?” She gave his shoulder a sisterly punch. “And why didn’t you call me!”

“I’ve been in a hotel. And don’t give me that ‘why didn’t you go to Mom and Dad’s’ nonsense. You know the answer to that even better than I do.” He heaved a deep sigh. “As for why I didn’t call you, I could say it was because I didn’t want to heap my troubles on top of yours, but that would be a lie. Truth is...I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Why?”

“I let things go on way too long. I kept telling myself that once she got to know me— really know me—she’d break it off. Who knew she’d do the old head-over-heels thing?” He groaned quietly. “She deserves better. A whole lot better.”

“So it’s really over between you two?”

“Yeah.” He hung his head and whispered, “Yeah, and it’s best for Victoria.”

For the first time since they’d entered adulthood, Billie felt more centered and mature than her big, rough-tough marine brother.

“Sorry I misjudged her,” she admitted. “Sorry I wasn’t there for you, too.”

Billie slid an arm around his waist and simply held him, and after a moment, Troy disentangled himself and got to his feet.

“You sure it’s okay if I crash here for a while?”

“Stay as long as you need to. Tomorrow I’ll give you a copy of the front door key.” She looked up at him. “Have you told Mom and Dad where you’ll be?”

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

Billie stood, too. “And what about Victoria? Does she know where you are?”

He nodded. “She’s going to call once the house is sold.” Troy gave a halfhearted chuckle. “Ironic, isn’t it, since I only bought the place because she was so crazy about it.”

It seemed to Billie he must have loved Victoria, at least at first.

“I guess she’s taking a page from your book, Billie—sell, move forward, don’t look back.”

“And so should you. Whether you want to admit it or not, what you did was a gesture of love.”

“How so?”

“Some guys might have waited until after the wedding, when a child or two might be involved. She’s hurt now, but someday she’ll realize how much more it would have hurt if you hadn’t been honest.”

“How’d you get so smart?”

“Runs in the family, I guess.”

Troy yawned and stretched. “Well, I’m beat. Think I’ll turn in.”

“Good idea. You know what Mom says....”

“Things always look better in the morning,” they said together.

Laughing, Billie gave him a shove. “See you tomorrow, then...y’big softie.”

“Better watch it, tough girl. I still have fifty pounds and eleven inches on you.”

At the guest room door, he kissed her forehead. “You’re a lifesaver, kid.”

“Guess that runs in the family, too.”

Troy nodded.

“If you need anything,” she said as his door swung closed, “make yourself at home.”

“Thanks. I will.”

The latch clicked as she whispered, “Sweet dreams.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“SWEET DREAMS,” NOAH whispered, pulling Alyssa’s door closed.

He headed for the kitchen, taking care to avoid the loud squeak just outside her room. Three years ago, she could sleep through her mother’s book club meetings, his late-night phone calls, even thunderstorms. Since her mom’s death, it seemed his daughter slept with one eye open and one ear cocked. He understood that, because Jillian’s murder had all but turned him into an insomniac.

A gentle early autumn rain pecked the windows as he checked the back door, which had leaked like a sieve during the last downpour. So far, so good, he thought. But just to be safe, Noah tucked several towels near the threshold. Tomorrow, after dropping Alyssa off at school, he’d walk over to Kaplan’s Hardware for weather stripping.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then popped a CD into the stereo and settled into his well-worn recliner. He dimmed all the lights except for the one beside his chair, and as Bonnie Raitt’s haunting, husky voice filled the room, the mood was set.

Noah pried open the brass clasp on the manila envelope. Inside, three smaller envelopes held letters from his parents, his brother and sister.

A quiet knock at the French doors startled him. It didn’t surprise him to see Max through the slight opening between the curtain panels. What did surprise him was that he hadn’t heard her climb the long narrow staircase that led to the apartment.

When he opened the door, she pointed at the porch swing. “Oh, man, I’ve always wanted one of those! Is it new?”

“Yes and no. Taylor’s was having a sidewalk sale, and Alyssa went crazy over it.”

Max hung her leather jacket on the hall tree as he dropped the envelope onto the coffee table.

“And of course,” she said, making herself comfortable, “you couldn’t say no.”

“I just popped a beer,” he said. “Want one?”

She tucked long, copper-red curls behind her ears. “Sure. Why not. I’m off duty.”

He went into the kitchen for a bottle, and when he returned, Max was admiring the porcelain-faced baby doll he’d bought on the same day as the swing.

“I don’t remember seeing this before.” She thanked him for the beer, then leaned the doll in the sofa’s opposite corner.

The recliner creaked when he dropped onto its seat. “It kinda came with the swing.”

Max took a swig, then shook her head.

“What?” Noah said.

“You’d better learn to say no, that’s what, or that adorable kid of yours will be so spoiled by the time she’s sixteen, you’ll find yourself working a second job to pay for her pink Corvette. And a pony. And—”

“No way.”

“You forget how long I’ve had this ‘agent’ gig, Preston. I’ve seen it before. That’s how I know you’ll be sorry if you don’t soon get a handle on your yes-man tendencies.”

He didn’t want to talk about Alyssa, or how hard it was to deny her anything. The 9x12 envelope sat on the coffee table, and he was anxious to read the letters from his family.

Max followed his gaze and picked it up. “So my sources at the agency were right. You did get mail today.” Fingering the envelope’s flap, she added, “So what’s up in the Windy City these days?”

“Don’t know. I was just about to read the letters when you showed up.”

In typical Max fashion, she gave an unladylike snort. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” She toed off her high-heeled cowboy boots and propped both black-socked feet on the table. “Can’t remember when I last heard a Bonnie Raitt tune. Lord, but that woman can sing!”

She leaned into the backrest and closed her eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Noah sighed. The woman knew just about everything else about him. Why not add Watch me fall apart...again to the list?

His mom had stapled a newspaper clipping to her note, and he read the headline out loud. “Gina Judson Takes Six Blue Ribbons in Baking Category.” Beneath it was a full-color photo of his mom, standing in front of the DuPage County Fairgrounds entrance. “Man. I haven’t seen that in years.” He put the article on the coffee table, and while Max looked at it, he read his mom’s letter. Amos Miller next door had finally chopped down the messy mimosa tree that stained his mom’s prized brick driveway, she’d written, and the last of her tomatoes were ripening on the sunporch.

He could picture them, lined up in tidy rows on the glass-and-rattan table, could almost hear his mom scolding his dad for swiping the ripest for a sandwich, instead of leaving it for her famous tomato-watermelon salad.

“She has lovely handwriting,” Max said when he handed her the letter. “You just don’t see that anymore, what with email and texting and social networking.”

While she read, Noah opened Eddie’s letter. His brother, as usual, had started out by lambasting the Chicago Bears’ coaching staff, and went on to grouse that if the Cubs’ management had one functioning brain among them, the team might actually get into the playoffs at some point during his lifetime.

“Clearly,” Max observed, “your mom focused all her ‘neat penmanship’ energy on you, because Eddie’s writing is horrible!” She fanned herself with the pages. “Why doesn’t he type his letters on the computer, so people who aren’t hieroglyphics specialists can read them?”

“Keep it up and I’ll revoke your reading privileges,” Noah said wryly. “And to answer your question, he writes because our mom insists it’s more personal.”

And as he opened Grace’s letter, Max zipped her lip.

Noah’s sister and her firefighter husband still shared their sprawling rancher in Glendale Heights, and her letter read like a to-do list for Stan. The porch needed a coat of paint, and the boxwood hedge hadn’t been trimmed since last summer. Stan’s excuse? That Eddie had borrowed the hedge trimmer and the paint sprayer, and as usual, hadn’t returned either.

Noah hit Replay on the CD player while Max read Grace’s letter. “Another beer?” he asked.

“Better not,” she said. “How would it look if a cop stopped me on the way home?”

Noah tossed both bottles into the recycling bin.

“I’m wondering...do Grace and Stan have kids?” she asked.

“No, but not for a lack of trying. I’m wondering something, too.”

Heavily mascaraed green eyes opened wide. “About?”

“You.”

“Uh-oh...”

“You’re great at what you do, there’s no getting around that. But are all these questions you ask the result of careful training? Experience? Or were you just born nosy?”

Max rolled her eyes. “It’s stuff like that makes me wish I’d set you up at the Comedy Club instead of this bike shop.”

“Well, it’s a natural question. You’re too young to be so nosy.”

“Now there’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one!”

“So why aren’t you married?”

Max sat up straighter. “Aren’t you just full of questions tonight.”

“Reading mail from my family makes me nostalgic. So shoot me.”

“Can’t. The agency makes me account for every bullet fired....”

“You’re not getting off that easy,” Noah said. “If you’d had a mind to, you probably could have been a model. So which is it—you’re a workaholic or a man-hater?”

Max threw back her head and laughed. “Neither. I just don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and all the good marshals are spoken for.” She shrugged. “But you’re a fine one to talk. Three years in the program, longer than that since your wife died...why are you still unattached?”

Noah frowned. “I can’t believe you’d ask such a question.” For one thing, Jillian didn’t simply die, she’d been murdered. Even if his conscience allowed him to see other women, his fatherly instincts would never permit him to trust anyone to babysit Alyssa.

Max nodded. “Yeah, well, other people in your situation manage it. At least they didn’t become monks.”

A stony silence descended. Max rolled her eyes, then asked, “So how’s that li’l princess of yours?”

“Still a happy, well-adjusted kid,” he said, nodding toward Alyssa’s door. “Mostly thanks to you.”

Max waved the compliment away. “Knock it off, will ya? You know how easily I blush.”

“Yeah, well—”

“If you’re about to go over that same old ‘it’s my fault’ ground again, spare me, okay? Sit down. Read your dad’s letter.” Max paused, softened her tone. “I know you like to save his for last.”

He couldn’t deny that he’d gone down that road too many times to count. Couldn’t deny that he enjoyed hearing his dad talk about the crazy antics of his microbiology and immunology graduate students. This time, however, the letter sounded more like an official report on Senator O’Malley and others affiliated with Noah’s downfall.

“Listen to this,” he said to Max. And then he read aloud, “‘I can’t prove it, of course, but rumors are circulating that indicate a certain slimeball is still cutting deals and calling the shots from his Stateville prison cell. But don’t worry. I’m keeping an ear to the ground.’” Noah met Max’s eyes. “What does he mean by that?”

She sat up straighter, reached for the letter. “Don’t get your boxers in a knot. It’s probably nothing.”

“No offence, but that’s not much comfort. Why do I get the feeling Alyssa is still in danger, even after three long—”

“Shh,” the agent said, pointing at Alyssa’s door. “What if the kid hears you?” Max folded his father’s letter, returned it to its envelope. “Okay if I take this back to the office?”

“Why? I thought you guys read every word before the mail is delivered, so you can black out every name and date.”

“We do. But the letters pass through a lot of hands between here and Chicago. I’d rather err on the side of caution than take any chances.”

“I know that Alyssa and I aren’t the only people you’re assigned to, and that the letters have to pass through three, sometimes four post offices to throw off the bad guys.”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Max said. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“So far. I guess. And that isn’t much comfort, either.” Noah inhaled a shaky breath, remembering the alarm in his father’s letter. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I appreciate everything you and the agency have done for us.”

Reaching across the space between them, Max gave his hand a gentle pat. “There’s a 99 percent chance that what your dad heard is a rumor. The mad rantings of a foolish old convict, shooting off his mouth and thumping his chest to prove he’s still a big shot.” She held up a finger to silence Noah’s protest. “But I’ll look into it. You have my word on it.”

The clock struck the half hour.

“Nine-thirty? How can that be?” Grunting and groaning, Max tugged her boots back on, then shrugged into her jacket. Almost as an afterthought, she gave Noah a hug.

“Relax,” she said, patting the envelope in her pocket, “and let me take care of this. If there’s anything to it, I’ll let you know.”

He locked up, then sat on the edge of his recliner and stared at the scuffed hardwood beneath his bare feet. He was tired. So tired of worrying that every stranger had been sent by O’Malley, to finish what he’d started. Tired of pretending this life they were living was normal.

Alyssa would be disappointed to learn they hadn’t sent anything for her, so Noah stuffed the letters back into the manila envelope, sealed it and placed it in the lockbox hidden behind a row of ancient Reader’s Digest books on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Noah held his head in his hands and tried to think of something about their world that wasn’t a lie. When nothing came to mind, he slumped onto his chair and drove his fingers through his hair. Maybe when he answered the family’s letters, he’d ask them not to write, at least not for a while. It was hard enough holding things together without their black-and-white reminders of what life was like compared to what it could have been: Alyssa sleeping in a tiny apartment above a bicycle shop, instead of her big sunny room in Chicago. A dad who sold bike chains and air pumps instead of putting bad guys into prison. A dad who had become one himself.

If she hadn’t already lost so much, he might be tempted—

“Aw, don’t cry, Daddy,” his daughter said, climbing into his lap. Holding his face in her hands, she said, “I cry, too, when I miss Mommy. But everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Word for word what he’d said to her dozens of times over the years. But until she’d echoed the phrase, Noah hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

He hugged her tight. Kissed her cheek. Buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. She deserved better than this. Better than the self-pitying, self-centered coward he’d allowed himself to become.

“I’m okay,” he lied. “Got something in my eye, is all.”

She studied his face and, satisfied with his response, frowned slightly. “I just hate it when that happens. Do you want me to get the eyedrops?”

Standing, he hoisted her onto one hip and carried her back to her room.

“No, that’s okay. But if whatever it is hasn’t worked itself out soon, you can get the eyedrops, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, as he tucked her in. “I like taking care of you.”

Noah pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he said again, heading for the hallway.

She rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow tight as he turned out the light. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, listening, wanting nothing more than to be the father she deserved.

“Love you, Daddy,”

He could barely speak. “Love you, too, cupcake.”

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