by Loree Lough
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 w
rite 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 leas
t 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?
