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Picking up the plastic bag, she nodded. “I know. I'll get around to it.”

It was the same reply she'd given the first time Gabriella had warned her about the neighborhood. That had been a couple of months before Taylor was born.

 

“Where were you Monday afternoon and evening?”

Senator Thomas Whitehead, impeccably dressed in a navy suit, cream shirt and red tie, his always freshly polished black Italian leather shoes shining, didn't im
mediately spit out an answer to the San Francisco detective's question. He'd come to the station voluntarily and without counsel.

He had nothing to hide. And everything to gain by carefully thought-out, honest responses.

“I was at my office until close to seven. I stopped on the way home for a steak at McGruber's, dropped a novel off at my mother's after she called to say she was having trouble sleeping. I visited with her until shortly before midnight and then went home.”

Detectives Gregory and Stanton, the same team who'd interrogated him after Kate's disappearance, were seated across from him in the small room. Dirty white cement walls, gray tile floor, a single table with two chairs on either side. Their faces were grim. Gregory was the younger of the two, in his midthirties, tall, dark curly hair with a pockmarked face. Poor guy must've had it rough in high school with all the acne it would've taken to leave those scars.

“Is there anyone at your office who can verify that?” Gregory asked, head tilted to the left and slightly lowered at the same time. He was still assessing, Thomas surmised. Not yet convinced of Thomas's innocence, but not thinking him guilty, either. Thomas took an easier breath.

“Yes. My secretary was there, as were Senators Logenstein and Bryer. We're working on legislation to provide stiffer penalties for anyone bringing drugs within the state's current safe-school perimeter.”

So much rested on the positive outcome of this vol
untary and informal questioning by the police. His mother's health, certainly. His own emotional health. Particularly if—as it appeared—he'd just lost his wife's best friend only two years after Kate's disappearance.

His schedule and convenience were also factors. He was a very busy man who didn't have time to be hauled into a long drawn-out court case but he'd do what needed to be done. He always did.

And for his constituents, he needed to clear his name as quickly as possible. They trusted him. Depended on him. He'd been told by many of them that they slept better at night knowing he was there taking care of the big decisions for them.

Stanton, proverbial pen in hand, nodded. “Amanda Livingston still your secretary?” Shorter than Gregory, and thirty pounds heavier, too, the older detective was the one Thomas respected most.

“Yes.” The fifty-year-old grandmother was perfect for him. Sharp. Reliable. Mature enough not to get emotional on him. And a great asset in his quest to win voters' trust. “She's been with me since I graduated from law school.”

“And that was when, fifteen years ago?” Stanton asked. The man really needed to run a comb through that grey hair once in a while. And iron his cheap suit while he was at it.

“Sixteen. I earned my Juris Doctorate at twenty-four.”

“When was the last time you were in contact with
Leah Montgomery?” Gregory didn't seem to think Thomas's education pertinent.

He allowed some of the sadness he'd been fighting for the last two days to show on his face. He'd been genuinely fond of Leah. Found her spontaneity engaging. “I spoke with her Monday afternoon.”

“What time?”

“Around four.” Four-eleven, to be precise. His cell phone logged all calls, received or made. As his father had taught him to do with everything in life, he'd come to this meeting prepared.

“You called her?”

“She called me.”

Gregory leaned forward, practically drooling. His instinctive alertness reminded Thomas of a hunting dog. “Why?”

“To say that she wasn't feeling well.” Thomas slowly, calmly lifted his folded hands to the table. “I'd agreed to escort her to a children's fund-raiser that evening and she was calling to cancel.”

All he had to do was tell the truth. The rest would take care of itself.

“What was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Montgomery?” Gregory didn't quite sneer, but the tight set of his lips was enough to put Thomas on edge. And to make his smile that much more congenial.

“We know each other quite well. She was my wife's best friend. Leah and Kate grew up together, and even
after Kate and I were married the two of them spent a lot of time together.”

“And you had a problem with that.”

Gregory's words were more of an assumption than a question. “No, I did not. I'm a very busy man. I was glad my wife had her for company.”

“And now?”

“Leah and I grew closer after Kate's disappearance, understandably so,” Thomas said, the ever-present pang of grief and anger brought on by Kate's disappearance stabbing once more. “My wife was a dynamic woman, and her absence left a real emptiness. Leah and I have spent some time together, trying to fill the gap where we could. Mostly in the social arena. Leah accompanies me to various public appearances. And I return the favor. That's all.”

The older detective cleared his throat. “Where've you been for the past two days?” he asked, his tone friendlier than his partner's.

“Out on a fishing boat with a couple of my late father's friends. It's an annual event.”

Thomas waited for the next question. And all the questions after that. He could handle them. And then he'd be free to get on with his life.

Even if that meant living in a house that was empty and far too quiet. Going to bed alone. But then he'd never been one to require much sleep.

T
he little guy went down without a fuss. It wasn't all that unusual. Taylor was a great kid. He played hard. Ate well. And slept when it was time. He was a tribute to the woman who'd borne him.

The woman who was pouring a diet soda before joining Scott in the living room Wednesday evening. There was only one lamp burning softly on a small table in the corner. As was the case most evenings when he and Tricia were home together, the television remained silent. He'd put a couple of new age jazz CDs in the player, turning the volume down low. And was sitting in the middle of the L-shaped sectional sofa, dressed in one of the pairs of silk lounging slacks from his old life that he'd never quite been able to abandon and a ten-year-old faded blue San Diego Fire Department T-shirt. He rested his arm along the overstuffed cushion.

“You sure you don't want anything?” Her voice, as she called from the kitchen, sounded normal enough.

“No, thanks.” What he wanted was a beer. But if he
started drinking, he wasn't apt to stop, and hungover wasn't the way he wanted to begin his four-day-off rotation. Hungover—or worse, drunk—wasn't the way he wanted Taylor to see him. Ever.

Taylor. Why couldn't the baby have fussed a bit tonight? Distracted them? Cut into the time Scott generally lived for—time alone with the most fascinating woman he'd ever held in his arms.

“I brought you a beer,” she said, walking around the corner. She didn't hand him the bottle, setting it on the low square table in front of him, instead. Then she curled up a couple of cushions down from him, balancing her glass of soda on one jean-clad thigh.

Most nights she changed into pajamas right after Taylor went down.

“Thanks.” He picked up the bottle, taking a sip since she'd opened it for him. Couldn't have it go to waste.

“You looked like you could use a drink.”

Scott nodded.

“So, are you going to tell me the rest of the story?” Her voice was almost drowned out by the soft music.

He'd known the question was coming. Had felt it in her look, her tentative touch, all day. Ever since
Blue's Clues
had ended that morning and Taylor had let out a wail protesting against being ignored any longer.

That had been right after he'd told her about driving his Porsche into the side of a mountain. Taylor's cry had been like divine intervention. Saving him.

“Nothing lasts forever, huh?” he asked now, glanc
ing at the woman who'd found a way into his life despite the dead bolts he'd firmly attached to any doors that might be left.

She shrugged. Sipped. “Some things do.”

“Yeah?” Divine intervention sure didn't. Taylor wasn't crying tonight. In fact, the rescue that morning had only bought him part of a day.

Or nothing at all. Because he'd spent the ensuing hours reliving the horrors. In one form or another.

“Sure.”

“Name one.”

“Love.”

Maybe. Finding out wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

“Take Alicia, for instance. Whatever happened between the two of you, wherever she is now, the love you felt for her obviously still exists.”

Obviously. He stared at her, glad the dim light made it impossible to read the message in her eyes. And his. This wasn't a time for expectations. Or declarations. It wasn't a time to break the rules.

To care too much.

“So what happened?”

Maybe if she hadn't spoken with such compassion he could have stood, walked away. Maybe.

He had to be able to walk away from her.

“She died.” Like millions before her. And millions after. Like Kelsey Stuart the day before. Too much like Kelsey Stuart.

He heard Tricia's glass touch the table. Felt her sit back against the sofa. And then nothing. Heard nothing. Felt nothing.

“I did everything I could.” His voice belonged to a stranger, someone who was sitting a distance away, speaking of things Scott refused to think about. “It wasn't much.”

Quiet had never been less peaceful. Or a muted room more filled with loud and bitter truth. He watched a drop of perspiration move slowly down the bottle of beer. Thought about picking it up and pouring it into his mouth.

“My ability extended to a phone call on my still-operable car phone. And to waiting for someone to come and do whatever needed to be done.”

“Could you get to her?”

Tricia's voice slid over him, inside him, chafing the nerves just beneath his skin with her compassion.

“We hit on her side of the Porsche. She was thrown into my lap. I was afraid the car might explode so I moved her just enough to get us clear of the wreck.”

He'd made a mistake, doing that. The car hadn't exploded. And her neck had been broken. If she'd lived, he'd have paralyzed her by that move.

Someone, at some point, had said better to have been paralyzed than blown up. Might even be something Scott would say to a victim. But it didn't ease the guilt.

Neither did the beer he gulped.

Tricia didn't move, didn't reach out that slender hand
to touch him. He was immensely thankful for that, yet he hated being with her and feeling so separate. So alone.

“Leaning up against a rock on the other side of the road, I held her and prayed for someone with medical knowledge to come past. Two cars passed. Stopped. But couldn't help.”

“Were you hurt?”

Depended on how she defined that. “A few cuts and bruises…” A broken left forearm where Alicia had landed, slamming his wrist against the door. Not that it had hurt. He'd been so numb he hadn't even known about the injury until hours later.

When everything had hurt. He'd gone crazy with the pain….

Scott got up, went for another beer. When he came back, Tricia was sitting just as he'd left her. Disappointed, relieved, he sat again.

“For forty-five minutes I waited there with her sticky blond hair spread over my arm, her sweet face going purple, and watched as she died in my arms.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

Slamming his beer onto the table with unusual force, Scott turned, pinning her with a stare that he knew wasn't nice, but one he couldn't avoid, either. Other than in bed, his passion was always firmly under wraps. He couldn't seem to keep it there at the moment.

“It was completely my fault,” he said, gritting his teeth so hard they hurt. The pain was tangible, identifi
able, welcome. “I was larger than life, speeding like the spoiled, immature punk I was, so certain that I was above it all. Above the law…and death.”

“You didn't do anything any other kid hasn't done.”

Other kids might speed. But most other kids didn't kill their fiancées while doing it.

His first reply was a derisive, humorless laugh. Followed by, “So many times I'd heard people—my friends even—say that I had it all. But in the end, I had nothing.”

Depleted, Scott picked up his beer, slid down on the cushion until his head touched the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “No amount of money could help her hang on.” The words were as soft as his previous ones had been harsh. Moving his head, he looked over at Tricia, hurting all over again. “You know?”

She nodded, her gaze never leaving his. What was she thinking? Wondering whether she could trust her son to his driving? Glad she hadn't been the one in his car, in his care, that Saturday so long ago?

“Money didn't give me the ability necessary to help her. Nor could it revive her when help finally did arrive.”

He glanced away and then back, eyes open wide, completely focused on her as he finished. “No amount of money could ease the pain of knowing what I'd done, of having to face her family, to bury her, to live without her; and in the months and years that have followed, there hasn't been enough money in the world to take away the guilt….”

 

God, she hated feeling helpless. Hugging her arms around her shoulders, Tricia sat beside Scott, studying his hunched silhouette in the dim light, aware that there was nothing she could do. No words that would change the circumstances of his life. Nothing she could offer him to alleviate the self-loathing.

She was a woman who'd once been in control of everything about her life, and the realization left her floundering. Should she get up? Leave him to the mercies of his conscience? Go to bed?

It was his bed.

She could sit quietly. For as long as it took. If he wanted her there, she wanted to be there.

And she wanted to tell him the truth, as he just had with her. It would be such a relief. She valued his opinion. He'd tell her she was being ridiculous, worrying herself sick over Leah. All she had to do was open her mouth. She could do it. And then…

No.
She wasn't going to revisit that ground. She'd been all over it. Too many times. Some things just had to be put to rest or she'd be incapable of going on. Taylor needed a sane parent.

“Not quite the hero anymore, huh?”

He'd turned his head, studying her.

“I don't believe in fairy tales.”

The CD player changed discs, the clicking loud in the room. Intrusive. Tricia went to check on Taylor. She adjusted the covers at her son's waist and double-
checked the latch on the side of the crib, ensuring that her small son was secure. Running a hand lightly over his fine dark curls, she sucked in a long, shuddering breath. Her integrity depended solely on being the best mother she could be.

Scott didn't need her, or her protection. Taylor did.

“I will keep you safe,” she whispered. “Whatever it takes.”

Calm as she returned to the living room, clear in her resolve, she settled on the cushion next to Scott. She didn't think he'd moved at all.

“You are, right now, the same man I've loved and cared about for almost two years.” The words came softly, without conscious thought.

That statement was the only honesty she could give him.

He covered one of her hands with his. And started to talk. About the help his family tried to give him. The support from Alicia's parents. Sitting there with him, listening, Tricia could easily imagine the days he described. Four years of college, trying not to feel, and always feeling too much. She understood completely the despair he described, the sense that life would never again contain moments of pure joy. At the same time there was the undeniable urge to press on, simply because one breathed.

And she understood the social pressures, the parents who just wouldn't give up their need to make everything at least appear okay, regardless of whether or not things would ever be okay again.

He held her hand during the telling. At some point, as the minutes passed, her fingers stole up his arm, tangling lightly in the hair at the back of his neck, caressing him.

“I graduated from college with a dual degree in fire science and business, went to work for my father and hated the sight of the years stretching endlessly ahead,” he said, as though narrating rehearsed lines.

“I was so tired of fighting it all—my memories, my guilt, my family.”

Her fingers stilled along the back of his neck. “So what did you do?” Had he fallen into the same depths that had almost consumed her? Scott seemed far too strong….

“For one thing, I gave in. They'd been trying for a couple of years to fix me up, and when they introduced me to Diana Grove of the New England banking Groves, I went along with everyone's not-so-gentle pushing. Diana was sweet, beautiful, had a great sense of humor…”

A paragon of virtues. Tricia would bet she'd been honest in every way, too.

Nothing like herself. A jeans-wearing alterations specialist for a local dry cleaner, who was paid in cash only. There was nothing upper-crust about her. Not her plain brown unstyled hair. Not her drugstore makeup or homemade purse. Certainly not her non-existent bank account—or the made-up social security number on file at the free health clinic where she took Taylor.

And not the facts she hid from the world, either.

“And for the other thing?” He'd said giving in was
one
thing he'd done. She rubbed the too-tight cords of his neck, taking comfort from the contact, the heat of his smooth skin, even though she knew that in loving him too much lay a danger that could kill her. Or Taylor. She couldn't let herself need Scott. Couldn't let a sense of security tempt her to trade away the freedom she'd bought at such a high price.

“What?” he asked, turning his head to look at her. In their closeness she could see the reflections of light in his eyes, the warmth and compassion that was never missing for long, shining from deep inside.

“You said ‘for one thing' you gave in. I just wondered what the other thing was.”

He took her free hand, held it between both of his, stroking her palm with his thumb. It was so damn hard to keep her resistance up when he did that—when all she wanted to do was concentrate on that simple touch until it was her only reality.

“I made the decision to take control where I could. I was never again going to be in a position where I had to sit, helpless and incompetent, as I watched someone's life slip away. It wasn't enough that I had the degree in fire science. I was determined to get paramedic training, as well.”

“What did your family—and Diana—think about that?”

“She was understanding. Encouraged me to do what I needed to do.”

As any well-trained socially prominent wife would do with the man she hoped to marry.

“And your family?”

He shrugged, turning her hand as his thumb moved from her palm to her wrist. “They humored me.”

“Expecting you to get over it.”

“Something like that.”

“You didn't.”

“Nope.” Sitting back, Scott put an arm around her shoulders, still holding her hand. “Diana didn't believe me at first when I told her I was going to spend my life using that training.”