 
### NIGHT CRIES

### by Thelma Mariano

Copyright 2017 by Thelma Mariano

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition - License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial purposes. You are welcome to share it with your friends, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

http://thelmamariano.com

Cover art by Rae Monet, Inc.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

"Side by side or miles apart,

sisters will always be connected by the heart."

\-- Author Unknown

# Chapter One

Erica paused as she framed the next question, glancing around the sidewalk café. Their corner table afforded a view of shoppers and cars cruising Dearborn but was quiet enough for a private conversation. Right now, her digital voice recorder was probably picking up the Texan drawl coming from the next table. Tourists loved Chicago this time of year.

She longed to cut this short, do anything but interview the woman facing her. Her answer, she knew, would only confirm what she already felt in her gut.

"You were only thirteen," she forced herself to say. "Why did you leave home? And how did you survive on your own?"

"The old man was hittin' on me. I couldn't get anyone to stop him. Finally I had enough." The woman's eyes darkened. "Then I learned I could get paid for what I was givin' away."

"You sold yourself?" In late August, the temperature still hovered in the high eighties as a hot breeze stirred the air. To Erica, it felt like a cold snap. Goosebumps raced up her arms under the silk blouse. The woman in the faded dress, who kept clasping and unclasping her hands, blurred before her.

Memories rushed at her - strong hands holding her down, half-naked men in shirts and ties, the damp basement floor, her lungs smarting from the harsh smoke of cigarillos. And knowing, through it all, that her sister slept safely upstairs.

She pushed the unwelcome images back to the recesses of her mind and shook her head to clear it. Realizing that she had missed something, she said, "Come again?"

"Either that or starve. You ever been so hungry that a week-old crust of bread looks good?" The woman threaded her fingers through the stringy hair that fell to her shoulders. In spite of her unpolished appearance, the strength in her jaw and the erect way she held herself commanded respect. "I had a pimp. Tried to run off a few times, but he always found me. Beat me like his other girls. Then he got careless, and someone knifed him. After he was gone, I sat myself down and had a good think. Had to be a better way to make a living."

"You got off the streets?" Erica looked at the voice recorder. Good, the red light held steady.

The other woman took a sip of her café au lait and carefully set the cup down. "Found a job washing dishes. Didn't pay much, but I found a cheap boarding room. And I was pregnant with Cliff, my son." The glow on her face transformed it, smoothing out the lines.

Erica tried to imagine what a struggle it must have been. Being poor and pregnant couldn't have been easy. On her reporter's pad, she scribbled the words _prime motive for change: becoming a parent_. "How old is he now?"

"Going on six. A real little man. When I can't take anymore, workin' two jobs, I take one look at him. I figure I must've done something right to have such a beautiful child. Even when he's bad, he smiles that crooked smile of his, and I just melt."

"Two jobs? What do you do?" Erica now saw the tiredness in her wan features.

"I clean people's houses during the day. Places with nice furniture and rooms so big they hafta shout to be heard. At night, I wait tables at a diner. Both jobs together don't add to much, but it's the best I can do." She frowned. "Cliff won't end up like me. I'll make darn sure of that."

This kind of experience was perfect for Erica's feature on high school dropouts. Ten years later, most of them led difficult lives. "Are you sorry you dropped out of school?"

Her interviewee scraped back her chair and leaned forward, meeting Erica's eyes. "That's why I came. Too many kids think they're cool, skippin' school. But you don't get nowhere without an education. Me, I had no choice." She picked up her purse, a sagging bag with spindly straps. "Those kids, they have a choice. Tell 'em."

"I will. Thanks so much for your time." Erica clicked off the recorder and stood to shake her hand. "Can I give you a lift?"

Shaking her head, the woman pushed her way between the tables before disappearing into the stream of people on the sidewalk.

A few minutes later, Erica pulled away from the café in her Civic Coupe. When she reached Chicago Avenue, she could only inch along in the mid-afternoon traffic. The car was stuffy; her air conditioning had stopped functioning. She opened the window and breathed deeply until the stale smell of exhaust made her roll it back up. The bottleneck started to test her patience. Finally she made a right on Wabash, heading for the river and the office tower on its opposite bank.

Tracking down the dropouts had been her biggest challenge. Her only criteria was that they had quit high school at least ten years ago. School records showed that many of them had moved out of the city. She was able to locate eleven dropouts. Eight agreed to interviews, three over the phone. She knew her material could be shaped into a first-rate story. Good enough, she hoped, to land the new job.

Erica glanced at the time as she pulled into the parking lot. Damn. She would have to rush to meet tomorrow's deadline. Entering the glass-and-chrome building that housed The Chicago Times, she felt a familiar surge of pride. Working the city beat as a reporter had been a dream come true, and she had done it for five years.

On the 8th floor she strode past the glass doors into the newsroom. Although the Times had downsized in recent years, staff writers and editors still scurried around desks or hunched over keyboards. The hive of activity had a calming effect on her. She felt at home here, able to lose herself in the frenzy of getting the news out. It meant tight deadlines and long hours. Fires, holdups, demonstrations - she had to be there whenever a story broke.

Much as she thrived on challenge, she had eventually grown tired of the format. Newswriting had to be concise, and she longed for in-depth coverage. The opening in their Life section had immediately appealed to her. Feature articles often dealt with social issues, and she knew she could make a difference.

A copy editor brushed past her. "Mel's asking for you. Wants to see you in his office."

Her write-up would have to wait. She strode to the city editor's office at the back of the newsroom. The blinds were shuttered. Was he even in?

She opened the door a crack. Through the slit, she saw Christine massaging Mel's neck. Her fingers moved rhythmically under his collar as he leaned back in his swivel chair, his eyes closed in obvious enjoyment.

Typical of Christine, their other city reporter. Why didn't Mel see through her? Did he even ask himself why someone with her looks bothered with a balding, middle-aged man?

"You wanted me?" Erica pushed the door open and stepped inside the room. She frowned at Christine, who now worked on Mel's shoulders.

"Sore muscles. She offered," he said with a shrug. Straightening in his chair, he looked up at the blonde. "Thanks. That's much better."

As Christine sashayed out of his office, Erica followed her shapely form with her eyes. Such a short, tight skirt should have been banned. Small-boned and barely breaking five feet in her stockinged feet, she appealed to men's protective instincts. They never saw how easily she manipulated them.

Mel picked up some papers from his desk and cleared his throat. "Your report on the sculpture thefts lacks detail. I was hoping for more of an inside scoop - how long the sculptors have been at it, if they sold any pieces."

"I have their bios. I didn't think you wanted..." she said.

"Human interest, remember? I expect quality, no matter what ELSE you're doing with your time."

Of course, he referred to the opening in their Life section, which both she and Christine were trying for. They had until tomorrow to prepare an in-depth feature. Since their newsroom experience was similar, their candidacy would be based on that single submission. Fortunately, deciding who got the position was not up to Mel.

Erica felt the heat rise in her face. "That's B.S.," she said. "My daily reporting hasn't suffered. I met all your deadlines. And that's only because I squeezed the other interviews into my free time, not that there's ever enough."

Naturally he had nothing negative to say about Christine. She arrived late most mornings and still snagged the easy assignments. That didn't bother Erica as much as his criticism of her work. She was, above all, a professional journalist.

"No need to get on your high horse. Neither of us wants mediocre copy, do we? And I know what you're capable of." He slid the papers across the desk. "Fix this up and I'll look at it again."

Sixty minutes later, Erica submitted a revised report. Then she got started on her feature on high school dropouts. As she composed a lead-in to her article, she again heard the voices of people she had spoken to.

One woman, now a sales clerk, had managed to get her diploma at night. "If I'd known how much trouble I'd have getting that piece of paper, I would have stayed in class," she said. "Working during the day and going to school at night's a killer."

A young man who had dropped out of Lake View High now worked at a dry-cleaners. "You can't use my real name," he told her. "My employers never checked my records."

Burned out, regretful, each interviewee said _don't do what I did. Times are tough enough without cutting your chances. Finish high school. Go on to college or university if you can_.

A shadow fell across her desk as Christine passed by on her way out. "Poor thing \- you look exhausted. I wouldn't get my hopes up on that job, though. Not when it's got MY name all over it."

"Must be invisible ink," Erica answered. "The last time I checked, the only thing being considered was our writing skills." She squinted at her screen. It had been a long day and she was running on little more than adrenalin.

"We'll see, won't we?" The other reporter's heels clicked across the floor as she headed for the door.

Erica knew why Christine wanted the job - more money, more prestige, and regular hours. And maybe she'd get it, too. She had picked a hot topic: keys to success in online dating.

Doubts lingered in Erica's mind like unwanted guests as she reached for the rest of her notes in the desk drawer. She wondered if Ryan, their Life editor, would be impressed by her piece. How much of his evaluation would be based on content, how much on style?

She flipped through the writing pads she had used for her interviews. One of them was missing. Two days ago, she had taken them out and put them in sequence before clearing some papers from her desk. The trash had since been picked up; her wastepaper basket was almost empty.

Erica checked the other drawers and then the surface of her desk. Nada. Same for her briefcase. How was this even possible? She had always been so careful with her research.

Had someone stolen her notes? The only person with a motive was Christine, and much as she disliked her, Erica didn't believe she would stoop to foul play. They both had a good shot at this job. She must have accidentally tossed the notepad into the bin when clearing her desk.

Drat! Now she had to re-construct a third of her work. At least she still had the recordings of her interviews. The newsroom had emptied out in the last hour. Suddenly she longed for the comfort of her apartment. Feeling discouraged, she packed up her materials and headed home. She had been up since 5:00 a.m. and it was going to be a long night.

Home was a one-bedroom apartment in Oak Park, a thirty-minute drive from the office. Erica liked the security of indoor parking, as well as the convenience of a near-by supermarket and pharmacy that stayed open late. As she rode up to the eleventh floor, she nodded at another tenant riding the elevator. The elderly woman nodded back. She was one of the few neighbors that Erica continued to see. Most of them eventually moved on - to other floors, other buildings or other cities.

Erica liked the anonymity of high-rise living. No one tried to get too friendly or personal.

A two-tone whistle greeted her as she entered her apartment. The wolf whistle was a perfect imitation; construction workers had nothing on her pet cockatiel.

"You know how to make a woman feel wanted, don't you? Especially after the day I had. How's Spike?" she said, going over to open the bird's cage. Like his name, the yellow feathers on his head tufted in a crest, and the red patches on his cheeks offered a colorful contrast.

He immediately flew to her shoulder, and she reached up a hand to stroke his gray and white plumage.

"Why don't you fly around a bit?" she said after a few moments, sending him wheeling around the room in graceful loops before he landed on top of a bookshelf. As Erica started to unbutton her blouse, she heard another wolf whistle. Funny bird.

She had bought the cockatiel from a pet store after moving here, not knowing if she could handle the responsibility of looking after him. Spike, though, had quickly won her over.

After pouring fresh seeds into his dish and changing his water, she fetched some yogurt and fruit for her own dinner. Watching Spike eat always amused her. He pounced on the new seeds as if he hadn't seen food in days. She latched the cage door again, promising to let him out later.

Next came a quick shower. The hot spray felt heavenly but she couldn't afford to dawdle, not with the writing ahead. In her bedroom, she changed into jeans and a worn T-shirt.

For a moment she stared at the photograph in an oval frame on her dresser. In it, she had her arm around her sister's shoulders as they both smiled for the camera. Their shining eyes reflected the innocence of youth, an innocence that would soon be shattered. It was the only photograph that Erica had of Lindsey. Over the years, she had gazed at it so often that she needed to remind herself that her sister was now a grown woman.

There was no time to sift through the past; she had a feature to finish. She settled herself in front of the laptop on a small table in her living room, the digital recorder at her elbow. Her exhaustion dropped away as she focused on the text on her screen. Ryan had to give her the job.

Only one thought kept her going: _I'm going to hand in the best damn feature he's ever seen_.

## Chapter Two

Erica's cell rang twice before she picked it up. It was probably a wrong number; Philip never called at night. On the evenings she didn't see him, she buried herself in work or spent hours at her fitness club. Anything was better than thinking of him with his wife and family.

"We need to talk." Philip's voice, usually rich and melodious, sounded strained. "Susan knows about us."

She held the phone so tightly that she could see the faint blue veins below the skin on her hand. Hadn't she known this would happen one day? Stolen hours, enchanted evenings - they couldn't last. Her throat went dry. "What did she say?"

For a moment he was silent. "Can I come over? I can't do this over the phone."

"Not tonight." Her words were sharper than she had intended. "I have to finish a feature for tomorrow." Philip naturally wanted to soften the blow. He'd kiss her tenderly, tell her how sorry he was that their relationship had to end. And she couldn't deal with any of it right now.

"But this is important," he insisted. "Can't you find thirty minutes?"

She shook her head, although he couldn't see her. "I have to submit this feature tomorrow morning. I told you about the position in Life, didn't I?" Too many times she had twisted her schedule to fit Philip in at last-minute notice. He had probably come to expect it.

"I always did have lousy timing," he said. "Tomorrow night, then? After you finish?"

She agreed to a rendezvous before turning off her cell.

When she settled herself at her laptop again, the words on the screen swarmed in and out of her vision. In frustration, she got up and walked up and down her hallway. Bare expanses of the hardwood floor gleamed on both sides of a thick Persian rug. Here, as in the rest of her apartment, she had given herself the comfort of softness underfoot without hiding the floor's natural beauty. Her home increasingly reflected her taste after so many years of being no more than a refuge.

As she paced, she wished she had a cigarette, even if she didn't smoke.

How had his wife found out? Maybe someone had seen them together, or Susan had confronted him with her growing suspicions. How could a woman not pick up clues? The way he turned away from her, the unfamiliar scent on his clothes, maybe a few strands of Erica's reddish-brown hair on his jacket. It could have been anything.

Two years ago they had met at Erica's fitness club in Oak Park as he helped her with some of the weights. From the moment Philip came in, she noticed his lean body in the Nike shorts and the styled hair that somehow enhanced his masculinity. In spite of his easy charm, she kept her distance at first.

Now she stepped over to the living room window and glanced at the darkening clouds overhead. The weatherman had predicted showers for tonight. The rain, she remembered with a pang, had brought them together the second time she saw him.

A storm system had swept through the city that evening. After finishing up at the gym, Erica waited at the door for the downpour to subside.

Philip suddenly stood beside her with his gym bag, watching the drops furiously pelt the pavement. "It doesn't look like it's going to let up. Do you need a ride?"

"I feel so stupid. I should have taken my car, but I couldn't resist a walk."

"Life would be awfully dull if we never took risks," he said. Something in his smile made her pulse quicken. "Do you live around here?"

"Five blocks away."

He swung his BMW around, and pushed the passenger door open for her. "It doesn't take long to get soaked. Get in." His jacket and trousers were already drenched from his dash to the car. Another man might be annoyed, but his good humor seemed intact.

"I used to run in the rain as a child," she said. "Barefoot if I could get away with it." Something about him made her relax, knowing she could be herself and say whatever came to mind.

He gave her a quick smile. "My speciality was puddles, the muddier the better. I miss those carefree days of my youth, though I daresay my mother doesn't." His hands on the steering wheel looked both strong and supple. And slightly tanned.

When they pulled up outside her apartment building, Erica didn't want their conversation to end. She offered him a coffee as they waited for the storm to pass over. Proving her right, more heavy thunder rolled overhead. She averted her eyes from the gold band gleaming on his left hand. Just because he was married didn't mean they couldn't be friends.

Friends? Erica shook her head as she returned to her feature on high school dropouts. How could she have been so naïve? The attraction had been so strong that they began sleeping together within one month. And if he had been single, it wouldn't have taken that long.

It was well past midnight when she finally logged off the computer. Her feature still needed editing, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue. As she gratefully crawled into bed, she sighed with relief. At least she had given the article her best shot.

In early morning, in that hazy space between sleep and full awakening, she heard a soft, familiar voice. Lindsey. Her younger sister called her name, more urgently now. Then came the sound of weeping. As Erica stirred to wakefulness, the voice faded away.

She sat up in bed and clutched a pillow to her chest. Twice before she had heard Lindsey calling her in the same way. Her gut told her that her sister was alive and in distress. What frustrated her was knowing that she had no way of reaching her.

### ***

When she had last seen her, Lindsey was leaning against the door jamb of their house in Detroit. Tears welled in her dark eyes. Even with braces, she was budding into a pretty adolescent.

"You can't just leave," she said. "Where will you go?"

Erica adjusted the zippered bag on her back. She hadn't realized a few books and clothes could weigh so much. "I don't know." She raised her chin, feeling much older than her sixteen years. "I told you about Richard, the awful things he made me do. He doesn't care about us; all he cares about is money."

She had never been able to call their stepfather "Dad." Even rolling his name on her tongue filled her with disgust.

"I don't believe you. Dad would never do anything to hurt us," Lindsey said. She grabbed her arm. "Stay, Erica. We - I - need you here."

Erica tasted the bitterness in her mouth. She had tried to tell them, but no one had believed her, least of all her sister. Her survival depended on leaving this place, no matter how she felt.

"I can't. But when I get settled somewhere, I'll let you know. Maybe you can join me later." So far, Richard had acted like a father to Lindsey, buying her little treats or asking about her schoolwork. Lindsey didn't want to know about his gambling debts or how ruthless he was under pressure. He was the only parent she had left, and she trusted him.

Before that could change, Erica knew she had to get her sister out.

That was twelve years ago. Lindsey had disappeared from their house in Detroit and she had no idea where she had gone. Erica made a silent vow. If she got this job, she would spend the extra money on a private investigator. No matter what it took, she had to find her younger sister.

## Chapter Three

Lindsey took another swallow of her gin and tonic. She had actually done it - walked alone into this bar in downtown Toronto. An old Beatles' song, _The Long and Winding Road_ was playing from loudspeakers and she could feel herself slowly unwind. With its posters of rock groups on the walls and worn-looking furniture, Yesteryear's offered a relaxed ambience that put her at ease.

After checking out the boutiques at the Eaton Centre, she had ambled along Queen Street West. Some instinct had drawn her past the cafés and custom T-shirt vendors to this place.

Coming here wouldn't solve anything, of course, but she was tired of feeling hurt. Kurt had broken their marriage vows, repeatedly, and she hated feeling so trapped.

A draft from the entrance alerted her to newcomers. She froze. One of them had her husband's dark, curly hair and broad shoulders. The stranger came closer and she expelled the breath she had tightly held inside. Kurt would never frequent this place; it wasn't his style. He preferred upscale clubs, where patrons gave the doorman a hefty tip just to get in. Besides, he was safely out of town tonight.

A heavyset man with a thick moustache settled on the bar stool next to her. "Anyone sitting here?"

"I'm... waiting for a friend." The knowing look in his eyes making her shrink back on her seat. Futilely she pulled at her corduroy skirt, which revealed more thigh than she felt comfortable with.

He leaned closer. "No need to be shy with me. I've been with married babes before. Not half as pretty as you, though." He raised a glass mug to his lips. Afterwards, tiny droplets of beer glistened on his moustache.

The wedding band encircled her finger like a permanent fixture. Earlier that day, she had tried removing it with soap, but it had clung to her as tenaciously as her five years with Kurt. This was a mistake. She should never have come here.

"Let me buy you another drink." Before she could protest, the man signalled the bartender for a refill.

She stared at her empty glass. How many was that - four? Five? She needed to get up, but her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. When the fresh drink arrived, the thought of being stuck in conversation with this man broke through her lethargy. She stumbled to her feet. "I have to go."

He gripped her wrist, forcing her to sit back down. "It's already paid for. No sense in wasting it, is there?"

When he slid the drink towards her, she shoved it back. The glass tipped and half its contents spilled on his trousers.

"Stupid bitch. Now look what you've done." Ineffectually, he tried to blot the moisture with a napkin. Then he left for the men's room, cursing. Lindsey decided to finish the rest of her drink before taking off.

"He deserved what he got - every drop," said a man on her right. He had longish hair, some of which fell over the collar of his tweed jacket. An intellectual, she guessed, before the scuffed Reeboks confused her.

"It was an accident," she said.

"Really?" He looked amused. "Something cold and wet was exactly what was called for."

She clumsily fit her arms into the sweater she had taken off. "I should just go home. I'm not a bar person."

"Neither am I. I find it a waste of time, because people are rarely honest about themselves. Though after meeting you, I wonder what I've been missing."

The compliment washed over her like a warm caress. Now she was grateful for taking her time with the makeup that emphasized her large eyes and delicate cheekbones.

"By the way, the name's Alex." He reached out a hand to shake hers. After she introduced herself, he followed her gaze to the men's room where the other man had disappeared. "Feel like going for a nightcap somewhere?"

"Yes." Lindsey picked up her shopping bags, all from exclusive boutiques, and went out the door with him. She had taken the subway here. Surely he could drive her home. Kurt's pricey sports car sat in the garage; driving it herself was not an option.

As they headed for Alex's car, she decided to go through with her original plan. Maybe Kurt's cheating wouldn't hurt so much if she struck back. If she experienced something that was only hers, private moments that no one could take away.

The night breeze made her shiver as he opened the trunk of his sedan for her bags. Overhead, stars glittered like shards of glass in the inky sky. Five years of fidelity were about to be shattered, but there was no turning back.

She had tried so hard to be a good wife, and until recently, had blamed herself for their problems. Kurt's constant criticism of her had worn her down. He found fault with her appearance, her housekeeping, even the meals she prepared. So when he had been too tired to make love to her, she assumed she had failed him there as well. Her muscles needed toning, and her belly had grown soft. In an effort to get into better shape, she began doing sit-ups and followed a daily exercise program on TV.

But last week she had discovered the real reason for his waning interest. It was late evening and she had been strolling downtown near Kurt's restaurant. He worked late many nights and she really hoped that tonight he would come straight home with her. When she peeked inside the window and saw him put on his jacket, she breathed a sigh of relief. Perfect. She waited near the entrance, wanting to surprise him.

Marie France, one of his waitresses, exited the restaurant with him. As Lindsey watched them walk to Kurt's car, something stopped her from calling out. She saw him slide a possessive hand over the woman's shapely buttocks before she slid into the passenger seat. Neither of them noticed Lindsey as they drove off.

She stood there, wanting to throw up. Suddenly she thought of the nights Kurt had been restless, even early in their marriage - nights he had left the house to take a drive. And returned home later looking relaxed. The waitress wasn't his first indiscretion, she had realized with sickening clarity. And she wouldn't be his last.

Now she turned to Alex as he opened the passenger door for her. "Why don't we go to your place? Do you live far from here?"

He raised an eyebrow at her forwardness. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Only twenty minutes away. I could get the fireplace going to get the chill out of our bones. What brought you out tonight, anyway?"

She shrugged, grateful that he had agreed to take her home. "Shopping. I get bored at home." Lindsey hated the way that sounded. She wanted to get out in the world and earn some money, even if she served coffee somewhere. It angered Kurt that she even considered it. What would their friends or neighbors think if his wife held a menial job?

"What line of work are you in?" she asked.

"I teach Grade Nine," he said as they drove south towards Lake Shore Boulevard. "I like working with kids. They're inquisitive at that age, sometimes challenging. Keep me on my toes." Pride deepened his voice. Now they headed west along the lake. Boating lights danced on the water, and Lindsey glimpsed the shadowy hulls of ships in the distance. She rolled down her window to breathe in the moist breeze.

"Do you live on Lake Ontario?" Its vastness still overwhelmed her, years after moving to Toronto.

"Close enough. I'm in Swansea." He smiled at her. "I love the water too. I used to sail almost every day in the summer." A shadow flitted across his face. "How long... how much time do we have?"

"All night if we want. My husband's away at a conference." Alex probably thought she did this all the time. She bit her lower lip, wishing she could redeem herself in his eyes. His opinion of her shouldn't matter, but it did.

Finally they pulled into his driveway. The house was well set back from the street - a split-level bungalow with an impressive rock garden.

"You live here all by yourself?" she asked as she stepped from his hallway into the sunken living room.

He switched on another light. "Now I do. My wife...er, ex-wife moved back to Montreal with our son."

Lindsey saw his brow furrow. She felt his pain and now understood the emptiness of this house. Echoes of laughter seemed to have faded into the woodwork, leaving only silence. "When did you break up?"

"I got my divorce last year." He padded over to the sound system and flicked a switch. Soft music filtered into the room. "It wouldn't be so hard if Marty lived in Toronto. But I only see him on long weekends and holidays. That took some adjusting. Getting into running is what saved me."

"You run?" She thought of the running shoes he had unlaced and left near the door. The edges were cuffed, the tongues worn.

Alex bent to light the kindling in the fireplace with a long match and closed the screen. "I'm up to ten miles a day. I'm training for the marathon."

"That's great," she said, meaning it. "I wish I were more athletic. I feel so uncoordinated; I even fall off bicycles."

His eyes assessed her. "Really? You're so graceful when you walk. Maybe you never found the right fitness routine."

Alex was so different from Kurt - encouraging her instead of finding fault. But time was running short. All they had were the next few hours and she wanted to make the most of them. "I can use another drink."

"Of course. I have a bottle of good French wine I've been looking forward to. Will that do?"

After he left to fetch the wine, Lindsey checked her cell. Two missed calls, both from Kurt. They had come after 9:00 p.m. and he sounded annoyed that she didn't pick up. Too bad. Tonight wasn't about him.

She stretched out on the sofa in front of the fireplace. The flames now licked a sturdy log, and the sweet smell of burning wood filled the room. Feeling warm, she removed her sweater and started on her blouse. With a will of their own, her fingers undid all the buttons, and then worked on the skirt. Her breasts more than amply filled the lacy bra. As she stepped out of the skirt, she looked down. Such skinny legs. Kurt always said she had undeveloped calves.

When Alex returned with an uncorked bottle and two wine glasses, his eyes widened at her before he glanced away. "I see you, uh, made yourself at home."

Discomfort was not the reaction she had expected. He handed her a filled goblet before taking his time as he poured his own wine. Sitting there half-naked started to feel weird; he hadn't removed any of his clothing except for his shoes and jacket. When he finally joined her on the sofa, she stroked his trousered leg. Hard muscles immediately tensed under her fingertips, reassuring her. So why were his hands still around his glass?

The flutter in her stomach intensified. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

Alex put down his wine. Then he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers. Slowly he explored her mouth, tasting her with his tongue. The sensation was so pleasurable that she moaned when he pulled away.

"What's the rush?" he said, trying not to stare at her breasts.

"I thought... you wanted me." He was holding himself back. Maybe he didn't like the way she kissed. Desperately she placed his right hand on her breast, trapping his fingers beneath hers.

He pulled his hand away. "I like you, Lindsey. But this isn't you, is it? Earlier tonight I wondered what in hell you were doing in that bar. I still haven't figured it out. Whatever your problem is, casual sex with me won't solve it."

Burning with shame, she put her blouse back on, as well as her skirt. She couldn't believe he had turned her down. "But when you brought me here, I assumed you wanted to get physical."

He shifted on his seat. "Maybe I did at the time. I don't know." After a pause, he said, "I don't want you to wake up in the morning full of regrets."

"What do you want?" Most men would have jumped on her in two seconds flat. Maybe he didn't find her desirable. He preferred women with biceps or with smaller breasts. Sexual tastes could be so particular, as she well knew.

"I'm not rejecting you, Lindsey." After placing his glass on the table next to hers, he folded her into his arms. "I think I want more than a handful of hours with you. Making love with you will only make it harder." Burying his face in her long hair, he murmured, "Christ, you smell wonderful. Like a forest after the rain."

He walked over to a crammed bookshelf. "Let me read you something. Emily Bronte. She says it so much better than I could." After selecting a slim volume from the shelf, he said, "That's the hazard of teaching English literature. You end up liking some of the stuff you teach."

Alex thumbed through the well-worn pages before finding the passage he sought. Haltingly he read,

" _Love is like the wild rose-briar_

Friendship, like the holly tree -

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

_But which will bloom most constantly_?"

He held the book out to her. "There's more, if you're interested."

She shrank back from the open book, until she realized that he couldn't know about her problem. "No. But it's lovely, Alex."

There was something touching about a man reading poetry to her and wanting to share his feelings. "I understand what you're trying to say. You can't be my lover until we're friends. And if all we have is one night, you don't want me to think it was just sex."

"Something like that." A slow song played in the room. "How about a dance? It's one of my old-time favorites."

She slid into his arms. As if they'd practiced for years, they danced to _A Whiter Shade of Pale_. With his hands lightly pressed against her back, Lindsey felt her self-consciousness fade away.

When the song ended, they continued holding each other. Reluctantly, she broke away from their embrace. Then she stepped over to the mantle to examine a framed photograph. In it, a small boy gripped a baseball bat, grinning for the camera. He had Alex's blue eyes and the same straight nose, but his hair was several shades lighter.

"Your son?"

He nodded. "He loves baseball almost as much as hockey. D'you have any kids?" As he joined her in front of the fireplace, he hooked an arm around her shoulders.

She shook her head. "Not for lack of trying. Kurt thinks it's my fault."

"You know, it could be him."

A heavy sigh escaped her. They had both gone for tests but nothing conclusive had come from them. "It seems all we do lately is argue." Actually she only tried to defend herself when Kurt criticized her. He was so easily irritated these days.

As Alex brushed her hair back from her eyes, he said, "Sounds a lot like my marriage before it fell apart. Want more wine?" After he deftly refilled their glasses, he said, "I like having you here. Can't say I've dated much lately. Seems like too much effort. Most women have a pretty detailed list of what they want."

"But you're a real catch. Good-looking, with a respectable job and your own house." She sampled the full-bodied flavor of the wine on her tongue. With Kurt, she had learned to discern the difference in quality. This one was dry and very smooth.

"I'm discriminating when it comes to the company I keep." He stepped back to gaze at her. "You hair has a reddish tinge in the firelight. It's beautiful."

Again, she felt his sincerity, and his appreciation of how she looked touched her. "I'd like to stay here tonight. Is it okay?" she asked in a small voice. The thought of returning home to those empty rooms depressed her.

"It is getting late." He suppressed a yawn. "Why don't we let the fire burn itself out? We can both turn in now, if you're ready."

The double bed in his bedroom had a simple mahogany headboard that matched the dresser. The frilly curtains at the window seemed out of place, from another time. As Alex undressed at the side of the bed, he said, "I meant what I said. I don't want to rush into anything."

She shrugged out of her clothes and joined him under the covers. He felt wonderful - strong, warm, and undeniably masculine. She snuggled closer.

He looked into her eyes as he traced her cheekbone with an index finger. "I'm glad we met tonight."

His words just made her sad. She knew she wasn't ready to give up on her marriage. Kurt claimed he loved her, no matter how he behaved, and she had to believe that.

"I can't promise you anything, Alex."

"I know. I just want you to know how I feel." He gave her a quick hug before turning on his side. "At least you've given me hope. I like to think that somewhere out there is someone just like you."

Drowsily, she smiled into the darkness. "I hope she's having a better life than me."

"I can help you with that, if you let me." He flipped around to face her once more. "You only have to agree to see me again."

What could she say? Silence fell between them until they drifted off to sleep.

Lindsey woke up to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Lying in the unfamiliar bed, she let memories of the last twelve hours flood her like images from a happy dream. That was all it had been - a dream. Reality was Kurt flying back from Boston this morning. He'd expect her to be home waiting.

"You didn't have to bother with breakfast," she said when she saw the table Alex had set.

"I thought we could have at least one meal together before you leave."

As he poured her coffee, she felt his subdued mood. He obviously didn't expect to see her again, and he was right. Her mind went through the ramifications, leaving her with a single thought. _I can't afford the complications_.

After breakfast, he drove her to Willowdale. She asked him to stop at the corner of her street so she could avoid her neighbors.

"I know this is making you nervous; let's make it quick." He kissed her briefly as he pushed a folded piece of paper into her hand. "My phone numbers at home and at school. If you ever need me, I'll be there."

"Thanks." Lindsey held back her tears, unwilling for him to see how hard this goodbye was for her.

Before she turned to leave, he caught her sleeve. "Hey, we almost forgot your bags."

As he handed her the shopping bags in the trunk, he winked at her. "Me and my big mouth. I could have driven off with a gorgeous pair of red pumps."

"Not your size," she teased back, grateful for his attempt at humor.

"I won't forget you, Lindsey."

She strode down the block with a leaden heart. The folded piece of paper was deep in her purse, safely hidden among the bills from her purchases and her cosmetics. She had to forget Alex, or her marriage didn't stand a chance.

## Chapter Four

"Damn it, Lindsey. The room is a mess. Can't you even straighten up around here?" Kurt frowned as he unpacked his bag in their master bedroom. Damp hair twisted over his collar, the result of rushing through the airport this morning. He wouldn't be home long; Friday was always busy at the restaurant.

"Sorry. I was trying on a few outfits." She scurried around the bed, scooping up the clothes she had flung everywhere yesterday as well as the shoes in untidy heaps on the floor. Somehow the deliberate act of changing had helped her find the courage to venture out on her own. Of course he assumed that she had slept here while he was gone. "How was your convention?"

"Good. I found a great supplier for my crystal. He's shipping me some glasses next week." Once a year, he attended the restaurant convention to catch up with developments and make contacts. His eyes narrowed as he turned to her. "I tried calling you last night. Twice."

Her stomach quaked. She had never lied to him before, had never needed to.

"I fell asleep early," she said. Warm memories of her time with Alex flooded her, dispelling the chill in this room.

Kurt lifted a soiled shirt from the Gucci luggage and tossed it at her. "Dry cleaners. Oh, and before I forget, I have something for you." He extracted a small bag from the carry-on and gave it to her. Christian Dior.

Lindsey opened the box and then the tube of lipstick. She suppressed a shudder. It was the same shade of bright red that she had worn years ago in that other life. The lipstick she wore now had strong tones of beige or pink; how could he not have noticed? Realizing it was a gift, she forced a smile. "But... it's so expensive."

He answered with a shrug. "I got it at Duty Free."

As she put the tube back into its tiny box, she thought that a hug would have been better. Or saying he missed her. He doled out his affection in increasingly small rations, as if he feared that showing his feelings would diminish him in some way. After the tenderness Alex had shown her, Kurt's attitude was that much harder to take.

After showering, her husband put on a fresh shirt and selected a tie from the rack in the closet. "What's for breakfast?"

"Eggs and bacon with toast. I'll go down and make it." She tried not to think of the meal she had earlier shared with Alex. Soon she sipped her second coffee that morning, watching her husband eat.

Before leaving, he paused at the door for a kiss. The morning ritual had lost all meaning for her. Hating the way she always caved into his wishes, she leaned forward to graze her lips against his. He pulled her to him in a crushing embrace and then let her go. No words were spoken. It was an act of possession that clearly said, _you're mine and don't you forget it_.

Afterwards, she tried not to feel trapped as she looked out the window. She stared at the circular driveway, the manicured lawn and the cedar hedge that lent so much privacy.

Without the shouts of children, this house and its grounds felt empty. Tests - she had gone for so many. The doctors hadn't found anything. And Kurt had blamed her, as if the tentacles of her past could reach into her present life and strangle her ability to conceive. A miracle was what they needed and she never stopped hoping. Only a child could bridge the gap that widened daily between them.

Friday afternoons were usually spent grocery shopping at a near-by supermarket and produce store. Today she felt listless as she went up and down the aisles, picking up ingredients for Kurt's favorite meals. Because of her difficulty in reading labels, she had long ago learned to recognize products by their packaging.

In spite of herself, she kept replaying scenes from last night in her mind: the way Alex had looked at her or touched her, as if she were a rare find. He had even recited poetry to her. It was so unreal. Because if he knew her, especially the kind of things she had done, a man like him would never have even spoken to her.

Her feet dragged with every step. She hadn't slept much with Alex, partly because of being in an unfamiliar bed. The fatigue hit her after she got home with her parcels and lay down for a quick nap. Hours later, she woke up feeling refreshed. When Kurt walked in after midnight, she was watching a romantic comedy on TV.

His shoulders slumped as he loosened his tie and his face looked haggard.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"It should have been our busiest night. We were barely half-full," he said. He went over to the wet bar in the living room and poured himself a Scotch. With a flick of his wrist, he downed the contents in the glass.

When Kurt and his brother opened the ninety-seat restaurant in Toronto's financial district, they had no real competition. He kept saying that their location was a goldmine: south of the Exchange Tower and north of Royal Bank Plaza. For their first few years in business, bankers, stockbrokers and company executives came to Le Courvoisier in droves for expense account lunches or dinners.

That was until another French restaurant opened on the next block.

"Maybe there were other things going on downtown this evening," she said.

"Lots going on at L'Actuel." He scowled. "I looked inside tonight and recognized some of my customers."

Lindsey swallowed hard. She knew how much Le Courvoisier meant to him. Like her, he had survived a harsh life. He had only spoken to her about it once, but his story had moved her.

His father often drank his earnings away; his mother left with his brother when he was young. Whenever Kurt went hungry, he thought of her French cooking. He vowed that one day, he'd have all the fine food he could eat. And he had worked his way up in the restaurant business, from busboy to assistant manager and eventually to part-owner.

"Your customers are probably just trying out the new place," Lindsey said. "I'm sure they'll be back."

"I can't hear you. Why do you watch this crap?" He stalked over to the remote and turned the television set off.

Her own frustration welled up inside her. She was tired of feeling bored and unoccupied. "What else do you expect me to do? Take up knitting?" The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Now he turned on her. "What do I expect you to do?" he repeated. "How about giving me some respect? I work hard to pay for this house and your designer clothes."

"So let me find a job. I can make money too."

Kurt sighed. "We both know what kind of work you're suited for, sweetie." He unbuttoned his shirt and took off his belt. "Maybe it's time you put your talents to good use."

Lindsey wouldn't dignify that with a response. She turned her back on him and hurried up the stairs, not wanting him to see her cry.

He came up behind her, burying his face in her long hair. "You know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm not in the mood." After meeting Alex yesterday, she couldn't bear the thought of being intimate with the man she had married.

She ran into the bedroom and tried to shut the door behind her. He pushed through the opening and then steered her towards the king-sized bed.

"Don't fight me, Lindsey. You know you can't win." He pulled her top off in one swift motion, and then dropped his trousers. A moment later she lay beneath him on the mattress, his solid weight imprisoning her.

She tried her best to twist away. "Stop it, Kurt. I just want to sleep."

He only laughed. Slowly, he explored the body he already knew so well, caressing every curve with a practiced hand. Then he teased her nipples with his tongue until her insides turned to mush.

"I want you so much," he said as he entered her. "Want" and "love" were not the same thing. Until now, she had assumed they were.

She remained silent, but her body rose and fell according to his rhythm. Much as she tried to detach herself from his lovemaking, she couldn't. A long, low moan filled the room... her own. Then her muscles contracted and she felt the surge as he emptied himself inside her.

When Kurt finally drifted to sleep beside her, she felt a tear slowly zigzag down her cheek. Her own sexuality had betrayed her once again, binding her to him.

## Chapter Five

The next morning, Lindsey woke up alone. She was deliberating on what to make when her husband came in with his hands full. Carefully, he set down two Styrofoam cups and paper bags from their local coffee shop.

"I got you a cappuccino with extra foam, a sesame seed bagel with cream cheese, and a blueberry muffin."

Lindsey sat at the table, pleased that he had remembered what she liked. She wondered why he had gone through the trouble; he normally expected her to serve him breakfast.

"It smells delicious," she said in a raspy voice. To clear her throat, she took the lid off her cup for her first sip of coffee.

"You're so damn sexy in the morning." As he leaned over to nuzzle her neck, he reached out to cop a feel through her half-open cotton shirt.

Again she felt like a choice piece of meat. She ignored the twinges of pleasure the quick squeeze had evoked and buttoned her shirt all the way up.

"I love it when you play hard to get, like last night," he said as he sat down. "Afterwards, I had the best sleep I've had in days."

"You've been restless the last few weeks. Were you thinking about the restaurant?"

Kurt nodded as he bit off a piece of his croissant. "Can't help it. And yesterday, I got into a heated argument with Bertrand."

"What about?" Their head chef was known to be temperamental.

"We had to cut back on some of the supplies - less filet mignon, fewer lobster and half the cream," he said. "Bertrand said he couldn't cook without everything on his list. So I gave him something else to think about." Kurt had told him that his overdue raise would have to wait until business picked up. The chef threatened to quit at that point.

"It's all theatrics, isn't it?" Lindsey said as she nibbled at her muffin. A little sweet, but wonderfully moist.

"I hope so." His shoulder muscles tensed. "I also looked at our numbers. Peter didn't tell me we were running into the red." His brother, who had a finance degree, handled their books. The two of them had partnered years ago, when Kurt bought a hamburger place that was struggling to stay afloat. With Peter's investment, he was able to turn it into a classy French restaurant.

Lindsey wished she could find some way to reassure him.

"It's all because of L'Actuel," he said. "They must have seen how well we were doing when they decided to open down the street. I need to get in there and see exactly what they're offering."

"So why don't you?"

He believed they would be full up that evening, and it would be the perfect time to slip in unnoticed. Only he couldn't go alone.

"I'll join you," she said before he asked. She could think of worse things than having a fancy dinner with her husband on a Saturday night.

Kurt reserved a table for them at his competitor's under a fake name and came home from work early to drive her there.

There was a line-up at L'Actuel when they arrived. The restaurant was smaller than Le Courvoisier but had the advantage of being at a busy intersection on King Street West. Even with reservations, they had to wait twenty minutes.

At least no one took any notice of them as they were ushered to their table at the window. A smiling waitress handed Kurt a menu, saying she would be back. She wore a low peasant top with a laced-up midsection; a short skirt showed off shapely legs.

Lindsey saw Kurt take in the woman's ample cleavage before she walked away. Discretion wasn't one of his strong points.

As they seated themselves, Lindsey imagined she was dining with another man. Someone taller, with a slimmer build and light hair. Someone who had eyes only for her. Alex.

The folded piece of paper with his contact information still lay in her purse. Although she had no intention of calling him, it proved to her that her time with him had been real.

She glanced around the room. Lush philodendrons hung from the ceiling, while full-length, smoky mirrors gave the illusion of space. Almost drowned out by the chatter, a Beethoven recording played in the background.

"Nice place, isn't it?" she said.

"I'm not impressed." He fingered the red-and-white checkered cloth on the table. "This is poor quality. Le Courvoisier has linen tablecloths patterned with an 18th-century motif. And we have chandeliers."

Lindsey could sense his discomfort by the rigid way he sat in his chair. It must be so hard for him to be here. "Maybe the food is spectacular."

Kurt ordered a house wine before the waitress returned. After studying the menu, he decided on meals for both of them. "I'll sample yours," he said. "In the name of research."

Lindsey sipped her wine, enjoying being out of the house. By the time dinner was served, she was famished. The _poulet au champagne et aux champignons_ smelled divine.

As they silently ate, Kurt's shoulders relaxed. "They can't be coming here for the food," he finally pronounced. He said that the chicken was bland; it should have been flavored with tarragon or mustard. And his French-roasted leg of lamb, recommended by the staff, was overcooked and dry.

She thought he was being a little harsh. After watching him scribble on a small pad, she asked him what he was writing down.

"Their daily specials - we can undercut them. And change the paper stock for our menus. I also think we should switch to classical music. It's a nice touch." He looked up with a grin. "We do have an ace in the hole. They only have a partial license for beer and wine, but we serve everything from martinis to fine brandy."

Lindsey sighed as she finished her dessert, what he called "a mediocre _crème brûlée_."

On their way home, he told her that his brother and his wife wanted to come over for drinks the following afternoon. "They have news. I hope they're not planning another trip to Europe with things going the way they are."

"Should I get anything?" They were usually alone on Sunday afternoon; she looked forward to having company.

Kurt shook his head. "I'll pick up some hors d'oeuvres. Your job is to look pretty serving them."

As they followed the circular drive to their Georgian-style house, Lindsey wondered if she should worry about their failing business. The mortgage on this place was huge. With its arched windows and graceful columns, it looked like a fairy tale come true.

She saw how firmly Kurt gripped the steering wheel. He hadn't given up on her when she hit rock bottom; he wasn't about to throw in the towel with his business, either. He would find a way to ensure its success.

### ***

Lindsey accepted her sister-in-law's quick embrace as she and Peter came in. Ria's strawberry-blond hair was now cropped short, with feathered layers that accentuated her pixie features. "I like what you did with your hair."

"I can give you the name of my stylist if you like," she said. Beneath her short jacket, she wore a navy Givenchy dress with cutaway sides. To Lindsey, Ria was the epitome of fashion.

"Kurt prefers my hair the way it is." Lindsey self-consciously twirled a strand of the dark brown hair that fell midway down her back. Ria never seemed to need her husband's approval for anything. But then, she had her own career as a fund analyst.

Soon the four of them settled on the leather upholstery in the living room. Kurt opened a bottle of vintage wine and Lindsey carried in trays of snacks.

After toasting their visit, Kurt turned to his younger brother. "I checked the books yesterday. You should have told me we weren't breaking even."

Peter shifted on his seat. With his narrow shoulders, longish face and quiet voice, he barely resembled his sibling. "I was hoping we would turn things around."

Kurt paced the room. "Well, that's not happening. We're still losing customers." He told his brother about their dinner at L'Actuel. "The place isn't anything special. I still don't get it."

"I do." After picking up a small plate from the coffee table, Peter reached for crackers with Brie or smoked salmon. "A couple of food bloggers gave them rave reviews. I read the write-ups this morning."

Kurt led him to the kitchen counter where he had left his laptop. "Can you find them for me?

As the men leaned over the computer, Ria pulled out two sheets from her handbag and gave them to Lindsey. "My brokerage firm is expanding. We have a couple of entry-level positions, if you're interested."

"Thanks." Lindsey drank more of her wine as she glanced over the sheets. The words blurred before her like they always did. Her sister-in-law assumed she had some education; how could she admit that she had never even gone to high school?

As Peter continued to search for the blogs, Kurt came back to frown at the job postings. "Is this your firm in Oakville?" he asked Ria. When she nodded, he said, "I'm not sure I want my wife travelling across town on public transit every day, and we're in no position to buy a second car."

He tossed the papers on the far side of the counter as he returned to his brother.

Later Lindsey would ask him to read them out. Not being able to grasp a single sentence always frustrated her. Grade school had been a constant challenge, relying on her memory instead of admitting she had a problem.

When she married Kurt, she had assumed he would support her in getting the help she needed. Instead, he asked her to come to him for everything she couldn't understand. Only now did she realize much he wanted her to depend on him. It was how he stayed in control.

"Does he always make your decisions for you?" Ria asked as she selected a stuffed olive from the tray.

"I think he wants me to find something closer to home." Actually, Kurt thought she should be busy taking care of their house. They had four bedrooms and two bathrooms, large enough for a good-sized family. She hated cleaning the empty rooms; they just reminded her of what was missing.

When the two men joined them again, Peter said, "Ready for our news?"

Ria met her husband's eyes. "We're - I'm pregnant." She got up to slip an arm around his waist. "It wasn't exactly planned, but we're thrilled."

"That's wonderful... isn't it?" Lindsey saw Kurt's face close up. Maybe they had been disappointed so far in their own efforts, but that was no reason to begrudge Peter and Ria this joy.

"Of course," he said. "Though I'd like to hold my congratulations until the baby's born." Lindsey could almost read the thoughts going through his head. Bad enough his business was struggling, but now his sister-in-law had managed to accomplish the one thing he had married Lindsey for.

After their company left, Kurt downed half a glass of wine in a few swallows. "Peter's only been married a year," he said, "and they weren't even trying. Everything comes easy for him."

Lindsey touched his elbow, hoping to reassure him. "Don't worry. We're probably next."

He jerked his arm away. "You should have gotten pregnant long ago. That is, if you hadn't fouled your body with drugs and all those men."

"You never let me forget, do you?" She stepped back, stung by his words. He seemed to enjoy bringing back the past. At one time, he had been her champion. Seeing her through rehab and giving her material and emotional support when she most needed it. But this? She felt she needed to come to her own defense. "The doctor says there's nothing wrong with me. It's only a matter of time."

In her dreams, she still saw the unwashed bodies driven by lust and the crumpled bills thrown at her afterwards. Only the drugs and liquor had gotten her through the pain and hopelessness of her existence. Surely fate would not be cruel enough to destroy her fertility after all she had endured.

That night, she and Kurt lay far apart in their bed. An uneasy silence hung between them like an invisible wall. She curled into a fetal position, too upset to fall asleep. _He hates me for what I used to do. All he wants is a family, and I can't even give him that_.

Lindsey rolled onto her back and stared into the darkness. She desperately needed someone to talk to, someone who would not judge her harshly. If only Erica were here. For so long her older sister had been the person she had run to with her problems. She had never been too busy to listen.

Maybe she should call her gynecologist. He had mentioned another fertility clinic; at the time she wasn't prepared for a second round of tests. But if she didn't get pregnant soon, this marriage could fall apart.

### ***

She waited for Kurt to leave on Monday before punching out Dr. Bernstein's number. When the doctor finally called her back, Lindsey asked about the other fertility clinic.

"I have the results of both your tests," he said. "Maybe you should be patient a while longer. These things take time, especially with a low sperm count."

The doctor had to be mistaken. Kurt said that everything had come out normal. "Are you sure about the sperm?"

"Yes." His voice sounded tired. "Most men don't take the news very well. You need to know, because there's only so much you can do. Your husband wasn't willing to consider fertility treatments. You need to discuss it with him before you contact a clinic."

Lindsey felt dazed when she terminated the call. Returning to the dishes in the sink, she poured hot water over them without testing the temperature. The water scalded her hand before she pulled it back.

Kurt had gone for tests months ago. How could he let her believe it was all HER fault? She wouldn't have thought any less of him. Maybe it would even have brought them closer together.

Then she remembered Alex saying that Kurt could be the problem. He had guessed correctly. Allowing herself to think of Alex now, she squirted some detergent on a sponge and slowly lathered the dishes. She remembered dancing with him and the tenderness he had shown her. The fact that he hadn't taken advantage of her that night made it more special.

As Kurt's hurtful accusations echoed in the room, a realization quivered through her. _I must see Alex again_.

## Chapter Six

Erica's shoulders tensed as she drove to work in the morning. Late last night she had finished a solid draft of her feature article. Her story on high school dropouts had real teeth and should make the difference. But right now, she wasn't thinking about the job in Life.

Before awakening, she had telepathically heard Lindsey calling her again. Too real, too clear, to be a dream. Somehow her sister had managed to reach her in spite of the years and distance between them. These incidents were disconcerting. But until she found her, there was nothing she could do.

The architectural landmarks along Michigan Avenue blurred in familiarity as she drove past them - the Fine Arts Building, the Metropolitan Tower and so many others. Today she glanced towards the stretches of lawn in Grant Park. A memory flitted through her mind of a twelve-year-old girl, legs curled beneath her on the grass, her face turned towards the sun. Summer freckles danced across the bridge of her sister's nose.

When Erica had first settled in Chicago, she tried reaching Lindsey in Detroit. The cell she used was no longer in service, so she called their stepfather. Each time she phoned, he said she wasn't there. Liar. As Erica spoke to him, she could feel herself slip into the dark, slimy pit of her past. She asked him to give Lindsey a message. Of course he hadn't. Even Lindsey's email account had been deleted.

At her destination, a stiff breeze off the Chicago River tousled Erica's hair as she crossed the parking lot to her office tower. When she walked into the newsroom, Mel intercepted her. He told her to see him with Christine whenever she got in.

The other city reporter came in thirty minutes later. As she passed Erica's desk, Christine said, "You still look exhausted. Did you stay up all night writing your heart out?"

Her smirk made Erica wonder if she had stolen her notes after all.

"At least I don't have bags under my eyes." Erica enjoyed seeing the other woman wince. Christine felt self-conscious about her age; her live-in boyfriend was ten years younger. "Mel wants us in his office."

Their boss looked up from his tablet as they converged on him. "We have two stories. The first is a murder in Wisconsin." He glanced over at the glass-enclosed police desk in the middle of the room. "Hymie's already called ahead, and the Racine County Sheriff is expecting someone from the Times. Farmers in the area found body parts on their land; I want them interviewed."

Christine stuck a hand on her slim hip. "And the second?"

"The other's in the Magnificent Mile," he said, referring to the fashionable shopping district on North Michigan Avenue. "Saks was burglarized just after 2:00 a.m."

"Can I have that one?" Erica asked. "I don't feel up to driving to Wisconsin." She still needed to clean up her feature, and the ride alone would cost her two hours.

"I know all the salesclerks there," Christine said as she approached his desk in stilettos. She leaned towards him, no doubt providing a good view of her cleavage in the partially open designer blouse. "And I do believe I'm better dressed for the story." She gave Erica a dismissive look.

Erica frowned. As usual, she wore a loose-fitting pantsuit and sturdy walking shoes. She liked to be prepared for any kind of coverage. "No serious reporter would wear your heels. One day your face will hit the pavement. I wonder what kind of fashion statement that will make."

"Christine has a point," said Mel. "It'll be easier for her to get the scoop at Saks." He handed Erica a sheet of paper with the sheriff's name and address. "Now get going."

Typical. Christine always got the choice assignments. No matter how hard she worked, Erica knew that the city editor would never truly appreciate her. Another reason why she needed to get the position in Life.

As journalists, they were both entitled to the services of a copy editor. Someone who checked spelling and grammar and watched out for libelous text. Erica had already asked Bev. The woman's glasses always slid halfway down her nose and her hair was a frizzy mess, but she could edit in her sleep.

Before leaving for Wisconsin, she handed Bev her memory stick. "Here's my feature on high school dropouts. I hope you don't mind cleaning it up for me as well. I'm out on a story and Ryan's deadline is 3:00 p.m."

"No problem," she said. "I don't know why he doesn't just offer you the job. You're a much better writer than Christine."

Erica knew she could count on Bev. They respected each other's professionalism. A clipping on her desk caught her attention. The caption read, _Obese Recluse Evicted_. "What's this?"

"A man in the Heights. He was 364 pounds and hid for nineteen years in his apartment." Bev rolled her eyes. "Even had his groceries delivered so he wouldn't have to face the world. Poor bugger got a rude awakening when the landlord decided to tear down his building."

"I hope he gets the help he needs." The story touched Erica in a visceral way. So many people had psychological problems.

The drive to Wisconsin was tedious. Trapped behind a convoy of trucks on the interstate, Erica had no choice but to settle behind the wheel. She adjusted her sunglasses against the brightness. Some of the foliage out here was already tinged with autumn - splashes of red and yellow. The highway dipped and then rose on a steady incline into the mountains. A perfect day, if she didn't have to check out a murder.

As her tires chewed up the miles, she thought of the clipping. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. She had known someone like that. A man cloaked in layers of fat, who also worked long hours to escape the bleakness of his life. Where would she be now if not for Will?

### ***

She could still feel the dank cold of the November night they had met. Her stomach rumbled as she wandered past empty shops on an unfamiliar Chicago street over two hundred and fifty miles from home. Faceless people hurried past, sometimes calling to each other. She felt invisible. Thinking of friends left behind in Detroit intensified her loneliness. At sixteen, not knowing one soul in this city, how could she hope to survive?

The wind whipped up the hem of her coat. She pulled her belt tighter to keep out the chill. Instinctively she headed for a lit doorway. _Stamps & Coins_, read the sign. An arrow pointed to the shop upstairs. She tried the street-level door.

In the stairwell, her eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. Putting her bag down, she sank on a step, grateful to be out of the cold. Above her, light spilled from a doorway. She heard shuffling across the floorboards and the muted sounds of a radio. One thought played in her head: _don't let them chase me away_.

She must have dozed off, because someone was suddenly shaking her shoulder.

"You can't stay here, miss. I'm closing for the night." The man bending over her wore a shapeless coat that only emphasized his girth. He had a thick but trim beard, and eyes curiously alive in a fleshy face.

She stumbled to her feet. "I - uh - have nowhere to go."

"Where's your family?"

The idea of being sent back to the place she had left filled her with dread.

"I'm old enough to look after myself," she said. She thought of her thwarted attempts at finding work in Chicago, even minimum wage. Tugging at his sleeve, she pleaded, "Please let me stay. I'll be gone by morning. Promise."

His body jerked slightly at the contact, but he quickly regained his composure. He assessed her for a moment before he spoke. "I have leftovers at my place. Hungry?"

She nodded. Her last meal had been from a trash bin behind a fast food restaurant.

As Erica followed him down the street, she wondered about the danger she was putting herself in. The sharp pangs in her stomach overrode her concern. _Just one meal. I'll leave afterwards. And what can he do that hasn't already been done_?

At his apartment, there was chicken, creamy coleslaw, and baked potatoes. All of it cooked by Will, who had lived alone for years. She had never eaten anything so satisfying.

Erica had no fear of this man, with his long silences and his efforts to keep distance between them. Maybe he dealt with the public every day, but alone with her, he was painfully shy.

She slept undisturbed on his pull-out couch.

In the morning, when she told him that she was looking for work, he said he could use an extra hand in his shop, especially at the cash. "A lot of collectors have been coming in lately and I have trouble keeping up. Won't be able to pay you much, though." He scratched his beard. "You're young. You can probably do better somewhere else."

"Not without experience," she said. She needed to learn what she could, and this was a start. "I don't care about money, but I have to pay rent."

His eyes grew thoughtful. "Why not stay here? I have a spare room. Maybe you can help keep this place clean." Then he added, "No strings attached."

A platonic friendship between them began. Neither of them dated, and they both lacked companionship. Most evenings, Erica found herself resuming a childhood pastime: scribbling her impressions of the day's events in a notebook. Will praised her descriptions of the people who passed through the shop.

"Your writing is a gift," he said. "You must do something with it. You don't want to spend the rest of your life behind a cash register, do you?"

Thanks to his encouragement and generosity, she enrolled in a journalism program at Northwestern University. When she graduated, Will overcame his usual reserve and gave her a bear hug.

Something shifted in their relationship. At first Erica ignored the signs. When she emerged from the shower in a terrycloth robe, her skin still moist, he left the room. Other times, she found his brooding eyes on her.

One evening as they cleared the table together, he tentatively put his arms around her. "I want you, Erica. I can't help myself. You're so beautiful." He buried his face in her hair, his beard prickly on her neck. "Do you feel anything for me at all?"

"Not in that way. I'm sorry." The hands on her felt smothering. The years of celibacy had been healing for her, and she hadn't even considered his needs or desires. Firmly, she pushed his clumsy body away.

A week later, she moved out. Fortunately, she found a reporting job on a small circulation newspaper. Will had given her shelter and allowed her to pursue her dream of a career in journalism, and for that she would always be grateful. In spite of herself, she missed their late-night chats. When the silence in her tiny flat grew so thick she could scarcely breathe, she poured her energy into her work, and for a few hours managed to forget her solitude.

### ***

As Erica pulled up at the Racine County Office, she pushed the past to the back of her mind. The building was as gray as the dusty street it sat on. In the shop next door, a sign in the window advertised jams and jellies.

The sheriff sat alone at a battered desk with an old computer that seemed a relic from another age. He looked relieved to see her.

"We already questioned the farmers," he said as he handed her a sheet with their addresses. "Apparently, no one saw or heard anything. The victim was a stranger to these parts, a young drifter. Forensics is working on an ID. If you come up with anything, let me know."

She thanked him before heading for the dairy farmers on Apple Road.

"My cows saw the bags first," one farmer told her. "I thought someone had dumped garbage in my field. Then I opened a bag and..." His face went white. "It was a human leg, cut into pieces. What monster would do such a thing?" His chin trembled. "We never had no trouble around here. But now I won't let my little girl walk down the road alone, no siree."

Erica shivered in the sunshine as they talked on his front porch.

The victim had most likely been a hitchhiker. His body had been dismembered and scattered in different fields. As she interviewed the farmers, she knew her story would focus on their reactions to the murder. In this close-knit rural community, the horror of the slaying would remain for months to come.

On her way back to Chicago, sour bile rose in her throat. She pulled over to the shoulder of the road and put her head between her knees for a while to control the queasiness. Impossible not to picture the content of the bags the farmers had described. The senseless murder made her more acutely aware of her own vulnerability; if only Philip were here.

Then she recalled their last conversation. He was seeing her tonight, probably for the last time, because his wife had found out about her.

Stoically, she continued driving. At the office, a hard copy of her polished article on high school dropouts lay on her desk. Bev had done a great job with the edit. Ten minutes before deadline, she handed the paper to Ryan. The Life editor nodded as he took it from her, still speaking into his blue tooth.

Her candidacy for the position of feature writer would be based on her work and nothing else. Ryan was considerably younger than Mel, but he had recently remarried. His new wife was a sweet thing twenty years his junior, and even Christine could not compete.

Erica quickly wrote up the murder story in Racine County and sent it over for copy editing. It had been a stressful day and she couldn't wait to put it behind her.

Back at her high-rise apartment, she ran scalding water into the tub, then adjusted the temperature and added a capful of foam. She normally preferred showers, but a good soak would help her relax.

Sinking into the suds, she thought of Philip. She should have ended it on the phone. Ending things in person would only make it more difficult. All the same, her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing him again. Her desire for him had only grown in the past two years.

After lathering a leg with soap, she eased back in the tub. Her eyelids closed. Like viewing a slide show, pausing at some scenes and fast forwarding past others, she skimmed the highlights of their time together.

### ***

After meeting Philip, Erica made a point of visiting her health club more regularly. He worked out five days a week, so she stepped up her game. Their conversations stayed in neutral territory at first. After all, he was married. All the same, she felt the hypnotic pull of his hazel eyes as they chatted. She dared to imagine making love with him.

Until then, the idea of sex had put her off. Her sporadic dates in this city had all ended at the front door. When a man so much as put an arm around her shoulders, her body froze. And at twenty-six, she was beginning to resent being controlled by her past. She saw the irony of it. Philip was the first man she wanted, and he was already taken.

On her way home after a brisk walk one afternoon, it started to sleet. She slipped on the curb and took a bad fall. As she lay on a hospital bed, her leg in traction, she thought of Philip. She couldn't reach him to explain and it would be a long time before she could return to the fitness club.

A few days later, he appeared at her bedside. In his arms was a large basket of fruit covered in cellophane and tied with a satin bow. Her office had told him where to find her.

"What did you do - kick someone twice your size?" he teased. Erica had told him about her classes in women's self-defence.

"Worse. I hit a sidewalk." She watched him place the basket on the night table. The turned-up collar on his jacket gave him a rakish look; she had never been so glad to see anyone. "How did you know I like tangerines?"

"Lucky guess. How's the leg - does it hurt?" He took the chair next to the bed. The way he stretched out his limbs told her that he was in no hurry to leave.

"Only when I move. Apparently it's a bad fracture, so I'm here until Friday."

He pulled out a book of crossword puzzles from his back pocket and handed it to her. "For when you get bored." His gaze swept over her in bed, making her wish she had put on some makeup. "Working out isn't the same without you. I'm losing my motivation."

"Thanks. I've been on my iPad a lot and this will make a nice change." Erica held tightly to the book, unable to meet his eyes. What was the point of starting anything, when he was married?

Philip cleared his throat. "D'you mind if I come back tomorrow? Same time? I can bring you whatever you like."

Ignoring the flutter in her stomach, she nodded.

He worked in commercial real estate. It was easy for him to schedule his appointments around his afternoon visits to the hospital. During the remainder of her stay, her room became littered with his thoughtful presents - a few women's magazines, a stuffed panda, even a jigsaw puzzle.

They spoke about their jobs or places they liked to visit. Sometimes they lapsed into silence. Neither of them brought up his home life or why he came to see her.

When she was about to be released, Philip came to pick her up. Her leg was still in a cast and she had expected to take a taxi. His concern over her welfare warmed her. She didn't protest when he rode the elevator with her to her apartment. Since she was using crutches, it helped to have him carry her bag.

Erica's apartment was deafeningly quiet. A girlfriend was looking after her bird and the place felt strange without his welcoming screech.

She turned to Philip as they entered her living room. "I can manage now."

"You don't really want me to leave." Stepping closer, he tilted her chin and stared into her eyes. "Do you?"

Then he kissed her. His lips on hers were liquid fire, spreading heat through every fiber of her being. Putting her weight on her good leg, she linked her fingers around his neck.

Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He lay her down gently on the bed. "I never made love to a woman in a cast before."

"Then I'm glad I'm your first." Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him undress. When he removed his boxers, she glanced down his taut stomach to the proof of his desire. She shivered. Could she go through with it? A fierce voice whispered in her head. _I must. I need to see what it feels like to be loved_.

His hands were unhurried but skilled as they caressed her. She closed her eyes. Now she felt his mouth on her breasts, eliciting a response she could not ignore. It was like being two people in the same body. One was shocked; the other pleasantly surprised at the erotic sensations. When he finally guided himself into her, mindful of her cast, she gasped at the intimate contact.

Panic made her muscles contract. _Out, he must get out_! Again she saw the half-naked men, laughing as they held her down. Defiling her young body. But this was different. This was her choice. Clasping Philip to her, she endured his thrusting until it was over. At least she was able to satisfy him.

"It wasn't good for you, was it?" he asked. He propped himself up on an elbow as he watched her expression. "I should have taken longer."

Longer? She tried not to show how she felt. "I don't normally do this."

"Are you sorry we made love?"

Why did he care? Most men would have let it go. "Not because you're married," she finally said. "I haven't let anyone get this close."

He reached down to squeeze her hand. "I wouldn't be here right now if I thought you were easy. Since the first moment we met, I wanted to hold you."

"What about your wife?" Erica had to voice the intrusive thought.

"We have a workable marriage." He stared past her at the bedroom wall. "Our son is only four, and we both adore him. But for me, something's lacking, like the way we're lying here talking. I never do that with Susan. She's always preoccupied with other things."

Erica sensed his disillusionment. Relationships often fell short of one's hopes and dreams. "Maybe you should tell her how you feel."

He shrugged as he pulled the sheet over both of them. Then he folded her in his arms. "I don't want to talk about me. Let's just enjoy the moment."

Later, back in her reporting job with the cast off, Erica continued to see and hear from him. Fitting Philip into her schedule was often difficult. And when he called at the last minute to cancel a date because of family obligations, she tried to be understanding. Their encounters were always tinged with the bittersweet realization of their short duration.

Weekends became unbearable blocks of time without the distraction of work and without Philip. If only she had family of her own, his absence would not create such a void. She often thought of her sister. Where was Lindsey? What was she doing? Surely by now she had left home.

Part of her answer came on a snowy winter's day. As Erica browsed the shops on State Street, she saw one of Lindsey's childhood friends who was visiting Chicago. Although the woman had lost contact with Erica's sister long ago, she gave her the name of a young man who had lived with Lindsey in Detroit, and called around to get his number.

Erica punched it out with stiff fingers. Maybe this was the break she had longed for.

"Sure, I remember her," the man said, his voice laced with annoyance. "Stayed with me six or seven years ago. I didn't know she had a sister."

"Do you know where she went?" she asked, afraid he might hang up.

"How the hell should I know? She told me she was pregnant, so I took off. The place was already paid up for the week."

"Pregnant?" Erica tried to imagine how desperate Lindsey must have felt - a teenager with nowhere to turn. Not that this guy would have been much help.

"False alarm, I later found out." He coughed. "Look, she treated me like a goddamn safety net. And I have better things to do than go down memory lane."

The line clicked in her ear. Erica felt hope drain from her. He had been her only link to Lindsey. How had she managed on her own? Even as a child, Lindsey had leaned on those around her. She would forget to eat if no one put a plate in front of her. When she wasn't lost in daydreams, she worked herself up over silly things like the dog tied up in a neighbor's yard. Someone needed to keep her grounded in the real world.

She told Philip about her fears.

"Maybe she's okay now," he said. "Worrying about her isn't going to help."

"I used to look after her, especially after Mom died. I know she's older now, but it hurts not being there for her." She pictured Lindsey as an adult in her own kitchen, her dark hair tied back as she chopped veggies and tossed them into a skewer. The image reassured her somewhat. "You're right. I have to let this go."

He got up to make them both some coffee. He was always bringing her things, from expensive lingerie and perfume to practical things like a cordless percolator. Often she felt he was trying to make up for all the times he couldn't be with her.

The last two Christmases had been difficult. She pictured him with his family - going to church, sitting in front of their fireplace, entertaining guests. At least this year would be different. He would no longer be part of her life.

Then it struck her. Philip was coming to her apartment now to collect his things. Of course! Maybe that was why he didn't want to end things over the phone.

Her bathwater had gotten cold. Shivering, Erica stepped out of the tub to get ready for her last time with him. No matter how things went, she vowed to hold back her tears until he was gone.

## Chapter Seven

Erica glanced at the time again. Philip was almost thirty minutes late. Maybe he was having second thoughts about breaking up in person. She pulled out her cell but then put it back down. Let him call.

His things lay on the end table in her living room - a winter toque, a windbreaker that he sometimes wore when they went for a walk, extra socks, the mohair sweater she had given him last Christmas, and a John Grisham novel he had never finished. On top of the pile were the men's galoshes she had almost forgotten at the back of her boot tray.

The paltry heap of possessions seemed to prove that Philip's life had always been elsewhere. A place where his trousers and shirts got properly hung, and where he sat at the table with his family. In spite of the passion between them, Erica had only been a diversion. She hoped his wife would be able to forgive him.

Spike perched on his seed cup, noisily cracking sunflower seeds open. At least the bird would always be here for her. He couldn't talk, but he certainly knew how to whistle.

She was reminding herself to ask Philip for her keys back when the buzzer rang. Hastily, she touched up her lipstick before opening the door.

"Sorry. I got stuck with a client," he said, holding a paper bag. He gave her a quick kiss before striding into her kitchen. After pulling the bottle of Mumm's from the bag, he searched for her corkscrew.

The last thing she felt like doing was toasting a future without him. "I thought champagne was for happy occasions."

He smiled at her confusion. "I wanted to tell you in person. I'm free now. Susan and I are getting divorced."

"Divorced? But you said - I thought..." She leaned against the counter for support. "You're leaving her?"

Philip found what he was looking for in her top drawer. "To be technical, she kicked me out. She guessed there was someone else and I didn't deny it."

He seemed so calm. Was he numb to his feelings? The fallout from his broken marriage had barely begun. "What are you going to do?"

"How about ordering Szechuan? I'm starved, but I'm not up to facing a roomful of strangers tonight."

"I mean with Susan."

As he poured the sparkling liquid into their flutes, he shrugged. "We'll get lawyers. She agreed to let me see Timmy twice a week. We all need to get used to the idea." He handed her a glass and lifted his in a toast.

"I can't believe you actually did it," she said. He had often complained about having to leave halfway through the night, but there had been little talk about ending his marriage.

"To us." He clicked his glass against hers. "I never saw you in that dress. I like it. Though it's too bad..." With a giant step, he closed the distance between them and nuzzled her neck. "Hmmm, you smell delicious."

"What's too bad?"

"That it has to come off." Wanting to leave a good impression, she had worn her red Dolce & Gabbana dress with a square neckline. Tonight was supposed to be an ending, not a new beginning. Even her bedroom door was firmly closed.

"Aren't we going to eat first? I thought you were ordering," she said, ignoring the pleasurable sensations he evoked as he rubbed her arms. She needed to digest the latest turn of events.

"You win. We'll eat first." He winked as he reached for the takeout menus next to the fridge. After finding the one for Bashu Legend, he phoned to place their order.

He included the Almond Chicken Soo Guy and the spring rolls she liked, but what if she wanted to make a change? He hadn't even consulted her.

She was about to complain when he refilled her glass and she found herself smiling back at him. Never could resist him. That was what had gotten her into this mess. Only it wasn't a mess anymore, was it? She thoughtfully sipped her champagne. Now that he was getting divorced, they could go to popular restaurants instead of out-of-the-way ethnic hotspots. They could even hold hands in public. And best of all, Philip could sleep over.

When their food arrived, Erica reached into a kitchen cupboard for some plates. Her legs felt rubbery and she briefly held onto the counter for support. Then she remembered the missed lunch. Maybe she should have eaten something before drinking the bubbly.

During the meal, Philip talked about his real estate deals. His voice drifted in and out of her consciousness as she concentrated on chewing and swallowing.

"... and someone's interested in a brownstone on East Superior. An art supplier who thinks he'll attract the university crowd." He peered across the table at her. "You're not listening, are you?"

The Chicken Soo Guy, swimming in cherry sauce, reminded her of blood and body parts.

"I was in Racine County interviewing farmers today." Her voice cracked. "A young man was killed in the area. Not just killed, but horribly dismembered." As she reached for the chow mein, she shuddered at the plate of spareribs. Pork bones were heaped on top of each other, glistening in a sticky brown sauce.

"I think I'm going to be sick." She scraped back her chair and rushed to the bathroom. Over the sink, she doubled over and painfully vomited the contents of her dinner. She waited a moment, then bent her head and retched again. Nothing else came up.

"Are you okay?" He hovered beside her with a moist washcloth.

"I don't usually let things get to me this way."

"What you just told me sounds horrific," he said. "You're only human, after all."

Erica had always wanted to make a difference, but covering the news made her feel more and more ineffectual. With all the violence and crime in the world, maybe she wasn't cut out for hard-core reporting. She really hoped the position in Life would come through.

Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she let out a groan. Her face had gone white, like a ghost. And not a very good-looking one at that.

"Why don't you lie down and rest?" he suggested. "I'll clean up."

Too weak to protest, she let him wipe her face and tuck her into bed. The room spun a little as she closed her eyes. It had all become too much. The murder, waiting to see Philip and expecting their relationship to end....then finding out he was all hers. When she blinked and looked up, he was standing beside her bed.

"Sorry for ruining your evening," she whispered.

He brushed the hair back from her brow. "You didn't plan on being sick. And we'll have plenty of time to be together from now on. I'm moving my things from the hotel tomorrow."

His words echoed in her mind as she drifted to sleep. _He's moving in? But I don't have enough closet space_.

### ***

When Erica prepared for work the next morning, Philip still lay sleeping in her bed. Unlike her, he was a late riser; his day as a real estate agent only began mid-morning. She tiptoed around her own kitchen as she made herself toast with jam and a pot of coffee. The quiet time was just what she needed. Her thoughts, though, remained jumbled.

At the office, she spent most of her Wednesday researching a story on shop closures across the city. She was thankful for the required focus - it distracted her from thinking about her personal life. No word yet from Ryan on who had landed the job in Life. He had promised to make an announcement by the end of the week.

Her stomach still felt queasy, so she limited herself to yogurt and a piece of fruit for lunch. Why wasn't she floating on air instead of questioning the latest turn of events? Although she was happy to be seeing more of Philip, another part of her felt uneasy. He was starting to move his things into her apartment today, which meant she would need to clear some space. The prospect of seeing his clothes jam all her closets upset her.

What she needed was girl talk. She had met Megan eight months ago at another self-defence class for women, and they had since become friends. She picked up her cell.

"Meet me after work for drinks?" Erica asked. "I have news."

She could almost see Megan arch an eyebrow. They usually got together on weekends, when both of them craved a little company. After only a moment's hesitation, the other woman said, "I can make 6:30 p.m."

They met at a tapas restaurant and bar on S. Michigan Avenue which Megan wanted to try. Erica felt uplifted by the brightly colored walls - mostly yellow and orange - and the bold abstract paintings. The cozy establishment also played classical Spanish music as she walked in. Joining her girlfriend at a corner table, she recognized Rodrigo's famous _Concierto de Aranjuez_.

"You have bad news? Are you okay?" Megan must have abruptly left the bakery where she worked, because white flour smudged the tip of her nose.

Erica smiled. What she liked most about her was the way she always cut to the chase.

"Philip's wife confronted him," she said. "Apparently she knew about me and told him to leave."

Megan's eyes widened at her words. "Shall I order us some sangria? We definitely need a drink for this discussion. And maybe some food."

She nodded. Her shoulders relaxed slightly; she had her friend's undivided attention now and if anyone could help her sort through her feelings, it was Megan.

After their drinks arrived, the tapas soon followed. Megan had chosen for both of them. They had the _Queso de Cabra con Miel_ \- goat cheese with honey on pieces of baguette - and a plate of _Jamon Serrano_. Erica felt her appetite stir. She picked up a tapa with tomato and ham and bit into it. "This is delicious."

"So let me get this straight," Megan said. "Philip's wife finally got wise and threw him out, after he saw you for two solid years?"

A bread crust lodged in Erica's throat; she used sangria to wash it down. Megan made her relationship with him sound sordid. "He wants to be with me."

Megan shrugged. "Why shouldn't he? You're young, attractive and a successful journalist."

Erica had known that she didn't approve of her liaison with a married man, but until now, Megan had kept her opinions to herself. Maybe if she had introduced her to Philip, she would have understood her attraction to him. Not that it would have happened. They never socialized as a couple. She took a deep breath before speaking again.

"He's moving in with me."

Putting down her glass, Megan said, "Is that what you both decided? To live together?"

"It wasn't an option before. But he can't very well stay at a hotel, can he?" With her own words, Erica realized the truth. Staying with her was the practical thing to do.

Her friend blinked a few times. "So that's why he's moving in? It's convenient?"

Erica couldn't think of anything to say. Her silence, though, spoke volumes.

"Oh, before I forget. I brought you something from the shop." Megan pulled out a paper bag with two blueberry muffins - her favorite. Whenever Erica visited Buns 'N Things, the bakery she managed on N. State Street, she never went away empty-handed.

"Thanks." She gratefully took the bag from her, thinking she would have to share the goods with Philip now. He was probably waiting for her.

"Remember the saying, _be careful what you wish for_?" Megan said. "I believe you used him all this time as an excuse not to date. You don't know who's out there for you."

Erica groaned. "A lot of losers, most likely. At least Philip has a good job. He's also generous, and easy on the eyes." She thought of his lovemaking and mentally added, _and he aims to please_.

"Yes, but he lied to his wife for two years. The question is, can you trust him?" Megan bit into a goat cheese tapa.

Erica remembered hearing Philip on the phone, telling Susan he had to work late again. Actually sounding regretful. Continuing to see him could mean that one day, he would meet someone else and carry on behind her back. Philip always went after whatever he wanted.

"Until now, it hasn't been an issue. I mean, I never expected a future with him," she said in a quiet voice.

Megan reached over to squeeze her hand. "You deserve better, Erica. Someone you can count on, someone with integrity. Join me on Saturday evening. I'm going to a speed dating event." Her last long-term relationship had ended a year ago. She now socialized in different ways: hiking groups, a photography class, online dating.

The prospect of conversing with a succession of men in a public setting filled Erica with dread. She couldn't just open up with complete strangers.

"Speed dating isn't my style." She hadn't told Megan much about her past, except that she had left home at sixteen and moved to Chicago.

"So take a chance and do something different." Megan glanced with envy at a very pregnant woman as she rejoined her girlfriends at the next table. "My biggest regret is not having a family. I've been looking into artificial insemination."

Erica stared at her. "You're willing to be a single mom?"

"It's not my first choice," she said. "But every day, my biological clock ticks a little louder. I'm almost thirty-five. If I don't meet someone special very soon, I might just try it." She chewed on her lower lip. "So what about Saturday evening?"

"I don't think I can get away." Erica realized that her comforting weekend routine with Megan had abruptly come to an end. Philip expected to be with her now. Her phone buzzed. She had a text from him, saying he had finished moving his belongings and wanted to know when she would be home.

The two women hugged before leaving the restaurant. "No matter how it goes, I'm always here for you," Megan said.

As Erica drove towards Oak Park, she considered how her life had changed. There would be no more lonely nights, picturing Philip with his family. She would also get involved with his six-year-old son. But what did she know about looking after kids?

Approaching her building on North Boulevard, she tried to massage the knotted muscles between her shoulder blades. Megan's question bounced around in her head. Erica wanted to believe that things were different between her and Philip, that he would never seek the affections of another woman.

But could she really trust him?

## Chapter Eight

Sunday afternoon at last. Erica settled with her iPad on her sectional sofa, feet tucked beneath her. This was when she caught up with her favorite blogs and news feeds. At the moment, though, the blaring of a televised football game made it impossible for her to focus.

Philip leaned forward as he watched the play. A sportscaster yelled, "First career touchdown pass!" followed by the roar of spectators. Then, in a deep guttural voice, the man shouted, "Touchdown!"

Not to be outdone, her cockatiel let out a shrill whistle a few feet behind them, flapping his wings against the bars in his cage. Spike had hardly flown around since Philip moved in. On weekends, he normally zoomed around her apartment, landing in choice spots like the top of her bookshelves. Watching the yellow-crested bird pace back and forth on his perch reminded her of how on edge she felt.

"I can't hear myself think," Erica told Philip. "Turn it down."

"Not when that damn bird keeps screeching." He poured more beer into his glass. Three empty cans lined the floor next to the sofa and she hoped he intended to pick them up.

"Raising the volume doesn't help. He thinks it's a competition." She had hoped that the two of them would take to each other, but Philip couldn't or wouldn't relate to a bird.

"What's for dinner?" he said, changing the subject. "Smells great."

"Shepherd's Pie." It was one of his favorite dishes and she had found the recipe on line. Since his arrival, Philip had not taken her out once. He seemed to assume that she would provide all their meals now, though cooking had never been her forte.

She moved into the kitchen, where it was quieter, to resume her reading.

Two hours later, they sat at the table. Philip helped himself to the bowl of chips he had brought from the living room but only picked at the food on his plate.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"You put peas in it instead of corn. And there should be more mashed potatoes on top."

She stared at him, about to say that she wasn't his wife. Couldn't he see that she was trying?

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Sounds came from upstairs as her neighbor walked across her kitchen floor.

"Whoever lives above you is pretty noisy. He wakes me up at some ungodly hour in the morning."

"She's a nurse who works night shift. Not too many apartments are completely sound proof."

As he looked levelly at her, his hazel eyes went green. "I've been checking out house listings in Arlington Heights for something affordable."

Erica almost choked before swallowing. "Why? Isn't that where you used to live?"

Philip reached for his glass of beer. "I want Susan to keep our house, but I'd like to get something in the neighborhood. It will make it easier for Timmy."

"I like living in a high-rise. It's convenient." She had always appreciated being able to unwind after work and not be responsible for anything more than giving Spike his seeds.

"That was before me." He placed his right hand over hers on the table. His squared off fingers squeezed hers with slight but unmistakable pressure. "We need a room for Timmy, and this place isn't nearly big enough." He picked up his fork again. "Besides, don't you want to sit out on your patio in the morning and hear the birds?"

She sighed. "I live with a bird, in case you haven't noticed."

"Think about it, sweetheart. We can buy it together."

What he meant was that they could pay for it together. Although he did well as a real estate agent, he probably couldn't afford a second mortgage on his own.

That night in bed, he held her close and said that he loved her. Words were easy. Living together was more difficult. Yesterday evening, she had done their laundry while he visited his son. Not exactly her idea of a fun Saturday night.

Listening to the rhythm of his breathing, she stared up at the ceiling as she considered his proposal. Buying property together was a good sign, wasn't it? A sign of commitment.

The last house she had lived in had been in Detroit. Her stepfather had not kept up the maintenance. There were loose floor boards and tiles on the roof that needed replacing. She shuddered before switching the imagery in her mind to a cozy home in the suburbs with a yellow picket fence.

Could she really have it all? A decent man, a successful career, a normal life?

Driving to work the next morning, Erica hit some congestion on the road. As she waited for the cars ahead of her to move, she heard the familiar screeching of a train on elevated tracks, like chalk scraping across a blackboard. The El carried thousands of commuters into the maze of skyscrapers. The energy of the Loop always gave her a rush.

As she inched forward in traffic, she wondered how long it would take to commute from Arlington Heights. Ninety minutes each way? Her heart sank. As she thought of Philip waiting for her to prepare dinner every night, she clenched the steering wheel. They needed to talk, because some things had to change.

At the Times, Mel asked her to cover a blood donor clinic at city hall. Nine city hospitals said they were short on blood plasma and the clinic had been well publicized. "Check out the turn out and see how close they come to their quota, okay?"

She nodded, glad she had an easy assignment. Christine kept her head down as she passed her. Erica could feel the tension in the air. They were both waiting for news on the job. Ryan, the Life editor, had been away for a few days and would announce his decision today.

At city hall, makeshift beds were already filled to capacity. In an adjoining room, potential donors went through a screening process. Erica interviewed a few of them, asking what had motivated them to come out. Some had been given a half-day off by their employers to support the blood drive; others wanted to make a difference. Organizers promised to later give her an exact pint count for her story.

Both she and Christine were back at their desks that afternoon when Ryan called an impromptu meeting. With the newsroom staff gathered around his office, he called Erica to his side.

"I want everyone to congratulate our new features writer. When her first piece comes out next Saturday, you'll know why." He turned to shake her hand. "Welcome on board, Erica."

A few co-workers came closer to wish her well. As she accepted their congratulations, she glanced up and saw Christine's pinched face. Seconds later, she was gone. Their relationship had always been strained and Erica could not feel sorry that it was over.

Mel agreed to release her from city reporting after the day's work. Upon completing her write-up on the blood donor clinic, Erica started collecting her things. Tomorrow would begin in a new work space, with a new boss.

The significance suddenly hit her. No longer would she churn out the daily news. So often she'd reported on crimes or tragedies after speaking to traumatized victims. Random shootings, murders, even kidnappings left readers with a sense of gloom in an increasingly violent society. With feature writing, she could cover the deeper issues that affected them and offer some hope through real-life stories.

It was well after 3:00 p.m., but she couldn't wait to tell Philip her news. As she continued to clear off her desk, she tried to reach him on his cell. No answer. She tried twice more in fifteen-minute intervals before phoning his office.

When she asked for him and said he wasn't answering his cell, a female voice said, "Susan, right? Is it urgent?"

"He and Susan are getting divorced. I'm Erica, his girlfriend," she said, bristling at being mistaken for his ex. Until now, she had respected the boundaries of his marriage and never called his office. Things had changed in the last couple of weeks and she could no longer remain invisible.

"Oh. I see." After a long pause, the woman told her that she had made reservations for him and Ava at Remington's. "They aren't back yet from lunch."

"Just tell him I called." Her pulse raced as she terminated the call. She had never met Ava, another real estate agent in his office, but knew she was unattached. Intimate memories of her own early times with Philip crowded her mind. How often had they stolen away for an extra-long lunch as they began their affair? Was he starting something with this Ava? Megan's words came back to her in a rush: _can you trust him_?

Philip came in shortly after she got home that evening, his spine rigid. "Why did you tell my office I'm getting divorced? Now everyone knows."

"If you'd answered your cell, I would never have called. They thought I was Susan."

He tossed his jacket on the sofa and turned to face her. "I had a late lunch with my colleagues to celebrate our recent sales. What was so urgent that it couldn't wait a few hours?"

"I wanted to tell you about my promotion. I start tomorrow." Erica's excitement had disappeared. She felt tired and deflated. He had said _colleagues_ when she knew he had only been with Ava. No point in accusing him - he would lie.

She didn't feel like cooking, so he ordered pizza for both of them. He was still upset about her calling the office, but she didn't feel like talking anyway. She took a bubble bath, enjoying the solitude of the tub. Then she found a long cotton nightgown and put it on, when she normally slept in the buff. As far as she was concerned, lovemaking was off the agenda too. She lay in bed, still awake, when he came into the room after the news.

Once between the sheets, he buried his head in her neck, sliding an arm around her. "Hmmm. I love the fragrance of your body wash. What is it?"

"Shea butter with oatmeal." She removed his hand from her breast. "I just want to go to sleep," she said. "It's been a long day."

Even after all this time, part of herself held back during intercourse. A part of her that was frozen. To reach orgasmic release, she needed to let go, and that wasn't something she could do. What she had enjoyed was the warmth of feeling loved. Only now, she was filled with dread and suspicion. She wasn't at all sure that she should be with this man. Megan was right. She hadn't given anyone else a chance.

After tossing and turning for an hour, she finally joined Philip in slumber. It was still dark when she screamed. A thin layer of perspiration coated her skin under the nightgown.

"Erica, what's wrong?"

When he tried to gather her to him, she struck him with her fists. All she saw were powerful arms and twisted faces peering down at her.

"It's a nightmare. Snap out of it, for Christ sake." He reached over to turn on the lamp.

Blinking at the light, she pushed the tangled hair from her face and sat up. "Don't try to hold me, okay? When I have a bad dream, I need to be left alone." So now the nightmare was back. The stress of living with Philip, of trying to make things work, must have triggered it.

Erica drew a shaky breath, then another. The trembling inside gradually subsided. She hadn't told him about her teenage years and what happened before she left home. She couldn't. Talking about it, thinking about it, would only bring back the anger and pain. At the time, she had learned to compartmentalize her life. Act normal at school, be there for Lindsey, and follow routines.

He stared at her in the dim light. "What haven't you told me?"

"Leave it alone," she warned. "It isn't something I can discuss." His solicitude only made her feel worse. Suffocated.

In the morning, Philip was already awake when she got up. His gaze followed her around the room as she got dressed. Without being asked, he joined her for coffee.

"What's it all about, Erica?"

"My past." That was as much as she could say. She had no appetite and decided to forego breakfast. Sipping her coffee, she looked past him as if he weren't there.

"I'm not ready for this, Philip. I need my own space." When she lived with someone, she wanted it to be her own decision. He had just moved his bags in, assuming she wanted him there. Just like he assumed she wanted to buy a house with him.

He stared at her across the table. "Something scared you. I don't know what it is. But I can stay with my brother and his family for a while, until we figure things out."

"In Evanston?"

Philip nodded. "He has a guest room, and he won't mind having me around. We need to catch up anyway."

A huge pressure had been lifted from her shoulders; she felt relieved. Before leaving for work, she gave him a hug. "Thanks for being so understanding. We'll talk later."

As she got into her car, heading for work and her new job, she thought of the extra money the promotion would bring. Now she could afford to hire a private investigator. Philip had a six-year-old son. Her only family was the sister she had left behind in Detroit.

She checked her makeup in the rear-view mirror. For a moment, she saw her mother's eyes. A soft brown, just like hers. Mom had been lovely, even after the chemo.

"Take care of Lindsey," she had said before she died. "She isn't... like you. Not strong." The words came out haltingly but distinctly.

"I will." It was a promise Erica had not been able to keep, and knowing that had tormented her the last twelve years.

As soon as she got settled at her new desk, she did a search. Charlie Ellis of C. Ellis Services specialized in missing persons. Their fees seemed reasonable. When she called, they arranged to meet over the weekend to go over the case.

The quiet confidence in Charlie's voice gave Erica fresh hope. After putting down her cell, she dared to believe that she would see her sister again. Whatever it took, no matter what it cost, she would find her. Philip's words about catching up with his brother echoed in her mind.

She and Lindsey had _years_ to catch up on.

## Chapter Nine

A Mack truck rumbled past the hotel window, startling Lindsey awake. Still lying in bed, she blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings. As a small Colonial-style dresser and drapes with a rose pattern swam into view, it all came back. They had chosen the Winchester Inn because of its location: on a busy thoroughfare halfway between their homes in Willowdale and Swansea. For her, it was only a thirty-minute bus ride away.

She must have dozed off. But where was Alex?

Although the mattress still bore the faint indentation of his form, the other side of the bed was empty. A piece of paper stretched ominously across his pillow. He had left her a note.

She studied it for a moment, willing the characters to tell her what they meant. His handwriting sloped more sharply with the last lines, as if he had grown impatient. She could make out only two letters at the end of one word - "ry." Didn't that spell sorry? In frustration, she crumpled the sheet and tossed it on the floor.

Obvious, wasn't it? He got what he wanted - after all, they had made love twice. Why had she believed he was different, that he actually cared?

She turned towards the upholstered chair that had held his clothes less than an hour ago. Completely bare.

Feeling bereft and betrayed, she brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them. This was so much worse than all the men who had paid her and then left. Their purpose was clear from the start. They didn't hold her close, look into her eyes or listen to everything she said as if it mattered. She sobbed for a few minutes, letting the silence absorb her sorrow.

Afterwards, a glance at the oval mirror in the room revealed a tear-streaked face and smudged mascara. How she looked felt irrelevant; it was over. She pulled out a comb to untangle her long hair and ignored the rest.

Now she couldn't wait to leave.

The downstairs lobby was deserted, save for a middle-aged clerk. He didn't even look up as she headed for the door. The dark paneled walls created shadows everywhere. What she had earlier found charming now felt foreboding.

Near the entrance, a tapestry depicted noblemen on steeds, galloping into the forest with a pack of hounds. Lindsey shivered, feeling sorry for the horses whose flanks were flailed by riding crops, and even sorrier for the hapless fox trying to outrun them all.

Nowhere to go but home. As she walked towards the bus stop, she felt as desperate as that fox. Life with Kurt was becoming increasingly stressful, they couldn't have children, and now the man she was growing fond of had ditched her like a pile of trash. With every step, her heart grew heavier.

A gust of wind blew strands of hair across her face. She pushed them aside. Alex had said he loved her hair - its fragrance, the silky texture, even its rich brown color. At least he had found her attractive. But who needed the complications of dating a married woman?

Someone honked. She glanced up at the dark blue sedan coming towards her. A Toyota Camry, just like the car Alex drove. The late day sunshine reflected off the windshield, making it impossible to see the driver's face.

The window lowered.

"Where are you off to?" Alex asked, looking perplexed. "I thought you could stay 'til five." He leaned over to unlatch the door on the passenger's side.

Lindsey gave him a shaky smile as she climbed in. "I thought you weren't coming back."

"Didn't you see my note?" he said. "I figured you might be hungry, so I picked up something at the deli down the road." The food smells from several paper bags on the back seat made her salivate.

"You're right - I'm famished."

She remained silent as Alex manoeuvred into the parking lot behind the Winchester Inn. Of course she would have to explain, but it could wait until they were back inside. The clerk barely raised an eyebrow as they headed for their room with the bags of take-out.

Alex unzipped his windbreaker as he carried their meal to the mahogany table near the window. The four-poster bed, with its tasselled bedspread, had lost its imposing look and seemed to welcome them back.

"I didn't know what you wanted. So I got pastrami on rye and on pumpernickel. Traditional coleslaw and the creamy kind," he said as he set out separate containers and packages.

She made her selections, realizing how much he wanted to please her.

He spied the ball of paper on the floor and picked it up. "What's wrong - did my attempt at poetry offend you?" He uncrumpled it and started to read, "Sleep on, my sweet angel, in all your naked glory."

Lindsey shook her head. "I thought you wrote _sorry_."

Alex frowned. "My handwriting can't be that bad. Didn't you read the rest? I told you why I left."

"I know," she said, lowering her eyes.

He smoothed out the rest of the paper and held it in her line of vision. "Read the last two lines."

After a lifetime of guesswork, this was easy. Squinting at the writing, she said, "You say to wait for you. That you're getting something to eat."

Sitting across from her at the table, he unwrapped a smoked meat sandwich. "Close, Lindsey, but not exactly what I wrote." After taking a few bites, he said, "My handwriting isn't the problem, is it?"

Upon pulling out his smartphone, he did a search. "Here's a passage from Steinbeck's East of Eden. Chapter 3. I'm enlarging the text for you. I want you to read it out loud."

She put down the forkful of coleslaw she was about to devour.

A wave of panic rose in her, the same way it had in grade school. Whenever she was asked to stand up and read a few paragraphs of some book, everything went blurry, just as it did now. The text on his small screen turned into an indecipherable jumble of words.

"I... can't."

He reached out to touch her wrist and said in a soft voice, "Try."

"A-ba Tak saw... a deer..." she faltered, attempting to sound out the words and failing. She handed the phone back to him.

Alex calmly read out, "Adam Trask was born on a farm on the outskirts of a little town." Then he printed something on the back of the sheet of paper.

"Can you read this word?"

She shook her head. "No."

"It spells _children_ ," he said. "Recognizing two consonants together is tough when you have dyslexia."

"Dys-lexia?" She tried out the word on her tongue. "I thought I was just slow. I barely got through primary and had to drop out of high school." She thought of all the times she had skipped class, pretended to be ill, or got scolded by the teacher for not focusing, when she couldn't do what all her classmates took for granted.

He motioned for her to continue eating. "People with dyslexia use their brains in a different way. The left brain is wired up for language, but they're using the right side when they read or write. That's why the letters get mixed up, especially letters like _b_ and _d_."

"You mean I have a condition? That I'm not stupid?" Enjoying the crunch of the coleslaw, she swallowed a few mouthfuls.

Alex gave her a quick hug. "You're one of the most intelligent women I know," he said as he sat back in his chair. "Dyslexia is a disorder. I think you have the most common type, which has to do with interpreting sounds."

As new possibilities swirled through her mind, her back straightened. "I want to read and write like a normal person. I can't even pass a driver's test. What should I do?"

While they finished their sandwiches, he told her that he would bring a phonics test for their next rendezvous. He also offered to tutor her himself. One of his previous students had dyslexia, and the high school where he taught carried the required materials. He frowned. "Why didn't one of your teachers pick up on it? You shouldn't have gone all this time without help."

Lindsey shrugged. "My mother got sick when I was only seven and died of breast cancer when I was ten. Everyone assumed I had emotional problems that affected my schoolwork." They couldn't be more different. Alex had a teaching degree and she couldn't even read a street sign or write a proper sentence. But seeing the concern in his eyes, she didn't feel ashamed.

When he joined her in bed later, he said, "It isn't too late, Lindsey. We'll work on it together."

The idea of overcoming her learning problems both terrified and excited her. "Are you sure? I don't know how quickly I'll - "

"Sh-h." He pressed an index finger to her lips. "You'll be fine. And I'm honored to have you as my student." Leaning over her, he kissed her cheek and added, "My gorgeous, private student."

This man's appreciation for her starkly contrasted with Kurt's attitude. Her husband was more and more distracted these days. Often she had to repeat something several times to get him to respond.

For the next while, they simply held each other as Alex rubbed her back in sensuous circles.

Afterwards, he drove her to Willowdale, parking a safe distance from her house.

"I'll miss you," she said. She always counted the days until they met. Alex finished classes early two afternoons a week and for now, that was all the time they had.

"Not as much as me." The intensity of his embrace left her breathless.

Back home, she figured she had a couple of hours before Kurt returned. Feeling tense again, she decided to run a bath. As she lathered herself in the tub, her wedding ring clinked against the porcelain, half covered in suds. The gold band mocked her. It was still as shiny as the day Kurt had slipped it on her finger.

Why couldn't things stay simple? Other couples had solid marriages. Her mind scrambled for an example. What about Peter and Ria? Lindsey had never seen her brother-in-law glance at another woman, no matter how much they quarreled.

Suddenly Kurt appeared in the doorway, his eyes following the pink contours of her flesh peeking through the suds. "Hold on and I'll join you. You can give me a scrub." He hung his jacket in the other room, then returned and let the remainder of his clothes fall in an untidy heap on the floor.

"The water's getting cold." Why couldn't he just leave her alone for once? And she resented the way he dropped his things on the floor for her to pick up later.

"So run some more in," he said. She was forced to pull up her legs to make room for him. As he settled into the tub, some water sloshed over the side. They both ignored it. Kurt slid a hand along her stomach and squeezed one of her breasts. When she complained he was hurting her, he reluctantly let go.

He shook a washcloth in her face. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

She soaped the cloth before washing him, starting with his feet. It was impossible not to compare his thick limbs with Alex's slim, well-defined legs. Runner's legs. Moving up to Kurt's thighs, she realized he was fully aroused.

Complaining that she was getting water-logged, she climbed out. _Let him lose the urge_ , she prayed. _I don't think I can do this, not so soon after being with Alex_.

"Wait for me in bed," he commanded as she towelled herself dry. "I won't be long."

His words fell like a death sentence. Lindsey was grateful that the bath had removed all traces of her earlier lovemaking. It didn't erase Alex from her mind, though, as Kurt came into the room naked.

His dark curly hair still damp, he joined her beneath the sheet. On familiar terrain, his fingers found her private parts and slid in and out a few times before they abruptly stopped. "Turn over."

Cringing inside, she did as she was told. Hating him and then herself for being subservient to his wishes, she let him enter from behind. At least it would be quick. He thrust a number of times before gasping in a final spasm of pleasure. Then he lowered himself beside her, struggling to catch his breath.

She felt like one of those inflatable dolls that served as receptacles for some men. He had made her his whore, even if he had given their relationship the respectability of marriage.

"We don't talk anymore," she said.

Kurt raised his head from the pillow. "What d'you want me to say - something soft and romantic? That only happens in the movies. You know how I feel."

"Do I?" She thought of the casual betrayals that had eventually driven her into an affair. "Then why do I feel so unappreciated?"

"Unappreciated? After everything I do for you?" He climbed on top of her now, pinning her beneath him. Then he sought her lips.

But she would not be silenced with a kiss. She twisted her neck to dodge his mouth. "You treat me like I have no brain. No mind of my own. Maybe it scares you." That was something she had realized in degrees over the years, after she stopped making allowances for his behavior.

"Shut up." His voice lowered to a growl.

"Why? Because I'm right?" Why should he demand the use of her body whenever he felt like it? Alex had shown her what it felt like to be well treated. To be respected. And she had new hope. Maybe she could learn to read and write like everyone else.

"Bitch." Without warning, Kurt's arm shot out. He slapped her with his open palm, not holding back. Her head reeled with the blow, which was cushioned by the pillow. All the same, a wave of pain started at her jawline and passed through her. She turned to face him. Opened her mouth to scream.

Then he slapped her again.

## Chapter Ten

Lindsey jerked upright in bed, gingerly touching her cheek. The imprint of his hand still stung and her head throbbed.

"Think that makes you a big man, Kurt? We both know what kind of men hit women." Tears spilling from her eyes, she bolted to the washroom.

He pounded on the door seconds later. "Lindsey, let me in."

"Go away. Haven't you done enough damage for one night?" In the mirror, a red splotch spread across one side of her face. She shrank back from her reflection and leaned against the far wall. This was the first time he had physically hurt her. But she had never confronted him before. And if it weren't for Alex, she realized, she wouldn't have pushed things now.

"Please Lindsey. Don't make me break down this door." Then, a moment later, "I'm sorry, sweetie. Let me talk to you, okay?"

The pleading in his voice made her soften a little. Could this be the same man? Her husband always demanded what he wanted. Hesitantly, she unlocked the door and let him in.

He examined her discolored cheek. "Aw, I can't believe I did that. I haven't been myself lately..."

The glistening in his eyes surprised her. In all the years she'd known him, she had never seen him cry. "That sounds like a sorry excuse. What's the matter with you, Kurt?"

His shoulders slumped. "It's the restaurant. We're still losing business. Every day I hope it's getting better, but we just sink deeper in the hole. Peter's talking about turning the place back into a hamburger joint." He took a deep breath before continuing. "That's not going to happen. But a few days ago, Bertrand quit."

Their head chef? For so long she had heard that no one came close to his culinary skill, especially when it came to his specialities like _canard à l'orange_ or _soufflé au Grand Marnier_. What was Le Courvoisier without him?

"Maybe he just wants more money," she said, recalling that the man had not received a raise this year.

Kurt groaned. "We're all tightening our belts to get through this. But Bertrand couldn't wait. L'Actuel offered him substantially more." His mouth tightened. "They'll live to regret stealing him, I can tell you that."

Lindsey met his eyes in the mirror. "Everyone can be replaced, isn't that what you always say?" Again she played the part of dutiful wife, saying the right things. She hated herself for it. He didn't deserve her support. _Why should I care after what he just did to me_?

"We got someone in from the Culinary Institute. The kid's green, but it's only temporary. When things pick up, we'll get someone with more experience." When he reached out to stroke her long hair, she flinched. He said, "Can we forget what happened before?"

"It's not that easy," she said, stepping back from him.

He dropped both hands to his side. "Fine. I'll sleep in one of the spare rooms tonight."

At breakfast the next morning, they drank their coffee in silence. Kurt cleared his throat. "Feel better this morning?"

"Yes." Her cheek had returned to its normal color and the headache had disappeared.

"It won't happen again," he promised before biting into a piece of toast.

Lindsey wanted to believe him. But he was under a lot of pressure and it didn't take much for him to lose control.

After Kurt left for work, she headed for the four bedrooms and bathroom on the top floor. Buying such a big house had been his idea. She was still in awe of its French doors and sweeping, circular staircase. Now she wondered how much longer they could afford the payments on this place. No point in worrying; her job was to keep everything clean. She vacuumed, dusted and scrubbed before tackling two loads of laundry. Housework always bored her, and her thoughts wandered to Alex. She had agreed to see him in three more days. The prospect filled her with nervous anticipation.

She needed a distraction and shopping was no longer an option. As a child she had liked to draw, and a few years ago, she took up sketching again. Little etchings of buildings, people she saw on the street, anything. Kurt had seen one of her sketches and pointed out the flaws. She was so hurt that she had torn it up. Now she retrieved her sketch pad and pens from the back of the hallway closet and drew the maple tree outside the living room window. The task fully absorbed her and the minutes flew by.

For dinner, Kurt brought home leftovers from the restaurant: rack of lamb with grilled veggies. Although Le Courvoisier had cut back on the number of meals prepared, food was still going to waste.

"We fired another busboy," he said with a grimace when they sat down together. The tension was noticeable in his bunched-up shoulders. "Peter caught him stealing the silverware."

"Do you need to replace him?"

"Not the way things are going," he said. Then his face brightened. "What we need is an awesome review. I invited those food bloggers to come in for a free meal. If they can give L'Actuel top marks, we should blow them away."

She had to admire his sense of enterprise. How could she stay angry with him while he struggled so hard to keep things together?

That night, he again used the single bed in the spare room. When Lindsey looked in on him, one foot hung from the mattress and the cover trailed over the floor.

Lindsey nudged him to come back to their room. It seemed pointless for him to be so uncomfortable when they had a king-sized bed. To her relief, he quickly fell back asleep beside her. Familiarity took over. He was still her husband, and she found comfort in the constant rise and fall of his chest.

The following day, she cleaned the kitchen counters and ceramic tiles before dusting the living room furniture. As she started on the bookshelves, she put on the stereo, tuning into a station that played relaxing music. She froze as _A Whiter Shade of Pale_ came on.

She remembered how closely she and Alex had danced in the privacy of his home on the night they met. Was this some kind of sign that they were meant to be together?

In the short time they had known each other, he had given her a taste of a loving intimate relationship. He asked for her opinions, and tried to please her. With Kurt, she increasingly played a superficial role. She had always catered to his whims, in or out of the bedroom. Her feelings or thoughts didn't matter.

As the song ended, she wiped away a tear. Didn't she deserve to be heard? To be cherished?

An affair could only complicate things, but marriage to Kurt felt more and more stifling and she needed an outlet. At times like this, she really missed Erica. Her older sister had always been there for her, knowing exactly what to say. She had warned her about their stepfather, too. If only she had listened.

But if Erica were here, I wouldn't have made such a mess of my life. Or become so dependent on Kurt for everything.

The radio announcer now mentioned a psychic fair at the Metro Convention Centre. "Ladies, if you're into crystal balls or palmistry, this is for you. Consult psychic readers, mediums, and clairvoyants to see what's in store for your future."

Maybe she should go. Or not. She was still undecided the next morning, when Alex sent her a text. He asked if she could come to the inn an hour earlier on Friday so they would have time to work together. He had gotten all the materials.

She had to find out if she really had dyslexia and if she could be helped. Even if she stayed with Kurt, she wanted to learn to read and write properly so she could work.

At the end of his text, Alex wrote, _Can't wait 2 C U again_.

Warmed by his words, she painstakingly texted back that she would be there earlier and added a series of x's and o's to let him know how she felt.

No more deliberating. She rode the subway downtown and paid the entrance fee for the psychic fair. Dozens of visitors jammed the aisles, lining up at different booths. She couldn't make out most of the signs but could see that some people offered astrology charts or other written material that she would not be able to understand.

She walked up to someone sitting at a table with a pack of tarot cards. Her hair was a frizzy mass of orangey-red streaked with gray, giving her a _wild woman_ look. On the plus side, she charged only $30.

"Have a seat," the card reader said, motioning to the other makeshift chair. "We'll do the Celtic Cross. Keep your question in mind as you shuffle."

"I don't have any questions." This was pathetic, needing a stranger to give her guidance on her personal life.

"Of course you do, or you wouldn't be here," the woman said. Her piercing blue eyes seemed to see straight through her. She instructed her to shuffle the worn cards before cutting them three times with her left hand.

Lindsey sat down and did as she asked. She thought of her rendezvous with Alex tomorrow and wondered if she would ever be happy.

She watched, fascinated, as long fingers deftly placed the cards in the pattern of a cross, with additional cards laid vertically on the right.

Frowning at the cards, the woman said, "Someone has a strong influence on you, someone ambitious and materialistic." She pointed to a card of the Devil.

Lindsey nodded, thinking of Kurt. "Go on."

She indicated another card showing a man hanging upside down. "You're feeling trapped, thinking there's nowhere to turn." Quickly she moved on. "King of Cups, next to a Ten of Cups. You will find happiness with another man. He's fair-haired. Also kind and thoughtful."

Alex had light brown hair. And hadn't he offered to tutor her?

The tarot reader peered at the surrounding cards. "The way won't be easy. Trouble lies ahead." She gasped at the last card, the Tower. Flames came from a high window, as people plummeted towards the ground. "Be careful or you will lose everything. This one means business."

Frightened by the fortune teller's words, Lindsey paid her and hurried towards the exit. This had been a bad idea. Instead of finding peace of mind, she felt more unsettled now than when she came.

As she returned home, she considered the card reading. If Kurt suspected her of cheating, there was no telling what he might do. Maybe the safest option was to give up Alex. Not right away, though. She had to find out more about her literacy problem. She owed it to herself.

Last night, Kurt had clung to her in his sleep. He needed her now. Le Courvoisier had been a dream come true for him, and everything he had achieved was turning to dust. Her support would help him through these difficulties. Get him back on solid ground even if he had to start all over again.

Years ago, he had rescued her from a path of self-destruction. Saved her life.

Now it was time for her to return the favor.

## Chapter Eleven

When Lindsey first met Kurt, she was eighteen and a veteran of the streets.

Perspiration trickled down her back as she stood at her corner on the Woodward Corridor. Detroit had been muggy all summer but tonight felt unbearable. She looked to the skies, hoping for rain. As if someone heard her, thunder rolled overhead and a few drops splattered the pavement. Her feet ached in the stilettos. She just wanted to make some money, go home and do a line.

Coke made it better; the rush even allowed her to ignore the hunger pangs. More and more often these days, she had no appetite for food. Just as well, since she couldn't afford to put on weight in this business.

A silver Kia slowed as it approached her. Business had lagged lately and she prayed it would stop. To get closer to the driver, she stepped off the curb and almost lost her balance in the heels. The man had to be a tourist. He looked much younger than the johns she normally serviced and wore a business suit. She saw a strong jawline and intense brown eyes that swept over her scantily-clad body.

"Miserable night, isn't it?" she said. "You - uh - want some company?" The rain pelted her now, plastering the tank top to her skin and clearly outlining her breasts. Apart from her long dark hair, they were her biggest assets. Fleetingly, she wondered if he could be a cop. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

"How much?" he asked, opening the passenger side for her.

Lindsey slid in beside him, more confident now. The inside of his hatchback was spotless. That, along with his clean-cut good looks, reassured her. She decided to trust her instincts.

"One hundred dollars straight. Fifty for a BJ. And I don't do... anything kinky."

"Where do we go?" As his windshield wipers worked furiously, he continued driving down the street. Only the way he gripped the steering wheel gave any indication of what he was feeling.

"I have a room," she said, "but we have only twenty minutes. I share it with another woman and she'll be back by then." A lie, of course. She couldn't remember when Carol said she'd be back. But they always checked up on each other. A few psychos and whore-bashers roamed the streets here. Just last week a hooker on the next block had her throat slashed.

His lip curled with distaste. "I don't like being rushed. I have a better idea. There's a place I passed a while back."

This was against the rules, but maybe he would be generous and she could pocket enough for the night. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She closed her eyes until it passed. It would be better once she got her fix.

A few minutes later, they pulled up at the Murray Hill Motel on Eight Mile Road. As he registered, she watched raindrops bounce off the asphalt. Big ones, small ones - they all merged into the wet. Some got swallowed by puddles, as if they had never existed. She didn't know why, but it saddened her. Then he was back.

As he led her to their room on the second floor, she checked her instincts again. Men like him didn't need to pay for sex. What was his angle? She felt the tenseness in his quick stride. Whatever business he wanted with her, she imagined it wouldn't take long.

Their room was sparse - a double bed with a mirrored dresser, with a bathroom to one side - but the carpet looked freshly vacuumed and the tub sparkled.

She sat passively on the bed as he undressed her. In a scenario she had seen all too often, she watched him remove the gartered stockings, then pull down the short skirt.

His own clothes peeled off with haste. Before he could take things further, she handed him a condom.

"For your safety," she said. Of course, it was also for hers. Most johns accepted the protection these days, not willing to risk a sexually-transmitted disease, especially if they were married. This man wore no ring, though that didn't mean anything.

As he slipped on the condom, she glanced at his muscular chest, taut stomach and stocky legs. A welcome change from the fat, hairy-bellied men she was used to. But all that mattered in the end was how much they spent on her.

Under the sheet, he pulled her to him. Ran his fingers through her loose hair. Then with a groan, he pressed his lips to hers.

Lindsey twisted her head to one side. Didn't he know that kissing was reserved for boyfriends? It was the only part of herself she had any control over and she guarded it fiercely.

"I don't kiss," she said. The words rang out more forcefully than she'd intended.

Tilting her chin, he forced her to meet his brooding eyes. "You don't look like you're enjoying this much. Do you want me to go?"

"No," she said quickly. "I'm... just warming up." She couldn't let him leave; then she wouldn't get paid. Taking a deep breath, she molded herself to him and caressed his back with long, lingering strokes. Although he was fully erect, he seemed reluctant to follow through. Maybe a little conversation would relax him.

"By the way, I'm Holly," she said, giving her street name. "I haven't seen you around. You from Detroit?"

He pulled away from her slightly. "I used to live here, but I'm in Toronto now. I came back for a funeral. And you can call me Kurt."

His deep voice carried the assurance of someone who knew his place in the world, someone with purpose and drive. As she waited for his next move, she studied his face. Kurt's complexion was a couple of shades darker than hers, and his eyebrows formed a thick, unwavering line. Not the type of guy you'd mess with.

Cupping one of her breasts, he tested its fullness before kneading it with precision. Then he buried his face against her chest and wrapped his arms around her. For a few moments, he just held her, seeming to draw sustenance from her very bones. "You feel great. I really need someone like you tonight."

She thought he must have lost someone dear to him at that funeral, but dared not ask. Clients didn't like getting too personal.

Not long afterwards, he mounted her in the missionary position. Only a few rapid thrusts, but when he withdrew, her muscles contracted painfully. The man was built like a stallion. Tomorrow she'd need several hot baths and lots of lotion before turning any more tricks.

He returned from washing up to find her hugging the blanket. "You can't be cold. The air conditioning is hardly working."

The room had grown stuffy and her slippery skin was still coated with the heat they had generated. All the same, her teeth chattered.

"I m-must be coming down with something." No point in mentioning her coke habit or the pills and booze she used to bring her down. Without the drugs, she couldn't bear waking up to another day.

"I have a bottle of cognac in my car," he said. "I always stock up on liquor in the US because of the lower prices. Why don't I get it? I saw an ice machine outside."

When he left, she listened to voices coming from the next room. A man and woman argued about which TV channel to watch. She envied them. What did it feel like, having an ordinary life? Being part of a couple?

Kurt was back. She gratefully sipped from the plastic glass he held out to her. The ice cubes had not yet chilled the cognac and it burned as it slid down her throat.

"Thanks." Feeling warmer now, she walked over to the dresser to collect the bills he'd left out. As she counted them, she frowned. "I said one hundred. This is twice that much." A shiver passed through her. He probably had a hidden agenda, and she was in no condition for anything weird.

"I want you to stay the night," he said. "I don't feel like sleeping alone. Will that cover it?"

She nodded, stunned. Part of her was glad for the money; another part alarmed at his request. In her four years on the street, she had not once slept with a client.

The liquor began to give her a buzz, distancing her from her thoughts. Even the soreness between her legs was fading. The rain on the window pane drummed a steady rhythm, tempting her to stay and get some sleep.

"All right," she said, "but I need to make a phone call. And you have to drive me back in the morning."

Taking her cell out from her purse, she phoned Carol and left a message.

She expected Kurt to have at least one more go at her. Instead, he spooned her when she turned her back to him. She drifted to sleep with his arm around her waist and his breath on her neck.

The next morning, he invited her to join him for breakfast before they went their own ways. They decided on a near-by McDonald's.

As he ordered for her, she slid into a booth. Several people stared at her before turning away. Of course the black silk stockings, stilettos and tight clothes advertised her trade. She straightened in her seat, refusing to be typecast.

Kurt returned with a full tray. Placing a coffee and two Egg McMuffins before her, he said, "You better eat. I could feel you shaking all night." Noticing the looks they were getting, he took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It was tailor made, woven with a quality fabric, and almost completely covered her upper body.

Touched by his thoughtfulness, she pulled it more tightly around her. "I'm famished."

He paused halfway through his cheeseburger. "You're a lot prettier without all that makeup. Holly, a girl like you must have options. Why do you do it?"

The coffee left a bitter taste in her mouth. Why had she come? She should have insisted that he drive her straight back to Woodward Avenue. "I don't owe you any explanations."

He reached out to trap her hand beneath his on the table. "Don't be mad. I'm trying to understand."

She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "You can't, and I'm not about to tell you my life story in ten minutes." He had no right to judge her or to feel superior, but they all did. With her peripheral vision, she caught a few more heads turned their way. These were families or couples, eating together as they always did. In spite of Kurt's jacket, she felt more exposed here than she did on her street corner.

When he dropped her off where he had first met her, her shoulders slumped in relief. Standing on the sidewalk, she watched his car get swallowed up in traffic. She had never been so glad to see anyone leave. All the same, Kurt's departure left her with a sense of despair.

Today she had shared an ordinary event like the morning meal with a man. Why had she gone along with it, when someone like her could never lead a normal life? She wiped away a tear as she made her way back to the flat she called home.

Kurt's question bothered her more than he knew. In recent years, her existence had taken on the surreal quality of a nightmare. The drugs forced her to make all the money she could, and her body was the only barter she possessed.

## Chapter Twelve

"Carol?" An eerie silence met Lindsey when she stepped into their small flat. The fan in the kitchen blew around the humid air, as ineffectual as always. But why was it on, if no one was home?

Her roommate's syringe and needle lay in full view on the table. They had never been busted, but Carol was getting careless with her heroin habit. Wherever she had gone, she didn't have time to inject.

Then Lindsey saw small pools of blood on the chair and on the floor. Her heart thumping in her throat, she did her best to clean it up. Had someone broken in and attacked her?

When she checked her cell, there was one missed message. While she slept with Kurt at the Murray Hill Motel, someone from the local hospital had called. She said that Carol was in emergency care.

Lindsey boarded the next available bus to the hospital. Lately Carol had complained of heavy menstrual bleeding. Her condition had stopped her from working, and it seemed she was always tired. Carol's health had never been good. She seemed to catch every cold or flu virus going around, and often had night sweats.

At the hospital, the smell of ammonia made her wrinkle her nose as she strode down a hallway to her friend's room. She really hoped this wasn't serious.

Carol looked frail against the whiteness of the sheet. Her blond, spiky hair now lay flat against her head, and intravenous tubes fed into arms already scarred and discolored with track marks.

She gave Lindsey a shaky smile. "They're fattening me up. Getting me ready for surgery."

"An operation? What for?" Lindsey sank into a nearby chair, trying to stay calm.

"This time the bleeding wouldn't stop. They told me I have fibroids." Her face brightened. "They're using laparoscopy to remove them. If I get operated on today, I can go home tomorrow. Wish me luck?" She reached for Lindsey's hand.

"You'll get through it," Lindsey said, alarmed by her feeble grip. "And I'll be here when you wake up."

The hysterectomy was a success but Carol looked crestfallen as they shared a taxi home. "They told me I can never have babies now," she said. Later, she lay on her narrow bed with the sheet drawn up under her chin. "You know, I always wanted to be a mother." She stared at the cracks in the ceiling.

Seriously? When she was a junkie and sold her body to make money? Lindsey bit her tongue and told her not to think about things she couldn't change. She held out a cup of instant chicken noodle soup. "Here, drink up. Careful, it's hot."

She couldn't help worrying. Carol had partially paid for her operation with her savings; the rest had to be paid in instalments. As it stood, they barely kept up with the rent for this dingy apartment.

Carol sat up to sip from the steaming cup. "There's something I haven't told you. They tested me at the hospital. I'm HIV positive, probably have been for years. That explains why my immune system is so weak." Her eyes closed. "I can't afford the medication, but I'm pretty sure I have AIDS."

"But you always insisted on condoms." Lindsey's thoughts scrambled, looking for a way out.

"It could have been a dirty needle. I wasn't that careful a few years back. Then, too, it could have been a john." Carol's voice faded to a whisper. "I thought you should know. If you want to leave, I'll understand."

"I'm not going anywhere." A lump in Lindsey's throat made it difficult for her to speak. Of course she would look after her. And she would have to work twice as hard to pay for her medical bills. "Why don't you get some rest? I'm going back to work."

"Maybe you'll run into that man again," Carol said. "The one who kept you for the night." She handed her the empty cup and lay back on the pillow.

"Fat chance. He went back to Canada." As Lindsey zipped herself into a leather skirt, she realized that she didn't want to talk about Kurt. In odd moments, her mind returned to him, no matter how pointless it was. She hated putting herself out there again, but they needed the money.

First she needed to do a line of coke. She reached for the cellophane bag taped under the kitchen sink. Enough for one hit. Her fingers trembled slightly as she shook out enough white powder to form a line on an old newspaper. Then she rolled up a dollar bill and inhaled the drug, one nostril at a time. The powder flooded her passages and left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. Soon a tingling sensation spread through every cell.

As she applied her makeup in their cramped washroom, the pupils in the mirror looked immense. When beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead, she casually brushed them off. Cocaine often gave her the sweats. After painting her lips crimson, she frowned at her reflection. Here she was, pumping herself up just to go out and hustle.

Carol was all she had now; she couldn't afford to lose her.

She recalled her mother's long struggle with cancer. It had taken months to accept her loss. And she couldn't have gotten through it without Erica's help.

Lindsey finished putting on her mascara when she heard Carol cough in the next room. Her friend had fallen asleep; she went over to tuck the thin blanket around her shoulders. For a moment, she stared down at her. How long had they been together now? Had to be close to two years.

Like her, Carol had run away from home at a young age. Her broken nose bore testament to years of physical abuse from her father and older brother. Lindsey told herself it wasn't that different from the sexual abuse she had endured after Erica left.

They had met while working for the same pimp, off Michigan Avenue. Dave got them settled into a two-bedroom flat, where he soon sent customers for them both. The two women became fast friends, sharing makeup and clothes. Sometimes they even serviced men at the same time in their adjoining rooms.

When Dave's gambling debts got out of hand, he was stabbed by someone he couldn't pay back. While he was in hospital, still in critical condition, Carol suggested that they move across town and find their own clients. Using funds that she had somehow squirreled away, she found this flat off the Woodward Corridor.

Lindsey had feared that Dave would come looking for them once he recovered. Instead, he died from his injuries. Gambling was such an awful addiction. It made you do crazy things.

Her stepfather had gotten in over his head too. Erica tried to warn her, pointing out the racing forms lying around the house and the late-night poker games. Telling her about the huge wad of bills at the table at those games. Richard had even taken Mom's jewelry. Things only got worse.

If only Lindsey had believed her sister, they could have stopped the abuse they each experienced. Or at least stayed together.

Now she watched Carol sleep. Tears stung her eyes. She was dying, wasn't she? They had both seen the suffering that AIDS brought: disease after disease took over as the immune system collapsed. Again she vowed to look after her, no matter how sick she got.

She never got the chance. Later that week, she came home in the early morning to find Carol unconscious in bed. A used needle lay beside her. She had deliberately OD'd. The lines on her face had smoothed out, as if she had escaped to a kinder place.

In the ambulance, Lindsey gripped her cold hand. _You can't die. We didn't even say goodbye_. But it was already too late; they had been unable to get a pulse.

Later, she reluctantly returned to their empty flat. The stench of cooked fish hung in the stairwell, but she hardly noticed. As she pushed their door open, it creaked on its hinges. A few moments passed before she could force herself to go inside.

The place seemed to echo with their voices - talking, arguing, laughing. Gathering Carol's things, she found herself clinging to an old rib-necked sweater her friend had often worn. She sat in the middle of the room and sobbed. But who was she grieving for? Suddenly the realization hit.

_Carol's out of her misery now, and I'm still here_.

## Chapter Thirteen

Lindsey shielded her eyes from the headlights beaming towards her. Everything was so sharp and clear. Before coming out, she had done a line of coke. She shivered. Even standing here in the night air, waiting for the next trick, was better than being home alone. Everywhere in the flat, she saw Carol's ghost.

The silver hatchback braked beside her.

"Holly! I've been looking for you." Kurt leaned out the window. In his dark business suit, he looked both subdued and lethal.

"Oh - it's you. What brings you back to Detroit?" she said, feeling rattled at the sight of him. She had dreamed of seeing him again, and now her fantasy had become real. Only he wanted something from her - all her instincts warned her to be careful.

"The reading of my mother's will," he said. "I'm heading back to Toronto tomorrow, but right now I feel like some company." His intense eyes lingered on her face. "If it's all right, I'd like to drive around and just talk." He reached over to push open the passenger door. "I'll pay for your time."

This was so out of her depths. He wanted her company, not sex, and he would pay for it. Had she heard right? He had paid her generously the last time; how could she refuse? Glad to escape the chill, she slipped into the seat beside him.

"I'm sorry about your mother." She remembered his mentioning a funeral.

His spine went rigid. "Don't be. I haven't seen her in years." They sat in silence as the car sped through the night.

As they travelled the boulevards, different-sized buildings seemed to stand like sentinels, silently watching them pass. Lindsey's stomach felt queasy; she willed herself to relax. Soon they headed south towards the river and turned on West Jefferson. For someone who was driving aimlessly, Kurt seemed to know where he was going.

Lindsey's feelings were confirmed when they pulled into a parking lot at Riverside Park. At this hour, the place looked deserted.

"I used to come here as a boy," he said. "Let's go for a little walk. I want to see the water." Before she could protest, he was helping her out of the car. Then he steered her towards the Detroit River on a path slick with fallen leaves.

Fear squeezed her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. They were completely alone here; even the half-naked trees looked sinister in the dark. Maybe he intended to kill her. After all, who would miss a prostitute?

"I don't feel safe here," she said. "Can you take me back?"

He stared at her. "You're safe with me. And your nose is running."

After he handed her a tissue, she blew her nose. The constant drip was an annoying side effect of her drug usage which she had learned to put up with.

Moments later, she breathed in the dankness of the river. As they stood on the bank, the water reflected only a sliver of moon. Most of the sky was clouded over. Looking up, she saw a steady stream of cars on the bridge leading to Windsor. So what if he murdered her? She was two weeks late with the rent and didn't make enough to support herself. A wave of despair overwhelmed her. Her life was over, had probably been over for a long time. She longed to join Carol, wherever she had gone.

Kurt drew her closer to him. Nestled against him, she could feel his body heat and the strength in his arm. If he was planning to kill her, she hoped it would be quick.

"Why did you take me here?" she finally said. "You know what I do." In spite of her anxiety, she drew a perverse sense of comfort in his proximity. She hated being alone.

His jaw clenched. "I know how you make money, but you don't belong on the street. You lack the edge. I think you're from a middle-class family where things went horribly wrong."

As he gazed into her eyes, he seemed to see past the years of despair and abuse to the trusting teenager she once was. She had to turn away.

She shrugged. "It's easy money."

"For drugs? I don't know what you're on, but you were hyped to your eyeballs when I picked you up tonight. Is it worth it? One day you'll get in the wrong car, and you'll get knifed, Holly. Or is that your real name?"

"It's Lindsey," she said, realizing that he wasn't going to kill her after all. It disappointed her, because now she would have to do it herself.

He told her that he liked Holly better. But what did that matter when she'd never see him again?

"You don't understand what it's like to sell yourself just to eat. Drugs come with the territory." After Carol had died, Lindsey had flushed the rest of her coke down the toilet. She managed to stay clean for two whole days. Then the craving drove her to the dealer again.

Suddenly Kurt gripped her shoulders. "Come to Toronto with me. I'll get you into rehab, if you'll go through with it."

The thought of leaving here gave her a momentary lift; Detroit held nothing but painful memories. But give up drugs? That was asking a lot.

"I don't know if I can do it," she said. "But I'm willing to give it a shot."

"Fair enough. If it doesn't work out, I'll drive you back to Detroit." Now he headed for the car with a purposeful stride and she struggled to keep up in her stilettos. He had thrown her a life-line. She had to at least try to catch it.

Kurt went back to his hotel and she attempted to catch some sleep in the flat. In the morning, she tossed her best clothes and a few toiletries into a plastic bag. For a moment, she held a packet of white powder in her hand, weighing its value to her. Should she leave it behind? Impulsively, she wrapped the packet in a sweater and put it in the bag. The idea of going cold turkey filled her with trepidation.

Shortly she joined Kurt on the drive to Canada. They passed through Windsor before taking the 401 to Toronto. She dozed in her seat. When they stopped for a late breakfast, he told her his plans. His mother had left him money, enough to start his own business.

"I worked in restaurants since I turned seventeen," he said. "Working for someone else isn't for me. I need to run my own place." His dream was to eventually offer fine French cuisine. It would take him years, but he sounded determined.

Of course it was impossible, but she wished she could be around to see him succeed.

They pulled up in front of a sprawling house in Don Mills. They had to pick their way through the yard, with its unmown grass and scattered leaves, to get to a side door.

His basement apartment was meticulously clean. Lindsey could almost make out her reflection on the linoleum. She saw no clutter and only the faintest evidence of dust. He had only a small sofa in his living area. His double bed looked inviting, with its fluffy pillows and thick comforter, and the overturned sheet smelled reassuringly of fabric softener. She stood uncertainly in front of the bed, not sure that he wanted her in it.

She yawned. "So where do I crash?"

"With me," he said. "I'm bushed, too. I'll look into the rehab center tomorrow."

She hadn't packed her pills. Xanax or Valium always brought her down and helped her sleep. She would have to do without. Snuggling close to Kurt, she lay still until his chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm. Then she crossed her arms over her chest. Rocking slightly, she tried to ease her discomfort until she fell into a restless sleep.

When she awakened to the smell of fried eggs and onions, she felt no real hunger. A little blow should smooth out the edges. Surely she could get one more hit before going into rehab. Anxiously, she rummaged through the clothes in her bag. Where the hell was it?

"Looking for something?" Kurt leaned against the door jamb, watching her. "Let me save you the bother. It's gone - all of it."

"You - went through my stuff?" He had no right, she thought furiously. Then shame flooded her, knowing that her weakness was obvious. "I was going to get rid of it."

His dark eyes narrowed. "Of course you were, straight up your nose. I meant what I said. No more drugs." Heading for the kitchen, he called over his shoulder. "Better eat something. It may be the last real food you get for a while."

As she picked at her plate, she heard him on his cell. He was calling around to see what was available for rehab. She understood these were private centers charging anywhere from $250 to $400 a night. Why was he helping her? And how could he afford it?

"I won't be able to pay you back," she whispered into his ear when he found space in a slightly more affordable center.

He brushed her off as he continued to make arrangements, saying he would use some of his inheritance money.

They said very little as he drove her to a rehabilitation center in Etobicoke. The red brick building sat at the far end of a fairly deserted street, surrounded by a wire fence. Lindsey felt as exposed as the maple trees in the yard, whose leaves had been stripped by the autumn wind.

A young man in a blue smock filled out her admittance form. His questions focused on what she had been taking and for how long.

"Our minimum program is 30 days," he said, speaking to Kurt. "We use group therapy and social workers help with specific problems." His gaze went back to Lindsey. "No visitors, no phone calls. Just the program. It isn't easy, but it works if you really want to get clean."

"Okay," she said, her voice barely above a squeak. The knot in her stomach tightened. She had just accepted what felt like a death sentence, but she couldn't disappoint Kurt. For some reason, he believed in her.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of discomfort and aching need. She had cramps, then diarrhea, and found herself bathed in perspiration. Normal withdrawal symptoms from the drugs and alcohol, she was told. _Normal_? She felt like laughing, but it hurt too much. The worst part was the constant craving. Even when she managed to sleep in the cubicle they called a room, she dreamt of snorting coke. It was all she thought about.

She couldn't eat much at all. In spite of vitamins and mineral supplements, Lindsey felt increasingly weak. She forced herself to sit through therapy sessions, too distracted to follow the conversation. Other participants looked thin, even gaunt, from months or years of drug abuse. She was looking into a mirror at her future if she continued down that path. And it made her more determined to break her habit.

_Why am I here_? she often asked herself. _I'll probably never see Kurt again. He can do a lot better than a two-bit whore from Detroit_. The thought of returning to her former life made her shudder. Yet what else was there? She had next to no education and no skills. She found herself dreading the date of her release.

A week before her release, her appetite began to return and she ate heartily. The soups and sandwiches were still tasteless but at least she was able to hold everything down. Had she won, then, against the monkey on her back? The real test, she knew, would come on the outside.

Finally it was time to leave the center. She had done her thirty days and followed the program as best as she could. She gathered her few belongings and tidied her room.

"We closed out your file this morning. You're all paid up," the admissions clerk said when she stopped by his office. His handshake was firm and warm. "Goodbye and good luck."

Lindsey walked haltingly towards the exit. Kurt had obviously paid for her stay and then left. He had done his good deed. Frowning, she opened the door to the outside world. She didn't even have money for a taxi. But what difference did it make? She had nowhere to go.

### ***

On the stairs, a broad-shouldered man held up a large umbrella against the drizzle. Kurt.

He glanced over her. "You look thinner," he said. "I've been following your progress, Holly. These must have been the longest weeks of your life. How d'you feel?" Her arm firmly tucked under his, he led her to his parked car.

At the center, she had gotten used to everyone calling her by her real name. _Holly_ had disappeared along with her former life. But he could call her whatever he wished. She had never been so relieved to see anyone.

_Get real_ , she told herself. _He's only making sure I'm settled somewhere_.

"Like a kid that's been let out of school. Where are you dropping me off?"

Kurt started the ignition. "My place. While you were away, I bought a restaurant. Just a hamburger-and-pizza joint, but it's in a great location. Right downtown. It's keeping me busy. You can make yourself useful looking after things at home." As they headed down the street, he said, "We're stopping at a clinic on the way. I think you should get checked out. Get a clean bill of health."

She had no choice but to submit to testing. What if she had caught the virus from Carol and was HIV-positive? Did she even want to know? And the threat of Herpes or other sexually transmitted diseases had always hung over her. Until now, she had refused to think about it. What good would it have done when her stock in trade continually put her at risk?

A few days later, they received the results of her tests. All she had was a minor yeast infection; easy enough to clear up. Now she was grateful that most of her clients had either preferred fellatio or worn condoms.

Her relationship with Kurt quickly became sexual. He was a demanding lover, insisting on trying different positions, even if she found them painful. Still, she did as he asked. He was her only port in the storm, and she needed to please him. Her biggest problem was his temper.

Some days she couldn't do anything right. He shouted at her if she left a smudge in the bathtub or overcooked his eggs. Why did he have to raise his voice to her? It made her feel so small. Even her tears made him angry. She found herself apologizing for inconsequential things. What if he threw her into the street? He didn't owe her anything. And he HAD paid for her rehab.

The next few months passed uneventfully. Lindsey began to find comfort in her daily routines. For once she was leading a balanced life, with the proper amount of food and rest. Maybe there were no highs, but she didn't miss the lows of her former existence. Then, on a raw February night, everything changed.

As she waited for Kurt to come home, frigid air leaked through the walls into their apartment. The windows were only slightly warmer because of the plastic sheeting she had taped over them.

"This place feels like an ice box," he said after stamping the snow from his boots. "Are you sure you have the heat on?" His nose was red, his eyes puffy. That morning he had ignored her advice and gone to work with a temperature.

"You don't look so hot. Let me run you a hot bath. Then I'll bring you something to eat in bed."

"I can't wait to get out of this rat-hole. It's damn hot in the summer and friggin' cold in the winter." Cursing, he lowered himself into the bath which she had drawn. "Think you can manage my hair? Watch my eyes this time."

"Seems I can't do anything right," she said, stung by his criticism. Being stuck inside for days on end, limited to watching the occasional TV program, had left her frazzled.

"Sorry if I'm rough on you," he said as she lathered his head with shampoo. "Running the restaurant is stressing me out and I'm trying to make ends meet."

A little later, he drank a steaming bowl of her lentil soup. After finishing, he reached for her hand. "My life has never run this smoothly. I don't worry about having clean clothes to wear, and the nights are... much more enjoyable. You take better care of me than my mother ever did. If I had the flu, she just ignored it."

Lindsey sat on the edge of the bed, her hand still trapped in his. "Maybe she was busy."

He pulled her closer. "Yeah, busy with Peter. My brother got the choice piece of steak, his stupid drawings got plastered on the wall, and every time he sneezed, she was all over him. I was told to keep quiet."

"I thought you lived with your father."

"That was after my mother left with Peter." He had already told her that his father, a German immigrant who hated his factory job, liked using his fists. Even on his sons.

"I know you had a hard life," she said. "But I don't think I should stay here. I feel like a freeloader." Maybe she could find a job cleaning houses or waitressing, and get a room somewhere.

As he buried his face in her long hair, she could feel his breath on her neck.

"Would it make any difference if I asked you to marry me?" His voice was muffled but she heard the words distinctly.

Lindsey twisted away from him. "That's not funny." She had often wondered how he could bear making love to her. After all the men she had been with, she still felt unclean.

He straightened himself against the pillow and coughed. "Could you bring me some tea and honey? My throat hurts." When she came back with it, he said, "You've been off drugs almost five months. I don't think you'll go back. And if you do, we're through, no matter what ring is on your finger."

Slowly, she brought the cup to his lips. "Careful, it's hot."

She still didn't know what to make of his proposal, if that's what it was.

"I mean it," he said, meeting her eyes. "You're good for me. I want to make it permanent."

Forgetting about his flu, she leaned over to kiss him. Never had she imagined that he'd ask her to be his wife. He knew what she had been, and it was enough that he had paid for her rehab and given her a place to stay.

Later, much later, she realized that not one word of love had been spoken between them.

## Chapter Fourteen

After ten days, Philip's phone calls abruptly stopped. At first Erica felt relieved. He had called her every day since moving out of her apartment, and she had decided to ignore his messages. Last week, he had even shown up at The Chicago Times and waited for her to finish work. Furious that he wasn't respecting her need for space, she had avoided him by taking a back exit.

The sudden silence, although welcome, also unsettled her.

On a bright Monday morning at the office, she understood why. At a coffee station on the floor she shared with city reporting, she ran into Christine. The diminutive woman flashed her a smile and poured her some of the brew in the pot. "How's the new job?"

Erica detected no animosity in her cheerful tone. Had she finally come to terms with losing the promotion to her? She nodded as she accepted her filled mug. "I'm enjoying it. And I like working with Ryan." Why the chitchat when they had never been friends? As she turned to leave the small area, Christine blocked her way.

"I wanted to ask you something." She cleared her throat, seeming to search for words. "It's about Philip."

"Philip?" Hearing his name instantly put Erica on the alert. She had been so careful to keep her affair with him private.

Christine tossed back her mane of blond hair, professionally tapered to balance seduction with style. "I met him last Thursday in the lobby. He was disappointed when you didn't show up."

"I'm - we're - not seeing each other at the moment."

As she sipped from her mug, the other woman peered at her over the rim. "Why not? He's good-looking, quite charming and seems to do all right for himself."

Erica shifted her weight to her other leg, wanting to put an end to their conversation.

"I guess I'm not ready to commit, at least to him."

Christine looked relieved. Was she interested in him herself? The rumor mill had it that she had recently broken up with her live-in boyfriend, a successful photographer. Actually, that he had left her for a young model. And Erica had seen her notice on their community e-board, trying to sublet her luxury apartment.

Erica returned to her desk with mixed feelings. Philip was a very sexual man. Of course he'd be attracted to Christine. But she had extravagant tastes - top designer clothes, a Lexus, and an expensive lifestyle. Philip was now a single father still paying for the mortgage on a family home in Arlington Heights. Apart from the obvious, what could he possibly offer her?

Ryan came over, as always with a blue tooth over his left ear. "I just got a call from Highland Park High. They thanked us for our feature and said there's been a huge spike in enrolment for their adult education program."

"That's great, but we can't take credit for that, can we?" Erica tried not to smile. Other schools, as well as individual readers, had called in to praise her article on high school dropouts.

"Damn right we can," he said. "About time Life gets this kind of reaction. It's what we need here, something with heart. How's the next assignment going?" As he stood next to her desk, for a moment his long legs and lithe form reminded her of Philip. She felt a sharp pang of regret. Of course she missed him and his lovemaking, but that didn't mean she wanted to live with him. The thought of that much togetherness still made her cringe.

She glanced at her screen showing statistics on single working mothers. "I have all my data now. Interviewing starts tomorrow."

Ironic, wasn't it? Years ago, when her life was being pushed through a meat grinder, no one would listen to her. And now thousands of people read her words with their morning coffee.

"Erica, we don't give out medals for exhaustion," he said. "You're well on schedule, so why don't you knock off early today?"

"Sounds like a great idea." Erica gathered her things shortly after lunch. Her new boss must have noticed her hours - always first in, last out. The long hours helped her to get on top of her new job and distracted her from the changes in her personal life, but right now she was tired.

She tried not to think about Christine and whether she was dating Philip. There was no time to dwell on what-might-have-been. Her next feature required her full attention.

To working mothers fell the responsibility of running a household, paying bills, and caring for their children. Many of those without partners struggled without adequate child support. When she had canvassed support groups, including Parents without Partners, they provided her with a list of members willing to talk about their experiences.

Erica began the following morning with a black nurse. Past the sprawl of warehouses, muffler shops and endless rows of three-flats, she finally found her address in West Side.

Like the surrounding apartment buildings, the place was built of faded red brick. Getting out of the car, she heard the shouts of young children. A group of them played tag in the weak sunshine as she headed up the walkway.

"Who's there?" asked a wary voice on the intercom.

"Erica Bradford from The Chicago Times."

The door immediately buzzed to let her through. In the narrow corridor, strong food odors assailed her - a combination of cabbage, fish and Indian spices.

A woman in a belted housecoat waited in an open doorway. "Come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

Erica nodded, wanting to make her feel at home. The apartment was small but spotless, and the scent of lavender freshened the air. A pretty black girl sat in one corner, busy coloring.

"How old is your child?"

The nurse told her to ask her daughter as she put on the kettle.

At the question, the girl solemnly held up three fingers. Her luminous brown eyes seemed to swallow her face. "Wanna see my pichure?" She carefully ripped out a page from her coloring book and handed it to Erica. Bright streaks of yellow, green and blue dominated the sheet. Vibrant, happy colors.

Erica thanked her before turning to her mother. "Who looks after her when you're at work?"

"My neighbor, at least 'til she moves out next month." She sighed as she poured two cups of boiling water and stirred in the instant coffee. "That's my biggest problem. Not money, not time, because there's never enough anyhow, but finding someone I can trust to leave my little girl with."

"What about daycare?"

"What daycare?" the woman said as they sat at the table. "The affordable ones are full. Matter of fact, I'm on a waiting list for the Sunnyvale Daycare Center here in West Side. And now I hear they're closing."

Erica put down her cup. "Why, when there's so much demand?"

She shrugged. "Lack of money, I guess."

They chatted for a few more minutes before she looked at the clock on the wall. "I don't mean to rush you, but I have to get ready for work."

After thanking her for her time, Erica shook hands and wished her luck in finding another babysitter. She continued her interviews the rest of the day and well into the next.

A single mother of three spoke of constant fatigue - a common complaint. After putting in ten hours working and commuting every day, she barely had the energy to put food on the table.

"Now my son needs help with math. I wish I had time to sit with him, but God Almighty!" The woman threw up her hands in exasperation. "There's only so much I can do."

Safety nets, in most cases, did not exist. When babysitters cancelled out, these women had to stay home from work to be with their young children. Their ex-husbands or boyfriends, if any, rarely had weekday custody.

Erica decided to look into the Sunnyvale Daycare situation. Many working moms in West Side desperately needed the center to stay open.

When she mentioned the upcoming newspaper article, the director agreed to speak with her. Their funding problem, he said, had become acute. The municipal government covered only ten percent of their costs, and they could no longer afford to operate without sizable donations.

"We don't want to shut down," he told her, "but our lease expires at the end of this month. It'll be great if you can give us some publicity. More people should know."

Erica's story deadline was Friday. In the next few days, she pulled together a compelling feature, liberally sprinkled with anecdotes from her interviews. Sitting at her keyboard, she again saw the pride on the mothers' faces. In spite of all the hardships, most of them enjoyed being parents.

Her fingers paused on the keys. Soon she would be thirty and childless.

One of her interviewees had gotten pregnant through a sperm donor. She called her son "a blessing" and cheerfully juggled her schedule to accommodate his needs. Megan, too, had said she would consider artificial insemination if that was the only way she could have a family. At thirty-four, she worried about her advancing age. Infertility often became a problem as the years piled up.

On her drive home, Erica passed a baseball field hosting a junior game. The stands were filled with cheering spectators, most of them women. Undoubtedly mothers. As she weaved her way through the evening traffic, a question she had never asked herself went through her mind.

Would she wake up in ten years with nothing but her career, and feel regret?

## Chapter Fifteen

As Erica gazed out her living room window, a wave of melancholy swept over her. Rain fell in sheets, blurring the lines of a neighboring high-rise and filling the only visible patch of sky. She couldn't help thinking of all the rainy evenings she had spent with Philip.

To get out of her funk, she had put on Bach's Sonata in G Minor. The evocative sound of violin chords surrounded her. They were in the fast tempo of the fourth movement and the music now competed with Spike's screeching. The cockatiel perched on top of his cage as he sang, oblivious to being out of tune.

Maybe he was noisy sometimes, but she couldn't imagine living without him. When she went to freshen his seeds, the crested, orange-cheeked bird hopped on her shoulder. He gave her earlobe an affectionate tug. Then she sent him flying across the room, shrieking a complaint. Like a colorful boomerang, he swooped back, only to be sent careening again. On weekdays he spent long hours in that cage and she wanted him to be well exercised.

When she checked her cell, she saw that she had one missed call. Charlie Ellis asked her to get back to him at her convenience. Why was he calling on a weekend? She hadn't heard from the private investigator since hiring him three weeks ago. Maybe he had news on her sister. Her heart in her throat, she tapped _Call Back_. He picked up on the second ring.

"I want to update you," he began.

"You found her?" she said, unable to suppress a tremor of excitement. She had only given him Lindsey's date of birth, social security number and former address in Detroit, but with his access to databases of private and public records, he had seemed confident that it would be sufficient.

"Sorry, no." His voice slowed. "Apart from Detroit, I did a complete search of Michigan State. That includes all the other large cities - Grand Rapids, Warren, Sterling Heights, Lansing, Ann Arbor, and Flint. If she moved anywhere in Michigan, I'm sure I would have found her."

"I see." The disappointment almost crippled her. She sank on the sofa before saying, "Are you sure you tried everything?"

"Our investigations are thorough. We consult credit reports, criminal charges, marriage licenses, divorce files, medical records, social media and of course, the Department of Motor Vehicles," he rattled off. After a pause, he added, "Death records, too."

"Oh." Erica felt a sharp pain as she considered the possibility that Lindsey had died. As the older sibling, Erica was supposed to protect her, to be there for her, only where the hell was she?

"Your sister probably moved to another state," he said. "Cleveland and Fort Wayne are both less than two hundred miles from Detroit, Buffalo's just over that. She could have gotten a lift or taken a bus." He let his words sink in before asking, "Do you want me to continue your search?"

She couldn't imagine Lindsey getting too far from Detroit. She wasn't someone who particularly liked traveling. But then, anything was possible once she was on her own.

Erica agreed to extend the investigation to neighboring states, keeping to a three-hundred-mile radius from Detroit, and told him to put the additional charges on her credit card. After disconnecting from the call, she sat thinking about her younger sister.

Thunder rolled outside, audible with her sound system turned off. Storms had always frightened Lindsey. Erica remembered how she had slipped into her bed on turbulent nights in Detroit, clutching a quartz crystal. She always slept with it under her pillow.

Lindsey was only ten when their mother died. Months after the funeral, she still shut herself in her room, listening to music. Erica was busy running the household and doing her school work. Her sister's withdrawal and failing grades had alarmed her. However, she had little time to give her and their stepfather hadn't helped. He came home at odd hours then, reeking of smoke and cheap perfume.

Now, before turning in for the night, she stared at the framed picture on the dresser. She tried to picture an older version of Lindsey. Was she somewhere safe and warm? Sometimes she woke up at dawn and listened for her voice. The night cries had stopped and Erica didn't know why. Surely if her sister had died, she would feel it in her gut. Once again, she silently vowed to find her.

At work the next morning, Ryan asked her to join him in Victor's office. Why? The managing editor had never singled her out before. He was always in meetings, it seemed, and only appeared when there were staff changes.

Erica entered his corner office with trepidation, which only intensified when Ryan closed the door behind her.

"Take a seat," Victor said. What he lacked in height, he made up for in the confidence he exuded. At the moment, his expression gave nothing away. "We want to talk to you about the piece we ran nine days ago on single working moms."

"Is there a problem?" Erica's cold hands clasped each other in her lap. Maybe they had decided she wasn't cut out for feature writing after all.

"We thought you should know what happened," Ryan said. "The Sunnyvale Daycare Center called. Pledges of donations have been pouring in. Some in very sizable amounts."

"The center can now stay open at least another year," Victor finished. "Your feature was powerful enough to get readers to open their wallets. Keep up the good work."

Erica felt her face flush with pleasure at the praise. Of course she had been concerned about the lack of daycare and that had come through her writing. Now people like that nurse would have somewhere to turn, at least in West Side. Both her features had touched people and galvanized them into action.

As she headed home, Erica realized that she wanted to share her news. She had not only landed the job but was off to a remarkable start. She and her girlfriend hadn't seen each other for a few weeks, so a drink was definitely in order. Upon parking, she pulled out her cell phone.

"I'd love to get together," Megan said, "but I have plans. I met someone at that speed dating event last month."

Her breathless tone made it sound significant. Erica wanted to know more, but she suggested catching up in person on Thursday.

She looked forward to seeing Megan in three days, but right now, the evening stretched endlessly before her.

Before she could change her mind, she phoned Philip. She had always told him what was happening at work and she knew he'd be happy for her. Now that he had moved on, maybe they could be friends.

"That's awesome," he said when she filled him in. "Calls for a celebration, don't you think?"

She nodded at the other end. She still felt the relief from walking out of Victor's office unscathed. "Yes."

They met at Karina's, a cozy bar close to the gym where they had first met.

Philip gave her a swift hug. "I'm glad you called."

In his Burberry trench coat, he looked as debonair as ever. He had always been meticulously groomed, but now his tapered hair fell below his collar. It suited him.

They filled each other in on developments in their lives. As they shared a few drinks, Philip's cell rang four times. He finally switched it off.

"I hope I'm not interfering with anything," she said. "I understand you're seeing Christine?"

"How did you - "

"She more or less told me. I don't blame you; she's very pretty."

He shrugged. "It isn't serious, Erica." When he looked up at her, his hazel eyes deepened. "If I thought there was any chance of getting back together with you..."

She shook her head. "Tonight is just... tonight."

Philip placed his hand over hers on the table. His warmth seemed to go right through her, taking the dampness from her bones and even softening her disappointment over not finding Lindsey.

"Fine. Let me treat you to dinner. There's a new steakhouse we should try."

Over their meal, they fell into an earlier pattern of relating - some small talk, some laughter and silent moments where the attraction between them became tangible. When his trousered leg brushed against hers, she didn't pull away.

Later, she invited him for a night cap at her place. Christine didn't own him. All the same, she felt a pinprick of regret the next morning when Philip swore at all his missed calls. Apparently she had tried to contact him over a dozen times.

"I almost forgot. I have to take my car in for maintenance this morning," she said.

He poured more coffee into her cup, still totally at ease in her kitchen. "Why don't I follow you then? I can save you cab fare getting to work."

She let him drive her from the garage, but something seemed to shift as she sat in his BMW. As he expertly steered, she felt he was trying to gain control of more than his vehicle. Her instincts were confirmed when they pulled up in front of her office building. Before she could react, he folded her into his arms and kissed her. Hard.

"I love you, Erica. I won't give up on you."

"Goodbye, Philip." As she extricated herself from his embrace, she became acutely aware of where they were. She had always been careful to guard her private life at work.

She looked up to see Christine in the entranceway. Her face was a mask of fury. A second later, the blonde stalked through the door into the offices of The Chicago Times.

Erica refused to feel guilty. Many couples got together from time to time after breaking up. Just because Philip had slept with Christine didn't mean she controlled his life.

### ***

Thursday's dinner with Megan took place at a small Italian restaurant they both liked.

Megan surprised her by ordering the lasagna. Usually she stuck to their home-made minestrone with a salad.

"Whatever happened to your diet?" Erica asked. Maybe her friend's face looked a little fuller, but she radiated happiness.

She shrugged. "Todd likes my curves. More to love and all that."

"So what's he like?"

Megan told her he was a dentist with full custody of a five-year-old daughter. His ex looked after her on weekends when she wasn't traveling; she worked with start-ups around the world.

"How do you feel about his daughter?"

Her fork paused in mid-air. "She's really sweet. I make sure to include her in everything. We even bake together. She often drops by the shop with her father for one of my speciality cakes." After taking another bite of her pasta, she said, "So what's going on with you? Is it really over with Philip?"

Erica filled her in on the situation, including his sleepover on Monday night and running into Christine the next morning.

"How awkward," Megan said. "But aren't you giving him mixed signals? First you drop him, then you sleep with him again."

"It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things." Erica picked at her arugula salad. She had ordered a slice of vegetarian pizza for her meal; she wasn't very hungry.

"Why waste your time with someone you'll never really trust? We both know he isn't right for you. There are emotionally available men out there."

Erica picked up her water glass and took a few swallows. "The idea of settling down with someone still scares me. It probably relates to what happened when I was a teen."

Megan reached over to squeeze her hand. "You can tell me about it, you know."

She could feel her friend's warmth and caring. After a few moments of silence, words tumbled from her mouth. "Richard - my stepfather - liked to gamble. After Mom died, he had poker parties at home and... used me as collateral. And then it was pay-back time." She felt her body constrict at the memory. "I was only fourteen when it started."

The other woman's eyes clouded over. "You poor thing. Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Erica wiped away a tear. How odd, when for the longest time, she could feel nothing at all. "No one believed me, not even my sister."

Megan sat up straighter in her chair. "You need help with this, Erica. Otherwise it will ruin the rest of your life."

When Erica had started working, she went for psychotherapy. Upon being questioned about her past, she bolted out the door, her heart beating frantically. She described this to Megan, ending with, "I never went back for another session."

"What about group therapy?" she asked. "Sharing experiences with others can be very healing."

Wanting to change the subject, Erica said, "So you and Todd... do you see it working out?"

Megan nodded. "For me, the unexpected gift is helping him to raise a young child. We're starting to feel like a family."

When they hugged at parting, Erica said, "I'm glad for you. He sounds like a keeper."

That weekend, as she browsed the online version of the paper, she happened to glance over the community ads. Two lines caught her attention:

Grown-up victims of sexual abuse are invited to join a guided support group.

_Absolute privacy assured_.

Last night she had awakened from another nightmare. Men peeling off her clothes, peering down at her, suffocating her with their weight. Would it never end?

After staring at the ad a while, she texted the number.

_I'm an adult survivor. Please send details_.

Within the hour, she received an answer from the woman leading the group, giving her the particulars for their Wednesday evening meetings. She kept the info on her phone, feeling indecisive about going.

Then on Tuesday night, she had a second nightmare. This time, the scene played out in more detail. She again inhaled the acrid smoke from cigarillos and saw the overhead light reflect off a man's metallic glasses as he positioned himself over her. When she tried to go back to sleep, she made up her mind. She couldn't go on like this; maybe the group could help.

The following evening, she drove to the address in Old Town which she had been given. She passed shops and restaurants before finding herself in a residential area. No two houses looked the same. Some were simple cottages; others had gables or wide verandahs. Finally she pulled up at a small bungalow on Eugenie, set well back from the street. Taking a deep breath, she walked up to the door. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Filled with fear, she scurried back down the path and then strolled around the block to regain control.

This was nuts. As a city reporter, she had covered all kinds of stories. Had faced both horror and ugliness when it surfaced. Why couldn't she do this for herself?

Again she strode up to the door. This time she rang the bell.

"You must be Erica. I'm Jackie." A stout woman with dark, wavy hair welcomed her inside. "Sit where you like. We're informal here." Inside the living room, six women of differing ages sat on chairs, forming a tight circle. They glanced at her only for a moment before returning their attention to the speaker.

"He came into my room late at night and slipped under the covers. I pretended to be asleep," a young woman said, her eyes tightly closed. "Then he - put his hands under my nightie." Now her voice broke. She sobbed for a minute before continuing, "I wished I were dead. I felt so dirty."

Jackie gently asked, "Why? Did you invite him into your bed? Did you ask him to touch you?"

The woman opened her eyes. Her mouth moved silently before she could form words. "I felt that - somehow it was my fault. Maybe I - had led him on somehow. Coming out of the bathroom half-dressed, or s-sitting too close on the sofa..."

"You were doing what millions of other girls do. Only their fathers don't have sex with them. He was sick, Cindy. You know that now, don't you?"

The woman covered her face with her hands. "I know. He ruined me for other men. I c-couldn't date for years." Her voice sank to a whisper. "I still can't make love with the lights out. I have to see my husband's face."

Jackie nodded. "Good. You made a lot of progress tonight." She glanced around the circle. "Everyone - I want to introduce you to someone." She turned to Erica. "Maybe you'd like to say a few words?"

Erica shifted on her seat, feeling a line of perspiration trickle down her back. These women wouldn't pass judgment on her, she knew that. But she still couldn't speak about the unspeakable. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

She almost ran to the door.

The organizer called after her. "Come back any time, you hear?"

She jumped into her car and sped back to Oak Park, hating her cowardice. That night, she drank cup after cup of coffee, staying up well after the late news. Her eyes blinked at the screen, heavy with fatigue, but she couldn't make herself go to bed.

Megan was right. She needed to heal from her past and she couldn't do it alone.

## Chapter Sixteen

Kurt still hadn't come home by 4:15 a.m. When he left for work, he'd been wound up tighter than a corkscrew. The restaurant continued to lose business. Every Saturday night seemed to attract fewer patrons than the week before and Lindsey didn't believe last night could have been any different.

Lying in bed, she chewed on her lower lip. Even if he had gone for a drink or two after closing, he should have returned long ago. Maybe there had been an accident on the road.

Her thoughts went from her husband to Alex. Because he had pulled a hamstring while training for the marathon, they hadn't met last week. She missed him. Kurt had become so surly. He barely bothered with civilities anymore, ordering her around like a servant. Her marriage felt more and more like a trap. She remembered the tarot card reader's words at the psychic fair:

_Trouble lies ahead and upheaval... Be careful or you will lose everything_.

She knew she had to stop seeing Alex and had hoped the unexpected break would give her the distance she needed. All she had to do was say it was over, yet every day she put it off until the next.

As she shivered beneath the sheet, she longed for his firm arms around her, his whisperings in her ear.

She must have fallen asleep again because a movement in the room suddenly roused her. Light streamed in through the blinds as Kurt stood in his underwear, pulling a fresh shirt from the closet.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said.

Lindsey sat up in bed. "Where were you?"

"Out." He grabbed a pair of clean socks from his dresser drawer and put them on. His hair looked damp, which meant he had showered. Only he must have done it elsewhere. The sound of running water always woke her up.

"With who?"

He glared at her. "Leave it alone, Lindsey. It's not up for discussion."

Afterwards, he complained about the breakfast she prepared for him, saying his eggs were overcooked and his toast burnt at the edges. "You can't cook and you can't make babies. Don't know why I married you."

Lindsey almost choked on her coffee. She had been watching him check his cell every few minutes, probably expecting a message from the tramp he had slept with.

"Dr. Bernstein told me why we're having problems," she said in a low voice. "You have a low sperm count. Why do you keep blaming me, Kurt, when it's you?"

"You had no business asking about the tests," he said. With a single step, he stood next to her. Then he gripped her chin with one hand and tilted her head back. "I could snap your spine like a twig. Don't tempt me."

A sharp pain shot through her, but she couldn't be silenced. "All this time, you made me believe I had a problem. I can't respect you anymore."

Kurt laughed, as if she had said something absurd. "I don't give a fig about your respect." Upon releasing her, he gave her an appraising look. The frilly nightie which she still wore had spaghetti straps and revealed more than it hid. Sliding a hand into the low-cut bodice, he cupped her right breast. "I have some time this morning. And I just thought of a better use for that troublesome mouth of yours."

She had no choice but to do what he asked. Never had she loathed him as much as she did now. To fling his indiscretion in her face the way he had was more than hurtful.

Most men believed they needed variety. Even the johns she had serviced in Detroit were almost all married or living with someone, looking for something to spice up their sex lives. But to sleep all night with someone brought things to a whole other level. That woman had to mean something special to Kurt. But what?

Lindsey found out two days later.

Kurt had forgotten his laptop at home. Peter phoned her, saying his brother needed it at the restaurant for his accounting work and he had agreed to pick it up on his way in. When he rang the bell, she went to fetch the computer.

"Smells good," he said, sniffing the aroma of coffee from the doorway.

"It's my favorite blend, Bokar and Eight O'Clock. I just made a second pot. Why don't you come in for a cup?" She had always liked Peter. He had his brother's thick brows and dark hair. However, their resemblance ended there. Not only was he taller and leaner, but he spoke softly and measured his words.

"I'd love to," he said as he stepped inside. "It's going to be very quiet today and Kurt is throwing his weight around. I think he scares the staff."

Last night her husband had been in a particularly foul mood. A scowl never left his face, making her feel like the slightest thing could set him off.

She joined Peter at the table after setting out a platter of assorted muffins and pouring out two cups of the brew. "Are things getting worse?"

He bit into a blueberry muffin and sighed. "It's not for lack of trying. Kurt made a few more improvements. We play classical music tapes now and our menus are a little fancier. We even slashed our daily specials. It all might have worked, too, if we had a good review."

"The restaurant got reviewed?"

"He didn't tell you?" Peter took a long sip of coffee. "One of those food bloggers came on Saturday evening."

Lindsey recalled the two women giving L'Actuel excellent reviews and Kurt's plan to invite them for a meal. Then she realized what must have happened.

"Is that where my husband was all night, with her?"

His eyes registered surprise. "He was chatting her up," he said slowly. "Even shared a bottle of his best wine with her. They were still together when I left. You mean he didn't come home?"

She shook her head, remembering how abruptly Kurt had dismissed her question the following morning. "It's not the first time. I know he had something going with one of your waitresses a while back. And there may be others."

Peter reached over to pat her hand. "I'm sorry, Lindsey. He may be my brother, but he acts like a jerk sometimes. He's always been headstrong and follows his own rules. You deserve a lot better."

She thought of Alex. "I'm seeing someone who treats me well," she said in a low voice. "I still love Kurt but he's impossible to live with."

"Can't say I blame you." He gave her an encouraging smile as he withdrew his hand.

A sense of relief instantly flooded her. It felt so freeing to admit the truth about her marriage. A moment later, though, she tensed with fear. If Kurt ever found out about Alex, he would go ballistic. "Peter, you can't - "

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't tell anyone, not even Ria. And whatever you decide, I'm on your side."

"Thanks." Tears welled up in her eyes at his kindness and understanding. Needing to change the subject, she asked about the review.

He pulled out his smartphone and found the food blog. "We really got slammed and now it's going viral. Want me to read it out?"

She nodded, grateful that he had offered. Although she had made progress with Alex, she would have had difficulty.

"Located in the heart of Toronto's financial district, Le Courvoisier offers classic French cuisine. It has a nice ambience and elegant table settings," he read. "Unfortunately, this is offset by the slow service and mediocre fare. Their _Délices du Chambord_ (fillets of salmon and halibut with _beurre blanc_ and hollandaise sauce at $29.50) was overcooked and my dessert ( _Feuillantines aux fraises_ at $9.95) was sickeningly sweet." He looked up at Lindsey before continuing, "Judging by the lack of clientele, most people must have figured out that this place is not worth the money."

"Ouch. No wonder Kurt was upset."

When he held up the phone, Lindsey glimpsed a photo on the screen. The blogger had short, reddish hair and glasses. Not at all Kurt's type. Obviously he had expected to manipulate her into giving him the write-up he wanted.

She had to admire the woman's bravado. She had let him wine and dine her, and slept with him before throwing the review in his face. Then again, she wasn't married to him.

### ***

Whatever guilt Lindsey felt about seeing Alex again had disappeared the night Kurt failed to come home. Of course he justified it to himself - believing he did it for the business, maybe even _for them_. The distortions in his mind had surely grown along with his frustrations. She, on the other hand, saw things more clearly now than ever.

She didn't owe him her fidelity; he was lucky she hadn't walked out.

Approaching the Winchester Inn from the bus stop, she put the week behind her and focused on the precious hours ahead. As she climbed the mahogany staircase to the third floor, her heart lifted higher with every step.

Alex waited for her on the top landing, leaning on a cane to keep the weight off his injured leg. She rushed into his arms.

"I really missed you," he said.

"Me too."

He held her tightly for a moment before leading her to their corner suite. Alex always reserved the same room for them, and it felt more and more welcoming.

"You look a little pale," he said. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "The restaurant got a really bad review, so things are pretty tense at home."

Inside the room, he had laid out some food on the round table by the window.

"Hungry?" When she answered in the affirmative, he showed her what he had brought \- bagels with cream cheese, Brie and crackers, fresh apples and bottles of her favorite fruit juice.

As they sat and ate, she asked if his leg still hurt.

"Not much. I iced it for a few days and kept it elevated." He frowned. "What sucks is that I had to drop out of the marathon. I can't even begin training again until December."

Lindsey glanced at his left leg. He had removed his trousers and the white compression bandage was now visible, holding everything in place above his knee.

"I guess a pulled hamstring is pretty serious. I'm sorry you have to miss the race." She stroked his forearm on the table.

He leaned over to kiss her on the mouth. "At least I have you as my consolation prize." Gazing out the window, he told her he had missed last year's marathon because of a twisted ankle. But he wasn't giving up. He planned to train twice as hard for next year.

She silently applauded his tenacity. Alex had so many great qualities. Again she wondered why he bothered with her when he could surely have anyone he chose.

His phonics test had already confirmed her dyslexia. During their last rendez-vous, Alex had tutored her using a one-book program called _Alpha Phonics_. Slowly the letters and sounds started to make more sense to her.

"Ready for our next lesson?" he asked after they finished eating.

For the next ninety minutes, they sat together in bed, knees touching, as they went through a few lessons. She was having trouble with blended consonants. He had written out words like _SPlash_ and _BReak_ on a piece of paper and asked her to read them out for him. When she faltered, he gave her a hug and told her to try again.

"You're making progress," he said when he closed the book. "And I brought you some homework." He pulled out two _Avanti_ books from his briefcase. "These are for adults with dyslexia. I want you to read them out loud to yourself at least twenty minutes a day. Think you can manage that?"

Lindsey nodded, knowing she would have to hide the books from Kurt. She had already surpassed the literacy level she had reached in school. The anticipation of being able to read and write like everyone else filled her with excitement.

"How can I ever thank you?" she murmured as he pulled her into his arms.

"Oh, I can think of several ways," he said with a smirk.

As their bodies came together in a now-familiar rhythm, she felt herself opening to him like a flower to the sun. His caresses and light touches aroused her more than Kurt's hurried lovemaking ever had.

When it was over, he still clung to her, his face buried in her hair. "You're everything I could want in a woman - beautiful, refined and classy," he said. "I think I'm falling in love."

His heart still thudded against her in the aftermath. As she listened to its reassuring beat, an image clouded her mind. She saw herself earlier that week, forced to perform fellatio on Kurt after his night out. If Alex knew about all the men she had been with and the drugs she had taken, he wouldn't feel the same way.

A shudder went through her. Telling Alex the truth would destroy his high regard for her and cost her the relationship. But he deserved to know, didn't he?

One day soon, she would speak to him about her sordid past. First she needed to find the courage.

## Chapter Seventeen

Lindsey's stomach quivered all weekend. Since deciding to tell Alex about her past, it was all she thought about. She kept replaying his last words in her mind. _I've been looking for someone like you all my life_.

Alex assumed she was just a woman in an unhappy marriage, looking for a way out. Someone from a middle-class background, leading a normal life. Not someone who, not so long ago, was lost in a world of drugs and paid sex. She felt like such a fraud.

No one knew about her former life except her husband. Not even his brother Peter. She had realized long ago that her marriage was more of a bargain struck than a partnership. Kurt probably assumed he had "bought" her, just like the time he paid her for the night in cold hard cash.

When she met Alex for their tryst on Monday afternoon, he had already dispensed with the cane. He crushed her to him, then gave her a playful kiss. "Homework all done? Or is a spanking in order?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, looking towards the four-poster bed in their room at the inn.

"That will be for you to decide," she said coyly. "A spanking could be in order."

He had her read from one of the _Avanti_ books, and then gave her a few writing exercises. Her spelling and word sequence were getting better and she wasn't as slow as before.

Afterwards, they sat at the table, sharing submarines. She managed only a few bites. Telling him more about herself and her past was still uppermost in her mind but this room felt too confining. How could she bear to watch his expression change from curiosity to concern to horror? Alex was a conservative man and she was certain that what she was about to say would shock him.

After mentioning a pretty park she had spotted nearby, she suggested a walk, ending with, "It's a shame to be indoors on such a beautiful day."

Soon they strolled through Maple Ridge Park, his arm around her shoulders. They passed a playground with children's swings, a sandbox and slide. With schools in session, the area was empty. Lindsey felt a little sad, thinking she would probably never be a mother.

They finally sat on a bench under a huge maple tree, partly shielded from the sun. A squirrel darted in front of them, begging for food for a split second before doubling back. "There's something on your mind," he said. "What is it?"

She pulled away from him slightly and cleared her throat. Gazing at the trees in the distance, she said, "Let me start at the beginning. As you know, I grew up in Detroit. I was only twelve when my sister left. Our mother had died two years before that." She swallowed, then continued. "I trusted my stepfather to look after me, but... he used me to pay off his gambling debts. He hosted poker games every week in our basement."

"Go on." Alex's voice was tight but controlled.

"I lost my virginity to a fat, bearded man with bad breath. I threw up afterwards." She looked down at her hands, letting the memories swim into focus. "My stepfather gave me hard liquor, mostly gin, to get me to cooperate. Everything got hazy on those nights. Those men were old enough to be my father. I had no one to turn to."

"Why didn't you tell someone at school?" he asked. In the sunshine, his eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded her.

"I did. My teacher called in a social worker. Unfortunately, she didn't believe me." The woman had spoken to Richard before visiting the basement where she was repeatedly raped.

The room had been transformed. Her stepfather had draped the table with a lacy tablecloth and pushed it off to one side; an armchair now sat in front of the television set. The entire area smelled faintly of lilac, with not one ashtray in sight.

He told the social worker that Lindsey was prone to fantasies and daydreams, and liked to make up stories. That the only thing that happened downstairs was her binge watching of TV series and films.

Alex got up now and paced in front of their park bench. He asked if she wanted to bring Richard and his cronies to justice, and said he would help.

She only shook her head and said, "There's more. When I was fourteen, I hit the streets." Her voice cracked. "I found out I could get paid for what I was forced to do."

He quickly sat back down. "I hope you don't blame yourself. These men took advantage of you. And your stepfather should be thrown in jail." He took a deep breath. "So how long were you... on the street?"

Her hands had chilled; she rubbed them together to warm up. "Four years. I worked Michigan Avenue and the Woodward Corridor," she said, before realizing the Detroit street names meant nothing to him. "I was addicted to coke, pills and booze. It was the only way to get through every day." She brushed a tear from the corner of her left eye. "I roomed with another hooker. She died from an overdose."

Thinking of Carol always filled her with a sense of guilt. She should have been there for her. Maybe she could have stopped her from ending her life.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?" Alex looked visibly shaken. This was so far out of his experience, she almost felt sorry for him. Then she realized he was probably concerned about his health. Repeated intercourse with a hooker could be dangerous.

"Don't worry," she said. "I got a clean bill of health from the clinic. No STDs or anything like that."

"That's reassuring," he said with only a hint of sarcasm. Then, "I still can't believe what you went through. Come here." He folded her into his arms, letting her draw from his strength. After a while, she sobbed uncontrollably on his shoulder. For the first time, she was able to release some of the self-hatred she had nurtured for so long, along with feelings of worthlessness.

He was still stroking her hair when a breeze kicked up a few autumn leaves. "It's getting late. Let's go back to our room."

In their four-poster bed, he pulled the cover over them and simply held her close. "I'm glad you opened up to me," he finally said.

"I thought you would despise me for the things I've done." Images of men still flitted through her mind. Some old, some young, grabbing at her in alleyways, in their cars and in the flat she shared with Carol. She shoved the memories back and snuggled against Alex with a sigh.

"I'm not thrilled about it," he said, "but I know you were only trying to survive. It's probably why you got married."

She nodded. "Kurt saved me from that life. I think he wants me to feel grateful."

"That isn't enough reason to stay with him," Alex said, kissing the top of her head. "You're still young. We can have a future together. I want to introduce you to my son, to my friends. Go out on the town with you instead of meeting in secret like this."

Lindsey stiffened in his arms. "Are you asking me to leave him?"

He shrugged. "When you're ready, love. I know it's a big step." Positioning himself to face her, he gazed into her eyes. "Think about what you want. It comes down to a choice, and only you can make it."

Outside the inn, they held onto each other a long moment before parting. How ironic. All this time, she had been trying to break things off with Alex, and now he wanted her to end her marriage. Of course, she couldn't continue seeing both men - it wasn't fair to either of them.

She boarded the bus for Willowdale with a heavy heart. As she stared unseeingly at the passing scenery outside her window, her chest tightened. No matter what she chose, she knew something would be lost.

## Chapter Eighteen

Erica let the flowers sit at the reception all morning. She knew who they were from. Following their night together last week, Philip had called her relentlessly. Sleeping with him must have given him false hope, no matter what she said about _staying friends_.

After a third reminder, she had no choice but to pick them up from the front desk. Carrying the potted chrysanthemums, she started to pass the newsroom on the way to her cubicle. Christine suddenly stepped into the passageway.

"Nice flowers," she said. The frostiness in her eyes belied the smile on her painted lips. "I thought it was over between you two."

Erica realized she had let the maroon mums sit too long on display. The other woman had obviously read the card, which simply said: _Let's get together soon. Love, Philip_.

"It is over," she said. "Not that it's any of your business."

Christine placed a hand on her slim hip, which hiked the micro skirt an inch higher. "Really? I saw you climb out of his car Tuesday morning. Which must be why he hasn't returned my calls."

Erica remembered his shock at all the missed messages. "Stalking a man doesn't exactly endear you to him."

"We really hit it off before you started things up with him again," she hissed. "He liked my apartment, too. I was even thinking of asking him to move in."

"Move in? You barely know him." Erica shook her head in disbelief. Of course Christine couldn't afford her rent now that she was on her own. But surely there were other options.

"I know him well enough," she answered. "You had no right to interfere."

"Just because you slept with him doesn't give you any rights," Erica said. Talking to her always felt like a tug of war. Christine went after whatever she wanted for herself. First the job and now the man. Only Philip was no longer hers, no matter what the other journalist believed.

As Erica pushed past her, she heard Christine's last words. "Bitch. You'll be sorry!"

She brushed them off. After all, what could she do to her? Philip would make up his own mind. For all they knew, he might return to his wife if she let him.

Ryan had left a cheese danish on her desk.

"Thanks, Chief," she said, waving her favorite pastry at him. She liked working with the Life editor. He didn't pull any punches when commenting on her writing, but also made her feel like part of a team.

He motioned her inside his office. "How's the feature going?"

"I finished my interviews for this week's segment but I'm still pulling it all together. Should be right on schedule." Her latest article, _Living on Less: the New Frugality_ , would be published in two parts on consecutive Saturdays. As part of her research, she had spoken to people who lost their jobs, downsized to smaller homes and even sold their cars in order to live within their means.

"Good." He cleared his throat. "For our next feature, Victor and I both feel that the best writing springs from personal experience. Choose an issue that's important to you. Maybe something you struggled with yourself."

"Like what?" As a journalist, she had always been careful to stay in the background, expressing her views through the focus and tone of her writing. Just how personal did he want her to get?

His eyebrows lifted. "That's for you to decide, Erica. You still need to do the research and get credible interviews. But let's start with you. Get back to me with some ideas, okay?"

Over the next three working days, she came up with a couple of possibilities - _sex education,_ and _finding your true vocation_. Ryan rejected both on the grounds of being "too ho-hum." She was stymied. What could she possibly write about that had the kind of impact he wanted?

### ***

Erica's nightmares had intensified. The lamp on her bedside table now stayed on all night, but she still woke up soaked with perspiration, her pulse racing. If she didn't get help soon, her work would suffer. She already had trouble focusing.

One week after her visit with the adult survivors group, she drove back to Old Town and again found the bungalow with the green-tiled roof. After ringing the bell, she waited on the door stoop for what felt like an eternity. Maybe she should have called beforehand.

When Jackie let her in, Erica immediately apologized for running off. The dark-haired woman merely squeezed her hand and smiled. "You just weren't ready, dear. Glad to have you back."

She recognized three of the women from last time; the other two were unfamiliar. They all introduced themselves, first names only, and waited for Erica to speak.

Her mouth went dry. For twelve years she'd done her best to submerge the past, trying to forget. Now the words erupted from a raw place deep inside, needing to be released.

"I was sexually abused when I was fourteen," she said in a small voice. As she glanced around the circle, some of the women nodded at her. Their expressions held nothing but sympathy. Encouraged, she spoke more forcefully now. "After my mother died, my stepfather started gambling. First the racetrack, then poker games. When Richard started spending more time at home, I thought we'd get to be a family again."

She drew comfort from a familiar sound: the dripping of a percolator in the next room. The aroma of coffee wafted into the living room as they sat in silence.

"Go on," Jackie said. "Let it spill."

Erica continued, "My job was to bring the beer and chips to the basement, where they had a table set up. The tension down there was as thick as the smoke. I saw stacks of bills in front of them - fifties and hundreds. The players were respected people in the community: a divorce lawyer, two stockbrokers, a restaurant owner. Married men with families. Maybe that was why I felt safe."

Her stomach clenched, but she forced herself to keep talking. "One night Richard stopped me before I could leave." She drew a long, shuddering breath. "He forced me to swallow two shots of vodka. Then he told me to... go into the other room with the divorce lawyer. Said he owed him too much money and it was the only way."

When she stepped into the laundry room, someone had folded a towel for her head. One of the men held her down as the lawyer peeled off her clothes. He was bald except for a fringe of meticulously trimmed hair. His trousers were already off. She remembered thinking how ridiculous he looked, still wearing his shirt and tie.

The dampness of the cement floor seeped through the thin carpet, chilling her naked backside. But she had been too frightened to notice.

"He said it wouldn't hurt," she whimpered, "but he lied." Afterwards, she felt torn and bruised. But her ordeal had only begun. "A week later, Richard let two other men have a go at me. He said they really preferred little girls and had their eye on Lindsey. My sister was only ten." Erica had put up less resistance then, knowing she could not let them near her sibling.

"Was there anyone for you to turn to?" Jackie gently asked.

Erica levelly met her gaze. "Only my English teacher. She saw my grades slipping and must have noticed how withdrawn I had become. I told her what was going on. She called my stepfather, planning to confront him in person." She looked down at the floor, again feeling her powerlessness. "Richard managed a big bank in our neighborhood. He asked her to meet him there, and got out her file. Apparently she was late with three mortgage payments because her husband lost his job. My stepfather threatened to call in the loan, and that was the end of their discussion." She brushed away a tear. "I felt betrayed. But I had no proof of anything and who was going to believe me?"

Her voice cracked as she went on. "The assaults lasted almost two years. I knew I had to leave, but I wanted to take my sister with me. That didn't happen."

At that point, Jackie had them break for coffee and cookies. Each of the women gave Erica a hug, applauding her courage in speaking up. Telling her that they believed every word.

As Erica let their caring and support wash over her, she felt something begin to thaw inside. Tonight's sharing had reached all the frozen bits buried inside her long ago. She found herself sobbing on Jackie's shoulder for her lost innocence. For the young girl she could have been.

Jackie patted her back, comforting her as if she were a child. In her practice as a psychologist, she often dealt with abuse issues. After a few more moments, she invited everyone back into session.

"Who wants to go next?" she said after they got reseated.

Two of the women came forth with their stories. They spoke haltingly, with frequent pauses, and Erica knew how difficult it was to find the words.

One had been repeatedly raped years ago by a police officer. She worked late at a video store in South Side and he patrolled the area she walked through on her way home. Her charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.

"Outrageous, isn't it," someone said, "that a man like that still carries a badge?"

The second woman had been arrested for theft when she was fifteen. The juvenile court judge told her he'd be more lenient if she met him in private later. That turned out to mean sex on five different occasions, but she had been too frightened to refuse.

And last week, Cindy had spoken about victimization by her father, who was now a county sheriff.

Drawing on her journalistic background, Erica saw the bigger picture. Several of them had been sexually abused by officers of the law. Men they all looked to for protection. A shiver ran down her spine, as it always did when she came upon an interesting story. How many women never sought help, never spoke about what they went through?

The following morning, she dropped into Ryan's office. "I'd like to do a feature on adult survivors," she said. When he looked up from his laptop, she added, "Of sexual abuse."

She told him about the support group and that she herself was a survivor.

Ryan sat up straighter in his swivel chair. "You mean the secrets no one talks about? What happens behind closed doors? Our readers will love it." He thoughtfully rubbed the stubble on his chin. "We have to be careful and avoid naming names. Can you get some real live cases?"

Afterwards, she reached Jackie on the phone and asked for permission to interview the women.

"It's up to them," she said. She thought the feature was a good idea, as it would reveal the long-term effects of sexual abuse. "But you can't use actual names or places. Or even say where our group meets."

Erica promised to run the entire feature by her before submitting it for copy editing. When the call ended, she felt the tension leave her shoulders. She had worried that Jackie would not want the exposure.

Over the next four days, she managed to interview three members of the group, assuring them of complete confidentiality. Also, Jackie called back and asked to see her.

"We don't want any finger pointing, especially with public figures," she said over a cup of tea. "What happened is in the past and these women just want to heal."

"I plan on using fictitious names," Erica said. "And I'll generalize when it comes to the men's occupations. Nothing too specific."

"Perfect." Jackie chewed on her lower lip. "I'm going to write out the exact names and positions of the perpetrators you're writing about. Then you'll know what you need to avoid." She scribbled a few lines on the back page of Erica's notebook and handed it back to her.

They hugged each other at the door, promising to stay in touch.

The second segment of her feature on frugality had just been published and was starting to generate positive feedback. An article on sexual abuse would likely get more attention, and some of it might not be favorable. Erica didn't care. She focused on the grown women who needed to be heard as part of their recovery.

As Ryan had said, it was important to start with her own experience. Writing the lead-in to her feature proved more challenging than she'd imagined. But they wanted _personal_ , and that was what they'd get.

She began:

_I am a journalist by trade and an independent woman. I am also a survivor of sexual assault. Although it happened a long time ago, the men who assaulted me were never charged. I tried to forget. But we can't really escape our past; it becomes part of us. What I went through as a teenager stopped me from forming a lasting relationship with a man as I grew older. I felt too scarred, too vulnerable_.

I recently spoke about my experiences at a women's support group for adult survivors of sexual abuse. The group meets every week on an ordinary residential street in Chicago. But there's nothing ordinary about the stories you are about to read.

They're from the brave women who allowed me to interview them. Although their names have been altered, everything else is real. Their assaulters are still regarded as "Chicago's finest."

It's ironic that the men who get paid to uphold the law, sometimes perpetuate the same crimes they are supposed to protect us from.

_Being sexually assaulted leaves lifelong scars. I hope this article will encourage more women to seek help_.

As she typed the last words, she couldn't see past her tears.

## Chapter Nineteen

Erica was halfway through her first draft. Never had she felt so close to a story, as if she were living and breathing every word. She and Ryan had agreed on a headline: _Adult Survivors of Sexual Abuse_ : _dealing with the trauma years later_.

Ryan, who had been in meetings all morning, slapped a hand on her desk as he stopped by. "Catch me up on the new feature. I want to hear about your interviews." Before she could respond, he said, "Let's do it over an early lunch. I went jogging this morning and I'm starved."

She admired his fitness routine. It was time for her to get back to the gym, but the possibility of running into Philip made her hesitate.

They headed for a popular steakhouse within walking distance of the office. A lot of their staff went there, especially after pay day. Erica had hardly eaten this morning. Something was putting her on edge, making it hard for her to focus. Maybe a solid meal would help.

At 11:45, the restaurant was empty except for a couple of patrons at the window. Ryan led her to a comfortable booth at the back of the room. The divisions between booths were fairly high, offering them privacy. The charcoal aroma of sizzling meat teased her taste buds as she seated herself.

When he ordered an imported beer, she decided to join him. Maybe it would help her relax.

After they placed their orders, he toasted her with his glass. "Cheers." Then, "I couldn't help noticing the picture on your desk. A cockatiel, right?" He was considering buying a bird for his family and wondered about the noise level.

Erica shrugged. "Spike screeches sometimes to get attention, but he whistles too," she said. "Birds have different personalities, just like cats or dogs. And they need to fly around. It's cruel to keep anything in a cage all the time."

"I have to talk it over with my wife." He took a sip of beer. "Now let's hear about your interviews."

When she finished speaking, he said, "I didn't realize your stories all revolved around law enforcers of some kind. And none of them have been convicted of sexual assault?"

She shook her head.

"So how are we protecting their identities?" he wanted to know.

"Don't worry, Chief," she said. "I have their real names and occupations. The organizer of my support group wrote them out in my notebook to avoid any slip ups. I promised her that whatever I use will bear no resemblance."

Soon Erica headed for the salad bar. When she came back with some fresh food, she was surprised to see Christine in the booth next to them. Judging from the olive pits and uneaten spinach leaves on her plate, she had used the salad bar as well. How long had she been sitting there, eavesdropping?

Christine got to her feet, balancing on her high heels. "Some of us have to get back to work," she said, flashing a smile at both of them. "Enjoy your lunch. I hear their Prime Rib is the best."

So she had heard them order. That meant she had listened to the entire conversation, maybe hoping to catch them in an illicit affair. She must have been disappointed.

When she got back to the office, Erica sighed at the mess she had left behind. Her mind felt as scattered as the papers strewn across her desk. Even the snow globe that always sat in the corner, covering her desk key, had slid out of position. Normally she was such a neat freak, with everything in its place.

Later that afternoon, she received a call from Charlie Ellis. "I have news on your sister," he said. "Can you come to see me after work?"

Her heart jolted. Whatever the news, he had not sounded positive. This was probably what her intuition had picked up, what was making her edgy. Although she wanted to know what he had found, she also dreaded hearing it.

Erica finally stepped into the investigator's office just after 6:00 p.m. He gestured for her to sit down, but she already knew by the set of his jaw that she needed to brace herself.

"When I was in Detroit, I passed around a few photos of your sister - altered slightly to make her look older," he said. "Someone just called. A young woman."

"And?" She was vaguely aware of gripping the edge of the wooden chair.

He splayed his fingers on the desk. His nails were clean but squared off, just like his no-nonsense approach. "Apparently she knew Lindsey eight years ago. She went by the name Holly then. They were both hookers on Michigan Avenue."

Erica sucked in a deep breath, still unable to get enough air into her lungs. "Does she know where my sister went?"

"Here's the thing," he said, leaning forward slightly. "At the time, there was a rash of murders on the street. The victims had their throats slashed. Some of the bodies were found in alleyways or in the rooms these women worked out of. Others just... disappeared with no trace."

She sat up straighter. "You think she's dead?"

He shrugged. "That could be why there's no death record. I don't want you to waste your resources. You may want to consider terminating the investigation. Or..." He loosened the shirt collar that threatened to strangle his rather thick neck.

"Or what?"

"You can extend your search another hundred miles and include Canada. It's also possible she escaped that life."

Erica told him to charge her credit card for his work so far. Her mind still reeled from what she had learned and she needed to pull her thoughts together. "I'll let you know what I decide about the rest."

That night, she slept fitfully, tormented by images of her sister working the street. Or lying in a pool of her own blood. The young girl she had known was gentle and sweet, not at all equipped for the harshness of that life. She should never have left her with their stepfather, but what choice did she have? If not for Will and his Stamp & Coin shop, she would have ended up selling her body, too.

Close to dawn, in that hazy state before awakening, she distinctly heard Lindsey's voice. "Erica, I'm here. Find me." The words trailed off, leaving an echo with a repeat of _find me_.

She roused herself with a start, knowing that her sister was still alive and had somehow communicated with her. That morning, she phoned Charlie Ellis and told him to expand the search as he had suggested. Then she texted Megan. _I got some upsetting news. Would love to catch up. Can we meet later_?

Megan suggested meeting at a coffee shop on the same block as her bakery. Before leaving, Erica managed to finish the draft of her feature and send it off to Ryan for review. In spite of her initial resistance to tackling such a personal issue, the writing had gone smoothly.

The two women hugged. After they sat down at a corner table with their steaming mugs, they shared recent events. Megan had met Todd's parents and now they were going away for the weekend, just the two of them.

"We're heading for Michigan and renting a cabin in New Buffalo. We'll explore the towns and walk along the Lake," she said, her eyes dancing.

Erica knew about the string of eight towns in Harbor Country, each charming in its own way and close to Lake Michigan. She reached across the table to squeeze her friend's hand. "That's great, Megan. You deserve a break. And it's romantic, too."

Until now, she hadn't mentioned the adolescent sister she left behind in Detroit. Too painful. But the heaviness she felt after the investigator's news needed some relief. She quickly filled her in.

"I can only imagine how horrible things must have been for her, getting into the sex trade," she finished telling her friend. "I promised our mother I would look after her."

Megan frowned. "You mustn't blame yourself. And you don't know what happened. Maybe she's okay now."

"Maybe." Erica used a napkin to blot the tears trailing down her cheeks. She wasn't ready to talk about her telepathic link with Lindsey. Hearing her sister's voice in the early morning reassured her that she was still alive and she didn't want to analyze or question it.

Changing the subject, she talked about the support group and how she had finally opened up about her past. "The last ten days have been super challenging," she said. "I even wrote a feature on sexual abuse. It's coming out on Saturday." She sipped at her cappuccino. "And now I can't stop thinking about Lindsey. It's stressing me out."

Megan pulled something from her purse and handed it over. "My brother gave me this last Christmas. It's for a two-day stay at the Four Seasons for full spa treatment. I've been too busy to go, and it's about to expire."

Staring at the gift certificate and then at her, Erica said, "You want me to go instead?"

She had never indulged in that kind of luxury, but the idea of getting away instantly appealed. Sitting home alone with her thoughts this weekend could only depress her.

The feature came back from Ryan with only minor suggestions, mostly on the sequencing of text. She emailed a fresh copy to Jackie, who texted her approval the same day. Then she filed it electronically in their system, where it would queue up for more editing and checks before going to the composing room.

The emotional strain of the last two weeks now caught up with her and she was glad she had succeeded in reserving a spot at the spa. The hotel was located right in their Magnificent Mile district, an easy drive without rush hour traffic to contend with.

Before heading for the Four Seasons on Saturday morning, she gave Spike extra seeds and left the radio on for him. The yellow-crested cockatiel had already looped around her apartment to exercise his wings and hopefully wouldn't miss her too much before she got back tomorrow night. He lowered his head and whistled at her as she stepped out the door. Silly bird.

### ***

The hotel boasted an impressive fifty-foot pool that was still empty at this hour. Erica had forty minutes before her first treatment. Instead of checking out the breakfast options, she changed into her swim suit and headed for the pool.

They had collected her smartphone at the front desk, full electronic disengagement being a requirement of the rest-and-relaxation package. Maybe that was a blessing, in case Philip tried to reach her again.

The lukewarm water seemed to welcome her into its depths. Alternating between the breast stroke and side stroke, she did several vigorous laps. As she swam, she thought of the day she had walked out of their home in Detroit. Even if she had tried to take Lindsey with her, she realized that her sister would have refused to go. As Megan had pointed out, she needed to stop blaming herself.

Minutes later, she enjoyed an Ayurvedic scalp massage with sesame and coconut oils, followed by a facial. As she relaxed under the strong fingers of a male therapist kneading her back, she sighed with pleasure. She was now aware of every tired muscle in her body and how stressed her life had become. Always rushing to meet deadlines, always focused on work.

Around her, other women went through the same treatments, most of them older.

"I come every year," a stay-at-home mother said with a smile. "It's the only time I can get away." She had four young children and her husband had paid for the spa.

After helping herself to the vegetarian buffet with its incredible salads, Erica decided to use the steam room. The swimming, facial and massage work had succeeded in relaxing every fiber of her being. She felt guilty about enjoying all this pampering, but she really needed a break, especially from her work life. Her feature would appear online and in print today. In spite of her personal involvement, it was her finest writing yet.

She had even taken Monday morning off, so she could catch up with household chores.

The steam room was vacant. Wrapping herself in a fluffy towel, Erica climbed to the top bench and stretched out her limbs. The moist heat felt wonderful, penetrating all her pores and increasing her level of relaxation. She must have dozed off, because when someone opened the door, she was startled awake.

In her dream, she had been at the bedside of a young child, reading from a picture book. The girl had shoulder-length hair, as fine as her own and a few shades lighter. Seeing the youngster had fallen asleep, Erica tucked the covers more closely around her and leaned over to kiss her forehead. A wave of tenderness washed over her. When she woke up, she knew that she had just dreamed of her own child.

It made no sense. She had always given her career priority and steered away from true intimacy with a man. While Megan clearly wanted a family, she had never even entertained the possibility of having one.

Erica still pondered the dream the next day during her body scrub with sea salt and lemon. What surprised her was how happy she had felt in the scene. Forcing herself to dismiss it, she gave herself over to the hydrating treatment that followed the exfoliating scrub. Lying on a cushioned table, smeared from the neck down with a lotion that smelled like tropical fruit, she listened to the piped-in music: the soothing notes of a Japanese flute.

By the end of her stay, she felt the spa had been worth every minute. Her skin glowed with new vitality and she felt in harmony with all levels of her being. She said goodbye to the spa coordinators and finally collected her phone at the reception.

Ryan had left her an urgent voicemail. "Erica, have you seen your feature? Forget your time off. You need to come in Monday asap."

As she drove home, her relaxed mood evaporated. What could be so important that she had to give up her morning off? While unpacking her bags at home, she turned on her iPad and called up the online version of The Chicago Times.

A few moments later, she found the article she had just published.

Her eyes fixated on one sentence: _Fictitious names and places have been used to protect the identities of all concerned_.

As she continued reading, her jaw dropped open. How was it even possible?

Both names of all three men appeared in print, instead of the first names she had carefully invented. It got worse. Specifics were given for each of their positions, updating the information Jackie had given her.

According to her feature, the police officer served their 25th District, Grand Central. Where the Youth Court Judge presided was spelled out, and the sheriff who had sexually abused his own daughter now worked in Will County.

The sinking feeling in her gut told her that these facts were accurate.

As the implications of this kind of exposure hit her, she swore so loudly that she startled the bird perched on her shoulder. Spike flew, shrieking, to his cage. The sound reverberated in her apartment, reflecting how she felt.

## Chapter Twenty

Erica sat impatiently behind an eighteen-wheeler on the I-290 leading to Chicago. Due to slippery road conditions and a couple of accidents, traffic had slowed to a crawl. Drat! She was already late for work, having slept in past her alarm after a restless night. Yesterday's thoughts still swirled in her mind.

Only one person could have sabotaged her work.

Christine must have overheard her conversation with Ryan at that steakhouse. Erica remembered mentioning the facts Jackie had given her, and Ryan stressing the need for discretion. While she and her editor continued their lunch, Christine must have broken into her desk and found her notebook. It would have taken only seconds to photocopy the last page.

Hadn't the snow globe covering her desk key been moved?

As the cars snaked forward, Erica gave her Honda Civic more gas before again stepping on the brakes. Other drivers looked equally frustrated. The blaring of horns dispelled what little remained of her peace of mind. It was like her relaxing weekend at the spa had never taken place.

As a city reporter, Christine only needed to make a few calls to update information on the three law enforcers named in the article. She also would have easily found Erica's feature in the database where she filed her news stories, under its 8-letter slug: _SEX-ABUSE_.

Christine must have made the changes before the feature went to the composing room. As part of the writing staff, she would know that less time-sensitive sections like Travel and Life were dumped over earlier, leaving the last day for current events and late-breaking news.

By the time Erica pulled into the parking lot of The Chicago Times, she had pieced together what must have happened. Unfortunately, she had no proof. Somehow she had to convince management of her innocence.

When she arrived at her floor and walked towards her desk, she saw Victor in Ryan's office. Both men turned as she approached. She shivered, feeling the temperature in the room plummet as she got closer. A print copy of Saturday's paper lay on Ryan's desk, open to their Life section. Even from this distance, the headline silently screamed at her: _Adult Survivors of Sexual Abuse_.

"I didn't make those changes," she said.

The managing editor quickly closed the door behind her. As if she hadn't spoken, he said, "We heard from Officer O'Brien, and the lawyers representing Judge Halford and Sheriff Miller. They're all suing for defamation." His voice rose. "Have you gone totally mad?"

Erica swallowed hard. Of course stories of this nature could ruin lives and careers. No public officer would ever admit to committing these crimes.

"I used first names only and they were fictitious," she said. "These assaults took place years ago, and I had no info on their current positions." She glanced at Ryan. "You saw my final copy."

Ryan shifted his weight. "I know what I saw. But you had their real names and could easily find out the rest." He frowned. "You told me about your own experiences with abuse and how you found the group. What happened to you is regrettable. But to use the paper in this way... for a personal vendetta?" His hands balled into fists. "Damn it, Erica!"

Victor shook his head. "We know that no one protected you, Erica. The authorities let you down. And the men named in your article are all law enforcers of some kind. We know why you did it."

She gripped the edge of Ryan's desk to steady herself. It felt like the only solid thing in a world that was suddenly tilting upside down. "I DIDN'T do it." She looked straight at her boss. "Christine overheard our conversation at the restaurant. She must have broken into my desk and copied my notes."

Both men just stared for a moment. Victor broke the silence. "We asked you in to hear your side. And that's the best you can give us - blaming someone else?"

Erica felt as shaken as her confidence. No matter what she said, they had already judged her and found her guilty. All the same, she straightened her spine and forced herself to speak calmly. "Christine has always been jealous of me. She wanted this job and she went after a man I used to date." Her explanation sounded lame even to her ears. Now she recalled the other woman's words as Erica carried Philip's flowers to her desk: _Bitch. You'll be sorry_.

"You have to believe me," she said.

Ryan met her eyes. "I don't know what to believe. But we'll speak to Mel and Christine to see if she had anything to do with it."

Victor cleared his throat. "We're meeting with our lawyers this afternoon. Why don't you go home for now? We'll call you in when we're ready."

Erica put on the jacket she had flung on her office chair. Without any proof, there was no point in arguing her case. She had just seen the most defamatory article in print and it carried her byline.

She drove back to Oak Park much more slowly, unaware of the tears streaking her face until she tasted their saltiness.

After another sleepless night, Erica heard her phone ring.

"We came to a decision," Victor said. "Can you come in today around 1:00 p.m.?" His politeness chilled her to the bone.

Erica clung to a sliver of hope as she again made her way downtown. They must have questioned Christine. Maybe they had seen through her alibis. All she needed was for them to accept the possibility that she had been sabotaged. They could always assign her to another position. After all, she was a good writer, with an impeccable track record. She couldn't remember the last sick day she had taken. Surely that counted for something.

Their editor-in-chief, a stocky man with aviator glasses, stood with Victor and Ryan when she arrived. She had never met him personally before.

He stuck out a hand which she reluctantly shook. "Erica, right?" His gaze swept over her before he said, "We're facing three libel suits, each for millions of dollars. We'll print a retraction of your statements, but our lawyers say it's not enough. We need to give notice of your dismissal. Our hope is that they'll settle for damages." The words fell from his mouth like stones.

"You're firing me? Even when I didn't do it?"

Ryan touched her arm, then abruptly let his hand drop. "Denial doesn't help, Erica. We spoke with Mel and Christine. She was out on assignment all week, including the afternoon we lunched together."

_Out on assignment_? How did that prevent her from taking a few minutes to do what she did?

Victor stepped between them. "We'll pay you for the time owed and your benefits. Ryan will help you collect your things."

Most of the newspaper staff had left for lunch. Now she understood the timing of their meeting. This was how they handled staff dismissals, with the least amount of disruption.

Humiliation flooded her as Ryan gave her a plastic bag and then held out an empty cardboard box. Under his watchful eye, she tossed in her personal effects - the snow globe, a picture of Spike, a spare pair of shoes, her fold-up umbrella and a bunch of her favorite pens. What did they think she would do, trash the place?

"One day you'll realize you were wrong," she said, trying not to cry.

"I'm sorry to see you go." He awkwardly balanced the half-full box in his hands. "I'd like to give you a reference, but under the circumstances..."

"I understand." Erica shoved the last of her things into the bag on the floor. Frustration and despair overwhelmed her and she knew that she couldn't keep her composure much longer.

Ryan escorted her to the elevator. She rushed through the door blindly, not even saying goodbye. She couldn't. As she descended to the lobby with her possessions, the last of her self-control vanished. She sobbed on the way to her car. It wasn't fair!

Christine had gotten away scot-free. Just like the perpetrators named in her article.

For the first time, she considered Jackie and the three women she had interviewed. They must have been shocked when they saw her feature in print. It exposed them as well as their pasts. Christine had used their real first names. That could be enough to identify them and lay bare the secrets they had guarded for so long. They must believe she had totally betrayed them.

No matter how uncomfortable it got, Erica had to see Jackie to set the record straight.

## Chapter Twenty-One

"We need to talk." Alex methodically wiped the grease off his fingers with a napkin. He had just finished his second helping from the buffet, mostly spareribs and steamed veggies. When they arrived at the House of Wong, they had both been famished after their lovemaking at the inn.

"About what?" Lindsey put down her last forkful of Chicken Chow Mein. Her pleasure in coming to this restaurant, just a quarter mile from the Winchester Inn, suddenly evaporated. She already knew something was bothering him; he had been unusually quiet this afternoon.

His eyes clouded. "I can't go on like this, love. It's just too hard," he said. "I want to be with you on weekends and holidays. To be able to call you at night."

Three weeks ago Alex had asked her to consider leaving her marriage. Since then, not one more word had been spoken about it, and the passage of time had somehow lulled her into a false sense of security.

"I understand. I'm just not ready - "

He covered her hand on the table with his. "I don't want to pressure you to leave him. We had seven wonderful weeks together, which is more than I expected."

She played with the food on her plate, not knowing how to respond. Kurt's business still wasn't breaking even. He was trying to turn things around. Almost every night, he held her close as he slept, his body telling her how much he depended on her to get through his days.

How could she forget the past? Her husband had met her when she was a complete mess and helped her straighten out. Even now, whenever she felt the urge to snort coke or numb herself with liquor, his presence in her life stopped her from giving in.

"I want to help him through the next couple of months," she said. "Otherwise I'll be abandoning him when he needs me the most."

Alex nodded. "You almost done? I'll drive you closer to your home."

Afterwards, they drove in silence for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Before reaching Willowdale, he pulled up at the curb near a bus stop. He flipped open the glove compartment and handed her a package.

"I think you're ready for this. It's the audio book for _Eat Pray Love_ , along with the paperback edition. That way, you'll be able to correct yourself when you read."

"I saw the movie with Julia Roberts and loved it." The story was about a woman's journey around the world to find herself after her divorce. Maybe Alex thought it would help her find herself, too. Lindsey threw her arms around his neck. "I'll miss you terribly. And I can't even begin to thank you for everything you've done."

Not only had he brought her to a functional level of literacy through their work together, but his kindness and caring had fostered a new feeling of self-worth. For the first time in years, she actually felt good about herself.

Neither of them said goodbye. After a quick kiss, she jumped out of his car. When a bus pulled in at the stop, she got on without looking back. The constant rumbling of the wheels beneath her temporarily soothed her, giving her a feeling of normalcy. Tears came anyway and she wiped them away. A cloak of heaviness settled on her shoulders the closer she got to her destination.

A woman with an abundance of fiery red hair boarded the bus, reminding her of that fortune teller at the psychic fair. At least now she didn't need to worry about Kurt finding out about her affair. Life without Alex would be less bearable but it would also be safer.

As she walked the two short blocks from her bus stop, Lindsey drew in several long, shaky breaths. She refused to cry on the street, where everyone could see her.

Standing in front of her front lawn, she stared at the _For Sale_ sign planted firmly in the ground. Her eyes followed the circular drive to the white stately columns of the house. The late-day sun tinged the walls with a rosy glow, giving the impression of warmth.

Although Kurt had always loved this house, the restaurant came first. The money from this sale would keep Le Courvoisier afloat a while longer, he had argued. Keep them from declaring bankruptcy. A stubborn streak prevented him from giving up. She wondered if he would ever accept failure. It took a big man to know when to pack things in.

Lindsey unlocked their massive front door with a sigh. She had never been that enamored of this place or their neighborhood. They were surrounded by affluent families, and as a childless couple struggling to pay their mortgage, they had never really fit in.

Her future with Kurt yawned before her like a deep, dark pit and he was dragging her with him. The only question was how far she was willing to plunge before getting out.

## Chapter Twenty-Two

Erica had three missed calls on her cell when she got up the next morning. She had tried to reach Jackie several times. No answer. After the media coverage exposing members of her group and the men who had assaulted them, could she blame her? Maybe one of the messages was from her, giving her a chance to explain.

All three calls came from unidentified numbers. The first one had come in just after midnight.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" sputtered a male voice. "You're gonna pay for this, damn it!" The line clicked off.

The second message came from an older-sounding man.

"Filthy lies, all of it!" he said. "Girl, you've just unleashed the hounds of hell. Forget about EVER working in the newspaper business again."

The third call was just heavy breathing.

Disgusted, Erica tossed her smartphone on the sofa. She didn't know how they had found her number. But no matter what badges they wore, these men were all criminals.

She paced up and down in her hallway, fury building inside her. Spike must have picked up on her mood because the cockatiel started screeching. Those perverts deserved to be exposed, but everyone assumed she had done it. Christine had gotten her revenge. When all was said and done, she might even snag her job as a feature writer.

None of that mattered anymore.

She focused on the three courageous women in the adult survivors group who had agreed to be interviewed. They believed she had betrayed them, further eroding their trust in human nature. She had to see Jackie.

The psychologist worked weekdays in a downtown practice, starting at ten o'clock. Maybe she could catch her before she left for the office.

After a hurried cup of coffee, Erica drove to Old Town and parked across the street from the bungalow with the green-tiled roof. She didn't have long to wait. A few minutes later, Jackie stepped outside and locked her front door. Her dark, wavy hair had been pulled into a chignon for a more professional look and she wore a light raincoat.

Erica rushed across the street to intercept her before she could reach the Volkswagen parked in her driveway.

"I didn't do it," she said. "I was framed. That's why I'm here."

"I have nothing to say to you," Jackie said, her eyes flashing.

Feeling desperate, Erica pulled at her arm. "I'd never do anything to hurt any of you. Another journalist put in their names and titles to get back at me."

The psychologist shook her head. "Really? Whether that's true or not, the damage is done. You made your headlines. Now leave us alone."

She brushed Erica off as if she were a bothersome insect and got into her car. After quickly backing up, she peeled away. The sound of screeching tires seemed to hang in the air.

As Erica began the drive home, her shoulders sagged in defeat. No point in trying anymore. Jackie had made up her mind and she was sure none of those women wanted to hear from her, either.

Things had gotten so crazy. Who could she turn to? She hadn't spoken to Megan since last week and suddenly needed to see her, no matter how briefly. Clinging to that thought, she turned onto North State Street and headed for her favorite bakery.

Buns 'N Things occupied a narrow space on a store-lined block. Tantalizing aromas filled its interior - from coffee, cinnamon and chocolate to the smell of fresh dough. Erica inhaled deeply as she stepped into the shop, drawing comfort from the familiar smells.

A young girl stood at the counter, serving customers. Erica found her friend in the back, surrounded by trays of muffins and cookies, as well as assorted cakes on cooling racks. She held a piping bag in one hand.

"What a nice surprise," Megan said when she saw her. "I'd give you a hug if I weren't covered in flour. D'you have the day off?"

"You can say that." Not only the day, but the week and the rest of her life. With a shiver, Erica recalled that message on her phone. _Forget about ever working in the newspaper business again_.

"I wish I weren't so busy. We have several rush orders and I'm short-staffed. How was the spa?"

After everything that had gone down, Erica's weekend at the Four Seasons felt light years away. She forced a smile. "Great. They really pampered me."

She longed to throw her arms around her, dirty apron and all. Megan could help her make sense of the nightmare that had taken over her life.

The other woman frowned as she leaned closer. "Are you okay? You look pale."

Erica bit on her lower lip, determined not to cry. There was no point in getting into it now. Megan had also been away for the weekend and had probably missed reading The Chicago Times. She asked if they could meet for dinner.

"I have plans with Todd this evening," she said. "Tomorrow then?"

After they confirmed a meeting spot, Erica turned and left. Why upset her by telling her that she had just been fired? Her problems could wait one more day. As she walked to her car, a paper bag slapped against her thigh. It contained several hot cross buns that had just come out of the oven. The heat permeated the bag and warmed her as much as Megan's caring and friendship.

As the day wore on, her buoyancy evaporated. She jumped every time her phone rang. It was just telemarketers, but she turned the sound off anyway.

The skies had grown cloudy and rain began to splatter her living room window. Spike snoozed on top of his cage, his head tucked into his feathers. She had expected the bird to welcome her presence on a weekday, but he had flown around earlier and was probably used to sleeping in the afternoon.

To calm her nerves, she poured a shot of Scotch from the bottle she had bought for Philip's visits. Then another. She had worked damn hard on her career, and it hurt to see it destroyed. Tomorrow she would pull herself together and think about her job prospects. Right now, she was allowing herself to wallow.

For a moment, she felt tempted to call Philip. He would console her, but what then? He couldn't make her problems go away.

As darkness fell, she dozed in her armchair. When she woke up, the quietness of her apartment closed in around her. She needed to get out. Grabbing her jacket, she headed for the elevator with no destination in mind.

### ***

While most of Chicago settled down for the night, the singles bars on West Division Street came noisily alive. As Erica cruised down the street, she passed P.S. Chicago, known for its young crowd, and then a sports bar. Across from her stood Bootleggers, a popular watering hole. She saw a long-haired woman walk in alone.

_If she can do it, so can I_. All she wanted was a few drinks and the sound of human conversation to drown out the anxious voices in her head. She pulled into the parking lot and then made her way inside.

Settled at the bar with a liqueur, she watched dancers on the small platform move to a techno beat. It was already past midnight. They probably held day jobs and got by on only a few hours' sleep. That would have been impossible for her at the Times, where early mornings and constant deadlines prevailed. Refusing to think about her job, she ordered another cocktail. The apricot brandy sent a pleasurable tingle to her toes and slowed her mental processes. With any luck, she'd be able to forget why she had come.

As she finished her drink, a man appeared at her elbow, offering to buy the next.

"I'm Kevin," he said. "And you're too beautiful to be sitting here alone." He had good features, marred only by a mild case of acne. When she saw him flash hundred dollar bills, she decided not to protest. After all, she was currently unemployed. At the sobering thought, she turned to him for a distraction.

"Where are you from?" she asked, having detected a slight drawl in his words.

"Texas," he said. "We owned a ranch, me and Gus." His thumb indicated the fellow next to him, who nodded at her. "Broke our hearts to sell it, but we made a nice profit."

"I see." She glanced at his leather tie with an encrusted diamond at its center. It looked ridiculous with the cheap shirt he wore. Who was he trying to impress?

She downed her third Apricot Sour. Or was it her fourth? Another one waited for her, with its glistening maraschino cherry on top, and she hadn't even seen him order it.

Maybe she should have eaten first, but she needed this more. No harm in polishing it off before making an excuse to leave.

The brandy continued to relax her, and minutes blurred into each other. When Kevin made some off-color jokes, she found herself laughing. Anything was better than thinking about work. At one point, she almost lost her balance on the stool before a steadying arm went around her.

"Here, this should help." Kevin handed her another drink.

"No. I think... I reached my limit." Her voice sounded tinny, like it came from a distance. In the last ten years, she had hardly touched alcohol apart from wine.

Gus pressed close to her on the other side. His round face and glasses swam in and out of focus as he lifted the glass to her lips. "It'll be your last, then. That's my girl."

Kevin mentioned a party in their Gold Coast district that they wanted to take her to. She told him to go ahead without her. He mustn't have heard because they were helping her to her feet.

After draping her jacket over her shoulders, Kevin took her elbow. His friend gripped her other arm as they led her towards the door.

"It's a private party," Gus said. "Don't worry. We'll take good care of you."

Her head cleared enough for her to pry herself loose. "Take your stupid paws off me! I'm s-staying here."

They exchanged a look before reaching for her arms again. A few more steps and they would all be outside.

A solid-looking man in a checkered shirt blocked their passage. Looking at Erica, he said, "Sorry I'm late, honey. Did you get tired of waiting?"

Even in her stupor, she realized this man was offering her a way out.

"I'm glad you... made it. These g-gentlemen were just k-keeping me company."

After the two men left the bar, he steered her to an unoccupied table. "I take it you didn't know them. I've seen it happen before."

She shook her head. "Thanks for your chivalry. I don't usually drink this much but something b-bad happened this week." The man sitting opposite her was good-looking in a teddy-bear sort of way. The innocence of his baby blue eyes seemed to contrast with the sophistication of a perfectly trimmed moustache.

As the music continued to thud in her ears, her temple started throbbing. "I had enough of this place. I'm leaving."

"You're in no condition to drive," he pointed out. "I'll be happy to drop you off. Besides, those two may still be lurking outside."

She wanted to say that she could take care of herself, but when she shifted her head, the room spun around. He was right.

"Thanks. My name is Erica." She thrust her hand at him and was reassured by the firmness of his handshake.

"Dave Rutherford."

When she walked to his car, the clouds had disappeared and dozens of stars glimmered overhead. He tucked her into the passenger side of his Chevrolet and closed the door.

As he started the ignition, he said, "Would you like a coffee? It's a long night and I wouldn't mind some company."

The night air had restored her somewhat. "I'm in no rush to get home. You're not from these parts, are you?"

He told her that he lived in a town called Silver Falls. Seeing her expression, he added, "Wisconsin. The kind of place where everyone knows each other. We look out for our neighbors, too. I come to Chicago to see my brother." He sighed. "Don't stay with him, though. He married a woman with five kids." After a slight pause, he said, "I found a spot that makes great espresso. It's right in my hotel."

"Okay," she said.

Dave left his car with the valet. The hotel restaurant was almost empty at this hour. As Erica sat next to him at a corner table, she sipped black coffee and told him what had gone down at the Times.

He gave a low whistle. "No kidding! That means your reputation is shot, too. No wonder you're upset."

After all she had been through, his unquestioning acceptance of her story filled her with relief.

"You have to learn to better protect yourself," he said.

"Like tonight?" She shuddered. "I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't shown up. You were great. The perfect boyfriend."

"If I were seeing you, I wouldn't meet you in a place like that." His gaze held hers without wavering.

Erica looked down at his big hands, awkwardly holding such a small cup. She realized how badly she needed to be held. Maybe he had a wife, like Philip did, but he was going back to Wisconsin and she'd never see him again.

"We could finish this conversation upstairs," she said quietly.

A smile spread across his face. "Sounds like an offer I can't refuse." He tossed some bills on the table and stood. "Shall we go?"

In his room, they lost their inhibitions as quickly as they discarded their clothes. Lying next to her in bed, he traced circles on her inner thigh. "Do you like this?" he murmured. "And this?"

His neck smelled of lavender soap. She breathed in the wholesome fragrance, knowing she wanted to make love with him. When his mouth found hers, her body writhed against him with a will of its own. With a muffled groan, he pulled her closer and then eased into her.

Matching his rhythm, she enjoyed the pleasurable sensations until everything started to quicken. She cried out as the crest she had been riding suddenly crashed.

"That was incredible." For the first time, she had actually let go. With Philip, something had always held her back, keeping her tense. Maybe it was because of the alcohol, but she had finally reached a climax through intercourse. Here, with this stranger.

Dave beamed at her. "It was, wasn't it?" A few beads of perspiration glistened on his brow. One of his well-muscled legs rested on hers, reminding her of the intimacy they had just shared.

Reaching over, she traced his moustache with a fingertip. She remembered how it had tickled her as they kissed.

Looking into his eyes, she said, "If we rest up a while, do you think... we could do it again?"

## Chapter Twenty-Three

When Erica saw the crumpled bills on the dresser, her first reaction was indignation. Bad enough waking up alone in a strange hotel room. But did he really think she needed to be paid for their time together?

Then she saw his note: For Cab Fare. The rest of his message read,

Sorry I have to leave. Last night was great!

P.S. - I ordered some breakfast in case you're hungry.

Dave.

Now she noticed the trolley tucked next to the door. She sat up naked in bed and balanced the food tray on her knees. As if she hadn't eaten in days, she devoured its contents - scrambled egg, a croissant with almond paste, orange juice and a tepid cup of black coffee.

In the morning light, the room looked uninviting with its bare beige walls. It was also sparse, holding only a double bed with two small dressers and a tiny bathroom. She decided to shower at home. Rush hour was already over, so traffic should be light.

As she hailed a cab to get back to Bootleggers, she felt warmed by Dave's generosity. He knew she had just lost her job and wanted to ensure she could easily get home.

Her Honda Civic sat alone in the parking lot where she had left it. As she drove back to Oak Park, the gravity of her situation hit her. Without work, she would soon lose her apartment. Journalism was her life, but she could also write. Maybe she could freelance for ezines or small online newspapers. But getting even that would be challenging without recommendations from The Chicago Times.

Back in her apartment building, she rode the elevator to her floor and headed for her door. How odd. It wasn't locked. The superintendent must have come in to check something, but didn't he always call first?

"Spike, I'm home." An eerie silence greeted her.

The rug in her hallway was flipped over and when she glanced into the living room, her heart stopped. The sofa had been slashed in multiple places. White foam spilled out everywhere. Her floor lamp tilted on its side, its shade ripped to shreds. Even her glass-and-chrome coffee table was shattered.

Picking her way through the debris, she rushed to the bird cage. It had miraculously remained upright. Spike, though, lay at the bottom of the cage, his feathers matted and blood-stained. The neck that always turned to watch her now twisted at an unnatural angle. The cockatiel stared up at her with unseeing eyes.

"What... monster did this?" she said in a low voice. With trembling fingers, she touched his tail features. They were stiff and cold.

She couldn't leave him there. With a sob, she ran to the bathroom for something to wrap him in.

Glancing up at the mirror, she saw her tear-streaked face and something else. A message in big, sloppy letters, smeared on it with a tube of her own toothpaste: YOU'RE NEXT.

Who was behind this? The sheriff? It could just as easily have been one of the other men named in her feature.

With chills going up and down her spine, she called 911 and asked for the police. As she waited for their arrival, she carefully wrapped the bird in tissues and cradled him in her hands. The poor thing had been crushed by a heavy object; she hoped he had died instantly.

Two officers came to her door twenty minutes later.

"What did they steal?" the older man asked as he jotted down details on a form.

"Nothing, as far as I know," she said. "Whoever did this wanted to hurt me."

"Must have been a professional," said the other officer. "There were no signs of forcible entry. Does anyone else have a copy of your key?" The toe of his shoe stubbed the remains of a glass paperweight which Philip had given her. It had been shaped like a dolphin and sat on what used to be her coffee table.

"No." She showed him the message on the mirror. "I received threatening calls as well. This isn't just a break and entry. It has to do with an article I wrote for the Saturday Times. Can you offer me some protection? How about a bodyguard?"

The men exchanged looks. Then the senior officer cleared his throat. "You mean the article on sex crimes?"

She nodded. A police officer had been named; perhaps they knew him.

"We don't have the manpower for bodyguards," he said. "You can make a claim with your insurance. Here's the report number." He tore off a perforated piece from his pad.

Before she could say another word, the officers left.

On her way to the kitchen table, Erica avoided the shards of broken dishes and cups scattered over the floor. Sitting down, she held her face in her hands and struggled to catch her breath. Not even the law would protect her. But living in this high-rise had come with built-in security. Clearly the system had failed her.

Drawing a shaky breath, she called the building manager about her experience. "What use is a doorman and security cameras if vandals get in?"

The woman said there had not been any other incidents in the building and promised to investigate.

Now the silence closed in around her like a shroud. She missed Spike's cheerful singing and whistles. The senseless murder filled her with grief.

With a heavy heart, she drove into Chicago, the bird's corpse tucked into the shoe box beside her. She took Lake Shore Drive to Lincoln Park and got out.

As strong winds off Lake Michigan whipped around her, she looked for a suitable burial spot. She found a hollow next to a weeping willow that had lost most of its leaves. Getting on her knees, she dug out a space with the sturdy serving spoon she had brought and gently placed the dead cockatiel in it. She wiped away a tear with a grimy hand as she covered him with earth. Hopefully he'd rest in peace under the open skies.

When she returned to her car, she had a message from her building manager. She had spoken to the doorman, who mentioned Erica's ex-boyfriend. He said that Philip used to have his own key.

Erica stared at her phone. They thought Philip had trashed her apartment? She realized the doorman needed a scapegoat. He was Puerto Rican and supported a large family. Possibly someone had bribed him to gain entrance. Or he had gotten distracted by the sheer number of people going in and out the door - after all, the building had hundreds of tenants.

As she neared Oak Park, her feelings of dread intensified. It wasn't a matter of changing her lock. Whoever had broken into her apartment could easily come back.

Fearing for her safety, she spent the next few hours stuffing her personal belongings into bags. Miraculously her laptop was still intact. She decided to take it with her. As she glanced around the apartment one last time, she averted her eyes from the empty bird cage.

An unexpected sound made her freeze. It was only the refrigerator beginning a new cycle, but her shoulders slumped in relief.

She'd call the superintendent later. He would have to clear out the broken furniture but could sell her bedroom set, which was still intact. It would cover the rent until they found a new tenant.

Time to meet Megan for dinner. The other woman had chosen a Thai restaurant close to the waterfront. Erica frowned as she walked up to the entrance. Her car was crammed with her possessions. Almost overnight, she had gone from someone with a stylish apartment and a great job to a homeless, unemployed person.

Anxious to see her friend, she quickly joined her inside. As the aroma of sizzling meat and blended spices wafted around her, her stomach cramped, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Okay, shoot," said Megan. "What's going on with you?"

She told her about the article, getting fired, and the threatening messages before ending with her ransacked apartment.

Megan gasped at the news. "Seriously. All THAT in just a few days?"

"The worst part is what they did to Spike," Erica said. "I buried him today."

"I'm so sorry. I know how much you cared about your pet bird." Megan squeezed her forearm on the table.

Despite Erica's protests, she insisted on treating her to the house special: spring rolls with peanut sauce and a mango salad. Both women went quiet as they ate. Then Megan asked about next steps.

Erica chewed her salad slowly, savoring the tartness of lime juice with chili. "Find a job. Then find a place to stay."

When she learned that she had moved out of her apartment, Megan immediately offered her a place to stay.

How could she refuse? If she lived out of her car, it would be more difficult to find work. After their meal, Erica followed her girlfriend's Kia on the interstate to Wilmette.

The next few days blurred into each other.

In the Saturday paper, the Times printed a retraction and announced her dismissal. It was all so matter-of-fact. Reading the words killed whatever hope she still held for a comeback.

Erica slept on Megan's pull-out couch at night and combed the want ads during the day. Willing to take anything, she applied for waitressing jobs and even bartending. Not a single interview.

She finally met Todd, who seemed nice enough, even if a trifle dull. Hearing the couple whisper in the kitchen, she felt like a third wheel. The one-bedroom flat was small, with paper-thin walls. They needed their privacy.

The next morning, on her way back from a local supermarket, Erica sensed a presence near her. A tall man she had seen in the store walked a few paces behind. Was she being followed? When he continued on past Megan's building, her pulse still raced.

What if being here put her friend in jeopardy? When she checked her Facebook page, Erica saw the photos she had posted months ago of Buns 'N Things and Megan smiling behind the counter. How long before they figured out where she had fled?

"I'm leaving in the morning," she announced when Megan got home from the bakery.

Her face brightened. "You got a job? Where will you stay?"

Erica gave her a swift hug. "I appreciate your generosity, but I can't remain here. I'm leaving Chicago."

Years ago, she had left her hometown for parts unknown. It felt like a lifetime since then, but she had to uproot herself again. If she stayed, she would always be looking over her shoulder.

## Chapter Twenty-Four

Erica intended to drive to Milwaukee. Instead, she found herself turning west on the I-94 and heading deeper into Wisconsin. The rhythmic sound of the wheels beneath her was hypnotic. As long as she kept moving, she could pretend she was on a road trip and not on the run.

Dairy farms stretched out for miles, sometimes with cows grazing in the yellowed fields. The sleepy towns she passed all looked alike with their church steeples and painted houses. As she crossed bridges over lakes and rivers, she imagined how the area must look with the vibrant greenery of summertime.

She stopped on the outskirts of Eau Claire for gas. As the attendant filled up her tank, she got out to stretch her legs. Inhaling the clear, crisp air, she admired the rolling hills in the distance. All the open space around her made her solitude feel more pronounced, especially without a cell phone or GPS. This was the price of safety. To avoid being tracked, she had ditched her phone before leaving Chicago.

From the front seat, Erica pulled out a folded road map purchased along the route. When she scanned it for Silver Falls, she realized why she had come this way. Dave had spoken so fondly of his hometown. And there it was - a speck on the map, almost hidden in the mountains around Deer Lake.

A remote small town could offer her protection for a few months. Her savings would last longer there, too, as she needed to pay for a place to stay. She hoped to make some money by writing online, even doing web content. Anything.

Dusk had already fallen and she felt too tired to keep driving. As she paid for her gas, she asked the middle-aged woman at the station where she could stay for the night.

"There's a place down the road apiece," she said after quickly sizing her up. "Nothing fancy, but it's clean."

In the motel, Erica took a long, hot shower before dropping off to sleep. At first light, she was already back on the road. As she drove, she nibbled on the bran muffins she had picked up along the way with a cup of strong coffee.

Drifting snowflakes began to gather in intensity. Temperatures here were colder here than usual for early November, and the local weatherman warned of slippery road conditions. The highway narrowed to two lanes that dipped and swerved through the increasingly mountainous terrain, and with reduced visibility, traffic slowed to a crawl. What should have been a ninety-minute drive took her well over two hours.

Gradually the snow tapered off and breaks appeared in the cloud. When she turned around one last bend, her breath caught in her throat. Silver Falls lay nestled in a valley of the Barron Hills like a lost paradise. From the patchwork grid of houses, dozens of chimneys sent plumes of smoke into the air.

Main Street was impossible to miss, with its rows of old-fashioned shops. After parking the car, Erica walked into a corner store. Like neighborhood stores in her childhood, it had a counter of perishable goods and shelves crammed with household products, with snow shovels strategically placed near the front.

Erica stared at the sandwiches behind the glass, the smell of chopped egg stirring her hunger. Pointing to her choice, she pulled out her wallet.

"Freshly made," the woman said as she punched up the sale. "Maybe you'd also like the tuna? There's a table near the window where you can sit."

"Thanks. I've been driving for two days." Settled at the small melamine table, Erica flipped through a local paper, checking out the ads for lodging between bites of her sandwich.

"Searching for a place?" The woman now stood at her elbow. "My neighbor is looking for a boarder. Big rambling house, with lots of trees."

Erica took down the particulars and used the store phone to call for an appointment. She was told to "just come on over."

The oversized cottage had gleaming oak floors and country scenes in needlepoint framed on the walls. The owners were an elderly couple whose children had moved out long ago.

"We never use the top floor anymore," Mrs. Langley said. "Climbing stairs is hard on my knees." She turned to her husband. "Show her the room, won't you, dear?"

Spry in spite of a slight curvature of his spine, her spouse led the way upstairs. "Have any kids?"

"No." She figured at this stage in their lives, the last thing they wanted was the sound of children overhead.

"Too bad," he said, surprising her. "Children are a real joy."

When they reached the top of the landing, he leaned against the railing for a moment, indicating for her to go ahead. "Room's at the far end."

She had expected the top floor to smell a little musty. Instead the fresh scent of pine greeted her. The bedrooms on either side looked orderly and well-kept in spite of the frayed posters of rock stars still taped to the walls. As she passed them, she could almost hear the echo of teenage laughter and late-night whispers.

The room for rent had a sloped ceiling but made up for it by its size. A massive window overlooked a yard filled with blue spruce and pine trees; in the distance, she saw snow-covered hills and endless blue sky.

She glanced at the double bed, antique dresser and roll-top desk. Easy to picture herself seated there with her laptop, inspired by the view.

When Erica got back to the man, she said her first impression was very good and she liked the desk.

"Someone may's well use it. It's just gathering dust up there," he said. Pointing to a closed door, he added, "Bathroom's through there. Just a toilet and shower. If you want a soak in a hot tub on a winter's night, like the Missus, you can use ours." He told her to take her time; they would wait downstairs.

No one in Chicago would trust a stranger alone in their home. Maybe these folks sensed that she wouldn't steal anything.

Erica went back to the room, feeling her spirits lift as she stepped inside. After everything she had been through, it was just what she needed.

Testing the mattress with her weight, she found it still firm, and the sheets hinted of fabric softener. As she sat on the bed, she glanced into the oval mirror above the dresser. Seeing her reflection, she smoothed back a few unruly locks of hair.

The image in the glass wavered as a memory surfaced. She was brushing Lindsey's dark hair. It was long, straight and silky but easily tangled. Their mother had recently died and the ritual acted like a bonding experience between the two sisters.

"Maybe I should get a perm," Lindsey said. "My friends have them."

"Your hair's fine the way it is." Erica wished her sibling weren't so influenced by others. The smallest criticism brought her to tears.

Now Erica's eyes narrowed in the mirror. She'd never forgive Richard. He had stripped away all of Lindsey's defenses and then forced her into the street.

The whistling of a kettle downstairs got her to her feet.

"The room is perfect," she told the couple. "How much is it?"

"Only what you can pay." Mrs. Langley patted her hand. "Have a biscuit. I made some tea to go with it."

She wanted to know where Erica was from and why she came.

"A broken love affair," she said, thinking of Philip to make it real. "I needed to get out of the city and make a new life." Telling them that she was also in trouble would only worry them.

"What do you do for a living?" the woman asked.

"I'm a journalist. I worked on a paper in Chicago." She bit into a home-made scone. A little hard on the teeth but delicious, with a slightly nutty flavor. "I have savings but I'm hoping to find something in Silver Falls."

The woman efficiently poured tea into three mugs. "My niece works at McLaren Advertising. They're looking for someone who can write."

They insisted that she stay with them for the night. With Mrs. Langley's help, Erica managed to get an interview the next day. The advertising firm was on Main Street, within walking distance of their house.

Bernie, the office manager at McLaren's, also handled their staffing needs. "So you're from Chicago?" he asked.

She nodded. "I did city reporting for the Times."

The balding manager whistled softly. "You mean you're THE Erica Bradford? I used to read your news reports when I lived in Illinois a few years ago. You're an excellent writer."

She felt her shoulders relax. No point in mentioning her feature writing and the lawsuits.

"Why did you leave?" he asked.

Erica swallowed hard. "Personal reasons. And... there was a personality conflict at work." More like jealousy and sabotage on Christine's part, but that was water under the bridge.

He told her that their firm handled advertising for the dairy industry, the farming community and local businesses. "Can you start tomorrow? We'll train you."

Erica walked out of his office as if she were floating. No reference check, no need to explain the nightmare that had taken over her life only weeks ago.

Her first step was to buy a cell phone with a local number. Then, after moving her belongings to the upper floor of the Langleys' house, she called Charlie Ellis.

"I moved to Wisconsin," she said. "I'm giving you my new phone number and email account on the condition that you don't give them out to anyone."

"Of course." After a pause, he said, "It's related to your job on the paper, isn't it? I heard about the legal issues."

She shifted her weight as she held the phone to her ear. The past had suddenly darkened the room like an ominous cloud. How much should she tell him, if anything?

"I'm making a new life here," she finally said. "But I want you to keep looking for my sister. Call me right away if you have news." After giving him her contact info, she terminated the call.

Charlie must have wanted to know what town or city she had moved to, but as long as she paid him, what did it matter?

The less anyone knew of her whereabouts, the better. Eventually the scandal she had uncovered in Chicago would be forgotten and she would be able to breathe a little easier.

One day she would find Lindsey, too. She felt it in her bones. Maybe it would be difficult to recognize her after all their years apart, but nothing could diminish her love for the sister she had left behind.

### THREE MONTHS LATER

## Chapter Twenty-Five

No one even looked up as Erica carried refreshments and a full pot of coffee into the meeting room. The firm's creative director, graphic designer and senior copywriter sat hunched at the far end of the table, discussing a proposal with their client.

Abe's Hardware was McLaren's oldest account. After the hours Erica had spent updating their catalogue - listing everything from wheelbarrows to wrenches - couldn't they at least have introduced her to the man?

She silently left the room, closing the door behind her. Of course she was grateful for the job. But three months had gone by and the advertising firm still assigned her only the most routine tasks: mostly weekly circulars for supermarkets and store catalogues. Would they ever let her show them what she could do? She missed using her creativity and writing skills.

Feeling frustrated, she helped herself to a leftover catered ham-and-cheese sandwich to settle her nerves.

Joan, their bookkeeper, paused on her way to the coffee machine. "Are you okay? Your face just went white."

Leaning over her wastepaper basket, Erica spit out the remaining food in her mouth. Her stomach heaved and her body felt shaky.

"Must be the cheese," she said. "Maybe it's off."

Joan stepped closer. A flamboyant woman in her fifties, she had dyed red hair and wore flowing pantsuits and colorful scarves with panache. "I ate a couple of sandwiches; they were fine."

Erica sighed. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately. Can't seem to hold anything down."

"Uh huh. Is this an all-day thing or just mornings?"

"I'm not pregnant. At least I don't think so." She had gone off the pill before breaking up with Philip. He was a careful man when it came to birth control. Even on the night she had slept with him afterwards, he had used protection. Then, of course, there was Dave...

Joan suggested picking up a pregnancy test just to be sure and offered to go with her. After work, they went for dinner first at an Italian restaurant in the same strip mall as the town's largest drugstore.

As they came out, Erica saw Dave in the parking lot. Same build, same moustache, wearing another checkered shirt. It wasn't a big town and she had expected to bump into him at some point. But he emerged from his Chevrolet along with a smiling blonde and two preteens.

She turned her head so he wouldn't see her. As the foursome stepped into the same restaurant she had just vacated, laughter trailed behind them.

After a shock of recognition, Erica felt nothing. No longings, no jealousy. Whatever he shared with that woman and their kids was real. What he had shared with her had been fleeting and sexual.

Still, she was grateful to him for leading her to Silver Falls. She had fled to this remote area in Wisconsin for safety but had gotten accustomed to people on the street saying good morning and sales clerks greeting her by name. It felt more civilized somehow.

Picking up her pace, she followed Joan to the drugstore, where she bought a _rapid detection_ pregnancy kit. She took the test at her friend's flat in an older part of town.

After she produced a urine sample and inserted the stick, a vertical line in the control window indicated that the test was working. Then a blue cross in the other window said she was pregnant.

Her pulse racing, she took the test two more times. Same result.

"Could be a false-positive," Joan said, obviously trying not to look alarmed. She knew Erica was on her own, with no family to turn to.

Erica read the instructions word for word. "Even when they claim to have 99% accuracy?"

"You need to see a doctor." She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her. "Use mine. Tell him I sent you and say it's urgent."

The next morning, Erica made an appointment for that afternoon due to a cancellation. The doctor's office was only a ten-minute drive from the Langleys'. Everything here was close by. She didn't miss the traffic jams and long commutes in Chicago.

After a vaginal exam, the spectacled doctor asked, "How long since your last period?"

Her mind scrambled. She realized she hadn't had her monthly since arriving. She had attributed it to the stress of dealing with so much change \- new place, new people, and new job. "Over three months."

He told her she showed definite signs of being pregnant but wanted her to go for a blood test for a confirmation. Misinterpreting the fear he must have seen in her expression, he patted her knee. "You're young and resilient. You should have no trouble carrying through to term."

Feeling stunned, Erica made her way home. A few days later, his diagnosis was confirmed.

"What'll I do?" she asked Joan on their lunch break. "I can't have this baby."

Her co-worker pressed her hand. "You're stronger than you think. My husband died when our son was only three. I managed, and you will, too."

Erica shook her head. "I can't deal with this. I don't even know if I'm staying here."

After a long pause, Joan said, "There's an adoption agency about twenty miles away. You could discuss your situation with them. That is, if you're really sure."

Ten days later, Erica visited the agency. A counselor told her they could quickly place an infant, as they had a long waiting list. In the farming community, large families were prized, and some couples had fertility problems.

"Here are some papers for you to look over," she said. "You can specify your ideal family. For instance, do you wish your child to grow up with brothers and sisters, or to be raised on a farm?" She told her that most women preferred to hand the baby over to adoptive parents in the hospital. But in any case, she had 48-72 hours after giving birth to give her legal consent.

Erica put the papers in a neat pile on the antique dresser in her room, planning to look at them later. Meanwhile, she noticed children everywhere she went - in strollers, running across a school yard, shouting to each other. Her eyes and ears were automatically drawn to them. This bothered her, because she had never wanted children.

She had been happy in her career as a journalist. Her stint at The Chicago Times felt like eons ago. When she had checked their online edition a while back, she noted that a new writer had taken over her slot in Life. It was a name which she didn't recognize. And Christine's byline appeared less frequently in city reporting. All this gave her some satisfaction, but even that was behind her now.

She didn't know how to break the news about her pregnancy to her landlords. Fortunately, Mrs. Langley guessed the truth herself when Erica was still in her fourth month.

"Hold onto the railing, dear," she cautioned her one day as she climbed the stairs. "We wouldn't want you to have an accident in your condition."

Over tea and cookies, the woman asked about the baby's father. "We know you were heart-broken in Chicago, but doesn't he deserve to know?"

Erica shrugged, not knowing what to say. At least she was certain about Dave. There was no way she could involve him, though; he already had a family. She wanted to be honest about her intentions.

"I don't plan on keeping the baby," she said. "I saw an adoption agency who'll probably take care of it."

The Langleys looked at each other across the table, their faces drawn. After that, they barely spoke to her. Of course they had raised a big family and adored their grandkids. What did they know about her life or what she wanted?

The atmosphere in their home began to feel stifling and uncomfortable. Erica decided to move out shortly after giving birth.

She was already in her fifth month when she went to the hospital for an ultrasound. A technician spread a gel over her bulging stomach, which felt cold, and then used a scanning device.

Time stood still as she watched the fetus on screen shift in its embryonic sac.

At the same time, a repetitive thudding sound came through the speaker system.

"The heartbeat is a little faster than your own, but it's perfectly normal," the technician said. She pointed to a section on the monitor. "You're in luck. Your daughter is showing you who she is."

Erica now recalled her dream in the steam room at the spa - reading from a picture book to a young girl with her own skin coloring, the same texture of hair.

Suddenly the new life inside her became stunningly real. No longer just a nuisance, something to be dealt with and forgotten. This was her daughter she was carrying - a human being who would grow up to become whoever she was meant to be.

As she drove home from the hospital, she considered how she could organize her life around a baby. Maybe she could work from home part of the time, or find a babysitter. At the traffic light, she put a hand on her swollen belly. "What do you think of that, baby girl? Do you want me to take care of you?"

Something fluttered inside her. Then the fetus gave a distinct kick.

### SIX MONTHS LATER

## Chapter Twenty-Six

"She's been at 103 degrees since early morning," Erica said. Allie depended on her for her very existence and it terrified her that she couldn't make her better. She held the four-month-old in her arms as the physician tilted her head back and squeezed a dropper into her throat.

He chuckled. "Must be your first. I suspect she's coming down with a cold. A fever is, after all, nature's way of fighting it." The doctor handed her a small package. "Her temperature should go down in a few hours. If not, give her another dropperful of acetaminophen at 3:00 p.m." As she prepared to go, he told her to let the infant sleep and give her plenty of fluids. And to come back Monday morning if there was no improvement.

As she strapped Allie into the car seat, Erica felt her panic subside. She hadn't known that she would be so fiercely protective or that her love for this baby would be so consuming.

Her daughter had been born a month early. Seeing her tiny body in an incubator as she waited to take her home, Erica wondered how she could have considered giving her up for adoption.

Now she carried the baby to her front door, kicking aside piles of dry leaves. There had been no time for raking.

Erica still couldn't believe the two-story house was actually hers. It was old but sturdy, with a wraparound verandah and shuttered windows. The previous owners were moving to Milwaukee and had been desperate to sell. Because of the building's dilapidated condition, they had accepted her low bid.

As she made her way upstairs with the baby, she heard the stairs creak beneath her. At the landing, she held onto the railing to steady herself. It wobbled under her hand. This house wasn't safe. Even the roof leaked. And it badly needed a fresh coat of paint.

Suddenly she remembered that she had called someone to come for an estimate this morning. She had seen no message on her phone... had he shown up and then left? She decided to call him later to find out.

For a few moments, she watched her daughter, now tucked into her crib. Normally Allie clamored for her feeding at this hour. It seemed unnatural for her to be curled up in sleep. Erica felt her forehead. Warm but no longer hot. She leaned over to inhale the delicate scent of her skin mingled with the perfume of talcum powder. Breathing her in always reassured her.

After all, Allison was now the only family she had left. The investigator had not found Lindsey; maybe her sister had died.

When she checked on the baby later, her temperature had dropped a couple of degrees. She cried, holding out her chubby arms to be picked up. Then she started fussing.

After a diaper change, Erica brought her downstairs. Allie made a face at the strained carrots but greedily drank a full seven ounces of milk. As she sucked at the bottle to drain the last drops, her eyelids fluttered and her head lolled to one side. Erica carried her back to her crib and pulled a blanket over her.

The doorbell, when it chimed, startled her. She rushed back downstairs before the sound could awaken the baby. A dark-haired man in jeans and unzipped leather jacket stood at the door.

"Erica?" When she nodded, he held out his hand. "Nick Maroni. We had an appointment three hours ago. I came back on the off chance you would show up."

"I'm sorry," she said as she ushered him in. "I had to bring my daughter to the doctor this morning. I was going to call you."

His shoulders relaxed slightly after her explanation. "Family always comes first. Is she all right?"

"As far as I know."

She followed him from room to room as he tested weak floor boards and found the damp spot on the ceiling. Afterwards, he checked the stairs. He finally turned to her as they stood in the kitchen. "You want to get this place in good shape?"

"Decent shape." She imagined dollar signs running through his head. Nick had been highly recommended by the Langleys but she wasn't sure she could afford him. "Apart from everything you noticed, the toilet's running and the faucets need replacing. What's your estimate?"

He was staring at the mottled linoleum floor and the dark cabinetry in the kitchen. The only redeeming feature, a wide window, let in lots of natural light. The sun's rays, though, only highlighted the dismal space. "You like this room?"

"I'm not crazy about the cabinets or the floor," she admitted, "but I don't think I can afford to change them."

Nick thoughtfully rubbed the stubble on his chin. He had a strong jawline and a smooth olive complexion - a handsome man by any standard, at least a few years older than her. Not that it mattered.

"I can reface the cabinets; it's a lot cheaper than replacing them. Something light like pine would be a good choice. And I can cover the linoleum with cushioned tiles. I can match the color when I repaint the walls."

Because of all the time she spent in the kitchen, his suggestions instantly appealed. "What will it cost me?" she asked again. "With and without remodelling the kitchen."

He crossed his arms and smiled as he faced her. "How much can you spend?"

Why couldn't he give her a straight answer?

"No more than $2,500," she said flatly. "I just bought the house after two months of maternity leave. Unpaid." She knew the cost of labor alone would be more than the figure she had quoted.

He surprised her.

"I'll do it - the repairs, the paint job and the kitchen. On one condition."

She sighed. Why was there always a clincher? "What's that?"

"I need to stay here until I get everything done. Should take about four weeks." Peering into the living room, he said, "I can sleep on your sofa. Cameron, where I live, is over seventy miles away. Too far for me to travel back and forth every day. It'll go faster if I stay here. Besides, with what you're prepared to pay, there isn't anything left over for lodging."

His argument made sense, even if she didn't like the idea of letting him move in. But what choice did she have? She wanted the work done and he would be gone in a month. Erica took a deep breath.

"Okay."

## Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Friday evening finally rolled around, Erica was exhausted. The advertising firm was attracting new business, not only in Silver Falls but from neighboring towns. It was already a busy time as their clients geared up for the holiday season. She answered phone calls all day and struggled to keep up with store catalogue updates.

Nick had been hard at work while she was away. Every evening she noticed more improvements to the house. New faucets gleamed over the sinks and the toilet barely whispered. The stairs no longer creaked and the railings now stood strong. He had also replaced a few tiles on the roof and given her the name of a reputable roofer for a complete job next spring.

She could only admire the thoroughness of every job he tackled. Having him in her personal space, though, was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Every night this week, he had joined them for dinner. Tonight was no exception.

"How was your day?" he asked as he opened a new bottle of red wine. Italian culture seemed to demand that he furnish every meal with _vino_ and he willingly obliged. This evening, he had also prepared a salad and sliced a baguette while she fed Allie.

Erica told him about a growing problem at work. The man she reported to, a senior copywriter, had rejected her advertising concepts for a local sports shop but she later saw her exact words on the client's new website.

"So he's taking credit for your ideas?" Nick asked, sitting in his customary place at the head of the table.

She nodded. "It's not the first time, either. Nathan used to report directly to Mr. McLaren. But since he retired, he has to answer to McLaren's daughter, who's our Creative Director. Maybe he feels threatened by women."

"Or doesn't respect them." Nick crunched a piece of cucumber. "Since he keeps stealing your ideas, why not submit them to your Creative Director instead?"

She had thought of that herself but hesitated to go over Nathan's head. She was tired of not getting her work recognized, though.

In the past week, she had learned that Nick was divorced. His ex had been disappointed in what she perceived as a lack of ambition: his choosing to be a handyman. And she hadn't wanted children, unlike Nick, who came from a large family and expected to have them one day.

Like before, he helped Erica with the dishes after dinner. Allie watched from her high chair, making babbling sounds and waving her spoon around. A cozy domestic scene, except for the fact that he wasn't her boyfriend and would soon be gone.

"I have tons of laundry to do," she said, trying to distract herself from the dizzying effect his proximity had on her.

He glanced over at her as he rinsed a plate. "If you throw some of my stuff in there, I can look after Allie."

Later, as she loaded the dryer with towels, she heard her daughter shriek.

In the living room, she saw Nick toss her into the air. Allie's little body arced and her arms stretched out as she sailed towards the ceiling. Then she plummeted into his arms.

Erica snatched her baby from him. "Cut it out. She could get hurt."

"How? I'm here to catch her. And she's not afraid - she likes it. You want to put her in a box, where everything is safe and secure. No one wants to live like that."

She found herself bristling. "When I need parental advice, I'll ask for it. Maybe you should just stick to your work."

In response, he picked up his hammer and started pounding nails. He was affixing a metal strip to the bottom of the front door, where cold air was starting to leak into the house.

Over the weekend, she had to stop herself from snapping at him. It seemed no matter where she turned, Nick was already there.

"Put a shirt on," she said. "I'm tired of seeing you walk around half-naked."

He shrugged. "I didn't know it bothered you. It's just that I find your house a little warm."

She kept temperatures on the high side for Allie, who had just gotten over a cold. But the sight of Nick's muscular torso made her overly warm. There hadn't been any men in her life since Dave and she was only human.

The sleeveless undershirt he slipped on only accentuated his taut physique, so she made a point of averting her eyes.

When she got home on Monday after picking Allie up from the Langleys, Nick waited by the door.

"I finished painting two of the bedrooms - yours and your daughter's." He made a face at Allie, who laughed and then reached for him. The two of them got on famously. "I'll take care of this cutie while you check it out."

Tomorrow he would do the bathroom and third bedroom, but the upstairs area already looked much brighter. Her own bedroom appeared restful with its blue-gray walls. Nick had helped her choose the color at the hardware store.

Her mouth dropped open when she stepped into the baby's room. Painted a pretty pink and mauve, it had two walls patterned with giraffes and elephants. The total effect was utterly charming.

"Like it?" Nick stood at her elbow with Allie in his arms. "That was the wallpaper you were admiring at the store."

"I know. It was too expensive. Why did you do this?" She hated sounding ungrateful, but this man assumed too much.

The gleam in his eyes vanished. "I wanted to surprise you. All right, bad idea. I can remove the wallpaper if you like."

"Let's forget the whole thing," she said as he handed Allie back. "From now on, just do what I ask."

Having him at such close quarters was becoming awkward. Whenever he brushed past her or gazed at her in a certain way, a slow heat rose through her body, making her nerve endings tingle. It was only physical, of course, but she refused to be ruled by her hormones. To avoid complications in the next two weeks, she kept her conversations with him to a minimum and forced herself to retire early to bed.

At work, Abe's Hardware had rejected all their proposals for a new advertising campaign. They wanted something different, but McLaren kept offering new twists on the same theme. Their ad always involved a man, whether he was hammering nails or changing a leaky pipe.

Erica knew the store had served the community for generations. It made her think of the slogan, _Families Serving Families_. What if they showed how the store met the needs of all family members? How customers not only went there for tools and lawn mowers, but for dishware, curtains, and bikes for the kids?

Her heart racing, she printed out her ideas on a pink sheet of paper, wanting to make it distinctive, and signed it with her initials. Instead of letting Nathan see and reject it, she left the proposal on the Creative Director's desk.

Every time Heather walked by her cubicle, Erica held her breath, thinking she would say something. The pink sheet still lay on her desk, so she hadn't dismissed her work outright. On Monday, their client was scheduled to come in for the last time. Erica intended to go in early that day to prepare coffee for the meeting and see which way the wind was blowing.

Back home, when she stepped into her kitchen with Allie on Monday morning, it smelled amazing. Nick had made scrambled eggs with sausage and a pile of blueberry pancakes. Normally all she had was coffee and toast.

"What's all this?"

He smiled at her. "I thought I'd give you a decent breakfast. You're always rushing off on an empty stomach."

As Allie played with a bowl of mashed banana in her high chair, Erica poured herself a cup of coffee. Some of sloshed on the counter. "It looks wonderful, Nick, but I need to get in early today." She frowned at the food-laden table, trying to decide if she should have any at all.

Sliding out a chair for her, he said, "You can take five minutes for yourself, can't you? Sit." He sat opposite her as she helped herself to some scrambled eggs and one of his pancakes.

"Compliments to the chef," she said. "It's delicious." She couldn't be angry with him when he only wanted to do something nice for her.

"I can drop off Allie, just this once," he told her. "You don't have to do everything yourself."

She nodded, her mouth still full. No point in arguing that being a single parent meant exactly that. His work here was almost done. In another week he would be gone, and she would again feel the full brunt of her role.

At the office, the meeting with the owner and manager of Abe's Hardware took place as planned. Erica saw Heather carry her pink sheet into the room along with a couple of file folders. At least her ideas would be considered, even if they were just a backup.

The following day, she learned that their client was considering their latest proposal as well as the concepts put forth by another advertising firm. A choice would be made this week.

The atmosphere at work felt tense. She noticed Nathan in the Creative Director's office several times. While that was not unusual, what struck her was the consistently closed door. Something was going on.

Her home environment was just as unsettled. Her dining table and chairs dominated the living room as Nick put down new flooring in the kitchen. It was the last room slated for a makeover; she had chosen pale yellow paint along with off white. By Thursday evening, the furniture and appliances were back in place but all the cabinet doors had been taken down. The rows of shelves looked barren without them.

In the midst of the renovations, she and Nick tiptoed around each other, being polite but saying the minimum. Erica wondered if he was as keenly aware that their time together under the same roof now swiftly drew to an end.

On Friday morning, Heather called her into her office. The clicking of the door behind her alarmed Erica, reminding her of that fateful meeting in Ryan's office at the Times before she was fired. Also, Heather always slipped a jacket on for professional occasions. She wore one now.

"Have a seat." The Creative Director's smile did nothing to dissipate Erica's fear. "I know how quickly word gets around this place. You should know that we have a new employee coming in. Her name is Cheryl. She'll replace you as junior copywriter and I expect you to train her next week."

Erica's throat went dry. They had already found her replacement? What had she done wrong? Her experience at the newspaper rushed back at her along with a sense of betrayal. She should never have gone over Nathan's head.

"It's about the ideas I left on your desk, isn't it? For Abe's Hardware?"

Heather nodded. "It was the fresh perspective they were looking for. We landed the contract."

Why were they firing her if they got the contract? Then she recalled seeing Nathan in this very spot, talking to Heather behind closed doors. Maybe he had found out about the lawsuits and her dismissal from The Chicago Times and used it against her.

She couldn't afford to lose this job. Not with Allie to look after, her mortgage and the money she still owed Nick for all his work.

"What did Nathan say?" she managed to ask.

Instead of responding, Heather smiled at her again. "This has been going on for a while, hasn't it? That jingle for the beauty salon, the one we keep hearing on the radio... you came up with it, didn't you?"

Erica didn't see any point in lying. Nathan had often taken credit for her work. "How did you know?"

The other woman laughed. "In all the years he's been here, Nathan has not once come up with a good jingle. I suspected you were behind it."

In the case of conflict, firms tended to keep their more senior employees, and she had only been with McLaren's for ten months. But why fire her when they liked her work? "I don't understand."

The Creative Director then told her that Nathan would be leaving in a few months. He had to move closer to his parents in Duluth and had decided to take early retirement. She leaned forward slightly, meeting Erica's eyes.

"I want you to work with me on the new campaign for Abe's. I'm also giving you two small accounts of your own. Right now we have more business than we can handle. A local pizzeria needs to promote itself and we were contacted by a shoe store in the next town. You report to me from now on."

"I can stay?" Flooded with relief, Erica was unable to process everything she was saying.

Heather frowned. "Of course you're staying. Nathan's leaving and you'll have a chance to show us what you can do. If things work out, I'm offering you a promotion."

She floated through the rest of her day. Finally she'd be able to use her imagination and writing skills again, as someone else handled the routine stuff. There was no one in the office to share her news with; her friend Joan had taken a couple of weeks off. When she got home with Allie, she couldn't wait to tell Nick.

"I'm getting promoted," she said after putting the baby down. "As you suggested, I submitted something to our Creative Director and it worked. Now she wants to give me a shot at real ad copy."

He pulled her into a hug. "That's terrific. I know you'll be great at it. And I have something to celebrate, too. The entire job's done. Come and see the new kitchen."

Erica gasped as she stepped into the renovated room. Cushioned tiles, gray flecked with yellow, covered the floor, nicely contrasting the pine-faced cabinets. Nick had added pretty handles to the doors and drawers as well. With the freshly painted walls, the space looked warm and expansive.

"It's perfect," she said. "I can't get over the difference."

He beamed. "I thought some bubbly was in order. I also picked up subs from the deli. Now we can make it a double celebration."

Allie fell asleep soon after her meal. She hadn't napped that afternoon, so Erica put her to bed before joining Nick at the table. They had wine with the meal and then a few slices of strawberry cheesecake before he uncorked the champagne.

After they toasted each other, she said, "You've done an amazing job. I don't even recognize this place anymore." Nick looked particularly attractive tonight. His unruly dark hair appeared freshly washed and the shirt that hung loosely over his jeans lightly outlined his muscular form. She suddenly realized how quiet her dinners would be from now on. "I'm going to miss you."

"It doesn't have to end," he said, reaching for her hand on the table. "Both of you are like family to me. And I can't deny how I'm starting to feel about you. Do you feel it too?"

Her fingers quickly warmed under his. With the prolonged contact, Erica's pulse raced as every inch of her body came achingly alive.

Wordlessly they got to their feet and embraced. When his mouth descended on hers, all her resistance fled. She succumbed to the most passionate kiss of her life. When it was over, she saw desire and longing in his eyes.

"I wanted to kiss you from the first day we met," he whispered. "You always put me in my place, though, and I was scared to even try."

She attempted to explain that their attraction was just physical and their four weeks under the same roof had just made it more intense.

"But it's a good start, isn't it?" he said. "I'd like to take you out, Erica. Give us a chance to really get to know each other."

She thought of the miles between their towns. "You mean a long distance relationship?" They sat at the table again, sipping their champagne.

"Maybe at first," he said. "I'm willing to relocate if you want me to. I can just as easily find work in Silver Falls."

Something shifted inside her.

_Never trust a man_. The warning in her head made her stiffen. When she shut her eyes, she saw the faces of men who had betrayed her: the fuzzy features of the biological father who had abandoned them, and the stepfather who traded her body for money. Then came Philip, who casually cheated on his wife. Afterwards, Ryan and Victor at the Times had accused her of a crime she did not commit, not giving her the benefit of a doubt. And how about the goons that had trashed her apartment and killed Spike? All the misery these men had inflicted coalesced into a hard ball of resolve that shaped her next words.

"I think we should keep things professional between us," she said. "Don't take it personally. It isn't you."

To break the awkward silence, Erica got up to fetch her cheque book. "Will two thousand still cover everything? It hardly seems like enough." She didn't want to feel that she owed him anything.

Disappointment shimmered in his dark eyes. "It's enough. I'll leave in the morning." He looked down at his hands as they twirled the empty flute. "I'm not sorry for kissing you. I had to show you how I feel." As he took the cheque from her, he gripped her wrist for a moment. "I know you feel it, too. You've let something else come between us. Maybe if I was a hot-shot executive, you'd consider me."

She was about to explain that it had nothing to do with how he made his living, then changed her mind. Why get into all the bad things that had happened to her? He knew nothing about her past except for what she had shared about leaving Chicago.

When she woke up the next morning, Nick was gone.

Her phone rang a few hours later, startling her. For safety reasons, she had never given Megan her number and the two of them had drifted apart. The only person who called her on the weekend was Joan, but she was away.

"Charlie Ellis here." The forcefulness in the man's voice struck her. "I found your sister."

"What? I thought you gave up on your search." Could it be... after all this time?

"I did. Then I had a hunch." He caught his breath. "Sometimes nicknames are used in legal documents. I didn't think she'd keep her street name, especially coming from that line of business. It took a while, but I went back and checked all the records again. _Holly Brandon_ appeared in a marriage certificate issued six years ago, in Ontario. With her husband's name, I was able to track her down."

Excitement coursed through her at the thought of seeing Lindsey again. "Did you speak to her?"

"Yes. After I told her why I was calling and mentioned you, she went quiet. Then she started crying."

"That's her - very emotional," she said. "Can you give me her number?"

The investigator sighed. "Afraid not. She took down yours and said she would get in touch."

By now Erica was pacing in circles in her living room, holding the cell close to her ear. She couldn't come this close only to lose her again. "What if she doesn't call me?"

"Your sister made it clear that she didn't want you to contact her. And there's something else you should know." His voice dropped an octave. "Before she hung up, she sounded frightened."

## Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lindsey pulled her sweater more tightly around her as she watched the six o'clock news. It was October 21st and the landlord had not yet put on their heat. The dank air seeped into her bones. If she moved closer to Kurt, she could absorb some of his warmth, but staying at her end of their leather couch seemed safer.

Kurt frowned as he looked up from his laptop, where he was scrolling through restaurant reviews. "Damn it. Why can't I read in peace? Lower it or I'll shut it off."

She immediately turned down the volume on their TV set. It had blared all afternoon as he watched Sunday football, but she didn't dare complain.

"You shouldn't be drinking that straight," she said, glancing at the bottle of vodka at his elbow. "You've been at it since noon." He also drank almost every evening and it was getting worse.

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do," he said. "Any decent wife would have dinner on the table by now instead of gawking at the tube." Her husband's eyes had become slightly bloodshot and his face was flushed. _High blood pressure_ , the doctor had warned. Kurt scoffed afterwards, saying it was the least of his worries.

Day by day, she could see his frustration mount.

A few months ago, he had poured more money into his restaurant. He hired a new head chef who was closer to Bertrand's caliber and invested in advertising - a spiffy website and frequent radio spots. Clientele started coming back and Le Courvoisier was actually turning a profit. Then the trend had reversed.

Now the money from selling their house in Willowdale was almost all gone. It had only kept the restaurant afloat a while longer, giving them false hope.

"...on the cold side today with brisk winds," the announcer said. "That didn't deter over 25,000 athletes from participating in the annual Toronto Waterfront Marathon." The screen showed the starting line in downtown Toronto. Then the cameras followed the runners to Lakeshore Boulevard and along the waters of Lake Ontario. After they passed the harbor front, their numbers thinned out. Not everyone ran the full 26 miles; they could also do shorter distances.

She wondered if Alex participated in this marathon. He had been so disappointed last year when he had to drop out after pulling a hamstring.

Had it really been a year? For her, the months had sped by in an onslaught of change - finding a buyer for their house, selling or giving away excess furniture and belongings, then packing up to move. Finally they had found this one-bedroom rental. Nothing from their old life seemed to fit here. Their king-size bed swallowed the space where they slept and the dining room table dwarfed the already small kitchen.

Kurt swore as the runners passed close to his restaurant, saying the street closures were bad for business. But what did he care, when Le Courvoisier wasn't even open today?

Lindsey again focused on the screen as the image switched to the finish line on Queen Street East. There were close ups of people quaffing water or grimacing from their exertions.

Then she saw him. His singlet bore the number 495. It was drenched with perspiration, as was his hair. Alex smiled at the camera - a triumphant smile that seemed directed at her.

Too quickly the camera panned away. As a commentator spoke to the runner who had placed first, she finally caught her breath.

Why had she let such a dear man go? Leaving Kurt had felt impossible then. Their financial situation hadn't improved, but at least she had gotten them downsized and moved. She figured she owed him that much.

Lindsey knew that her affair with Alex had changed her. His caring proved that there was something in her worth knowing, worth loving. And all this time without him now felt like a prison sentence.

Seeing him on TV was surely a sign... and a reason to get in touch. She could call him to congratulate him.

The heat from the stove warmed her as she prepared a meal of leftover stew for Kurt. Thinking of Alex, she felt too keyed up to eat.

Her husband brought his laptop to the table. Seeing he was occupied, she reached for the novel on the counter and sat opposite him.

Reading took her far from this drafty apartment and the tension that fairly crackled around Kurt. Thanks to Alex's tutoring and thoughtful gift, she had painstakingly gone through _Eat Pray Love_. Then, in the last few months, she had discovered a treasure trove in her local library. Starting with the Nancy Drew series, she extended her reading to mystery books. As she followed the adventures of strong heroines who solved crimes and led independent lives, her own world felt more and more confining.

"Didn't you hear a word I said? I want more," Kurt said.

Lindsey looked up at his belligerent face. It probably made him feel powerful to order her around, but she was sick of it. "There's more in the pot. Why don't you help yourself?"

In a single motion, he swept the book from her hands. It landed with a thud on the floor.

"Help myself? While you sit here reading trash? I don't think so." He sat back down and waited for her to refill his bowl.

After serving him, she picked up the book and checked it for damage. Maybe she should have hidden her ability to read, but he couldn't turn her back into an illiterate, could he? He had never asked how she'd managed to learn. Instead, he just tightened his control over other areas of her life. Lindsey did everything he asked, but she wouldn't stop reading.

She waited until late afternoon the next day to phone Alex, hoping he'd be through with teaching. Her excitement at speaking with him again mingled with dread as the ringing droned in her ear - twice, three times. Maybe he no longer wanted to hear from her, and could she blame him?

Then he picked up. "Lindsey?"

"You sound disappointed."

He laughed. "No, I just thought you were someone else."

After all these months, he had probably met another woman. Someone who was well educated and unattached as well as pretty. She wouldn't let herself feel bitter; he deserved to be happy.

"I saw you on TV - the marathon," she rushed on. "You actually did it. You finished." _Please don't hang up. I miss you_.

"It's what kept me going," he said. "Running, cross-training, getting ready for the big day." He lowered his voice. "When can I see you? Can we meet somewhere?"

Her heart danced at his questions. She would have to be careful; Kurt watched her every move. Not because he suspected anything but because she was the only constant in his life.

"I moved to Downsview, so I'm only a bus ride away. I'm usually free between noon and five. How about you?" With her other ear, she listened for Kurt's car. With business this slow, he sometimes came home early.

They arranged to meet at a bus stop in Swansea a few days later. When Lindsey saw a familiar dark blue sedan waiting for her, her pulse quickened.

Alex gave her a hug, then looked her over. "You're as beautiful as ever, love. Let's go to my place, okay? We need to catch up."

The only difference she noticed was that his hair was cropped shorter. As he drove, he stole glances at her, as if to assure himself that she was really there.

Gazing out the car window, she absorbed the peacefulness of his neighborhood with its expansive lawns and well-kept homes.

He asked if she liked living in Downsview.

"We only took the apartment because it was cheap," she said. "I don't know what's worse - living close to the airport or on a busy street."

She didn't want to upset him with the gritty details, such as their cramped rooms or the noisy bar next door. The men who frequented it frightened her. So did the handgun Kurt kept hidden in a drawer, a .35 caliber Smith & Wesson with a lethal-looking black handle. Good for eight shots, he had told her. Almost everyone on the block had been broken into, and he insisted on being armed.

Soon she sat beside Alex in his living room as classical music played in the background. His hands cupped her face before reaching out to stroke her hair.

"I tried to forget you," he said. "One woman I met had your soft laugh, another your big eyes. But they weren't you." He swallowed. "So many nights I lay awake, wondering if you were okay."

"S-sh. I'm here now." Lindsey rubbed his back in slow circles. His frame felt leaner, his muscles even more defined. As she moved closer to him, he trembled against her.

"Let me love you," he whispered against her hair. "It's been so long."

Then he led her into the bedroom. As she responded to his caresses, she was overwhelmed with gratitude that he still desired her.

Later, he asked if they could meet again. He wanted her to be part of his life even if he couldn't have more.

The Winchester Inn became their love nest once more. In the following days, they made up for lost time in the same corner room. But after Alex's gentle ways, Kurt's temper was that much harder to take.

She began to dread her nights. When her husband reached for her in bed, she inwardly cringed. She needed to get out of this marriage.

Giving up the house in Willowdale and moving here had been a big adjustment for him, but she had helped him through it. They should have sold that restaurant a long time ago, as Peter had suggested. Kurt could have found a regular job and let her work, too. He was so pig-headed. And she was tired of feeling trapped.

"I'm leaving him. My marriage is over," she told Alex as they lay in bed on a frosty day in late October.

"You can stay with me," he said. A shadow crossed his face. "Are you sure about this?"

Lindsey nodded. "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for me." In spite of all the hardships in the last year, she had grown stronger. More confident. Learning to read and write was only part of it. What she wanted most of all was her freedom. Even if she lived with Alex for a while, she would look for a job and eventually get her own place.

She had forgiven herself for everything she had done years ago to survive. The prostitution, drugs, booze - none of it had been her choosing. After escaping the sexual abuse at home, she had been unable to support herself. At least she had stayed alive. Maybe Kurt had rescued her then, but she had stuck by him until now.

Lindsey planned to ask him for a divorce. Not in person, though - too dangerous. First she would take her things and go.

Back in Downsview, she found two carry-all bags and started sorting through her clothes and personal belongings. Kurt wouldn't be home for another hour, but her hands moved quickly, folding and pressing the garments into the bags. Now that her mind was made up, she was anxious to leave.

Her cell rang. At first she ignored it; then she saw it was Peter.

"Kurt had a heart attack," he said. "We got him to St. Michael's Hospital by ambulance. He's still in intensive care."

Later, much later, she returned from the hospital. Wearily, she emptied the bags she had started to fill and rehung her clothes in the closet.

Her plans would have to wait.

## Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lindsey was counting the minutes until she saw Alex again. The last two weeks had been horrible, catering to Kurt for every little thing as he recovered at home. In their tight quarters, he was at her elbow no matter where she turned. A few days ago, he had returned to work in spite of doctor's orders to "stay out of stressful situations" for at least a month. Finally she could breathe again.

She had contacted Alex as soon as her role as nursemaid ended. This was the first afternoon he had free.

Snowflakes drifted past the window as the bus rolled southward towards Eglinton Avenue and the Winchester Inn. The prospect of winter no longer depressed her. Soon she could resume her plan and leave her life with Kurt behind.

When her cell phone rang, she assumed it was Alex, letting her know that he had arrived at the inn. Instead, it was Peter. She picked up the call with a feeling of dread.

"Is Kurt all right?" she asked, thinking he had suffered another heart attack.

"Yes. Can we talk?" First he mentioned something from the week before. A brawl had broken out at their competitor's, L'Actuel. Dishes were thrown and tables overturned as a fist fight ensued. This was so unusual for a quality French restaurant that it had made the news. "I found out yesterday that Kurt paid those men to stage a fight. He thought it would help to bring our business back."

While he was recuperating at home, her husband had slipped out several times without saying where he was going. What he had done didn't surprise her that much. "And did it help?"

"You know how curious people are. The following night, L'Actuel had more clients than they could handle and we stayed empty. But that's not why I'm calling."

She heard the hesitancy in his voice. Looking out the window, she figured on a few more minutes before she needed to get off the bus and transfer. "Go on."

"My brother's snapping at the staff, yelling at them for no reason. I told him no one could put up with him, not even you. That's when I blurted out something that I shouldn't have." He paused. "I almost said that no one could blame you for finding someone else. I stopped short when I saw his expression. He questioned me, of course, and I said I was just letting out steam, that it wasn't true."

It amazed her that Peter remembered what she had told him in confidence so long ago. At this point, the less said about Alex, the better. She bit her lower lip and remained silent.

"I'm sorry, Lindsey," he said. "He's so volatile these days. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

She ended the call with a sense of trepidation. Thinking back to this morning, she recalled nothing out of the ordinary. Kurt had eaten his breakfast while listening to the radio. After finding his keys, he left for the restaurant at the usual time. Maybe he was a little distracted, but he seemed focused on the day ahead.

All the same, when she disembarked from her second bus at the corner of Yonge Street, she glanced around. Traffic and people streamed by her, giving her a feeling of anonymity. Why worry, with Kurt safely at work? As she turned towards the inn, the flags on the turreted building waved slightly in the breeze like a greeting.

Alex waited for her near the entrance. He wore a fleecy winter jacket along with a wide smile. As he pulled her into a warm embrace, she sighed with relief. When she was with him, everything wrong in her world was made right.

### ***

Still glowing from her time with Alex, Lindsey almost missed the car parked up the street from where she lived. It was a used Mazda with bald tires and a scratch on the door that had never been fixed. This was the vehicle Kurt had bought after selling his sports car, the only one they now possessed.

He never came home this early.

The first thing she noticed when she walked through the door was the TV. It was on the Shopping Channel, a station he never watched. As she removed her coat, Kurt had his back to her. When he turned around, she saw the glass in his hand and then the bottle of vodka.

"Do you really think you should be drinking?" she began. "The doctor said - "

"The concerned wife. And such a good actress, too." A muscle twitched on one side of his mouth. He put his glass down and stalked towards her. "Tell me where you were this afternoon."

"I don't know what you're... talking about." As he advanced, she stepped back until she hugged the wall. Her pulse fluttered like a frightened bird. Somehow he had found out. No sense in trying to reason with him - the anger rolled off him in waves.

The fortune teller's words last year flashed through her mind. _Trouble lies ahead... Be careful_.

Kurt gripped her shoulders. Then he shook her, rattling her back and forth like a bag of bones. "I followed you today, saw you get off two different buses. Then I parked in a laneway and saw you walk up to this hotel." He glowered at her. "You met someone else. And you've been with him all this time, haven't you?"

She managed to nod, knowing that lying was futile.

"Bitch!" He struck her across the face with his right hand.

Her head jerked back with the force of the blow. "I was going to tell you. I didn't want you to have another heart attack." Impossible to control the quiver in her voice.

What he did next shocked her. After gathering the saliva in his mouth, he pursed his lips and spat at her. The spittle hit her between the eyes. It slid past her nose and trailed down her cheek in a warm trickle, reeking of alcohol. Before she could wipe it away, he crushed her hands in his.

"What d'you take me for, sweetie? An idiot?" Suddenly he shoved her to the floor and ripped her blouse open. Two of the buttons popped off. Pushing up her bra, he freed her breasts. "This is all you are, Lindsey. You were a whore when I met you, and you're still a whore. Maybe it's time I treated you like one."

"You're drunk. Get off me!" she screamed. She twisted beneath him but he sat on her thighs, trapping her. Then his body shifted. He was pulling off his trousers, then his underwear. She knew without looking that he was aroused.

Something within her rebelled at what he was about to do. He wanted to degrade her - punish her. As he continued to undress, she managed to roll away from him.

She was almost on her feet when he knocked her to the floor again.

"You're not going anywhere 'til I'm through."

She felt his hot breath on her skin as he tore off her remaining clothes. _Why bother struggling? He's stronger. But I can't submit - that would be accepting what he's calling me_.

Frantically she fought to hold onto her bikini, scratching him with her nails.

"Bitch." He punched her then, aiming his fist at her jaw.

Her teeth cut into the tender flesh inside her mouth. At the same time, her lower lip cracked and started to bleed. Her hand flew to the open wound, and she stared in horror at the blood smeared on her palm.

Then he punched her again. The back of her head hit the floor and red spots danced before her eyes.

Kurt forced himself on her now, tearing into her like a battering ram. Unprepared, her tender flesh parted in protest. The searing pain made her cry out.

"Was he hard like me?" he grunted, moving faster now. "Did you say you loved him?" He peered into her face, his eyes slits of hatred. "Tell me you love me. Say it."

"Get... off me," she said between clenched teeth. Now her insides felt like they were being smashed by a hammer.

Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and one drop fell on her cheek. "Say you love me."

Lindsey shook her head. He could kill her, but she'd never say those words again.

"Say it."

"No." She prayed that it be over.

"Whore." He climaxed then. As his body went rigid, he cruelly squeezed one of her breasts. Afterwards the markings of his fingers stretched across her flesh in welts.

"You're mine," he said. "I ever catch you cheating again, I'll put two bullets in your head." Getting to his feet, he stared at her in disgust. "I'm going to bed now." He sauntered to the bedroom as if nothing had happened, leaving his trousers bunched up on the hardwood floor.

Lindsey didn't know how long she lay there, sobbing. Everything hurt. Finally reassured that he wasn't coming back, she limped to the bathroom to wash her face and put some salve on her split lip. She could see bruises in the mirror and knew they would be worse in the morning. Slowly, painfully, she rinsed her private parts. She couldn't get inside, where the damage was, but she did her best to wipe away the semen that still streamed down her leg.

Why had she stayed with him? He was nothing but a brute.

When her cell phone rang, she hurried to answer. The ringing would wake up Kurt and she couldn't deal with him again.

An unfamiliar voice introduced himself as Charlie Ellis, private investigator. She was about to say that he had the wrong number when he said, "Your sister Erica has been trying to find you."

Erica? After all these years? It was either a joke... or a miracle. Long ago, she had given up hope of ever seeing her again.

Lindsey snatched the memo pad on the counter and found a pen. "Give me her number. I'll call her as soon as I can." Already she had forgotten his name. "You can't know what this means to me. I... I've really missed her." Standing naked in the kitchen, she no longer felt her pain or the chill on her bruised flesh. Erica would help her, of that she was certain. Tears rolled unchecked down her face as she struggled to control her emotion.

Then she heard the bed creak.

She shoved the piece of paper with Erica's number under the memo pad. "I have to go," she whispered. "Please tell her not to phone. I'll call her instead."

## Chapter Thirty

The weekend went by in a blur. After her husband's assault, every movement hurt and Lindsey almost passed out going to the washroom. Eating wasn't possible. She sipped water or juice through her swollen lips and took painkillers so she could sleep. Stretching out on the leather couch proved uncomfortable; she had to use the bed.

When Kurt came home late Saturday night, he shook her awake.

Her eyes flew open in alarm as she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest.

"You're on my side," he said, forcing her to move over. "And no one in their right mind would want sex with you. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?"

No apology for what he'd done. Maybe he would never treat her like a human being again. Turning on her side, she clung to the edge of the bed before again falling into a troubled sleep.

Whenever she was awake, her mind filled with images of his angry face as he raped her. Married or not, that's what it was - rape.

On Sunday afternoon, she watched him scroll through her phone. Fortunately she had erased all records of calls or texts from Alex. Not satisfied with his search, Kurt then emptied out her purse and proceeded to sort through the contents.

"What are you looking for - drugs?" she said, knowing he wouldn't find anything. She had also hidden the piece of paper with Erica's phone number in an empty teapot for now.

He frowned at her. "You know damn well what I'm looking for. I'm going to kill that bastard if I ever find out who he is."

At his words, a chill went down her spine. Staying with Alex in Swansea no longer felt like a viable option, not when Kurt had a gun.

She waited for him to leave for work the following day before calling Erica's number.

"Lindsey - it's really you! Are you okay?" Her sister's voice was softer than she remembered, and deeper.

"I will be," she said, letting herself fill with hope. "Give me your address and directions. I'm coming to see you on the next bus."

Lindsey used the memo pad to carefully write out the information. The fact that she had never heard of her town in Wisconsin made it feel safe.

Upon hanging up, she moved quickly around the apartment. Toiletries and her favorite clothes were flung into bags. She found the key to the strong box where Kurt stashed his money as well as important documents. After extracting her birth certificate, she helped herself to most of the money. He'd have to scramble to pay next month's rent, but it was the least he owed her. She refused to spend another night under the same roof.

After doing her best to conceal the bruises on her face with a makeup stick, she called Peter and asked if Kurt was around. "I want him to pick up some milk on the way home. I'm... not feeling well."

"No problem," he said. "He's going over the accounts. I'll tell him when he's through."

Assured that Kurt was at work, she breathed a sigh of relief. When she was ready, she took a taxi to the bus depot. Walking down her street with luggage was risky with derelicts around and she needed to get going.

An hour later, she got on a Greyhound bus heading for Michigan. There wasn't much to see from the expressway except for swirling flakes of snow, but she peered out the window anyway. A sense of exhilaration distracted her from her aches and pains. She was finally leaving Toronto and a life she had come to hate.

As the bus approached the Windsor Tunnel, her stomach tensed. Returning to Detroit, even to change buses, unsettled her. It was a step back into a dark and desolate past.

They stopped on Michigan Avenue to let a few passengers off. Memories rushed at her when they passed a familiar street corner. _I used to work here. Ten or fifteen tricks a night_.

She shut her eyes, forcing herself to think of something else. When she opened them, they were pulling into the bus terminal on Howard Street. The air was grimy with the exhaust fumes of half a dozen buses. After retrieving her luggage, Lindsey followed other passengers into the building, where she lined up at a ticket booth. Her next stop was Madison, Wisconsin. A bus was scheduled to leave in fifty minutes, enough time for a quick bite. A snack bar advertising daily specials caught her attention.

A waitress in a mustard-colored uniform came to her table. As she took her order for a grilled-cheese sandwich, she cocked her head to one side. "You look familiar. You from around here, honey?"

"I used to live in Birmingham." A fuzzy recollection came to her then. She saw that face smiling at her - minus the wrinkles - fifteen years ago.

The other woman nodded and said, "Maple Road. We were neighbors, remember? You're probably wondering why I'm working here. Hard times. My husband was laid off and we have to make do. I often wondered what happened to you and your sister. Nice kids, both of you. Your stepfather, though, he was a piece of work."

"I know." Lindsey winced at the mention of the man who had caused her so much grief.

"Can't say I was sorry when they caught him." When Lindsey questioned her, she said he had been embezzling money from the bank. "Stole a few million, from what I hear. And now he's doing time." With a swing of her generous hips, she moved over to the next table.

Lindsey digested the news in silence. Richard in prison? She should be glad but felt only sorrow. If he had sought help for his gambling addiction, they could have stayed together as a family. Instead, she and Erica still bore the scars from what he had forced them to do.

The next bus passed Woodward Avenue on its way out of Detroit. She automatically turned towards the area where she had lived with Carol and blinked back a tear. Lindsey could still see her friend spooning yogurt out of a container and laughing as she paraded in those cheap wigs.

When they finally pulled into Madison, darkness shrouded the city. A few more dollars went on doughnuts and coffee. Then she boarded a bus for Eau Claire. By the time she reached her destination, she was numb with fatigue.

The next bus to Silver Falls ran in the morning. Lindsey sent Erica a text, telling her when she would arrive. Her pulse raced when she received a text back: _Come straight over. I'll be waiting_.

When she reached into her purse for Erica's address, it was nowhere to be found. A feeling of dread swept over her. She had taken the directions but in her rush to leave the apartment, must have left the sheet with Erica's address behind on the kitchen counter. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Even if Kurt found it, what could he do?

Needing to sleep, Lindsey curled up on a bench in the bus terminal. Another woman offered to watch her things for her if she would do the same.

At first light, she went to the restroom and studied her reflection in the mirror. The rawness had faded and her bruises bore a yellowish tinge. Even her split lip had formed a scab. It hardly hurt when she touched it now. Her face still looked unsightly, but at least she hadn't any broken bones.

Boarding her fourth and final bus, she adjusted her sunglasses in the bright sunshine. As they headed north of Chippewa Falls, miles of farmland still stretched out from the highway, most of it covered with snow. In the distance rose a range of mountains like ladders to the sky. Soon the terrain became hillier, and patches of forest dotted the landscape, dominated by pines and firs.

When they rolled into Silver Falls, Lindsey was wide awake. She couldn't wait to see Erica.

She walked into a corner store with her luggage and asked how she could get a taxi to Ashcroft Street.

"Taxi?" The woman smiled, as if it were a joke. "Hang on and I'll get someone to take you where you're going." Minutes later, she returned and said her husband would give her a lift.

They refused to take money. All they wanted was for her to come back and shop at their store.

When Lindsey mentioned Erica's name, the man knew exactly where she lived. The house sprawled across a good-sized yard, replete with cedar hedges and mature trees. Its roof sagged with the weight of the years, but the wide verandah looked inviting.

Even before she knocked, the door swung open. Erica's features were fuller and the reddish-brown hair layered to her shoulders seemed thicker. But her eyes were the same: sharply focused, bright with anticipation.

Surprisingly, she juggled a baby in her arms.

The sisters hugged each other wordlessly before they went inside.

"Bet you didn't know you were an aunt," Erica said as Lindsey stroked the girl's cheek. She had her mother's dark lashes and smooth complexion. And a perfect rosebud of a mouth.

"She's gorgeous," Lindsey said, her throat thick with emotion as she realized she was with family again.

Looking over her daughter's head, Erica said, "And you've certainly filled out nicely. When I last saw you, you were skinny as a rake and wearing braces." As her sister removed her sunglasses and scarf, she gasped. "OMG - who hit you?"

"My husband," she said. "It's over and I'm not going back. Can I stay here a while?"

Erica nodded. "Of course. When I heard you were coming, I took the morning off work. I'll put coffee on and get you some breakfast, too. We have a lot to catch up on."

## Chapter Thirty-One

Erica tried to hide her shock at seeing her sister's bruises but could not contain her anger. What kind of monster had she married? In the kitchen, she set up Allie in her high chair and gave her a bowl of pudding. Then she turned to Lindsey.

"Did you press charges?" she asked.

"No." Lindsey took a delicate bite of an oatmeal cookie on the table. "He caught me with another man. Even if I prove what Kurt did to me, he can plead temporary insanity."

"Another man?" Erica was still comparing this pretty young woman with the adolescent she had been.

Her sister told her about an English teacher with a big heart who had become her lover. Then she spoke about Kurt's possessiveness and how the failure of his restaurant business had put him on edge. The extramarital affair had helped her to stay in the marriage. She finished with, "I'll contact Alex later and let him know I'm okay."

When the percolator stopped dripping, Erica poured coffee for both of them. They sat in silence for a moment before she said, "Why don't I show you your room? You can freshen up as I prepare breakfast. How's eggs and toast?"

Lindsey openly admired Nick's paint job and handiwork as she saw more of the house. Erica had tried to forget him in the last few days, but then he'd called to say he left his woolen cap and gloves behind. Her pulse quickened at the sound of his voice. She had missed him more than she thought possible and, in spite of herself, kept reliving the magic of that kiss.

Now that her sister was here, maybe she could hand him his stuff when he showed up. I'm such a coward, she thought. He's right about the currents running between us. But do I really want a man to take care of me? At that moment, Allie squealed, kicking her chubby legs against the chair. _Of us_?

As she and Lindsey ate breakfast later, their shared past rose around them like a ghost, asking to be acknowledged. It was time to take stock of their lives. Not with judgment, but with compassion for themselves and what they had endured.

"I tried to reach you after I left Detroit," Erica said. "Your cell was out of service. And when I called Richard, he wouldn't put me through. I hoped he wouldn't make you - "

"He did." Lindsey grimaced as she smeared a piece of toast with jam, the scraping sound of her knife filling a pregnant pause. "I know now that his gambling was a sickness. But back then, I felt like dirt, the way he let those men use me. I should have believed you."

"And I should have murdered him," Erica said in a low voice. "I dreamed of it every night." Her coffee had grown cold but she swallowed some anyway.

"At least there's some justice," her sister said. "Apparently he's doing time for embezzling from the bank."

The news didn't surprise her; Richard had access to all the accounts. "Enough about him. I want to know about you."

Lindsey helped herself to more coffee and refilled her cup as well. "You first."

Erica told her about meeting Will, the stamp and coin shop, studying journalism, and ending up at The Chicago Times. She described her job as a news reporter and then the promotion to Life.

Lindsey flipped back her long hair and leaned forward slightly as she discussed the feature writing. Erica's article on high school dropouts caught her attention. "You know, I never went to high school," she said in a soft voice. "Remember how I struggled with reading or writing? Turns out I have dyslexia."

Erica remembered how hard it was to get her sister to do her homework. So much had been happening then, with their mother dying and then her needing to run the household. "Has it gotten any better?"

"Alex tutored me. I owe him a lot."

"Do you love him?" Erica asked.

Lindsey slowly chewed her toast, the discolored skin on her cheeks more noticeable in the light from the window. "I care about him, but that's not the same, is it?"

Erica reached over to pat her hand. "No. And you don't owe him, Lindy." The nickname came easily to her lips even after all this time. "I'm sure he wants you to be happy, not to feel obliged."

She nodded. "Tell me what happened at the newspaper. Why did you leave?"

By the time Erica finished recounting the main events, it was time for her to get ready for work. "We'll catch up later," she promised. "Why don't you get some sleep? You must be exhausted from your trip."

In the following days, the shadows below Lindsey's eyes gradually faded along with her bruises. She touched briefly on her experiences on the street and Erica told her about Philip and the support group in Chicago. Wanting to feel useful, Lindsey did laundry and fetched groceries while Erica worked, and helped with Allie in the evenings.

"That realtor in Chicago," she said, referring to Philip, "is he the father?"

Erica took a deep breath. "No. It's someone I met after I lost my job. A one-night stand."

Lindsey looked surprised. "So he doesn't know about Allie?"

Erica told her she preferred to keep it that way. Dave had led her to this wonderful town and a new life, and for that she would always be grateful.

Nick had arranged to drop by late Friday afternoon for the belongings he had inadvertently left behind; she told her sister to just hand them over. To avoid seeing him, Erica stayed a little longer at the office and then engaged Mrs. Langley in conversation when she picked up Allie. Finally it was time to go home.

When she glanced at her phone, she saw that she had received a text from Lindsey:

Invited Nick for dinner.

Hope u don't mind.

_Plenty for us all - I made tuna casserole_.

### ***

Their laughter hit her as she walked through the door - Nick's deep chuckles and her sister's peals of mirth. There was an odd harmony to the combination.

In the kitchen, Nick sat in his usual spot at the table, his long legs sprawled in front of him. He watched Lindsey twirl across the floor before doing the splits. Her tights left little to the imagination, and the flirty top exposed a good deal of her pale shoulders.

They both turned at Erica's entrance.

"I was showing him what I'm like on skates. A total klutz," she said, her eyes sparkling. "He offered to take me out on the rink."

Erica tried to suppress her annoyance. She should have told her how she felt about Nick, even if it still defied definition. But she had never seen him looking so at ease. Around her, he had always seemed so controlled, careful not to say or do anything to offend her, probably because of the times she'd snapped at him.

"Winter in these parts can be very long if you don't get outdoors," he said. "Most of us skate or ski. I'd be happy to take both of you out after we get more snow."

She didn't know where to look. His shirt was open, just like the bottle of wine on the table.

Nick followed her gaze to the tray of cheese and crackers. "I brought some appetizers. Hope you like Brie." After popping a cracker into his mouth, he said, "I finished a job in Silver Falls and wasn't in any hurry to go home. Your sister said this was okay with you."

"Sure, why not?" He obviously liked Lindsey, who wouldn't? Erica tried to ignore the tall glass of water holding a profusion of mauve orchids, her favorite flowers. He had never gotten her flowers, but then they had a professional relationship. At least until that last night together.

Her daughter started to cry as she twisted in her arms. She hadn't napped that afternoon, which always made her cranky.

"Allie needs changing," she said. "I'll join you shortly."

Leaving the room allowed her to take full breaths again. After seeing to the baby's needs, she showered and changed before adding a touch of lipstick. Not that it made any difference; he hardly seemed to notice her now.

"You look like you can use a drink. You must have had a rough week," Nick said when she returned. He poured some wine and gave it to her before raising his glass. "Salute."

Rough week? The hardest part was seeing him again and knowing how much she had missed him. Exactly one week ago, they had embraced in this very spot. And even if he had forgotten, she could not.

As Lindsey pulled out the casserole from the oven, she whispered, "Why didn't you tell me he was such a hottie? I was in my sweats when I answered the door."

Allie fidgeted in her high chair and pushed away the mashed potatoes and carrots. The plastic bowl fell with a thud and the vegetables splattered all over the floor. Then she started crying. It was going to be a long night.

"Here, let me take her." Nick came over to pick her up. "Long time no see," he said, smiling down at her. The baby stopped fussing. Then, when he made a few funny faces, she started to chortle. As he rocked her back and forth in his arms, she reached out to feel the stubble on his chin.

"You're great with kids," Lindsey said, still working on the casserole.

"I should be, with all my nephews and nieces," he said with a smile.

Erica suddenly felt superfluous. Even her daughter preferred Nick's company. But all she could do was drink her wine and then eat the food Lindsey proudly dished out. She could feel the tension in her shoulders as she sat at the table, but told herself that the meal would soon be over and Nick would be on his way.

Allie fell asleep in his lap as Nick dug into the tuna casserole. Erica silently took her from him and put her to bed upstairs.

Afterwards, she tackled the dishes as Lindsey talked with their guest. Nick didn't offer to help this time and it felt a little lonely standing at the counter by herself.

When he finally stood at the door, ready to leave, he gave her sister a quick hug. Waving at Erica, he said, "Thanks for dinner."

Moments later, Lindsey beamed as she cleared off the table. "That was fun, wasn't it?"

"Fun?" Erica glowered at her. "You were practically throwing yourself at him."

Her dark eyes went wide. "You can't be serious. He isn't interested in me. He bought those orchids for you after I told him what you liked. And he asked me a few questions before you got here."

"Such as?"

She shrugged. "Like if you're in contact with Allie's father. And if you're seeing anyone special."

"Oh." Erica's spirits lifted at her words. Even if she wasn't quite ready for a relationship, she liked knowing she was still in the running.

## Chapter Thirty-Two

Eight days before Christmas... and shoppers thronged all the stores, including Johnson's Supermarket.

Lindsey couldn't have been gone more than three minutes. Just long enough to pick up the frosted flakes and a jar of peanut butter from the next aisle. Her shopping cart was in the same spot. There was no mistaking it, with its carton of milk and the box of noodles Allie had been fingering when she left her. Where was she? Six-month-old babies in pink snowsuits didn't just disappear. And she had been too firmly wedged in the infant's seat to get out herself.

Panic squeezed her chest. Maybe another shopper had picked up the baby and was looking for her mother. She dropped the items into her cart and rushed to the front of the store. Then she glanced down each aisle, hoping - praying - to see her. No luck.

Desperate now, she pushed her way through the people, stopping to ask if anyone had seen Allie. Finally she found the store manager.

"My niece - she's only a baby. She was in my cart. I went to get something... and now she's gone." Lindsey forced herself to slow down so she could talk coherently. "Can you call the police for me?"

The manager led her to his office, where he pointed to a chair. "Why don't you have a seat? We'll do a thorough search of the premises and then call the station if we have to. Don't worry. Can't say we've had any kidnappings in Silver Falls."

_Kidnappings_? The word rolled around in her head as she waited for the police. Allison was a beautiful baby, with her chubby features and halo of fine brown hair. Maybe she had been snatched by an infertile couple or even for sale to a third party. Lindsey had heard about infant abductions.

Erica would never forgive her. How could she? These last few weeks, Allie had been entrusted to her care instead of Mrs. Langley's. Lindsey had decided to enroll in night school to get her high school education, and offered to look after Allie during the day. It felt like the perfect arrangement.

This was a nightmare. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, her head in her hands, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

"You the lady who lost her baby?" An officer towered over her in uniform, his feet wide apart. As she answered his questions, he entered the data into his smart phone.

"I have a picture of her at home," Lindsey finally said.

He told her that he was going off duty, but would send in his report. "You can bring the photo to the station. I'm sure there's no reason for alarm. Children are reported missing every day, and they usually turn up at a neighbor's."

Lindsey felt like slapping him. "She's only a baby. And we don't have any neighbors who would take her without asking. Besides, I don't know anyone in this store."

The officer patted her arm before striding away. Instead of comforting her, the gesture made her angry. Why didn't they take this seriously?

As she walked home, Lindsey called her sister at the office and told her what had happened.

"What?" She could hear Erica suck in her breath. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She rushed into the house less than thirty minutes later, her coat flapping around her, still unbuttoned. "Any news?"

Lindsey hung her head, unable to bear seeing the anxiety in her eyes. "I shouldn't have let her out of my sight. I still can't believe someone took her. I thought it was safe here. Everyone's so friendly."

"Wait! Isn't that your phone?" The ringing came from Lindsey's purse.

It was Kurt. She hadn't heard from him all this time; every day that went by reinforced her belief that she never would. Her heart in her throat, she answered.

"I've got your sister's baby," he said in a low voice.

A shiver ran through her. He was in Silver Falls. "How did you...?"

His laugh sounded more like a sneer. "I installed a tracking app on your phone some time ago. It confirmed Wisconsin and I already had your sister's address." He paused. "Fair exchange - you for the kid. You have two hours to think it over." Allie's wail, muffled before, came through clearly. "And no cops, or I'll silence her for good." The line went dead.

"Your husband's got her?" Erica looked horrified. "I heard him say _no cops_."

She nodded, then swallowed hard. "He's going to call back in two hours. We can't risk putting Allie in danger. I'll go to him." Again she saw Kurt's enraged face, his hands rolled into fists. He'd make her pay for leaving him, there was no question of that.

He would never let her go - hadn't she always known that? And he was counting on her to put the baby first.

Erica found a business card before punching out a number. "Nick? Allie's been snatched by Lindsey's husband. Can you get here quick? He's calling again in a couple of hours." Then she sank on the sofa, and clutched Allie's favorite stuffed animal to her chest, a sad-eyed rabbit with floppy ears.

Lindsey joined her and gave her a hug. "I won't let anything happen to her," she promised. "Do you think Nick can help?"

Her sister shrugged. "I know he cares about Allie and will do what he can."

When Nick arrived, Erica let him engulf her in his arms. They stood together in silence for a few moments. Then he turned to Lindsey.

"Tell me about your husband," he said. He cocked his head to one side as she described Kurt and the violence he was capable of.

As if sensing the hysteria lying close to the surface in both of them, he spoke in measured tones. Only the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed his tension. "When he phones back, tell him you'll meet him," he told her. "I'll listen in."

When the call came, Lindsey forced herself to answer. She thought of Allie and how scared she must be.

Kurt wanted to know what she had decided.

"I'll come to you," she said. "Just let me get my things together." She held the cell away from her ear so that Nick could hear every word.

"I'll meet you at midnight, at the corner of Elm and First. Come alone."

"How about my sister? We have to leave the baby with her."

"Fine, your sister. But no one else. I have nothing to lose, sweetie." The term of endearment grated. "The restaurant's gone. Most of the staff quit, but I couldn't afford to pay them anyway. Now all I have is you." His voice hardened. "Remember the handgun in my drawer? I've got it with me, and it's loaded."

Afterwards, Lindsey's heart hammered so hard, she almost didn't hear Nick's question.

"Background noise," he repeated. "Didn't you hear it? It sounded like an air horn."

"I wasn't paying attention," she said. "Why?" All she could think of was the Smith & Wesson. Good for eight shots, Kurt had once said. She couldn't take the chance of letting him use it. Her spirits plummeted. There was no choice; she had to surrender to him.

"I have a hunch where he is." Nick zipped up his winter jacket, a steely look on his face. "I'm going to check it out. I'll be back as soon as I can."

### ***

Erica felt even more anxious after Nick left. She had heard the part about the gun.

The two women watched through the front window as darkness fell. Nick did not return and Erica feared for his safety. Maybe she shouldn't have called him but she liked knowing he was trying to help. Her whole body ached for Allie; she would not be able to rest until her daughter was in her arms again.

A few times she picked up her phone to call the police but then set it down. What was the use? No one had even contacted them after filing Lindsey's report. And it was too dangerous. Kurt was unstable; any sign of the law and Allie could die.

At ten minutes before midnight, they both got into the car.

Lindsey's shoulders sagged with defeat, but she forced a smile. "We didn't meet up after all these years for nothing. I'll find my way back here one day."

The neighbors had closed their lights by now, and the lampposts gave off only a feeble glow.

Erica started the ignition. "We better not keep him waiting."

## Chapter Thirty-Three

The two sisters huddled together on the street corner as another gust of wind made them shiver in their coats. Behind them stood Honest Abe's Convenience Store. At this hour, the stacked cans of peas and corn in the window made irregular, jagged shapes in the dim light. A hairdressing salon sat on the opposite corner, shuttered for the night. From one of the neighboring homes came the sound of a dog barking.

One minute past midnight and no sign of Kurt.

"It's my fault," Lindsey said. "If I hadn't come here, this never would have happened."

Erica reached for her hand. "Nonsense. You didn't know he would follow you. Or that he would use Allie as a hostage." In her mind, the same prayer repeated itself. _Please let me baby be all right. Let her be safe_.

"I think that's him." A broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket strode down the block towards them. He effortlessly carried a blanket wrapped around a small, limp form. Before acknowledging them, he peered up and down the street.

Something was wrong. Why was Allie so still? She should have been fussing in his arms, kicking or crying. Instinctively Erica moved towards her baby.

"Stay back," Kurt warned, waving a gun at her. "I want my wife to come over first. Then you can have the kid."

Lindsey hugged her sister for the last time. Then she started towards him on stiff legs. Maybe this was how people felt going to the gallows. Her executioner stood only steps away, a smug expression on his face.

"Bitch. I should make you crawl on your hands and knees," he said. "Maybe I will, once I get you home. You'll be sorry you ever left." He grabbed her by her coat collar and jerked her towards him. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of alcohol.

The blanket dropped on the ground, almost as an afterthought. It opened to reveal a dirty, oversized pillow.

"But where's - " Before she could say more, headlights blinded them. Two police cars screeched to a halt, one on either side of them.

Four officers jumped out and pointed their revolvers at Kurt. "Drop the weapon," one of them ordered.

Meanwhile, Nick emerged from the back seat of a police cruiser and ran over to Erica.

"Duck!" he said, forcing her to crouch with him behind a parked SUV. "Don't worry. I got Allie out on time." They cautiously peeked through the car window at the scene across the street.

A shot rang out. Kurt had hit one of the men in the leg. Now he dragged Lindsey with him to his car. As he fumbled with the door handle, Lindsey managed to wrench herself free and scrambled behind a near-by truck.

Kurt became an open target. Instead of giving himself up, he fired again at two of the officers and strode towards his wife. The policemen fired back.

"Bastards!" Clutching a hand to his chest, Kurt sank to his knees and fell face forward at Lindsey's feet. His fingers curled around her right boot. Then his grip loosened and he lay motionless on the pavement.

One of the officers called for an ambulance on his mobile radio. Another bent over Kurt's body and felt for his pulse. He shook his head as he straightened up. "No rush, Joe. Code blue."

Lindsey stared in shock at the man stretched out at her feet. Why couldn't he have just let her go? She leaned over and stroked his dark wavy hair, now mixed with gray. Part of her expected him to turn over and seize her, but he continued to lie there.

A siren shrilled in the distance, getting louder as the ambulance approached. Knowing he was already gone, she reached for his cold hand and held it. _I could have loved you, if you had only let me breathe_.

"I'm sorry," Erica said, touching her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "Where's Allie?"

"At the police station. Nick found her before coming here."

The three of them piled into Erica's car to get there.

Nick explained how he had figured out where she was being held. The background noise he'd recognized when Kurt called was an air horn.

"On a semi," he said. "I heard it often enough when I ate at the truck stop on the south side of town. It's a good diner - cheap, and not stingy on food. Then I remembered the deserted house down the road. I used to stay there myself in the summer when it was too late to head back to Cameron."

It was the perfect place for Kurt to hide, especially with a crying infant.

Nick had entered the house through a basement window. From there, he heard Allie howl and Kurt swearing at her. Creaking floorboards overhead told him where they were, but he had to wait for the right moment to make his move, knowing that Kurt was armed.

Shortly after eleven, the front door slammed and he heard a car pull away. "He probably couldn't take any more. She wouldn't stop crying." He took a deep breath. "I rushed upstairs and got her. Then I brought her to the station and convinced the police to go after your husband," he said, turning to Lindsey. "But he was no longer at the house."

"So he bluffed and pretended to still have Allie," Erica finished for him.

They finally pulled up in front of the precinct. Nick held the door open for the sisters as they rushed through. A female officer held the baby in her arms. Allie was fast asleep.

"I changed her diaper and gave her something to eat," she told Erica. "She's such a sweetheart. You must be happy to get her back."

Erica thanked the officer as she gratefully took Allie from her. Lindsey helped to zip up her snowsuit.

Nick told the woman about the fatal shooting. She said that Lindsey would have to deal with the legalities concerning her husband's death in the morning.

Upon leaving the building, he headed for his car, which he had left at the station. Erica stopped him in his tracks as she called out, "It's late. Why don't you stay at my place tonight?"

Putting up no argument, he followed her back home.

Later, with Allie asleep in her crib, Lindsey said goodnight to both of them. "I still can't believe Kurt's dead," she said with tears in her eyes. "I'll call my brother-in-law tomorrow to give him the news."

Erica gave her a big hug before turning to Nick. "Feel like some hot chocolate?"

"Good idea," he said. "I'm still too wired to sleep."

As they sat in the stillness of her kitchen, she said, "I don't know how to thank you. You risked your life."

He looked evenly at her across the table. "I'm just glad your daughter's okay. That guy was a nut case. No wonder your sister left him."

She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling awkward. "What you said before, about seeing each other... I'd like to. I've missed you lately."

The mug in his hands turned a complete revolution. "Are you sure?"

Erica nodded. "As long as we take it slow. I know I have trust issues when it comes to men. But that's about my past and has nothing to do with you." She blew on the froth in her mug before taking a quick swallow. It was deliciously hot and sweet. "I already consider you part of my family. That's why I called."

Maybe it wasn't so much a trust issue as it was a deep-seated fear of losing control. Of letting a man into the center of her life where he could potentially undermine her. But even that fear had been submerged by her need to keep Allie safe.

"Okay." His one-word answer encompassed a world of patience.

When he got to his feet, she spontaneously joined him in the same spot they had embraced once before. He gathered her to him before his mouth descended on hers, seeking a response and then finding it.

As she breathed in the clean scent of him, she appreciated how well their bodies fit together, with her head neatly tucked beneath his chin. She glanced up, noticing a few wood shavings that still clung to his dark hair.

"I must have taken you off a job tonight," she said.

"I'm building a desk for someone in the next town. I also do carpentry." He watched her expression, a trace of uncertainty in his eyes.

His ex, she recalled, had disparaged his line of work.

"You're a man of many talents then." She smiled at him. "And I'm sure I don't know the half of them."

With one hand, she reached up to brush off the shavings from his hair. They curled on her fingertips, surprisingly solid despite their fragility.

# \- THE END -

Dear Reader,

_If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to_ _leave a Customer Review_ _where you purchased it. Thanks!_

Thelma Mariano

### About the Author

Thelma Mariano is the author of two other novels - _ConneXions,_ a psychological suspense, and _SeaStruck_ , a paranormal romance (mermaid story). Over the years, she also sold over 40 short stories to women's magazines such as True Story, True Confessions and True Experience. These magazines, produced by NYC publishers including Sterling/Macfadden and Dorchester Media, attracted a mass readership of 150,000 to 200,000.

For 10 years, she worked as a life coach and motivational speaker to help people overcome limiting beliefs and go after their dreams. She is now working on a series called _New Life Stories._

Thelma likes teamwork and enjoys working with other writers to help them strengthen and improve their stories. It's natural for her to inspire and motivate others. She recently launched a website to offer her services as a Freelance Editor of women's contemporary fiction.

You can visit her at http://thelmamariano.com.
