Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T he only superpower he’d ever longed for was flying. To lift off this earth, untangle himself from this life with its griefs and responsibilities and broken hopes—even the constant whirring of his brain—and soar.

The sky today arched a brilliant, endless blue over Mt. Alyeska, the sun’s rays glistening upon a pristine plain of powder-fresh snow that had dropped over the ski resort and sifted into the Teacup Bowl. He stood at the headwall of the Alyeska Chute, his skis pointed just over the edge, the angle into the bowl so steep that, yes, he could spread his arms and simply lift off.

“You’re not serious.” Oaken Fox stood a ways back, wearing skis and leaning on his poles. In his silver helmet, wearing goggles, a scarf, and a ski suit, no one would know that the country music star had just taken to the slopes today after a three-week tour in the lower forty-eight.

Maybe he’d returned to keep Shep from spiraling into darkness. Oaken and his girlfriend, Boo, had shown up on his doorstep last night with a pizza and plans for today’s ski trip.

But even the blue sky and bright sunlight couldn’t seem to break through the hover of grief.

How could London be gone? He simply couldn’t wrap his brain around it . . .

So maybe he just needed to fly . . .

Oaken skied over. “I did mention I grew up in South Dakota, right? Not a hill to be found.”

Boo joined them. She wore a lime-green one-piece ski suit and a matching helmet. No one would lose her on the slopes.

Below them, in the bowl, sat all of Alyeska ski resort, and from here Shep could make out the upper tram terminal along with the ski-patrol shack and first-aid center. Below that, runs fanned out over the mountain in all directions, bordered by a forest of mountain hemlock, spruce and Douglas fir, and way too many tree wells for out-of-control skiers to plunge into headfirst.

And then, of course, freeze to death.

He shook the thought away. Not today. Today was for freedom, flying . . . forgetting.

“Tell me again why we had to go all the way to the top?” Boo said. “Plenty of decent skiing below this ridge of terror. Don’t look at me as I’m snowplowing my way down. I just need someone to catch me at the bottom when I turn into a snowball of doom.”

“You’ll be fine.” Shep pointed to a ridge below, a razorback, with a groomed slope in the valley that twisted its way to the bottom. “The sun is on the snow there—no shadows—and it’s a shorter chute into the bowl. Take the High Traverse to the Center Ridge run and it turns into a blue square.”

“As opposed to the double black diamonds that surround us,” Oaken said. “I’m with Boo on this, Shep. I don’t know about you, but Boo and I are among the bunny-hill aficionados.”

“Hardly. I’ve seen you both ski. Just plan your route and take it easy.” He gestured to the chutes that dropped from the headwall into a massive bowl of powder.

Okay, yes, he could admit that it all looked like an avalanche just waiting to happen. But probably not yet, this early in the season. The snowfall hadn’t been so great as to layer up the seracs or create the shifting planes that could lead to a lethal slide.

Still . . . “I’ll go last to pick up any debris from a yard sale,” said Shep, grinning.

“Funny,” Oaken said. “Just promise to dig me out before the paparazzi find me if I end up face down in the snow.” He looked at Boo. “C’mon, babe. We’ll do this together.”

She pushed off and they traversed the headwall to the nearby chute.

Shep breathed in the crisp air, bright and biting in his lungs. He closed his eyes, taking in the whisper of the wind, the slight rattle of the gondola in the distance. He’d talked one of his ski-patrol pals into driving them up to the top, Boo and Oaken all thumbs-up until they saw the drop, the snow that gathered around jutting boulders and along the cliffside.

He opened his eyes, feeling the silence build inside him, the adrenaline burning. He glanced over at Boo and Oaken—both of them had lied to him more than a little. Boo had attacked the wall straight down, finding air off a small cliff, landing, and then completing a beautiful line down to the High Traverse.

Oaken followed, avoiding the cliff, cutting short turns until the slope opened up and he glided down to Boo.

Shep let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Last thing he wanted was to lead his cohorts into disaster.

Boo raised her pole, and he waved back.

Now to the cliff in front of him. A fairly narrow passage dropped some twenty feet into a thick pillow of powder, and from that, the slope veered nearly straight down some twenty more feet until it started to flatten.

Yeah, time to fly.

He pushed off, lifted his skis from the edge, and found air as he fell. Held his arms out, just for balance—and maybe wings—then landed, spring in his knees, and moved into a sharp turn to slow himself just a little, then eased up and widened it out.

Wind buzzed in his ears, powder drifting up to feather upon his helmet, his goggles, his jacket. Skiing in loose, thigh-deep snow required more leg strength than edge, and he kept his form tight, his speed high, his line wide enough to stay in control. He felt his spirit, at least for a moment, soar. The grief left his chest.

The grip on his soul released.

Breathe.

He focused on his rhythm, keeping his legs together, centering over his skis, letting the swish overtake him. One right move at a time.

He slowed as he neared Boo and Oaken, then stopped, managing not to spray them with snow, and laughed.

Laughed.

Oh, it felt like a betrayal. He swallowed it back, fast.

Boo gave him a tight-lipped smile, nodding.

“Okay, when you said you ‘did some skiing,’ you left out that you were some sort of powder master,” Oaken said. “Seriously—you look like a big-mountain freeriding world champion. Like that guy from Mercy Falls—Gage Watson.”

Shep nodded and let a real grin out. “Yep.”

Never mind that Gage was his cousin and that for a while he’d followed in Gage’s footsteps. Until the accident.

Until responsibility had caught up to him.

“Shep is on ski patrol here in the winter,” Boo said, glancing at Oaken. “He gets to ski for free.”

“In between scraping people off the hill,” Shep said. He didn’t mention that he hadn’t signed up this year.

Or the fact that the only reason he’d tagged along today, like a third wheel, was to give himself something to do while his realtor opened up his house to potential buyers. A private sale for now.

He didn’t want to tell the Air One Rescue team until the purchase agreement was inked and he couldn’t change his mind.

“Okay, that’s enough daredevil for me today,” Boo said. “I’m headed down to the blue runs and maybe all the way to the bottom for some hot cocoa.”

“I think I’ll take a leisurely ride through the trees,” Shep said. “See you at the bottom.”

He pushed off, heading across the lower traverse, crossing the ridge over to the north face and down Picnic Rock toward the Big Dipper, a thinned but wooded black diamond run. He was passing through a narrow chute between the trees called Spider Bite, the heavily wooded off-boundary section of tree-skiing to his left, when he spotted a flash of silver.

He slowed, then skirted to the edge of the run and stopped, peering into the woods.

Oh no.

Skis protruded, just barely, from the bushy branches of a mountain hemlock.

Shep unsnapped his bindings, set his skis upright, then tromped into the forest, grabbing tree limbs as the snow tried to suck him in to his thighs.

“Hey!” he shouted.

No reply. The skier had hit the tree, evidenced by the broken branches, and then tried to break their fall—headfirst—into the well around the tree. They now lay wedged into the space under the branches that formed a well around the tree, only their red jacket and silver ski pants showing.

Slowly suffocating.

He found solid footing, grabbed a couple branches, then dropped to his knees, leaning into the well. “Hey, you okay?”

No sound. Please, God, let him not be too late. He grabbed his walkie even as he started to paw at the snow. “Ski Patrol, this is Shep Watson. I’m just off Spider Bite in the off-boundary area—there’s a skier trapped in an SIS hazard. I’m going to start to dig him out—send help.”

He pocketed the walkie even as he heard the senior patroller confirm, and pulled off the backpack he carried for exactly this reason. Pulling out the small handheld shovel, he dove in, digging out from the side of the well. “I’m coming—just hang on.”

He tunneled in from the side, creating a bigger opening, then dropped his shovel and pulled out the soft snow with his hands, not wanting to take out a chunk of flesh with the edge of his shovel.

“C’mon, stay alive?—”

Don’t think about the darkness, the feeling of suffocation, the sense of aloneness that can sweep over a person ?—

He uncovered a shoulder, spotted movement— hallelujah —and followed the arm down, found a helmet. Maybe they’d found a pocket of air?—

He cleared out the snow, and there, at the base of the tree, a space of air. And then?—

“Help!” The voice lifted—a female. She started to wriggle. The snow had trapped her arms behind her, so she was unable to leverage them to push herself free.

Terrible way to die.

“I got ya,” he said, trying to pull her up, but the position wedged her tight. He would need to get in with her?—

Shouting sounded behind him. Over his shoulder, he spotted Oaken and Boo fighting toward him through the snow and trees.

“For a second, we thought it was you trapped in the trees,” Oaken said as he fell to his knees opposite the woman and also began to dig.

“Careful not to cave in more snow on her,” Shep said and handed him the shovel. “And don’t get crazy with the shovel—you don’t want to break bones.”

He handed his radio to Boo, who stepped back to check on patrol status.

Oaken raked back more snow, and Shep freed her shoulders. A long blonde ponytail snaked out the back of her helmet.

Shep climbed down into the well, nearly to his hips in depth. “Ma’am, did you hit your head?”

“No—no—” She started to cry.

He’d prefer to put a C collar on her, but she might be going into shock, hyperventilating, so he slid an arm under her, around her shoulders. Oaken got in on the other side, did the same.

“Boo, stabilize her legs,” he said. “On three.”

They pulled her up, heaving until her body came free of the hole, some five feet deep.

The woman rolled over, gasping. She still wore her goggles and a helmet, but with her blonde hair unraveled from her braid, she looked like?—

His breath caught. No . . . It couldn’t be.

And he knew—he’d seen her body, after all—that London was dead. The facts confirmed it—her car found in a nearby lake, her body mutilated but still the same frame, height, and weight. Most of all, the terrible emptiness in his soul. So yes, even if his heart didn’t want to believe it, facts were facts.

Yet this woman lying in the snow, breathing hard, maybe crying, had brought him right back to the what-ifs.

What if the body wasn’t London’s?

What if she’d reactivated what he knew was a clandestine past with some interesting skills he’d never suspected and . . . what? Faked her death?

Let it go. Let her go.

Words he’d been dodging for the better part of a month.

Oaken had unhooked the woman’s skis, retrieved her poles.

Okay, so he was desperate, but as Boo, the team EMT, leaned over her and moved her goggles off to check her vision, he hoped?—

Nope. Midtwenties, freckles on her face, brown eyes. Not London.

Ski patrollers had arrived with a sled, one of them trekking out to their position.

“Get a collar on her,” Shep said, and reached for it as the first patroller handed him the bag.

He snapped it on, leaning over her.

She grabbed his jacket. “Thank you.”

“You know this area is off-limits, right?” Shep said.

“Easy there, bro,” Boo said softly.

Right. He blew out a breath, studying her face as she let go of his coat. “Anything broken?”

“I don’t think so. And I didn’t mean to ski in here—” Her eyes filled again, her face reddened from cold and tears. “I took the wrong run and was trying to take a shortcut back to the intermediate slopes. I wasn’t going fast, but my ski caught, and down I went. I tried to grab branches to stop myself, but the snow just came down over me. . . .”

Her breath caught, and aw, just loosen up, like Boo said . Clearly, memory had a grip on him, turning him into a jerk.

He gave her a small nod, his gaze softening at her fear.

“I don’t know how you saw me, but . . . if you hadn’t—” She hiccoughed. “Thank you.”

He had to look away, then he blew out a breath, found a smile for her, and nodded. “You must have angels watching out for you. And you’re welcome.” He then stepped back as the patrollers closed in—a new crew for this season. “She probably needs an X-ray.”

“Thanks,” said one, the name badge on his orange ski jacket reading Bowman. He directed others to bring in a sled.

Boo and Oaken carried her gear out to where more patrollers sat, ready to ski her down the hill.

Shep stared at the tree well. Any longer and it might have become a tomb. His throat thickened, but he shook away the grip of what-ifs and headed back out to the run.

Boo and Oaken waited for him, already in their skis.

“I thought you were going to take the blue runs.”

“And let you call us pansies?” Oaken said. “Please. Besides, we weren’t sure if you’d just . . . I don’t know. Ski off the edge of the planet, never to be seen again.”

He blinked at them.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Shep. We know you put your townhouse up for sale—I have the same realtor.”

Boo leaned on her poles. “You’re really leaving?”

So much for his secrets. “Maybe.” He swallowed. “Probably. But don’t tell Moose yet, okay? I just . . . I’m not ready . . .”

“To tell him that his number-one rescue tech is leaving during the time that he might very well be losing his company?” Boo raised an eyebrow.

Yeah, that . He pursed his lips.

Boo’s voice fell. “Listen, Shep. We all grieve London. She was my roommate. I miss our chats, the way I’d spot her in the yard, working out—even our late-night conversations about faith. If I know anything about London, it’s that she was a woman of faith—and she’d want us to be rejoicing that she’s in heaven.”

Her words stripped him. “ Rejoicing? Boo—she was murdered. And somewhere out there is the person who killed her. And . . .”

And he was supposed to have protected her.

His one task when recruiting her for the Air One Rescue team had been to keep her safe.

So not only had losing her taken him apart . . . he wanted to hurt the man he saw in the mirror every dark and brutal morning.

The shadows had returned, the darkness seeping back into his pores. “The dead-last thing I feel like doing is rejoicing.”

He snapped back into his skis. “I think I’m done for the day. Thanks, guys. Try not to break any bones.”

Then he pushed off, leaving them behind as he tore down the slope.

Not flying at all.

* * *

The longer she stayed, the more danger she brought to his doorstep.

Maybe.

Or perhaps she simply couldn’t say goodbye.

But really, how did someone say goodbye to the one person who’d saved her life not only physically but also by bringing to life something long dead inside her. . . .

Something very near to hope.

The ski hill glistened under the fading sunlight, and even at this unusually early start to the season, cars jammed the parking lot. Mostly locals this late in the year, despite being a weekend. London sat in her cold car in the parking lot, wishing she could join everyone on the slopes. The memory of skiing with Shep last year—the rush of heat as they’d flown down the slopes together—in truth, she’d loved him even then.

She just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Shep returned, looking tired, and shoved his skis onto the roof of his Tahoe.

Of course, he looked amazing. Lean, strong, a hero even if he didn’t know it. He sat and pulled off his ski boots, putting on leather mukluks, then stripped off his jacket to only a thermal shirt that outlined his toned body, still wearing his suspendered ski pants and a stocking cap over his dark hair, the faintest hint of whiskers on his chin.

How cruel was it that the vivid and terribly wonderful memory of his arms around her, of him kissing her, swept through her and took hold?

She should have told him she loved him long, long ago.

As in a decade back, maybe, but for sure a month ago when he’d tried to step over the line of friendship.

Ghosts. Ghosts of past lives stole her future.

Trapping her in the regrets.

“Really, Laney, it’s time.” The voice in her earpiece, the one with a slightly Italian accent, sounded more compassionate than her true personality. Ziggy Mattucci had scared London to her bones the first time she’d met her, but that might have been because Zig had been holding a pugil stick, padded up and facing her in a ten-by-ten ring.

Ready to ring her bell.

So yeah, the softness of her trainer’s voice betrayed how long London had let this final goodbye linger.

“If no one has come after him by now, I think your secret is safe.”

“Which one? The one where I’m supposed to be dead? Or the one where the Russians have found me—how, I have no idea—and will stop at nothing to get their money back? Which one is the one I should be most afraid of, Ziggy? Because in my gut, I know—just know —that they’ll figure out that I’m alive . . . and then everyone I love will be in danger.”

Love. She drew in her breath at the word. Okay, whatever . Maybe admitting it to Ziggy would be the only way to release this terrible clench in her heart.

Fine. She loved Shep Watson. Mistake number one.

Mistake number two was probably thinking that she could escape and start over.

Again.

“Do whatever you have to do to say goodbye, and I expect you on the next plane to Switzerland?—”

“I already told you, Zig. Those days are over. I’m not coming back.” She picked up her necklace, running her thumb along the etchings of the simple paddle pendant she wore around her neck.

“We’ll see.”

Silence.

“Fine.” Ziggy’s voice held a softer edge, turning into her mentor, maybe even a friend. “But you are leaving Anchorage. If they found you there once, they can find you again.”

“We don’t even know who hired?—”

“I’m working on it. In the meantime, I’d be much happier if you were back at the mansion?—”

“No. That life is done. I’m not that person anymore.”

“This life is who you are.”

She drew in a breath.

“Don’t make me come back there.”

London’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t need you the first time.”

A laugh, small, that had nothing to do with humor and everything to do with reality. “Maybe not. Keep in touch. I need to know where you land. And, Laney . . . assurgo .”

Right . “Assurgo.”

Ziggy hung up.

The word echoed in London’s mind. The Black Swan motto— Stand up and soar.

She sighed. No, she was in this alone.

Now, she got out and stretched as Shep piled the rest of his gear into the back end of his SUV. Just two rows over, but he didn’t have a hope of recognizing her with her long black wig, sunglasses, knit cap, and white puffer jacket, Uggs.

She looked like a snow bunny, and as he turned her direction, she made to wave at someone behind him, blowing that imaginary someone a kiss.

Her heart burned as he turned away.

Yeah, maybe it was time to say goodbye.

He got into his Tahoe, and she waited until he’d pulled out, a couple other cars behind him, before she followed. She knew the way to his townhouse—down the road and up the highway from the ski hill. A gorgeous modern townhome that he’d self-remodeled a couple years ago, before she got here.

She’d seen the realtor come and go, twice, and it had knotted her gut.

Don’t run, Shep .

Right. Pot, meet kettle . But he had a life here. Or he had. Until she’d so perfectly destroyed it.

They crossed the bridge over Glacier Creek, a tourist way-stop, where a family had stopped in their ski gear to snap the glorious view of the setting sun off Mt. Alyeska with its deep runnels and sharp ridges, soaring peaks against the deep-blue sky.

She’d really hoped to hide here forever.

His Tahoe continued south to the highway, then north some fifteen minutes, and finally turned into a subdivision with a line of townhomes built into a mountainside overlooking the sound. Down here, closer to sea level, the snow hadn’t lingered, just lightly dusting the yards. Winter had come early, the days growing shorter, dusky at four p.m.

Shep parked in his driveway, and when his motion-sensor light blinked on, she drove past, up the road, where she turned and headed back down again to park in the shadows.

Another long, cold night where panic drove her to scrutinize every movement.

“Really, Laney, it’s time.”

Her heart lodged in her chest as he closed his garage door. Then she pulled up her phone and opened the app.

Yep, she’d turned full-out stalker, watching him climb the stairs to his main floor dressed in his stocking feet and long johns. He went into the kitchen, and she lost him from view—her camera only caught the main area, which included the front door and the sliding door out to his deck. Any more and she couldn’t justify invading his privacy.

Whatever . She despised the lies she told herself in this version of her life.

He returned into view with a mug of hot cocoa. Climbed onto a stool and stared into the mug.

Just stared.

Ah. And here he’d stay, probably. Unmoving in the darkness. For hours.

Sometimes he powered up his gas fireplace. Watched television—he loved old John Wayne movies.

And then he’d go to bed. All in the darkness.

Always Mr. Calm, Mr. Suffer in Silence, Mr. Tuck Away His Emotions. Until, of course, a month ago, when he’d told her he wanted more. And even then he’d been patient. Kind.

Mistake number three: letting him love her.

Letting herself believe in a happy ending.

She didn’t turn on the heat, preferring the cold.

She deserved the cold.

Lights flickered on, peeking around the window shades of nearby townhomes. She ducked down in her car—a very used Ford Bronco she’d purchased with cash—when a couple neighbors returned home.

Still Shep sat there, in darkness, even after he’d finished his drink.

Maybe Ziggy was right. Why would someone come after Shep? He had no connection to her except being her friend.

More than a friend .

And maybe that’s why her gut had remained in knots since the moment she and Ziggy had pushed her Subaru into the lake, the dead body of a stranger inside. Because London just couldn’t dodge the sense that . . .

Well, the Russian mob wasn’t exactly above tracking down someone she cared about to flush her out.

Maybe she should grab Shep and run.

What, like he was a puppy?

She leaned her head back on her seat, took a breath. Closed her eyes.

For a second, just like every time, the memory of the attack lurched back to her.

The assassin’s blow had come from behind her. If it hadn’t been for the reflection in the sliding-door window?—

She’d dodged, whirled, caught the woman’s wrist and slammed it into the wall, jarring loose the club.

Thank you, Ziggy, for the muscle memory .

The woman threw a fist at her, but London dodged it. The second punch caught her though, and the woman shook out of her hold, rolled out, and came back with a knife.

Yeah, well, London too. She’d grabbed the butcher’s knife from the block, breathing hard, bracing.

No one came out of a knife fight uncut.

The woman was lean, about London’s build, blonde hair snaking out of a black stocking cap. She dressed like an assassin, in all black, and moved slowly, circling. London circled with her, and that’s when she spotted another woman outside on the porch.

One, maybe, but she was out of practice and?—

The door opened, her attacker turned as if surprised, and right then, a shot—just a whoosh and ping—from a silencer.

It hit the woman center mass with a thunk.

Vest . But the attacker dropped, and then the second woman—she also wore black, her dark hair back—jumped on her.

She put her hands to the attacker’s throat.

The first woman struggled, fighting.

London drew in a breath, the reality of the quiet moment seeping into her. No, no this couldn’t be—“Don’t kill her!”

The second woman looked up, and recognition shuddered through London. “ Ziggy. ”

“She’s with the Orphans.”

And that froze London to the spot as she watched the assassin’s body still.

Her heartbeat punched her. No, no ?—

Finally, Ziggy got up. “You okay?”

No. Not even a little . She nodded. Then, “How?—”

“I got a message from a friend who heard from Raisa Yukachova, the head of the Orphans, that someone put a hit out on you. We need to go. But first, you need to die.”

London knew how she meant it, but still . . .

She was tired of dying.

Maybe she’d hesitated, too, because a hint of rare compassion flashed in Ziggy’s dark eyes. “Now. We need to throw off the trail before they send another.”

Right.

So London packed while Ziggy took care of the nasty business of changing the woman’s clothes, deforming her face, taking off her fingertips. London had been out of the business too long, apparently—well, had never really been in that business—but seeing the woman’s mutilated body as Ziggy shoved her into the back of London’s Crosstrek had sent London to the bushes to be sick.

Ziggy waited for her by the car, holding keys. “This life is over.”

London snatched the keys from her, acid in her throat. Then she drove the car to the lake. They put the woman in the driver’s seat, then together, pushed the car in.

And then, London ran.

The last thing she wanted was to watch as her team found “her” body, so she’d stayed in Ziggy’s motel room while Ziggy watched and confirmed London’s death.

Then London had the row of her life with the woman who’d taught her everything.

I’m not leaving until I know he’s safe.

Maybe she should have said, I’m not leaving. Full stop. Because after a month, she still didn’t know how . . . well, how to tell him goodbye.

“Do whatever you have to do to say goodbye.”

What if . . . what if she didn’t have to? What if . . .

She opened her eyes and looked at her phone. He’d left the kitchen, and she switched screens. He had climbed up the stairs to his lofted bedroom, the darkness pitch around him, although the wan light from the rising moon in the big great-room windows betrayed his form.

She could sneak in and . . . at least tell him the truth. All of it, starting with the day he’d saved her life. He deserved that much, at least. Then, yes, she’d leave.

He’d keep her secret; she knew it in the depths of her soul. Shep was good at keeping secrets—after all, he’d lied to her for the better part of a year, and now, oops , tears brimmed her eyes. She’d forgiven him for that—but at the time, she’d been a little too hypocritical.

Or just afraid that he knew everything.

But he hadn’t probed, hadn’t said anything about the lies she’d told him. Instead, he’d kept showing up. Holding on to her.

No wonder she couldn’t let go.

Maybe he deserved a real goodbye?—

Movement flickered across one of the outside views on her phone, and she clicked on the window. It opened.

Nothing in the grainy picture—but she’d seen a shadow, she knew it.

From the glove box, she pulled out the tiny Glock Gen5, G47, a nine mil that should do the job—a parting gift from Ziggy. London hadn’t asked any questions.

She’d already shed her white jacket, wearing just her black thermal shirt, and now she turned her hat black side out and slid out of the car, no dome light.

She crept down the street, in the shadows along the ditch. Crossed over to Shep’s driveway, dodging the motion-detector lights.

In her car, her phone would be pinging desperately.

She circled around to the back and then crouched near his deck—jutting from the side, visible from the road for anyone else who might be watching. A grill under a tarp sat against the far edge, a sofa and a couple of outdoor chairs situated for a perfect view of the sound.

Movement. Something small—so not an assassin from the Orphans, unless they now employed seven-year-olds. But something . . .

Her body froze when a dog crept out from behind the grill. A garbage can with a lid had been knocked over, and now the dog sniffed near it. Found a bone and dragged it away, settling on the deck for a good gnaw. A bigger dog, black and skinny, its bones protruding from its body, poor thing.

Wait . She had some beef jerky in the car, a stakeout treat.

She backed away, worked her way back to her car, and retrieved the rest of the bag of jerky. Then she returned, her gun tucked into her belt, and crept up to the deck.

The dog looked up. Whined.

So, not an angry dog, just scared.

“It’s okay, buddy.” She crouched near the stairs and held out a piece of jerky. The animal had shifted back into the shadows near the grill, trapped as she stood at the only exit.

“C’mere. It’s okay.”

The dog’s eyes glowed gold in the darkness. She tossed the jerky toward him. It didn’t go very far, but the animal didn’t move.

Aw . “C’mon, sweetie. I’m not going to hurt you.” She pulled out another piece of jerky and then crept up onto the deck. She held the jerky out. “C’mon . . . it’s okay.”

The dog considered her, then hunkered down, submissive.

She took another step toward him.

He strained his neck and took the jerky from her.

Settled down to gnaw at it.

“You’re just hungry.” She took out another piece of jerky and stood up.

Just like that, light bathed the porch. Rookie mistake. She spotted the motion detector light, set high enough to detect a human but not an animal.

Dropping the jerky, she took off around the back of the house, alongside the driveway, and then back into her car.

Right then, he stepped out of his townhouse onto the side deck, into the light.

So he hadn’t been asleep. Just staring into the darkness. Again.

He crouched and, as her throat thickened, picked up her dropped jerky. Looked out into the night.

She sank down, even though her car sat hooded in darkness.

Now, tell him now .

But then Shep turned to the dog and fed it. He disappeared into the house and came out with a bowl of water and what looked like steak. As she watched, Shep coaxed the animal into his arms.

Wow, she loved this man.

She couldn’t, just couldn’t, break his heart again.

More—and the thought struck her like a blade to the heart—if she went inside, told him she was alive . . . well, how was she supposed to tear herself away?

No. If she went in there, she stayed.

And that’s when she really put his life in danger.

He picked up the dog, and the animal lifted its snout to lick his chin. Then, again, he stared out into the night.

In the light, she could make out his tight jaw, the emotion in his eyes.

Her breath turned to glue in her chest. Her eyes burned.

And she couldn’t help but put her hand to the window.

Goodbye, Shep.

He sighed and disappeared into the house.

London put her car into gear, and slowly, finally, pulled away from the curb.