Mary Ellen had loved it. The lake. The woods. The house. She’d been so happy. Those next ten years had been like heaven on earth. Then they’d found the cancer, and everything had gone to hell.

His beautiful wife had died for almost two years. Six hundred ninety-eight days. He’d watched her waste away. Had watched the light fade from her incredible gray eyes—the same eyes as Sadie’s.

He knocked back the rest of his drink. Sadie was the utter reflection of her mother. He could hardly bear to look at her. He’d withdrawn from her after Mary Ellen was gone. It was a mistake. He recognized that now. At the time he hadn’t been able to see beyond his own pain.

The trouble had begun then.

Another of his mistakes.

Nothing he could do to change that now.

But he intended to make amends before he took his last breath.

Better late than never.

He sighed, walked to the front door, and exited the house. He could make her wait, but he couldn’t avoid her. The result of a long-ago mistake—one that would haunt him the rest of his days.

The black sedan idled at the curb in front of his house. Was pulling into the driveway too much trouble? The driver stood at attention next to it. Mason gritted his teeth and followed the stone path to the street. Without a word, the man opened the rear driver’s-side door for Mason. He settled into the leather seat and the door closed solidly next to him. The driver remained outside the vehicle.

What else could she possibly want? The investigation was his now. He could do what needed to be done. His gaze met hers, and for a single moment he couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful . . . even after all these years.

The moment disintegrated, and reality snatched him back to the present. “What would your husband say if he knew we were meeting like this?”

She smiled, but it was not an expression of amusement. “I need to impress upon you once more how very delicate this situation is,” she said as if he didn’t fully understand the circumstances.

“I am aware.”

“Asher’s father is very, very upset, as you might imagine. He wants justice. Whoever did this must be found. You must find that person and the proper evidence to assuage his grief.”

Mason wondered if she thought this late-night rendezvous would in any way change the steps he would take. He understood exactly what he had to do. Certain choices had stopped being his own long ago.

“I’ve already assured you that I will handle this investigation personally. Mr. Walsh may rest assured that a shooter will be found, as will the person suspected of having given the order. Both discoveries will be supported by the appropriate evidence.”

“Forty-eight hours,” she warned. “I want this business completed. None of us want this tragedy to play out in the media like a bad movie.”

“Forty-eight hours,” he echoed. “I’ll do all within my power to meet your deadline.”

She stared at him, the dim interior lighting more than sufficient for him to see how her perfect, refined features hardened. “I don’t want your assurance, Mason. I want your guarantee.”

He gave a single curt nod, and then he exited the car.

There was nothing else to say. He would take care of it.

Even that might not be enough. Asher Walsh had been a fool. He’d gotten in way over his head. He’d left a hell of a mess, and Mason was supposed to clean it up.

In forty-eight hours, no less.

Cleanup he could handle. It was keeping Sadie out of the investigation and alive that might prove difficult.

15

Session Two

Three Years Ago

“I am Dr. Oliver Holden. With me is my patient, Sadie Cross, age thirty-one. This is regression therapy, session number two.”

Holden takes Sadie through the same relaxation steps as the first session. Her breathing becomes deeper, slower. The only other sound on the recording is the whisper of the air-conditioning.

“Sadie, we’re going back to the compound in Mexico. The one you first visited on September 7, eighteen months ago.”

“The Osorio compound.” She sounds resigned. Sad or weary.

“Yes. Are you comfortable with going back again?”

“I have to go.”

“If you want to remember, yes, going back is necessary.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“The date is October 31. You’ve been living at the Osorio compound for more than a month, but something happened this day that changed you. You’ve stated that your memories beyond this date are scattered, foggy.”

“The Day of the Dead. Yes. There was a party. The household staff was busy preparing all day. Eddie was in meetings somewhere. Someone special was coming to the compound for the party.”

“Who was this special person?”

“I don’t know. Someone who mattered a great deal to Eddie and the old man. The task force wasn’t aware of any other family, so I had no idea.”

“To that point had your mission gone as expected?”

“Mostly. There were some kinks I had to work out, but I managed.”

“But something happened at this party?”

A long gap of silence follows the question.

“Sadie?”

“That’s the night something essential changed.”

“What do you believe changed?”

Another lapse of silence.

“Sadie?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

16

Wednesday, April 14

8:40 a.m.

The Coffee Bean

Seventh Avenue

Birmingham

“I understand this is asking a lot.” Kerri kept her hands clasped tightly around her mug of coffee and waited for her partner’s reaction. She’d asked him to meet her at the coffee shop across the street from Tori’s school.

Falco’s arms rested against the scarred Formica top, his untouched coffee abandoned next to the napkin holder. “I got no problem covering for you, Devlin.” He shook his head. “You don’t even have to ask. But I need to know you can do this on your own without crossing the line.”

He had every right to be concerned. She’d crossed the line last year on their first case together. Who was she kidding? She hadn’t simply crossed that line; she’d hurdled over it as if she were racing toward some unseen finish line. She had killed a man. Depending upon how closely you looked, what she’d done could be considered self-defense. If she had not chosen to go after the bastard on her own—unofficially—the situation would not have happened. Take your pick: self-defense or cold-blooded murder?