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Saving Alyssa
Loree Lough
He couldn't save his wife…but he will save AlyssaWhen Noah Preston entered witness protection, his only concern was for his daughter. He couldn't save her mother, but he would save Alyssa—no matter what. Now, three years later, he's done his best to make their new lives work. But he can't let go of the fear—and the guilt—that haunt him. And he can't let Alyssa out of his sight.Noah's convinced that loneliness is part of his penance. So when Billie Landon stumbles into his bike shop, he's determined to keep his distance. He can't risk giving in to his attraction to her. Even though she could be exactly what he, and his child, really need.
“My name is Alyssa. What’s yours?”
“Billie.”
“But … but Billy is a boy’s name.”
“Only if you spell it B-i-l-l-y. I spell it B-i-l-l-i-e.”
“There’s a boy in my class,” Alyssa said from the backseat, “and his name is Billy– Daddy! Look!” His child pointed across the street. “Isn’t that little white dog the cutest thing ever?”
If he ever said yes to a dog, it sure wouldn’t be a yappy ankle-biter like that one. “Uh-huh,” he said. When he had been forced to leave her favorite doll at the airport, Noah had soothed her tears by promising to replace it with a kitten.
“If I had a dog,” she said, “it would be big. Like the one you had when you were a little boy, ‘member, Daddy?”
How could he forget the gentle giant that had been more sibling than pet? “Cash. My dad named him Cash Money, because he’d been abused before we adopted him, and cost a fortune at the vet’s.”
Noah glanced over at Billie, and for a moment there, the woman in the passenger seat looked mildly interested. She pointed left. “You just passed my street,” she said.
Noah groaned. That meant driving up to Hamilton Street to make a U-turn in the post office parking lot. Halfway there, traffic on Main Street slowed, then came to a grinding halt. Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. Trapped at a dead stop between parked cars and the constant flow of traffic heading east, he and Alyssa–and Billie, too–might as well have bull’s-eyes painted on their foreheads… .
Dear Reader,
How many times have you wished you could escape your life and all its travails and tragedies? Or wanted to hop a plane or a bus–or just start walking–to get away from whiny kids, demanding bosses and inconsiderate neighbors, at least for a little while?
If you’re like me, the answer is “A lot!” At least, that was my answer, until I researched the Witness Protection program (WITSEC) and interviewed inspectors with the U.S. Marshals Service. These brave and dedicated people helped me understand that whether a witness goes undercover because he’s a bad guy turning state’s evidence or a good guy whose testimony will help get bad guys off the streets, life in the program is anything but easy.
Imagine receiving completely new identities and documentation, you’re moved far from home and warned that all connections with the past must be severed–if you hope to remain safe (and alive) and protect loved ones from potential danger. You’re told there’s no going back. Ever. Not for Grandma’s funeral or your niece’s wedding. The doctor and dentist you’ve trusted for years? He’ll never know why you didn’t keep your last appointment. Because for all intents and purposes, the old you is dead.
Sounds pretty bleak and lonely, doesn’t it? That’s because it is … and that’s why inspectors go above and beyond the call of duty, serving as parent, sibling, friend, confidant, counselor. Available 24/7/365, they help witnesses get beyond the temptation to reach into the past–and save lives. (According to the U.S. Marshals Service, no witness who has followed the rules has ever been located, injured or killed by the parties they testified against.)
But what if, in a moment of weakness, a witness doesn’t follow the rules? What if a child in protective custody unwittingly lets the cat out of the bag … and leads danger straight to her door?
That is the backdrop of the story you’re about to read. I hope you’ll enjoy this glimpse into the mysterious world of WITSEC, and that you’ll write (www.loreelough.com) to share your thoughts on the light I attempted to shed on a sometimes dark and dangerous lifestyle.
Not to give anything away, but … here’s to happy endings!
Loree
Saving Alyssa
Loree Lough
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LOREE LOUGH
Once upon a time, bestselling author Loree Lough sang for her supper. (That little corner in pubs reserved for “the piano lady"? Well, that’s where she sat, strumming a Yamaha in cities all across the U.S.) Now and then, she blows the dust from her six-string to croon a tune or two, but mostly, she writes. With the release of this novel, she will have one hundred books on the shelves (fifteen bearing a Mills & Boon® imprint), and 4.5 million in circulation. Her work has earned numerous industry accolades, movie options and four- and five-star reviews … but she’s most proud of her “Readers’ Choice” awards.
Loree and her husband split their time between a home near Baltimore and a cabin in the Alleghenies, where she continues to perfect her “identify the critter tracks” skills. A writer who believes in giving back, Loree donates a portion of her income to charity. (Complete list at Giving Back page, www.loreelough.com (http://www.loreelough.com).) She loves hearing from readers and answers every letter personally. You can connect with her at Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.
This book is dedicated to all WITSEC personnel, devoted to the protection of individuals and families for whom life in the shadows is a necessary way of life.
My heartfelt gratitude to the men and women of WITSEC who generously shared of their time, information and experiences, and made it possible for me to give readers a personal, accurate portrayal of life in the program. In order to protect each of them and the people in their care, I can’t identify them by name, but they know who they are, and how thankful I am for all the help and friendship!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u21c75a34-df18-5234-b3d9-cb6d5ceadf63)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf66ed666-e21e-5251-bc96-e12791aff48a)
CHAPTER THREE (#u64d5b26a-6532-503f-969c-df5e611905ad)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u6b525f21-471b-51a9-86e5-c65eafa64c77)
CHAPTER FIVE (#uf8257a5f-22b2-54d9-a0d4-32e9916fd742)
CHAPTER SIX (#u59a2a096-889c-568e-bad6-a8b293c28eb9)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
“GIVE HER A couple of months,” George Webster had said, “and she’ll forget all about this. Kids are resilient.”
Easy for him to say. The agent’s little girl hadn’t spent the past eighteen months being shuttled from one safe house to another in the dead of night. The agent’s little girl hadn’t been asked to trade her big, bright, once-happy home for a series of windowless dumps where gunshots, angry shouts and screaming sirens disturbed her sleep.
Nate stopped pacing and looked at his four-year-old daughter, Melissa. The flickering blue-green glow of the cheap alarm clock gave off just enough light to see her, lying spread-eagled in the narrow cot beside his. The soft, steady sound of her peaceful breaths reminded him of the many nights when, because he’d come home too late to tuck her in, he’d stood beside her bed, staring like a mute fool, thinking perfection, from the moment of her birth to this. Tears stung his eyes and a lump ached in his throat. Greed and arrogance were responsible for every wasted moment that could never be retrieved.
The clock on the battered nightstand said 10:15 p.m. In a little over twelve hours, he and Melissa would board a Baltimore-bound plane and begin the final leg of their slow passage into the unknown. “Don’t think of it that way,” Webster had said. “Think of it as leaving all the bad stuff behind. Focus on starting a whole new life in Maryland.”
Easy for him to say, Nate thought again. But...something to hope for, anyway.
Hope. Pretty much all he had left, thanks to his own stupid choices. Choices that had brought them here.
Last night, when Webster had delivered the packet containing Nate’s and Melissa’s new identities, he’d also delivered what sounded to Nate like a well-rehearsed speech. He’d said he’d coached dozens of kids Melissa’s age, and felt reasonably certain he could stress the importance of sticking to the program and keeping secrets, all without terrifying her.
Reasonably certain. Webster had said the same thing on the day of the trial, when Witness Security had moved Nate from the courthouse to the first of four safe houses by way of a long, meandering route. And it’s what he’d said before each of three additional moves. The agency couldn’t guarantee safe transport. Couldn’t promise security, so what else could they say?
This time, at the conclusion of Webster’s instructions, Nate had heard a worrisome, unspoken postscript: if the details traumatized Melissa, those consequences would be his fault, too.
The chirrup of his throw-away cell phone startled him, and he grabbed it before it could wake Melissa. The glow from the phone’s display led him to the bathroom. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he flicked on the light.
“George,” he whispered, squinting into the brightness, “what time is it?”
“Nearly 9:00 a.m.”
Nate had spent hours, alternately pacing and staring at the jagged ceiling crack that jolted from corner to corner like a black lightning bolt. By his calculations, he’d dozed off at four, maybe four-fifteen. A good thing, he supposed, since he didn’t know when he’d next fall asleep.
“So what’s the plan?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour, with breakfast. I’ll have that little talk with Melissa while she’s distracted by pancakes.”
They hadn’t eaten a meal—hadn’t done anything in public—since the trial. By now, the agent knew Melissa’s preferences almost as well as her own dad did. And pancakes were her all-time favorite breakfast food.
“Unless there’s traffic, I should be there by ten,” George said, and hung up.
Nate showered and dressed, then sat on the edge of Melissa’s cot. And as he’d done every morning since taking her from the only home she’d ever known, he sang her awake.
“Good morning, good morning, good morning....”
Long lashes fluttered as her lips formed a sweet smile. Stretching, she climbed into his lap. “Well,” she said, “what are you waiting for? Let’s sing the rest!”
Nate pressed a kiss to her temple, and they completed the song, together.
When they finished, she told him about the dreams she had had, another tradition that had started the morning after he had taken her from everything and everyone who meant anything to her. Melissa described how a talking ladybug had taken her for a ride, all the way around the world. And after that, she’d dreamed of a red-and-green parrot that sounded like George and told knock-knock jokes.
“Want to hear one?”
Even before he could answer, Melissa said, “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
“What are you cryin’ about?”
Laughing, Nate hugged her, then covered her face with kisses.
“Daddy, stop. You’re tickling my cheeks.”
“Sorry, can’t help myself.”
“Knock, knock,” she said again.
“Time for your bath,” he interrupted. “George is on his way over with breakfast. You can tell both of us knock-knock jokes while we eat, okay?”
Melissa slipped on her Barbie slippers and headed to the bathroom. “Okay, Daddy.”
It amazed him that she’d never pressed him for answers; surely she’d wondered why they’d been living in bleak, dark rooms all these months. Why the last home-cooked meal had been prepared on a hot plate. Why they hadn’t visited grandparents or cousins, or talked to anyone on the phone except for George. What amazed him more was that she didn’t seem to miss any of that. Not even her mother. All very normal, according to the agent.
Normal. Nate didn’t think he could remember the definition of the word anymore, let alone experience the sensation.
“When you’re all clean and shiny,” he called to Melissa, “you can watch cartoons while we wait for George.”
“I like George. He’s nice. And funny.”
