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Yeah. Hilarious. The agent was solely responsible for every inane riddle and groan-inducing knock-knock joke now stored in Melissa’s subconscious. But at least he’d kept her laughing.
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
“I won’t.”
As he packed their meager belongings, Nate heard the telltale splash that told him she still hadn’t tired of the trick he’d taught her that first night away from home. If squeezing a wet bar of soap until it spewed into the air and landed with a plop could produce giggles after all they’d been through, it was worth the time and effort required to clean up the bathroom floor. Far more important than that, maybe George was right, and Melissa would adapt to their new life, quickly, and with no lasting aftereffects.
Nate folded the tiny pj’s purchased during George’s now-famous Fifteen Minute Walmart Expedition, and tucked them into the sparkly pink backpack that had replaced the purple one Melissa had carried to day care for two years. Using the list provided by Nate, George had also bought a week’s worth of clothes and shoes for dad and daughter, puzzles, crayons and coloring books, two Barbies and assorted outfits for each. While adding the last items to her pack, Nate cringed, because later today, Melissa would lose her favorite doll, Cassie, which had been hand-sewn by her mother while pregnant.
He didn’t have time for a lot of self-reproach, because George arrived just then with breakfast. Melissa loved the way the agent changed things up. Doughnuts one day, bagels and cream cheese the next, fast food from the local burger joint the day after that. Nate understood that the different types of food had nothing to do with surprising Melissa. Three meals daily, purchased from the same take-out place by a guy alone, would have sent up red flags.
Today, George produced pancakes from a big white bag. He opened foam containers and handed out plastic flatware, then dealt napkins as if he was playing cards, while Melissa shared last night’s dreams, unwittingly providing the opening that allowed him to introduce her to her new name.
“You know how to play the name game?”
“I guess so,” she said, pretending to feed her doll a bite of sausage.
“Excellent! Let’s pretend your name is Alyssa, and my name is Mr. Poopie Pants, and your dad is—”
“Poopie?” she echoed, wide-eyed. “But...but that’s a potty word!” She clucked her tongue. “You’re lucky Mrs. Cameron isn’t here. She makes everyone who says potty words stay inside when it’s playtime.” Melissa looked at Nate. “I know we’re not allowed to go outside, so how will we teach George about potty words?”
“I think we can let him get away with it. Just this once.” Melissa donned her but-that-isn’t-fair! look so Nate added, “But only because he didn’t know the rules.” Nate shook a warning finger at George. “But next time, mister...”
The agent chuckled while Melissa thought about it.
Brow furrowed, she said, “Not even a time-out?”
“Not this time.”
“Boy, are you lucky.” A sly grin lifted one corner of her mouth. “Okay then, Mr. Poopie Pants, if my name is Alyssa, what is Daddy’s new name?”
Present tense, he noted. And she’d said new name, not pretend. A lucky break? Or had she figured things out, all on her own? The latter, he hoped, because if she slipped up, even once, they could end up dead.
Dead.
The word caused an involuntary flinch. It didn’t seem as if she’d noticed his movement, but just in case, he stuffed a huge bite of pancake into his mouth to hide it.
“The guy with the chipmunk cheeks, you mean? His new name is Noah. And you both get new last names, too. From now on, your name is Alyssa Preston.”
“But why? Mommy told me that Melissa was her grandma’s name. And that her grandma was her favorite person in the whole world...until I was born.”
George scrubbed both hands over his face. If it was that tough answering a question he’d no doubt been asked before, Nate didn’t know how he’d manage his own remorse for being the reason she was asking it in the first place.
“Well,” the agent said, laying a big hand atop Melissa’s, “you know why we don’t go outside, right?”
She speared a bite of pancake and used it to draw figure eights in the syrup. Nate winced when she said, “Because it’s dangerous, and we don’t want to get hurt.” She rested an elbow on the table, leaned her head on her palm. “But,” she said, emphasizing the word, “I think it’s a dumb rule.”
“I know,” George said. “But sometimes it’s the dumb rules that keep us safe. One of the dumb rules is you can’t use your old name anymore.”
She sat up straighter. “Never?”
“Never, ever.”
She put her fork on the napkin and leaned back in the chair. If she’d seemed sad or confused, Nate might have been able to ignore it. But she looked resigned to her fate, and that made him hang his head. Everything that had happened to her—her mother’s murder, her own near kidnapping, living like an Old West outlaw...all because of him. He deserved to die for that, but she did not. Joining the WITSEC program didn’t guarantee that, but, God willing, she’d never end up like Jillian.
George folded large-knuckled hands on the small table. “Think you’re big enough to remember all that?”
Her brow puckered slightly as she said, “’Course I am. I’m four.” She brushed blond bangs from her forehead and brightened slightly. “We learned about rhymes in school. Alyssa rhymes with Melissa. I can remember that.” She pointed at Nate. “And Noah starts with an N, just like Nate.” She shrugged. “Easy peasy.”
George sent Nate a nod of approval, then fixed dark eyes on Melissa. “Your daddy wasn’t kidding when he said you’re smart for your age, was he?”
Yeah, his girl was smart, all right. Smart enough to pass for a first grader when she started school in the fall? Smart enough to maintain the charade, permanently? God help them if she wasn’t.
His mind whirled with the memory of those final seconds in the courtroom: he’d just opened the big wooden doors when a loud, gruff voice had stopped him. “Nate...Nate Judson!” He’d turned, saw soon-to-be former Senator O’Malley straining against the deputies’ grip. As the officers half shoved, half dragged him away, he had shouted, “You can run, but you can’t hide!”
Nate groaned inwardly as George and Melissa swapped knock-knock jokes. He sipped coffee from a foam cup, remembering....
The deeper the prosecution dug, the more evidence they’d gathered on O’Malley. The stuff they’d coerced Nate into testifying about was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Even now, more than a year after agreeing to turn state’s evidence, the senator’s threat made his blood run cold, because despite a lack of evidence linking O’Malley to Jillian’s murder, Nate knew the senator had ordered the hit. And if his hired goon hadn’t coughed, alerting the school’s staff, he would have succeeded in kidnapping Melissa, too. “Nobody turns on me and gets away with it,” the senator had said.
George’s voice broke into his thoughts, and Nate wrapped trembling hands tighter around his coffee cup as the agent asked Melissa, “So what’s your new name again?”
“Alyssa Preston,” she said, and spelled it.
He aimed a thumb in Nate’s direction. “And he is...?”
“He’s my daddy.” Then she giggled. “I’m teasing you. His new name is Noah Preston.”
George nodded in approval. “Here’s a trick question. What’s my new name?”
“That’s easy. You’re Mr. Poopie Pants.”
Chuckling, George slapped his meaty thigh. “By Jove, I think she’s got it!”
He wasn’t smiling when he stood and looked at his watch. “Guess we’d better hit the road. We don’t want to miss our flight.”
Nate recalled the order of events George had outlined on the phone last night. Once his badge got them through security, they’d board the plane from the tarmac, rather than at the gate. To further confuse possible O’Malley disciples, they’d change planes in Detroit, and again in Philly before landing at the Baltimore airport.
Nate sipped coffee, wondering if their Baltimore-based sitter had stocked the apartment kitchen with real mugs, as promised. Over the past few weeks he’d spent enough time on the phone, and in Skype conversations with Maxine—aka Max—to know that she’d stocked the pantry and fridge, and added to the Walmart wardrobe George had provided. Everything they owned fit nicely in their backpacks, the only luggage they’d need between this dismal room and their new home in Ellicott City.
Nate slung his bag over one shoulder, helped Melissa into hers. She’d been a real trouper to this point, going along with every change, accepting every loss, for no reason other than that he’d given his word that things would get better soon. Would she feel that way after her favorite doll, Cassie, “disappeared”? Maybe. But just in case, he had an ace up his sleeve, an idea born as he’d tucked her in bed the night before last:
“Will Santa be able to find our new house?” she asked.
“Of course he will.”
“But how will he get in? Does our new house have a chimney?”
Nate hadn’t noticed a fireplace in the pictures Max had sent to his cell phone, but it was a hundred-year-old building.... “I’m not sure,” he had said, “but even if it doesn’t, we’ll leave a door unlocked. You can tell him which one when you send him your wish list.”
“I’m only writing one thing...puppy!”
His heart ached now, just remembering how excited she’d been when she’d said it. Nate hated to disappoint her, but what choice did he have? Dogs barked, relieved themselves outside, needed to be walked, and he couldn’t afford the exposure. Maybe he’d surprise her with a kitten instead, and hope it would ease the pain of losing Cassie.
George opened the door as Nate exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Ready, cupcake?” he asked, tousling his daughter’s hair.
She was on her feet and beside the agent in an eye blink. Fortunately, George was big enough to block the exit. Goose bumps formed on Nate’s forearms. He needed to be on guard for that kind of thing from now on, because if she darted out of his sight, even for an instant...
A shiver snaked up his spine as she chattered excitedly about her first airplane ride, about meeting Max in person. Melissa didn’t realize that Maxine Colson, like George, was a WITSEC agent. All she knew was that her Skype pal would meet them at the airport and deliver them to their new home. Max had helped Melissa find Baltimore on the map, taught her that the city was famous for the Orioles and the Ravens, steamed crabs and people who called each other “hon.” Nate didn’t know a whole lot more than that himself. But they had the rest of their lives to learn, together.
As she climbed into the backseat of George’s boxy blue SUV, Melissa looked up at Nate. “Oh, Daddy...I mean, Mr. Preston? Can you belt Cassie in with me?”
She looked so proud about remembering his new name. Overwhelming sadness wrapped around him as he looked into her angelic face. “Sure thing,” he said, tucking the doll under the belt. “Now you behave yourself, and listen to Alyssa, okay, Cassie?”
Nate slid into the passenger seat. Alyssa. Alyssa Preston. Would he ever get used to calling her that?
George got into the car, and as he inserted the key into the ignition, she said, “Oh no!”
The agent met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “What...did we forget something important?”
“Yes! Something very important! We forgot to give Cassie a new name!”
He swallowed hard, adjusted the Windsor knot of his rumpled blue tie. “I only gave you one job to do,” said the hard, silent gaze he aimed in Nate’s direction. He’d stressed that, because of facial recognition software, Cassie, who was visible in nearly every family photo, could not go to Baltimore. So Nate had come up with a two-birds-with-one-stone plan: stuff Cassie into Melissa’s backpack as they entered the terminal, and when she wasn’t looking, leave the doll behind. A necessary evil to ensure his baby’s safety. But he hadn’t yet shared the idea with George.
“How about this,” Melissa said. “Cassie has blue eyes like Mommy....”
The men exchanged a worried glance, because they knew where this was going. Knew other things, too. Things Melissa was far too young to understand. She would never again see her teacher and preschool classmates, beloved grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, or visit her mother’s grave at the Rose Hill Cemetery. Because all ties to their old life were forbidden. Including Cassie.
“...so how about if I call her Jillian?”
That wouldn’t work even if they didn’t have to get rid of the easily identifiable doll. Melissa waited for the grown-ups in charge of her safety and her fate to respond. Instead, George fiddled with the radio dials as Nate looked for an imaginary something in the glove box. As a kid, he’d fallen from a tree, all the breath whooshing from his lungs in the hard landing. He felt that way right now.
George, having more experience with situations like this, regained his composure first. “Know what I wish?” he asked.
In the eighteen months since O’Malley’s arrest, Nate had come to terms with his widowhood and had adjusted to life as a single dad. He more or less accepted the fact that because of his transgressions, he would never practice law again. When he learned that the marshals had built an entire livelihood for him around his questionable knowledge of tools, he figured he’d get used to that, too...thanks to George’s savvy advice. How would he fare without the big-hearted agent to advise and reassure him?
“What do you wish?” Melissa asked.
“I wish you’d write to me, once you’re all settled in your new place.”
“Oh, I will. And you’ll write back, won’t you?”
“You bet I will.” George winked. “Sure am gonna miss you, kiddo.”
“Daddy says our new ’partment has a sophie-bed. You could visit anytime you want.” She looked at Nate. “Right, Daddy?”
Oh, how he loved this kid! “George,” he said, “our sophie-bed is your sophie-bed.”
Ten minutes into the half-hour drive to O’Hare, Melissa dozed off.
“So you’re comfortable, working with Max?” George asked.
Comfortable. What a weird choice of words. Nate pictured Agent Maxine Colson, who, after hearing about the nightmares, hand-flapping and stammering that plagued Melissa right after her mother’s death, had pulled strings and called in favors. Not only had she secured authorization to line up a child specialist, Max had also gotten permission to Skype with Melissa during those critical in-between months, easing the transition. During their often hours-long daily sessions, she’d listened patiently as Melissa recounted her days, recited entire plot lines of cartoons and movies she’d watched, and read The Velveteen Rabbit...seven times. Melissa was comfortable with the pretty redhead, and that was good enough for Nate. Still...
“I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with a stranger again.”
Nodding, the agent stared straight ahead. “I hear ya. But Max is good people. I know, ’cause I worked with her before she transferred to the Baltimore office. She’s great with kids, and keeps a secret better than a priest in the confessional. If you have problems, you can trust her with ’em.”
Nate snorted.
“Cynic,” George teased. “But mark my words, you’ll change your mind about her.”
His imagination? Or was there an unspoken “People in your shoes always do” at the end of George’s statement? Not that it mattered. Nate had no intention of unburdening himself with the woman. As far as he was concerned, she had one purpose: to keep Melissa safe.
Correction. Alyssa. He’d better get used to calling her that. Better get used to referring to himself as Noah Preston, too. Nate Judson, former assistant district attorney for the city of Chicago, former husband of Jillian, former part-time law professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, was as good as dead.
Yeah, he’d cooperate.
But he didn’t have to like it.
CHAPTER TWO
Three years later...
WALKING THE BROKEN mountain bike uphill would have been a challenge even without her sprained ankle. Billie hoped the owner of Ike’s Bikes had earned his reputation as the guy who could fix anything, because the Cannondale had cost, used, almost as much as her four-cylinder pickup had, new.
She rolled the bike between two others in the rack—a McLaren Venge, easily eighteen thousand dollars, and the slightly more affordable Scott Spark Limited. After clicking her spokes lock into place, Billie noticed movement on the other side of the shop’s floor-to-ceiling door. The owner of the Venge, she presumed, garbed head to toe in Gucci, just like her ex had worn.
A tinny bell announced her entrance, and Gucci waved. Billie pretended not to notice by sliding onto a stool at the counter and leafing through a dog-eared copy of Bicycling Magazine.
“Be right with you,” called a DJ-deep voice from the back room.
Billie tensed. If the shop’s regulars dressed like Gucci, could she afford to have Ike repair the Cannondale?
Another customer—a guy in threadbare jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt—appeared from the back room, nodding a cordial hello to her, then Gucci, as he left the shop.
“Been riding long?” Gucci asked her.
“Not really.”
And though she hadn’t encouraged conversation, he launched into the story of how his first bike had been a Cannondale. A great way to break into the sport, he said, without breaking the bank. But Billie barely heard him because she was too busy remembering how she’d come into possession of hers: her obstetrician had recommended mountain biking as a great way to get back into shape, physically and emotionally, after Billie’s baby was stillborn. Dr. Ryan had recently upgraded to a SuperSix, and made her a deal on the Cannondale she hadn’t been able to refuse.
Gucci pointed. “So what happened to the ankle?”
“Tripped.” He didn’t need to know that she’d taken a curve too fast and skidded off the trail on Pennsylvania’s Highland Plateau.
“Name’s Jeff, by the way.” He took a step closer, stuck out his right hand. “Jeff Graham.”
“Billie,” she said, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.” She wasn’t pleased to meet him, because his looks reminded her too much of her ex-husband, and triggered memories of the ugliness that had begun once he’d discovered her antibiotics had canceled out her birth control. Chuck had used the surprise pregnancy as an excuse to come clean about everything he’d been up to, including his affair with Amber. She hadn’t been his first dalliance, and probably wouldn’t be his last, but she’d do for now, because he didn’t want kids, and neither did she. As if the awful truth hadn’t hurt enough, he had accused Billie of getting pregnant on purpose, to trap him into staying.
