href="#u4313b590-9e75-561b-87a1-786b57bea9af">CHAPTER TWELVE
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