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Tears welled up in her eyes. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her cry. And two of them had been within the past couple of days.

“That would be murder, Scott. And all because I trusted my judgment where other people were concerned.” She slid back down, pulling the covers up to her chin as she blinked away any hint of emotion. “I don't anymore.”

She must, at least a little. Even if she wasn't ready to acknowledge it to herself. She was here, wasn't she?

And so was Taylor.

 

Tricia tried to sleep. She closed her eyes. Went to the safe place inside where, no matter what was happening on the surface of her life, things were exactly as she wanted them to be.

The place was always the same. A meadow. With cool grass, a light breeze blowing. The sun always shone in her meadow, no matter what time of day she went there. It kept her warm, but wasn't hot. A brook trickled nearby. Birds sang there sometimes. Other times heavenly music played. It had to be heavenly because there were no electronics in her meadow—not even beneath the white canopy that had netted sides to keep out any bugs and a down floor upon which she could lie.

Tonight the meadow was elusive. She could get there, but kept popping back out, to an inexpensive mattress in a modest home in San Diego, lying next to a man who, in her meadow, would've been a fairy tale prince. But who, in real life, presented as much danger as he did safety. The biggest danger of all was making her want things she couldn't have. Things that could endanger her life. Or Taylor's. She couldn't afford to become too soft. Or trusting. She couldn't afford to feel secure.

That was when runaways got caught.

Still, she did want things. She wanted him.

He was still lying half-propped against the headboard and she knew he was awake.

Sliding one hand from beneath the covers, Tricia en
twined her fingers with his. Many nights she'd fallen asleep with their hands interlocked.

“I want to stay.”

He didn't react until, several seconds later, she felt the pressure of a light squeeze against her fingers. He slid down slowly, his body touching hers all the way down.

“I want you to stay,” he replied, just before his mouth covered hers.

And, really, that was it for them. Another bout of incredible lovemaking. Another moment when, injured as they were, they could each connect with another human being. Another moment of forgetting.

A brief moment of perfection in a life that wasn't perfect at all.

San Francisco Gazette
Sunday, April 10, 2005

Tricia quickly checked the date above the headline as she stared at the newspaper box on the corner of Redwood and 30th Streets, a short mile down the road from Scott's house in South Park. Seeing that today's issue had replaced yesterday's, she slid her quarters into the slot, pulled open the front and grabbed the double-thick Sunday edition. Scott was at work, Taylor asleep in his stroller.

The sweet scent of roses and carnations coming from the flower stand nearby reminded her of home—of fresh-cut flowers on the table. Color everywhere. Sunshine and blue skies.

Paper resting on the stroller's canopy, Tricia pushed her small son toward Fern Street and the crossover to North Park. With the paper growing heavier with every step she took, Tricia knew she had to calm herself. Her hands were shaking, her knees weak, threatening to give out on her.

Balboa Park, San Diego's pride and joy, had acres
and acres of parkland, flower gardens, museums and even the zoo. It would be a good place to go. Its elegance—and sheer size—its buildings and businesses would provide her with the company she needed to alleviate her panic while still affording the privacy that had become a necessity. And when Taylor woke up, they could play on the swings. He loved that.

The thought of her son's laughter as she held him on her lap and pushed them both as high in the air as she dared chased away some of the fear that seemed such a natural part of her these days.

Past pink hibiscus, pine trees, down streets with two-foot-high beige walls surrounding grassy front yards, Tricia slowly pushed the stroller, concentrating on the rhythm of the wheels crossing cracks in the sidewalk, on the soft April air, on the mustards and browns of Southern California homes and plants.

Whatever was in that paper would still be there in half an hour, when she was in a better state to comprehend it. Yesterday's scare with the man in dress pants watching her on the beach had taken its toll. Or maybe it had been her immediate reaction—the way she'd walked off without a word, leaving her son playing with her lover in the sand—that was unsettling her so completely. Had she really changed that much? Hardened that much? Hurt so much that something vital inside her had snapped, allowing her to shut herself off and simply go?

Or was she just stronger now? Better prepared? Able to do whatever she had to in order to protect her son?

Had there really been someone watching her? Or was she becoming paranoid?

At the park, she pushed the stroller toward the yellow metal swing set just off a cemented common area, stopping at a stone picnic table beneath the shade of a palm tree. Brushing back damp hair from Taylor's flushed cheeks, she adjusted the canopy above him, loosened the straps on his denim coverall and slid the brown sweater down over his chubby little arms. He didn't stir.

Smiling, Tricia watched her son, followed the even cadence of his breath, and knew another perfect moment—a second when everything in her world was just as it should be. As it was
meant
to be. The love she felt for Taylor, the joy he brought to her life in ordinary moments—these things were larger than any evil that might lie in wait. That joy was worth any inconvenience, any pain she had to go through.

For now and for always. To have had these moments, raising the innocent little person who was such an integral part of her, made everything else worthwhile.

Satisfied that Taylor was fine for another few minutes, Tricia slid onto one end of the bench, setting the paper in front of her. There was no one around that early on a Sunday morning, so she didn't have the peripheral protection of the crowds that would appear later, drawn by the museums, restaurants and shops. Still, she was out.

And alive.

There was nothing on the front page. Not even a teaser. Nothing in the whole first section. Which didn't
necessarily mean anything other than that Thomas Whitehead—or someone equally influential—was paying to have the news hidden somewhere inside the paper. Money couldn't stop freedom of the press, but it sure had a way of making some stories less visible.

Pages shaking as she held them up, gaze moving more rapidly across each sheet as her heart rate sped up, Tricia turned a page. And then another.

Panic rose in her throat. Another day with nothing couldn't be good.

Or maybe it could be, a calming voice said inside her mind. If, like Tricia, Leah was alive and well…

Page 25. Section E

The dirt under the swing set was clean, processed. Tricia liked the natural grass surrounding it, and the yellow flowering weeds springing up all over the ground. That something so fragile-looking could live so abundantly meant that life endured.

Or at least weeds did.

Holding her baby to her chest with both arms wrapped around his body and the swing's chains, Leah pushed off, keeping the swing in motion. Taylor squealed, his tiny fingers grasping hold of her white sweater and a few stray strands of hair. She hardly no
ticed the pain. Didn't care about anything so unimportant.

Leah would survive. She was strong. Resilient. Determined.

“Did Mommy ever tell you about the time she and her friend Leah were riding double on Leah's horse and the saddle broke?” She leaned her face down to Taylor's neck, soaking in his clean baby scent.

“Horsey! Horsey!” With his little legs straddling her waist, Taylor bobbed up and down. “Mommy, horsey!”

“Yes, Mommy's kind of like a horsey today, isn't she?”

God, she loved this kid.

And she'd loved Leah, too. Her entire life.

That day on Cocoa, it had been the middle of August the summer before their senior year of high school. They'd been seventeen, too sure of themselves, maybe. Feeling invincible the way teenagers do. They'd taken the horse at breakneck speed, galloping over country roads and fields outside San Francisco, intent on nothing except getting as far away as they could, to someplace unreachable by motor vehicle. Someplace hidden from anyone looking for them. Someplace private, secret, for only the two of them. A place either of them could run to, where only the other would know where to find her.

Up in the mountains, after a couple of hours' riding, while they were galloping down a hill, Cocoa's expensive English saddle broke. Sitting behind the saddle, her
arms around Leah, Tricia had felt the cinch straps give, saw the seat move. And knew they were goners.

Not Leah. No, holding on to the reins, her friend had slipped her boots from the stirrups, slid behind the saddle, half on Tricia's lap, and shoved the broken equipment off the horse. They'd continued on, riding bareback on the saddle blanket, as though nothing had happened.

Leah looked danger in the face and didn't look away. She stared it down and won.

Taylor laid his head against her chest, fingers still clutching her sweater. His eyes were closed against the wind, but he was wearing a huge grin. Tricia pushed off again. And again.

She should have told Leah.

Yes, and at what risk? Taylor's life? Your own?

She pushed higher. The baby squealed and lifted his head, staring straight at Trish with eyes so dark and trusting.

Taylor, sitting here so precious and so happy, is a fair trade for your best friend's life?

God, how could she possibly choose correctly? There was no right answer.

Not then. Not now.

But if something had happened to Leah—and if Thomas was responsible—she didn't think she'd be able to live with herself.

 

“How was your day?” Scott held the cell phone as he stripped off his shirt, standing in the bathroom at the
station. Then he wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, reaching for soap and a towel. The guys would give him a hard time if he was in here too long.

And there was no way he was saying good-night to Tricia out there with all of them listening, razzing him, minding his business.

“Fine.” It had taken too long for her to answer and Scott's neck tightened.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Just…lonely.”

Oh. Well…good. He was, too.

“It was kind of an intense weekend,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Hold on, will you?”

“Of course.”

He splashed a handful of water over his face, swiped it with a soapy washcloth and towel and quickly brushed his teeth.

“So what'd you and Taylor do today?”

“Swung in the park. Had lunch at KFC. Watched old
Lassie
videos.”

“With Timmy?” Taylor had a real things for dogs. Blue ones. Smart collie ones. And mutts in the park.

“Yeah.”

Pants unbuckled, ready to slip off at his bunk, Scott faced the door. He had to be getting back out there. “What'd you have for dinner?”

“Macaroni and cheese.”

She hated it about as much as Taylor loved it, which
meant she'd probably eaten very little. He rubbed at the ache in his solar plexus, left the bathroom and walked outside. The guys would rile him about his obvious need for private conversation with the woman he'd picked up in a bar and been stuck with ever since, but at the moment he didn't give a flying damn.

“You haven't been thinking too much, have you?” he asked quietly as soon as he was outside. “About last night, I mean? Having second thoughts about staying?”

Not that he didn't have second thoughts about her being there. At least once a day, it seemed. Especially at times like now, when he felt so helpless and out of control. Her past was a void and he sensed danger there and it frightened him.

But she didn't need him to worry about her. She could take care of herself.

“No.”

Okay, well, fine.

“I…” She stopped, sighed, sounding almost frustrated. “I want to tell you something that has no relevance to anything, but I don't want you to ask any questions. Is that fair?”

“It is in my book.” He'd accept anything as fair if it meant she was going to talk to him. Not that he wanted to hear so much that he'd have to get further involved. He just wanted to know enough so he wouldn't have to worry.

“I—when I was growing up, I had this best friend.
Leah was her name.” Tricia's voice took on the soft note that melted him. So loving, compassionate. Honest.

“We met when we were three—our mothers knew each other. Neither of us ever had another close friend after that.”

If he hadn't known Alicia, he probably wouldn't have understood that. “Didn't you get sick of each other?”

“Not really. We just fit, you know?”

He hadn't, before Alicia. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, I was thinking about her today. Remembering the summer before we graduated from high school.”

Leaning against the back wall of the station, surrounded by yard and a privacy fence, Scott slid down to the cement, intrigued as hell. If this was what his questions last night had brought him, glimpses of a younger Tricia, he hadn't made such a bad mistake in forcing the issue.

“We found this clearing. It was a cliff, really, high above the tracks for an old mining train.”

Which could've put her in a million places in California and Arizona alone.

“We christened it our sacred place and whenever either of us had a problem or needed some time alone, that's where we'd go. Inevitably, if one of us went up, the other one found her there. It was kind of weird.”