Saving Alyssa
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.
“So I noticed you walked your bike here.” Jeff nodded toward the rack out front. “You must live nearby.”
She shook off the bad memory. “Couple of blocks.”
“I live in Oella,” he said, pointing east. “Rehabbed a hundred-year-old row house.”
He wasn’t guilty of anything, really, just making polite conversation, like any normal person. It wasn’t his fault that she hadn’t felt normal since Chuck had told her he was leaving, and that he refused to have anything to do with their child. Would he have stayed if he’d known the baby would die, even before she was born? Friends and family said they understood how losing her husband and child in the same calendar year could break her spirit. But that had been two whole years ago, they said; she’d healed physically, and it was long past time to get over it psychologically. Besides, what chance did she have of finding love or having another baby if she judged every man by Chuck’s callous behavior?
Get over it, indeed. If they saw the way she reacted to baby food commercials, kids in playgrounds and moms pushing their babies in strollers, they’d know Billie felt anything but strong. At least, not strong enough to survive loss like that again.
“Took years,” Jeff was saying, “but the place looks pretty good now, if I do say so myself.”
She met his eyes, and decided it wouldn’t kill her to at least be civil. “Sounds like a lot of work. And expense.”
“I’ll say! My wife thought I’d never finish. But I gave her my word that I’d be done before the baby was born. And I did. Now I’m working on an addition for the new baby.”
Being sociable hadn’t killed her, but now she was stuck passing time with this Jeff person, the total opposite of Chuck: married, with two children, and happy about it. Billie groaned inwardly, hoping he wouldn’t whip out his wallet and show her a bunch of home-and-family photos.
She caught sight of herself in the big mirror behind the counter. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that its purpose was to make the narrow shop appear wider. Too bad it couldn’t give the illusion that she was something other than an ill-tempered, self-centered—
A small girl skipped out of the back room, singing “What a Wonderful World,” as her shoulder-length ponytails bounced in sync with her stuffed bunny’s floppy ears. When she spotted Jeff, she lit up as if Santa himself stood before her.
“Mr. Jeff!”
Hoisting her in his arms, he said, “How are you today?”
“Happy to see you.” She looked behind him. “Where’s baby Jeff?”
“Home with his mom. Nap time, y’know?”
“Now that I’m seven, Daddy says I don’t have to take naps.”
The baby Billie lost had been a girl....
Jeff put the child down as she reported, “Daddy said to tell you it’ll take at least another hour before he can start on your bike. He’s having troubles with that other one.”
“No problem. Tell him I’ll come back this afternoon.”
As she ran off to deliver the message, Jeff shook his head. “She’s a handful, that one. I’d invite her to my place, give her dad a break from the constant noise and motion, but he won’t let her out of his sight.” He glanced toward the back room. “My wife took it personally at first, and to be honest, so did I. Took us a while, but eventually we figured out that some single dads never trust anyone.”
Billie had come here to drop off her broken bike, not to make friends or speculate about the shop owner’s parenting and social skills.
The child returned to say, “If you’re not in a hurry, Daddy wants to know if tomorrow morning would be okay with you.”
Jeff patted the top of her head. “That’s more than okay. In fact, it’s better than okay. Looks like I’ll see you in the morning, Alyssa m’dear.”
Billie blinked back tears. The name on her daughter’s angel-adorned tombstone at Philadelphia’s Cedar Hill Cemetery was Ciara Marie, but Alyssa had been her second choice for girls’ names.
Jeff paused at the door. “You might want to tell your dad there’s another customer out here.”
“Oh, he knows.” She pointed at the camera high on the entry wall, hidden among cable housings and adjusting barrels. “When the other man saw her come in, he said, ‘Whoa, she’s pretty,’ and Daddy said, ‘Yes, she is.’”
Laughing, Jeff said, “They’re both right.” He opened the door partway. “Your dad must have gotten distracted, got busy with something and forgot she’s here. Maybe you can tell him she sprained her ankle, and from the looks of it, ought to get home and prop it up.”
Alyssa glanced at Billie’s swollen, bandaged ankle. When she fixed her big blue eyes on her, the breath caught in Billie’s throat. Would her little girl have been this stunning...if she’d lived?
Alyssa faced the back room and bellowed with a power that belied her size. “Daddy! Daddy! Mr. Jeff says come out and talk to this pretty lady about her bye-sickle because she has a big fat hurt ankle!”
Billie cringed as a dark-haired man emerged from the back room, wiping grimy hands on a grimier rag. “Who needs an intercom system with a human speaker on the premises?” He bent to kiss her forehead. “For a li’l bitty thing, you sure do make a lot of noise.”
“Oh, Daddy, you always say that!”
The man smiled at Billie. “And yet she continues her quest to attempt to break the sound barrier.”
The wide eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s a sound barrier?”
He shot his daughter a wink. “It’s just a fancy way of saying noisy.”
She thought about it for a minute before asking if she could watch some television.
“The remote’s on my desk. But you know the rules....”
She did her best to mimic her dad’s baritone. “‘The cartoon channel only, and if the volume goes over number twelve, off it goes!’”
Billie watched as his gaze followed Alyssa into the back room. He loved her. That much was clear. But something more glimmered in those black-lashed green eyes....
Jeff opened the bike shop’s door all the way. “Catch you in the a.m., Noah.” Eyes on Billie, he said, “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.”
The little girl’s father stepped closer. “Noah Preston,” he said, “owner, repairman, candlestick maker. I’d shake your hand, but...” He showed her the rag again, then tipped his head toward the street. “That your Cannondale in the rack?”
Billie nodded, wondering why the sign out front said Ike’s Bikes if the man’s name was Noah.
“Bent the frame, eh?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Saw you limping earlier, so sit tight while I bring ’er inside for a closer look.”
She reached into her pocket. “You’ll need this to unlock it,” she said, dropping the key into his upturned palm.
One of her twin brothers had been a marine, and even after five years out of uniform, Troy still wore his hair “high and tight.” There was something about his ramrod-straight stance and no-nonsense word choices that told her he hadn’t always been a bicycle repairman. However, if the wavy, collar-length hair was any indicator, Preston had not been a jarhead. No, he had been something else. Billie had given up her job as a flight attendant and enrolled in law enforcement courses because Chuck didn’t like being alone, sometimes for days on end. But he hadn’t liked the long hours she spent hitting the books, either, so she focused on web design, and used study time to read mysteries and thrillers. The fact that Preston managed to keep an eye on Alyssa even as he unlocked the bike and carried it inside made her think maybe he’d been a cop. Had an on-the-job injury forced early retirement?
The bell above the door chimed as he elbowed his way back inside with her bike. “Did I hear you telling Jeff that you walked here with this thing?” He leaned it against the counter, then squatted to give it a once-over.
“Um, yeah.” She shrugged. “But only because I couldn’t ride it from Tongue Row.”
“Tongue Row? That’s what, six, eight blocks?” He stood, stepped behind the counter and picked up a spiral notebook. “Between that ankle and the bent frame, I’m surprised you got here at all.” He slid the notebook forward. Plopped a ballpoint on the top page. “Name and phone number,” Preston said, “so I can call you once I make a diagnosis. Please.”
That slight hesitation before he tacked on the courtesy reminded Billie of stories her mom had told about the rude, bossy surgeons in the O.R. Another scenario flickered in her imagination. But if Preston had been a doctor in his pre-bike shop life, he could well afford a customer database. Unless he’d lost everything in a malpractice suit.
“You have a computer, right?”
“Who doesn’t?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How long have you lived in Ellicott City?”
“Just under a year.” She met his steady gaze, blink for blink. He’d responded to her question, she noted, without really answering it. “And you?”
Preston shifted from one sneakered foot to the other. “A year, huh? Then you know how often we lose power around here. I like the added security of having customers’ names written down in good old-fashioned black-and-white.”
Another question unanswered, Billie thought, picking up the pen. She reminded herself that she’d come here to get her bike fixed, period. With any luck, she’d never need his services again.
He glanced toward the back of the shop, where Alyssa lay on her stomach in a beanbag chair large enough to accommodate her dad’s muscular frame. He relaxed...but only slightly.
Oh, yeah. There was definitely something off about this guy.
She’d bet the Cannondale on it.
CHAPTER THREE
NOAH LEANED BOTH elbows on the glass-topped counter, putting him at eye level with—he read what she’d written in the notebook—Billie Landon. Her real name, or was Billie short for something?
She slid the book back to him. “So eventually, you have to add this information to your database?”
“Yeah. Eventually.” She had gorgeous eyes. Big. Bright. The color of rich black coffee. “But don’t feel sorry for me.”
“Sorry for you? Why would I feel sorry for you?”
Both her eyebrows had disappeared into thick, sleek bangs. Not brown. Not red. What was that color?
He cleared his throat. “Because,” Noah began, “you’re probably thinking if I had half a brain, I wouldn’t duplicate my efforts.”
The brows reappeared, in a frown. “That isn’t what I was thinking.”
Oh, but it was. In his district attorney days, he’d interviewed enough victims and perps to recognize a distortion of the truth when he saw it.
She shrugged. “Word around town is that you’re a magician when it comes to bike repair. No one mentioned your mind-reading talents.”
He added quick-witted to the list. “No, not a mind reader.” But he’d looked into enough lying eyes over the years to know a fib when he heard one. “You’re right, though. My system means I have to do everything twice. But don’t worry. I only do a couple dozen jobs a week, so there’s no chance I’ll get carpel tunnel.”
A bold smile now, which only added to his suspicions about her. Why the flip-flopping emotions?
He took a half step closer, an interrogation tactic that sent a clear “I’m in charge” signal during his days as a district attorney. Noah didn’t know which unnerved him more, the fact that his nearness didn’t faze her, or that her nearness doubled his heartbeat. He straightened, took a step back. Crossed his arms over his chest. After three years, he should be comfortable with his single dad status. He’d cleaned up his act...too little, too late. But even if he were interested enough to pursue her, a wide gold band gleamed from the third finger of her left hand. Considering her injured foot, Noah wondered why her husband hadn’t helped her deliver the bike. Was the guy married to his work, the way he himself had once been? Or a safety nut who didn’t approve of mountain biking? Maybe there wasn’t a spouse at all, and the ring served as a deterrent to unwanted flirtation.
“How long do you think it’ll take to repair my bike? I have a race next weekend.”
“On that ankle? You’re kidding, right?”
She shot him a “who do you think you are?” look, and Noah supposed he had it coming. He moved to Billie’s side of the counter again, crouched beside the Cannondale. “The fork is bent, and so’s the down tube.” Three years ago, if anyone had told him he could list bike parts, let alone repair them, he would have called them crazy. “If they won’t hold a weld, I’ll have to order new parts. Your chain is history, and I wouldn’t put any confidence in this crank set, either.”
Billie groaned softly. “In other words, I’m really not racing next Saturday.”
“Well...” Noah stood up and, with one hand on the bike seat, said, “Not unless you believe in miracles?”
“Absolutely not.”
She’d answered fast. Too fast. It made him wonder what—or who—had turned her into such a pessimist.
“Do you need a deposit?” she asked.
Noah waved the offer away. “Nah.” He picked up the notebook. “I know where you live. And I have the Cannondale as collateral.”
Billie hopped down from the stool, wincing when she landed.
She’d walked the bike to his shop; going home the same way would cause further damage to her ankle.
“Tuesdays are slow,” he began, “but even if they weren’t, we’re practically neighbors. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, so why not let me drive you home?”
Billie stiffened. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
“It looks like you stuffed a bowling ball into your sock. I’d bet my bike your doc told you to stay off it, keep it elevated. And iced down.”
“As a matter of fact, he did.” She exhaled a sigh of frustration. “So okay, I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.”
Noah had never been good at accepting help, either, and these past three years had only heightened his mistrust of people.
“My pickup is out back,” he said, aiming a thumb over one shoulder. “Give me a minute to load Alyssa into her car seat, and I’ll drive around front so you won’t have to traipse all the way through the shop and into the side alley.”
By the time he turned off the TV, secured Alyssa in her child safety seat—promising to make her favorite for supper—then flipped the store’s Open sign to Closed, locked the door and double-parked in front of the shop, fifteen minutes had passed.
“Sorry, got a little waylaid,” he said to Billie. While she slid into the front seat, he checked the locks on the Today’s Specials bikes in the rack outside the shop.
Alyssa leaned forward as far as the seat restraint would allow. “Does your ankle hurt much?” he heard her ask.
Billie sat stiff and straight, facing forward, even as he got into the driver’s side, as if being around his daughter was an imposition.
“No. Not much.”
“I twisted my ankle once, jumping on my bed. Is that what happened to you?”
“I fell off my bike.”
“Oh. Did your elbows get all busted up, too?”
“Broken,” Noah corrected. He put the car into gear. “Sounds more ladylike than busted.”
“But...I’m just a kid. Why do I have to talk like a lady?”
“Because I said so.”
As he turned onto Main Street, his daughter said, “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,” she said, “and his name is Billy— Daddy! Look!” She pointed across the street. “Isn’t that little white dog the cutest thing ever!”
If he ever said yes to getting a dog, it sure wouldn’t be a yippy ankle-biter like that one. “Uh-huh,” he said. When he’d been forced to leave her favorite doll at the airport, Noah had soothed her tears by promising to replace it with a kitten. Mouser was nice enough, as cats go, but certainly not the in-your-face pup Alyssa had always dreamed about.
“If I had a dog,” she said now, “it would be big, with a happy face. Like the one you had when you were a little boy, ’member, Daddy?”
“I sure do.” How could he forget the gentle giant that had been more sibling than pet?
Alyssa giggled. “Tell Billie his name.”
“Cash.” He didn’t know why, but he felt obliged to explain. “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 her, and for a moment there she looked mildly interested. Then she pointed left, and he realized the route had captured her attention, not the story.
“You just passed my street,” she said.
Now it was Noah’s turn to groan, because it 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. While drivers around him raised their hands and muttered, 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.