LITMIR.BIZ

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      ONE

      But he that dares not grasp the thorn,

       should never crave the rose.

      —Anne Brontë

      Victoria, British Columbia

       Monday, April 21

      Perhaps it was the date—ten months to the day after Grant’s abrupt, tragic death.

      Perhaps it was the hour—that no-man’s-land of black yawning silence in which all the world seemed to die.

      Or perhaps it was simply that she wasn’t yet used to being alone.

      Whatever the excuse, Shelby Kincaid was wide-awake. She lay on her bed, bathed in a puddle of moon shadows that washed through her balcony doors, and ordered her mind to shut down, to forget the past and focus on the future.

      It might have worked—except for the creak of one tired floorboard in the hall.

      Shelby sat up, glanced at the greenish-blue hands on the gilt clock Grant had presented on her last birthday: 3:13 a.m. Shadows danced over the walls as a shiver of wind tickled the blossoms of the apple tree outside her window.

      Creak.

      The hardwood’s protest came again, closer this time. Just outside her door.

      The phone on the nightstand sat waiting. All she had to do was pick it up and dial 911. She reached out.

      Reech!

      Her hand froze. The second squeak was barely discernible over the thud of her heart, but Shelby knew exactly where it came from, had vowed to oil that same hinge a hundred nights before when she’d crept in to check on her baby.

      Aimee’s door.

      Someone was inside her house and now they were going into Aimee’s room!

      Forget the phone.

      She twisted toward the security panel on Grant’s empty side of the bed and stabbed the silent alarm. Soon the soundless summons would bring police from all directions of the city. But she couldn’t wait for them. She had to go to Aimee.

      Her legs, rubbery with fear, barely held her upright. Shelby pushed away from the bed, tiptoed across the thick butter-cream broadloom and opened her door just a crack, enough so she could scan the hall, perhaps catch a glimpse of the invader.

      No one lurked in the shadows. Which meant he must already be inside Aimee’s room.

      Her entire body began to tremble. Her stomach squeezed into a knot imagining her five-year-old daughter’s terror waking to a stranger’s face. Shelby reminded herself of her past training with Grant: Assess, then act.

      She couldn’t wait for the police, her daughter’s life might be at risk. All she wanted to do was get to Aimee, hold her, keep her safe. Shelby slipped into the hallway, then surged ahead, pausing only long enough to wrap her fingers around the brass candelabra from the hall table, the sole weapon in sight.

      Something—a squeal—made her careless and the candles fell to the floor with a clatter. Though quickly hushed, the noise galvanized her into action. She raced to Aimee’s door, thrust it open, and breathed her daughter’s name.

      But Aimee could not respond.

      Aimee was gone.

      The four-poster lay empty. Only the soft organdy curtains moved, billowing in through the window, carried by the night air.

      Shelby rushed across the fuzzy white rug, stared down through the glass into the gloom. The cavernous darkness of the garden lay below, silent, brooding. She could see no one.

      When she turned, Shelby noticed

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