LITMIR.BIZ

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of those on to me?”

      Lindsay selected a couple files that required a lot of research—his specialty—freeing her up for the fieldwork she loved. She handed them to him.

      “See? Doesn’t that feel better already?”

      She had to admit that it did.

      And then he was gone, before she had a chance to talk to him about the Burchard case, or question him about Celia.

      The day was busy and she didn’t see Nathan again. Fieldwork kept her occupied until after eight in the evening, and by the time she made it to the Stool Pigeon for dinner and a few wind-down drinks, she was exhausted.

      Still, she didn’t expect to sleep well that night. Celia Burchard’s story was far different from her own, but the woman’s distress had sparked memories, nonetheless.

      At home, Lindsay watched reruns on TV, finally falling asleep around two in the morning. A few hours later she awoke suddenly with sadness pressing like a sandbag on her chest.

      The light from the hallway provided enough illumination for her to make her way to the bathroom. Not bothering to switch on the wall sconces by the mirror, she splashed cool water over her face.

      The dream was always the same. She was a child again, eight years old in a sun-filled playroom. Then she heard a woman scream. A man yell.

      The scene shifts and suddenly she was standing in a different room, darker, streaks of red everywhere. At first glance it seems like paint.

      Her father is in this room, too, about ten feet away. He’s staring right at her, and she can’t look at anything but him. Slowly understanding seeps through her. Something terrible has happened. The red stuff isn’t paint.

      Then she hears another scream and she wakes up.

      The dream ends there, always ends there.

      Once it had been a nightly occurrence. Now a month sometimes could pass without an episode, until, eventually, the dream found her again. Usually there was a trigger. Lindsay had no doubt what it was this time.

      The new case, Celia Burchard’s parents, there were just too many parallels.

      Wearily, she sank to the cotton mat by the tub. Waves of hot air pulsed from the nearby heat register and she waited for the warmth to sink in. Over the years she’d learned not to fight the sadness that came to her in her dreams but rather to go with it. Only once she’d touched bottom was it possible to drift upward again.

      With her head in her hands, she let the sorrow soak through every fiber of her being. Once she’d felt the depths of it, the utter loss and emptiness, she summoned a different memory, a happy one.

      She was six, recently enrolled in school, and she’d entered the kitchen, unexpectedly, only to find her parents were standing by the sink, kissing. They pulled apart with an embarrassed laugh when they saw her. Her mother offered her a cookie.

      Long ago Lindsay had concluded that her memories of her childhood were unreliable, as a whole. But this one she knew was true and she clung to it.

      Her parents had been happy, once.

      Her father had loved her mother. Once.

      Lindsay reached for a towel to wipe away the sweat that had accumulated on her face. Through the fabric she felt the cheekbones she’d inherited from her mother. The strong nose and firm jaw of her dad.

      As Nathan had said, life went on. In one form or another.

      Slowly she got back onto her feet, then went to her closet and changed into jeans and a sweater. No sense trying to sleep again, at least not until she’d sufficiently distracted herself. Work was always good for that.

      On her way out of the room, she touched a finger to the photo of her mother that she kept on her bureau. Her Mom’s smile calmed her, reminding her that not everything from her past had been terrible.

      She grabbed her handbag from the rack by the front door, locked up, then headed down the stairs to the street. Though her neighborhood was primarily residential, it was never completely quiet, not even in the dead of night. The noise of the traffic was reassuring as she made her way down the block. A young couple, arms linked, passed by on the opposite side of the street. They were talking passionately about something, oblivious to her existence a mere twenty feet away.

      She felt a touch of envy for their closeness and also curiosity. What could matter so much at two o’clock on a Thursday morning? She stopped to fish her keys from her purse, then made her way through the main door, up the stairs, to the office. She flicked on a few select lights, just enough so she wouldn’t bang her shin on any of the furniture.

      As she passed by Nadine’s desk she noticed an African violet next to the phone. That was new. Touching one of the leaves confirmed her guess—it wasn’t silk.

      Nadine meant well, but real plants needed watering and fertilizer and constant attention. Sooner, rather than later, they all died—at least every plant she’d ever owned did.

      Tomorrow she’d talk to Nadine and remind her of the company policy toward green stuff.

      In her office Lindsay switched on the desk lamp. Light pooled on the last file she’d been working on. Paperwork wasn’t a fun part of the job—that was one of the reasons she’d hired Nadine. But no receptionist was ever going to be able to take over the job of writing her reports for her.

      That afternoon she’d shot some video footage for a Workers’ Compensation case and now she sat down to compose the report. She turned on her computer, and while she waited for the programs to load, she reviewed the footage on her camcorder.

      As she watched, she shook her head ruefully. The claimant had made this case painfully easy, as he’d actually had the audacity to drive to his local gym for a workout, clearly not hampered by the injury he claimed made it impossible for him to drive a truck.

      Setting aside the camera, she started typing.

      “The following investigation was conducted by Lindsay Fox, of Fox Investigations, on October 17, 2009, in New York City.

      “On this date I observed Lyle P. Cuthbert leave his house at quarter to nine, driving his 2005 Ford Taurus. I followed Mr. Cuthbert to—”

      A noise from the reception area stopped Lindsay cold. She froze as she heard the distinctive scrape of a lock turning in a dead bolt. Good God, someone was breaking in.

      There wasn’t enough time to call for help. She fumbled with her key ring, then unlocked the bottom drawer where she kept her gun. The weight of the Glock in her hand was reassuring as she quietly crept away from her desk, to stand in the dark shadows behind the door.

      “Lindsay?”

      “Bloody hell.” It was Nathan. She let her arms fall to her sides as the adrenaline filtered out of her body.

      A moment later he appeared in the doorway. His gaze went immediately to the gun. “I scared you. Sorry about that.”

      He was wearing black jeans and a long sleeved gray T-shirt. Combined with the day’s growth on his cheeks and chin and his inscrutable eyes, he could have been auditioning for a role as a cat burglar.

      “What the hell are you doing here at this hour? And how did you get in?”

      “Nadine gave me a key. I work here now. Remember?”

      “One month,” she reminded him. “Then we reassess.”

      His gaze held hers. “It’s going to work out.”

      “How can you be so confident?”

      “I just am.” His gaze dropped to her gun again. “Are you going to put that away? You’re making me nervous.”

      She went to her desk and locked the gun back in the bottom drawer. Standing up, she brushed aside some hair that had fallen over her eye. She noticed Nathan watching her, his expression intent.

      “You

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