LITMIR.BIZ

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his jacket pocket.

      A second later, a streak of silver flashed against the carbon sky. Loud pops sounded as a firecracker blazed in a celebratory arc above the crowd, fizzling out just meters above their heads.

      After the unexpected explosion came a short second of silence. Then a father’s anguished cry filled the void.

      “Oh, my God! My daughter’s bleeding—she’s been shot!”

      Crimson blood appeared almost black in the fading light. The liquid seeped over Jilly’s chest, over-flowing to her father’s arms.

      There was another second of silence as Conrad Beckett’s words, and the image of the wounded girl, penetrated the stunned minds of the surrounding men.

      And then—chaos. Someone with first-aid experience rushed forward. Staff Sergeant Springer began barking orders to the crowd. Confused and frightened, everyone was talking, shouting.

      Max alone didn’t move. Coolly, he analyzed the incident and its most likely aftermath. Jilly Beckett had been shot—but the intended target had surely been her father, Conrad. The cops would figure that the firecracker had been a decoy, covering the report from the gun. But who would be blamed for the shooting?

      Someone—dared he hope Dylan—from the group of ranchers and environmentalists was the obvious answer. Max held back a smile. His prayers had been answered. Public opinion would be on his side now, his and Conrad Beckett’s.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Beckett. Your daughter is dead.”

      Max heard the pronouncement and the crowd’s answering gasp. He remained still as a new possibility suddenly occurred to him. For the first time, fear squeezed his heart, bringing pain to his chest. He scanned the crowd anxiously, unable to single out James in the melee.

      Where was his son?

      CHAPTER ONE

      Two and a half years later

      BREAKFAST FOR HOLLY, SHOWER, dress…don’t forget the papers you took out of your briefcase last night… Maureen Shannon was lost in her mental checklist as she opened the door to snag the morning paper. Clutching the lapels of her old flannel housecoat, she stared at the front-page headline: Oil Tycoon Beckett Commits Suicide.

      “Dear God…”

      Maureen slipped off the elastic band and unfolded the paper, her fingers suddenly clumsy.

      Underneath the headline was a picture of sixteen-year-old Jilly Beckett, the same photo the Calgary Herald had used when covering her murder almost two and a half years ago. Next to it was a smaller snapshot, grainy and out of focus. Still, Maureen recognized Jilly’s oil-executive father, Conrad, smiling beside his wife, Linda.

      Maureen scanned the first paragraph. The facts were blunt. Conrad was dead; he’d killed himself. Maureen curled her bare toes against the cold of the concrete landing of her Mount Royal home. The Becketts lived in her neighborhood, about six blocks to the north. Their social circles had intersected; she and Linda had worked on a few volunteer committees together.

      It was a cool May morning and a westerly breeze tossed Maureen’s uncombed hair into her eyes. She flipped it out of the way, then remembered she was dressed in only her thin housecoat.

      She withdrew inside, skimming through the rest of the article as she made her way back to the kitchen. Conrad had died in the three-car garage of his showcase-perfect home, sitting in the driver’s seat of his idling dark blue Jaguar, while noxious carbon monoxide had pumped into the enclosed space. The suicide was attributed to unrelenting depression over Jilly’s death.

      Conrad, even more than Linda, had never been the same after it. He’d retired from the board of Beckett Oil and Gas—a company that he had founded and intended to pass down to his only offspring. Then he’d sold all his shares to one of the big American companies—Exxon or Shell, she couldn’t remember—

      Maureen stopped reading to sniff. That smell… Oh, no, Holly’s breakfast! She tossed the paper on the counter and ran to the toaster. Too late. Both slices of bread were edged in black. Knowing her daughter wouldn’t eat toast this way, not even if Maureen scraped off the burned part, she threw the pieces out and slipped two fresh slices into the slots.

      She eyed the paper, then the clock on the stove. If she didn’t leave in fifteen minutes, she’d be late for the office. And she wasn’t even dressed. She’d have to finish reading the article later.

      Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, she jogged up the stairs.

      “Holly? Are you finished in there?” At moments like this Maureen would have given up her prestigious address and original oak woodwork in a moment for a second bathroom. Rod had always planned to renovate one day, but he’d never gotten past the looking-at-glossy-brochures stage.

      No answer from the bathroom, only the sound of water streaming into the sink. Well, she’d have to skip her shower this morning. Back in her bedroom, she grabbed the first suit and blouse that came to hand, then yanked matching shoes from the shelf above them.

      Catching her reflection in the mirror on her dresser, she frowned. The only way to deal with her cowlick was to put up her hair—another five minutes lost there….

      Hair fixed, she tore back down the short hall. The bathroom door was still locked, and she could smell—

      Damn it to heck!

      Maureen raced down the stairs in her low heels and tossed the second batch of ruined toast into the garbage. She checked the clock again. Five minutes.

      Back up the stairs.

      “Holly, I can’t go to work without brushing my teeth and washing my face. And you need to eat. The toaster isn’t working so you’ll have to have cereal.”

      The twelve-year-old didn’t answer.

      Maureen rested her head against the paneled door. From inside, she heard some suspicious sniffing. Holly crying once more. A familiar, helpless pain sapped the energy from her limbs.

      “Are you okay?”

      The water came on again, blocking out the quiet sobbing.

      Maureen knocked. “Please let me in. Holly?”

      Still no answer. From past experience, Maureen knew there probably wouldn’t be. Holly needed comfort, but she’d never take it from her mother.

      Silence descended as the water was turned off. Maureen made quick use of the opportunity to be heard. “Hey, kiddo. You planning to spend the day in there? Want me to rent a video? We could put the TV by the tub. Maybe fill the sink with popcorn.”

      “It’s not funny, Mother.”

      Maureen flinched. When had her daughter perfected that icy, cutting tone?

      “I know it’s not funny. But I’m going to have to book an extra cleaning with my dentist if you don’t let me in soon.”

      Something slammed. The toilet seat? The medicine cabinet? A second later the door opened, and Maureen lurched forward. Holly stepped back, unwilling even to touch her.

      Indeed she’d been crying. Eyes red, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Maureen longed to hold out her arms, but she knew—oh, how she knew—that her daughter would just back away.

      “What is it, sweetie?” A familiar song on the radio, a dream about the old days—either of these, or any of a number of triggers—could have set her off.

      “You are so insensitive. I can’t believe it.”

      “What?” Maureen stepped to the side so Holly could leave the bathroom. A familiar sense of helplessness had her longing for the simplicity of a two-year-old’s temper tantrum.

      “It’s a year today,” Holly burst out. “You didn’t even remember. Did you?”

      In her mind, Maureen saw the date on the top of the newspaper

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