LITMIR.BIZ

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with.

      “Ian,” Marcus began softly, “you have to let it go sometime. Don’t you think that twenty-one years is long enough to wear a hair shirt?”

      There was an anger raging within him, but Ian kept it tightly wrapped. Marcus didn’t deserve to be lashed out at. He meant well and only tried to help. But Marcus didn’t understand what it was like. What it meant to be buried alive, to have the people you loved dead all around you.

      Ian moved his shoulder so that Marcus was forced to drop his hand. As he did, he could feel Ian’s smoky-blue eyes boring into him.

      “No,” Ian replied. The word was uttered softly, but there was no missing the underlying passion beneath the word.

      Marcus suppressed a sigh. Returning to his end of the table, he slowly ran his hands over the sides of the expensive briefcase Ian had given him when he’d passed his bar exam. At the time, Ian had scarcely been able to afford to pay rent on his rundown studio apartment. But by hocking the gold watch his grandfather had given him, Ian had gotten the money together to buy him the camel-colored leather briefcase. Whenever he lost his temper with Ian, Marcus always looked at the briefcase.

      And cooled off.

      “Look, this is your first offense, thank God—” Quitting while he was ahead, Marcus didn’t ask if there had been other times, times when his friend managed to avoid detection. What he didn’t know wouldn’t keep him up at night.

      “There’s a reason for that,” Ian said.

      He’d never driven under the influence before. When the need to blot out the world overwhelmed him, he’d always drowned his grief at home, alone. Away from prying eyes. Last night represented a crack in his control. And he didn’t like it.

      Marcus didn’t wait for him to elaborate. “I think things can be worked out.” He wanted to suggest rehab or a psychiatrist. Neither suggestion would fly with Ian because Ian couldn’t admit to the world that there was a weakness underneath his armor. “We’ve drawn a reasonable judge. The Honorable Sally Houghton. Word is that she has a strong mothering instinct. Just straighten up, look contrite and remember to flash that thousand-watt smile of yours.” He snapped his briefcase closed again. “It appears as if your guardian angel is still looking out for you.”

      Ian chuckled. He could do without guardian angels who saw fit to prolong his suffering. “Yeah.”

      The word was uttered entirely without feeling.

      Then, to Marcus’s overwhelming relief, Ian turned around from the window and gave him just the barest of smiles. The one Marcus knew could melt stones at fifty paces and hard-hearted female judges’ hearts at ten. And Houghton was a softy. That gave them a definite edge and more than a fighting chance. Ian had a magnetic personality when he wasn’t sparring with the ghosts from his past.

      Maybe this whole incident was even to the good. Ian might finally put this behind him and get on with the business of living.

      And maybe, Marcus thought as he signaled for the guard to unlock the door, while he had been in here talking to Ian, pigs had actually learned how to fly.

      Chapter Two

      There were times when Lisa Kittridge wondered what she was doing here. And why for the last eighteen months she continued to return to Providence Shelter, week after week, when she really didn’t have to. At least, not because of some court order, the way so many others who passed through here did.

      God knew it wasn’t because time hung heavily on her hands. Absolutely every moment of her day was accounted for, what with thirty-one energetic third graders to teach and a five-year-old and a mother to care for.

      Not that Susan Kittridge actually needed looking after, despite the bullet to the hip that had taken her off the police force and brought a cane into her life. Her mother was one of the most independent women Lisa knew. But every so often, Susan’s soul would dip into that black place that beckoned everyone, that place that called for surrender and apathy. During those times, Lisa was her mother’s cheering section, drawing on the endless supply of optimism that she’d somehow been blessed with.

      Optimism that saw her through her own hard times.

      Optimism she felt obliged to share here at the homeless shelter, to pay back a little for the personal happiness she had in her own life. Working at the shelter also accomplished something else. It made her too busy to think about Matt. Very much.

      But then, there were days like today, when her cheerfulness seemed to go down several levels. She worked harder then. Longer.

      Her work wasn’t excessively difficult. Not that she minded hard work. She thrived on it, her late father liked to boast. And if all that was required of her to help out here was a strong back and endless energy, then working at the shelter would have been a piece of cake.

      But it wasn’t all. There was more. A great deal more.

      Every so often, the hurt she found herself facing grew to such proportions that it became too much for her to endure emotionally. Looking into the faces of the children sometimes tore at her heart so badly she didn’t think she could recover, certainly not enough to come back.

      But she always did.

      She’d initially volunteered at Providence Shelter in order to make a difference in these people’s lives. Instead, the people she interacted with had made a difference in hers. They made her humbler. More grateful. And more determined than ever to help.

      Help people such as the little girl on the cot.

      Lisa had walked into the long, communal sleeping area with an armload of fresh bedding that needed to be distributed. She saw the girl immediately—there was no one else in the room and the little girl was a new face. A new, frightened face.

      She was sitting on the cot, her thin arms braced on either side of her equally thin body, dangling her spindly legs as if that were her only source of entertainment, the only thing she had any command over.

      As Lisa came closer, the little girl looked up suddenly, suspicion and fear leaping into her wide, gray eyes.

      Oh God, no child should have to look like that, Lisa thought. Her son was around this girl’s age.

      The mother in her ached for the little girl. For all the little girls and boys who’d found themselves within the walls of homeless shelters because of some cruel twist of fate.

      Very carefully, Lisa laid down the bedding she was holding and smiled at the little girl. “Hi, what’s your name?”

      The wide eyes continued to stare at her. There was no answer.

      Lisa sat down on one edge of the cot. The girl quickly moved to the opposite corner, like a field mouse frightened away by the vibration of footsteps.

      “You don’t talk to strangers,” Lisa guessed. The little girl nodded solemnly, never taking her eyes away. “That’s very good. You shouldn’t. I’ve got a little boy just your age and that’s what I tell him, too.” She smiled warmly at the child. “My name is Lisa,” she told her. “I’m a volunteer here.” Lisa extended her hand toward the small fingers that were clutched together in the little girl’s lap. “I help out here at Providence when I can.”

      Lisa had an overwhelming desire to wash away the smudges on the small, thin face and brush the tangles out of the thick, brown hair. But first she had to win the girl’s trust and, depending on what the child had been through and what she had seen, that might not be very easy.

      “If you need anything,” she told the girl, “just ask me.”

      The small hands remained clasped together.

      Lisa rose to her feet. She didn’t want the child to feel crowded or pressured in any way. “Remember, if you need anything, my name’s Lisa.”

      Picking up the bedding, she began to distribute the folded, freshly laundered sheets. She’d just placed the last

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