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  But now her mother was dead, and the only reasonable explanation was that Layton had killed her to keep her quiet. Her death was simply too much of a coincidence. Eve had seen him for who he was. He couldn't have let her live, knowing what she knew.

  The fist of guilt clenched tighter as Alaina remembered how she had taken Jonah and run, leaving her mother behind with the unconscious Layton. She had thought about nothing but escaping, saving herself and keeping Jonah from his father. But she hadn't known, she told herself. She hadn't known he would kill.

  And now both her parents were gone. Just six weeks ago, she'd seen in the news that her father had died. She'd felt bad, even grieved for him, but the sadness had been nothing compared with what she felt now. Her mother was dead because of her, because she had run away.

  Tears mixed with the rain that dripped down her cheeks. Inevitably, she remembered another woman whom she had loved like a mother. That woman had also become a casualty of Layton's, however indirectly.

  Alaina kept the memories at bay until she had boarded the bus and was staring out at the rain-drenched Chicago streets. Madison, Wisconsin, was little more than a hundred miles away, and her life there felt like it had happened a hundred years ago.

  The first two years had been a struggle, but she and Jonah had survived.

  But then chronic ear infections and bronchitis had besieged Jonah, and she began to lose waitressing job after waitressing job because she couldn't afford a babysitter to stay with him alone, and the day care center that catered to working, single mothers wouldn't take a sick child. She was at the end of her rope, broke, scared and starving, having spent almost the last of her cash feeding Jonah and paying for his medicine. She hadn't paid utility bills in three months, and the phone had been cut off the day before. The rent was due, and the landlord had been about as understanding as he was going to be.

  She remembered standing on a street corner in downtown, Jonah perched on her hip as she waited for the "walk" sign to flash. The dome of the capital building loomed several blocks up, massive and white against the bright blue sky. Glittering Lake Mendota stretched to the horizon on her right. The air was cool and crisp, fresh with the promise of spring. She had five dollars in her pocket and was heading to a diner the next street over to apply for a waitressing job. If she didn't get it, she didn't know what she would do.

  They would have to go back.

  She shuddered just thinking about it, but let the scenario unfold in her head. She would go to jail for kidnapping. And Layton Keller would raise her son to be just like him. Stone cold dead inside. She imagined she would never see Jonah again, not even for a supervised visit.

  But at least he wouldn't starve.

  "Want down," the toddler said, squirming in her arms.

  She smiled as she lowered him to the ground, glad for the reprieve. The muscles in her arms were screaming from carrying him, and she felt weak and shaky from lack of food. "Okay, but you have to hold Mommy's hand."

  He gripped her fingers obediently, his blue eyes wide as he looked around at the tall buildings and rushing pedestrians.

  The light turned, and they crossed the street, Jonah's little legs pumping to keep up. They were halfway down the next block when Alaina began to feel dizzy, and she paused to brace a hand on the wall of a building. Pedestrians streamed by, oblivious as Jonah tugged her fingers.

  "Let's go," he said, mimicking the commanding voice she used to get him into the bathtub at night. "Let's go. Let's go."

  She wondered vaguely if, when she said that to him at night, her tone was as annoyed. But then the sunny day turned white, and her knees buckled.

  When she opened her eyes, she started up. "Jonah!"

  A firm hand pressed her back. "Just take it easy, missy. He's right here. Look."

  She turned her head to see him plopped on the floor only a few feet away, surrounded by books and toys. His brow was furrowed as he concentrated on trying to fit a red plastic square into a triangular hole, not a care in his two-year-old world.

  A glance around told her they were in a bookstore. Shelves reached to the ceiling, packed with old and new books alike. Overstuffed sofas and chairs provided comfy perches for customers while they read. Soft piano music set the mood for the store: soothing, unhurried.

  Alaina realized she was stretched out on one of those overstuffed sofas, and that the older woman kneeling beside her was watching her intently. The woman was at least seventy, her hair white, her face lined in a way that reminded Alaina of a comfortable, well-worn leather coat. Her eyes, a brilliant blue that time had not managed to fade, were kind. And concerned.

  Alaina tried to smile as she sat up. "I'm so sorry I --"

  The woman put a cool hand on her arm. "I think you should stay put a little longer, dear."

  "I'm fine, really."

  "It won't hurt you to sit here a minute," the woman replied, gentle but firm. "Cliff will be back any minute now with some water."

  Still shaky, Alaina let the sofa's cushions support her back, too weak to even sit up fully. She hoped water would help. Checking her watch, she saw with dismay that she was going to be late for her job interview. Again, she started to get up. "I really need to go. I'm late."

  The woman gripped her arm, her strength surprising. "Whatever it is can wait," she said.

  Alaina relented because she didn't think her legs would support her anyway. "Where --"

  She broke off as a teenager with floppy blond bangs and wire-rimmed glasses -- he reminded her of cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch -- returned with a glass of water. "Here you go, Miss Whitfield."

  The older woman accepted the water. "Thank you, Cliff. Now, I need you to fetch something else for me, dear. Run next door and bring me back a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and one of those turkey clubs that Gus has on special today. Tell him to pile on the chips and add a couple of his famous oatmeal cookies. Oh, and grab one of those little cartons of milk he has in the fridge by the door."

  As Cliff scampered away, the woman smiled at Alaina and offered the water. "You're drooling, dear."

  Alaina's hand flew to her mouth, but then she saw the teasing sparkle in the woman's eyes.

  "Ah, yes. It's good to see some color in your cheeks," the woman said, smiling, then patted the bottom of the glass. "Drink up now."

  Alaina swallowed the cool water, her gaze shifting to Jonah, who had conquered the red square and now had a jack-in-the-box upside down on his lap. He inspected it from every angle, trying to figure out what it did or how it worked.

  "I'm Emma Whitfield," the woman said.

  Alaina looked at her. "Thank you. You're being very kind."

  Emma waved a dismissive hand. "You fainted in front of my door. I couldn't leave you there. It would have been bad for business."

  Alaina laughed softly. "I suppose so."

  Emma waited a beat, apparently expecting Alaina to introduce herself. When she didn't, Emma said, "You're not one of those anorexic girls, are you? Maybe some kind of model?"

  Alaina shook her head, but Emma appeared unconvinced as she gripped Alaina's chin and turned her head this way and that to inspect her features. "You've got the bone structure of a model, that's for sure. You sure you're not starving yourself for your art?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Then why are you?"

  Hunger apparently had made Alaina's brain sluggish. "Why am I what?"

  "Starving."

  "I'm not --"

  Emma stood, cutting her off as she moved to balance on the end of the sofa where she could see Jonah better. Her warm gaze turned quizzical when it returned to Alaina. "Is it drugs?"

  Alaina stiffened her back, alarmed. "Of course not."

  Emma's smile was slight. "Relax."

  But Alaina pushed to her feet. She didn't need this, some meddling woman deciding she was a terrible mother and getting social services involved. "We really have to go. I'm --"

  "Late. You mentioned that earlier. What are you late for?"
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br />   Alaina faltered, annoyed at the third degree but intimidated enough by the woman's commanding tone to answer. "A meeting." Seeing Emma's brow arch, she added, "A job interview." She didn't know why it mattered that this woman didn't think she was a deadbeat.

  "Ah. Do you read?"

  Puzzled and a bit insulted, Alaina said, "I can read, yes."

  Emma's blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "What was the last book you read?"

  "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. It's Jonah's favorite."

  "Jonah." The older woman glanced at the little boy, and her expression turned wistful. "He's a beautiful child."

  "I take good care of him."

  "I can see that." Emma pursed her lips as she looked Alaina over. "It would appear that you're not as good at taking care of yourself."

  Cliff returned, laden with bags of food, and Emma rose to meet him. "Thank you, dear."

  Alaina started to call Jonah over, but Emma said, "You eat first. He's busy right now."

  Alaina didn't have to be persuaded. She'd lived with the gnawing hunger for too many days now, and she had fed Jonah the last of their cheese and crackers only an hour before. As she tore into the turkey club, she felt Emma watching, assessing. She sensed the woman's disapproval but refused to worry about it. She'd endured worse, and she and Jonah would be on their way soon enough.

  "You haven't told me your name," Emma said.

  "Anna," Alaina said, feeling an unexpected twinge at the lie. "Anna King."

  "Anna King," Emma repeated, as if testing the name for authenticity. "Anna, I happen to have a job opening."

  Alaina lowered her sandwich, shocked.

  "It doesn't pay much," Emma went on. "But if it works out --"

  "I'll take it." Alaina didn't care how desperate she sounded. She was desperate. She'd do anything to avoid going back to her family, defeated.

  Emma smiled. "Well, then. Finish your lunch, and we'll start getting you trained."

  And so began the first truly nurturing relationship Alaina had ever had. Emma was a Godsend in every way. She seemed to sense that Alaina had no interest in discussing where she and Jonah had come from, and she didn't ask.

  After the first month, she persuaded Alaina to move into the extra bedroom in her apartment above the bookstore. Alaina didn't hesitate. She had come to adore Emma, and so had Jonah. The feelings were mutual. Emma doted on them both as if Alaina were her daughter and Jonah her grandson. The three of them lived in Emma's tiny apartment for a year before Emma talked Alaina into applying to the university whose campus was practically next door to the store.

  With the aid of scholarships, student loans and supplemental help from Emma, Alaina entered the University of Wisconsin as a freshman the same day that Jonah started preschool.

  Alaina began to marvel at her good fortune. She finally felt safe. She finally felt secure, sure that a college education would guarantee her ability to provide her son a good life. What was more, she finally knew unconditional love.

  That was when she started having the nightmare. It was always the same: Layton attacked her while Jonah lay nearby, bleeding. She knew her son was slowly dying, but no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't get away from Layton to help Jonah. Each time, she woke up screaming and sobbing.

  Emma didn't pry. She simply, very gently, persuaded Alaina to see a counselor. Alaina surprised herself by agreeing. She surprised herself further by telling the counselor what Layton had done to her, though she edited out any details that might have given away his, or her, identity.

  The diagnosis: post-traumatic stress. "You've begun to let your guard down," the counselor said, "and that's when it's most likely to sneak up on you."

  By the time Alaina concluded her junior year of college and her third year of therapy, she felt healthier mentally and physically than she ever had. Life was damn good.

  She should have known that that would be when it was most likely to fall apart.

  Chapter 9

  Alaina's hands shook as she dug in the flower bed outside her apartment door. Last fall, after Jonah lost his key and was locked out, she had buried a spare in a fake rock. But the maintenance crew had since planted new flowers, adding mulch and fresh soil. If the rock had been found, it might have been tossed out. She was already working in her head how to get in if she couldn't find the key.

  The sliding door on the deck didn't have the most reliable lock, but she didn't think she was strong enough to force it. The windows were securely locked -- she made sure every night before turning in, no matter how unlikely it was that one had been opened without her knowledge.

  Sitting back on her heels, keyless, she studied the front door. Kicking it or otherwise forcing it was not option. She wasn't strong enough, and besides, the force it would take would probably drive her to her knees. Maintenance was no longer on the clock by now, so it would take too long for someone to come open it for her.

  Frustration welled up inside her until she had to concentrate to keep from screaming. She didn't have time for this. Jonah needed her. She'd already determined he wasn't here. That meant he had to be at the airport, waiting and worrying.

  Hang on, baby, I'm coming.

  Brushing the dirt from her hands, Alaina pushed to her feet and raced around the building to the back. The sliding door on the cement slab that served as a deck seemed to be the best option. But when she examined it, she discovered that someone else had reached the same conclusion. The door, half off its track, slid jerkily open, and Alaina stepped into the kitchen and hit the light switch.

  The devastation stole her breath. Dishes that had been in the cupboards had been smashed to bits on the floor. The microwave looked like it had been hammered by a brick, the cart that had held it reduced to sticks. The ficus tree that had thrived near the sliding door had been ripped apart, the dirt from its pot thrown around by the handfuls.

  The rubble crunched under her feet as she picked her way through it. When all was said and done, it didn't matter. She'd planned to leave it all behind anyway. But the destruction of what was hers and Jonah's was another violation. Whoever had done this hadn't been looking to steal. If they had, the screen of the television wouldn't have been shattered. No, whoever did this did it to violate, to punish. She imagined that the people who shredded the cushions of her sofa had also shot Grant and hurt Lucas.

  In the bedroom, her stomach pitched as if she stood on the deck of a boat tossed by three-foot waves. She braced a hand on the wall, her heart stuttering. The closet had been emptied, all of its contents torn to pieces and scattered. A burnt smell permeated the air, and she glanced inside the metal waste can near the door to see blackened sides and a pile of ashes.

  What did they burn?

  The answer struck her like a fist to the temple. "No," she whispered, tearing through the debris for the locked fireproof box she used to store the paperwork she had accumulated over the years to maintain the identities she and Jonah would assume next. Along with the passports, birth certificates and credit cards she had bought through underground channels years ago, she kept more than a thousand dollars in it.

  She found the beige metal box and sat back on her heels, almost giving in to despair. The lock had been broken. The box was empty. Its contents -- or probably everything except the cash -- had been reduced to ashes. She hurled the box against the wall. "Dammit!"

  Now what would she do? She and Jonah would have to start from scratch again. No money. No credit. No job. No friends. The thought of it made her head spin, and she fisted her hands in her hair, struggling to get a grip.

  When she had the despair under control, she realized that none of this mattered if she didn't find Jonah. If she lost him, then she truly would have nothing. He was her life, her reason for breathing. Everything she had done for the past fourteen years had been for him. She would die for him. She would die without him.

  Shoving to her feet, she surveyed the damage in her room and Jonah's and determined that nothing was salvageable. Not even
a pair of underwear. The thoroughness of the destruction was staggering, and it struck her that she had seriously underestimated the depth of Layton's rage. Apparently, he had nurtured his hatred for her for fourteen years, and now he was venting it. Though, knowing him, rather than getting his own hands dirty, he had instructed his henchmen to do this. Not as a warning, but as a promise.

  The message: First, I'm going to make it very difficult for you to run, and then I'm going to destroy you.

  Alaina walked out of the wreckage that had been the home she had shared with Jonah for the past five years and didn't look back.

  * * *

  "What is that?" Addison asked.

  "PlayStation 2." Layton grinned over his shoulder at her from where he sat in front of the television, a game controller gripped in both hands. "Want to play? I'll show you how."

  "Since when do you play video games?"

  He shrugged, grimacing in frustration as the colorful character on the TV let out a wounded sound and, wearing a pair of angel wings, drifted toward the top of the screen. "That damn turtle thing with the saw blades on its back kills me every time."

  Addison sauntered over to the coffee table and examined the CDs piled on it. The titles ranged from ominous-sounding, like Tomb Raider and Resident Evil, to themes like basketball, hockey and car racing. She imagined the games would appeal to a teenage boy.

  Her pulse took off at a clip as she studied her husband, who was intent on maneuvering the character on the TV to smash boxes to collect points. His blond hair was damp from a recent shower, and she thought he looked tired, though he seemed to have more energy at the moment than he had had in weeks. "Are you expecting a guest?" she asked.

  He didn't respond, or even glance at her.

  "Layton."

  The video game character issued another yelp, and Layton sat back, the controller in his lap. He glanced up at her, looking boyishly exasperated. "This thing is addictive."