It's not safe, my father said. You don't leave your home open to anyone. You just can't.

"I'll check back by later," Cody said. "You know, make sure he makes it home, so you're not alone."

"You don't have to."

"I know," he said, "but I will."

He leaned down, kissing me. It was barely a peck, a brush of his lips against mine, before he pulled away. He was never one for public displays of affection. Couldn't let them see past his armor and into his chest, lest they might realize Cormac Moran's boy was full of weaknesses.

He took a step back, his hand slipping from mine. I mourned the loss right away.

He said nothing else, motioning toward my building with his head.

I turned away from him and went inside, making my way up the flights of stairs to my apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, remembering to relock it behind me, before strolling through the living room to the window. I glanced out, my eyes drifting down to the sidewalk, instantly seeing Cody.

He was still standing there, watching my window.

He saw me, and nodded, before strolling away.

I watched him leave, when everything inside of me didn't want him to go.

Darkness has completely fallen over Snowflake by the time I reach the last beer in my six-pack of Guinness. I pull the top off with my bottle opener when I see headlights flashing outside the open living room window, the familiar sound of tires against the dry, cracked earth as a car approaches the house. I listen as the engine shuts off, listen as someone gets out of the parked vehicle.

Seconds later, there's a tapping on the front door.

"It's open," I call out without bothering to get up, taking a sip of the warm Irish stout. I hate the taste of Guinness, but I'm not drinking it for the flavor. It does exactly what it's meant to do.

The door opens, the familiar voice carrying through right away. "The door's open, but it shouldn't be."

I stare at the doorway as he appears. He's easy to make out, even in the darkness, with his sturdy, statuesque body and bright blond hair. Always clean-shaven and dressed impeccably, he somehow still has an air of effortlessness surrounding him. He's a hard ass, all right, but he's the kind of hard ass that makes you feel at ease yielding to him. He's smart, and brave, and he's handsome, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing.

That sort of thing being forty year olds who are certified assholes for a living.

Holden.

Holden pauses just a foot inside the living room and stares at me. I can't make out much of his expression, his face cast in shadows, but I see enough to detect the exhaustion. His dark suit is ruffled, I assume from traveling, since he high-tailed his ass here after I called him this afternoon from the highway, but he still seems composed. His tie is the color of fresh blood, and over top of it, covering most of it, on a silver chain, hangs a badge.

A star with an eagle inside of it, wrapped in a circle, United States Marshal written around it in bright blue. My eyes focus in on it as the metal gleams in the little bit of light streaming inside the house . . . anything to avoid looking him in the face.

I wish I were still wearing my sunglasses so he couldn't look me in the eyes.

Holden slowly strolls toward me, generous enough to not turn on any of the lights along the way. "What country are we in?"

"The great ol' U-S-of-A," I say. "The land of the free and the home of the brave."

"And the drinking age in America is . . . ?"

"Twenty-one."

"And you are . . . ?"

"Not twenty-one."

"That's what I thought."

He shoves my legs over to sit down on the coffee table in front of me. I'm damn surprised the piece of shit wood doesn't buckle under his weight. I tear my gaze away from the flashy badge and hazard a look at his face, finding exactly what I didn't want to see. Frustration. Disappointment. Pity. The whole gauntlet of pathetic emotions reflect right at me, making me feel more like a pesky little kid instead of my hard fought seventeen and nine-tenths. That look makes me feel like this girl, the one I'm not, the one he needs me to be . . . the one I've tried to be.

The one I just can't be.

I take a sip of the Guinness before holding it out to him. He hesitates, staring at it, before taking it from my hand. I'm surprised when he actually brings the bottle to his lips and takes a drink, knowing damn well he has as much business drinking right now as I do.

He grimaces, making a disgusted face as he swallows, but he doesn't put the beer down. He doesn't hand it back, either. Instead, he clutches the bottle with both hands between his legs as he stares at me.

He doesn't ask how I acquired the beer.

I'm glad, because then I'd feel inclined to admit I stole it, and I'm not in the mood for one of his 'there are certain things you just can't do' lectures.

"Gracie, Gracie, Gracie . . ." His voice is quiet. "Talk to me."

I look away from him, unsure of what to say. His gaze is so intense that it's like being under an interrogation light. I practically feel myself start to sweat again. "The air conditioner is broken."

"Huh," he says. "I thought it felt hot in here."

"I came home tonight and it wasn't working. I tried turning it off and back on again, but it didn't work. I didn't know what else to do."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I'd already called you about the car," I say. "I can't just call you every single time something goes wrong in my life. We'd never get off the phone if that was the case."

He laughs, but there isn't much humor to the sound. "That's what I'm here for."

Holden forces down the rest of the beer-I think simply to keep me from drinking it-before he stands up and starts gathering the empty bottles. He heads to the kitchen to throw them away. I wonder if he ever gets sick of cleaning up other people's messes. That's all the man ever seems to do. I hear him looking around the sparse cabinets, see the light as he investigates the refrigerator. He returns after a minute, sitting back down in front of me.

"You have nothing to eat here."

"I'm not really hungry."

"But you have to eat sometime."

I shrug.

"I'll see about getting you a new car . . . a better car," he says. "In the meantime, we'll work on making some repairs around this place, and we'll restock the kitchen, because I can't have you starving on me here. Sound good?"

"Sure," I say. "Whatever."

My response isn't what he wants to hear. He sighs loudly, nudging my leg with his knee to try to get my attention. Humoring him, I glance his way, knowing he won't drop this until I do.

His expression is serious. "I'm worried about you, Gracie. Talk to me. Please. Tell me what's bothering you."

"I just . . . I feel like I'm suffocating."

"I promise we're going to get the air going again in here."

"No, I mean . . ." I hesitate, unsure of how to explain it, wondering if it'll even make a difference. Probably not. My opinion meant nothing growing up and it somehow means even less now. "I feel like I'm losing myself. Like really losing what makes me me. This house . . . this town . . . this life . . . it's not who I am."

"Tell me what will help," he says. "What will make you happy?"

"Snow."

The word is involuntary as it slips from my lips.

Holden laughs, a hint of genuine amusement this time. He thinks I'm being sarcastic. He doesn't understand. He can't. "Well, I'll have you know, it actually snows in this part of Arizona. You just haven't lived here long enough to see it."

"But it's not just snow. It's all of it. It's cold mornings and hot coffee. It's bright lights and loud neighbors and sitting on a fire escape and taking in all of the commotion. It's makeup and dress shoes and nice clothes and a reason to wear all of it. It's my life. Mine. Not this girl's."

I motion toward myself to make my point. I'm surprised when, instead of more frustration, he offers a small smile of understanding. "I get it."

"Do you?"

"Yes," he says. "It would be dishonest to say I know exactly how you feel, because I haven't walked in your shoes before, but I get it. You're not the first person to feel this way. And I can promise it'll get better. With time, you'll get used to it."

"But I shouldn't have to," I say. "I shouldn't have to get used to it. It's not fair."

"It's not," he agrees. "But there's always an adjustment period. I've told you that before. You just need to give it a chance. Make friends . . . watch TV . . . get a hobby. Do something to pass the time. And I'm here any time you need anything. All you have to do is call. I'm not going anywhere. I promise. It's my job."

He says the last part with a smile, like it's meant to ease my worries, but it only makes everything so much worse.

Holden isn't my friend.

He isn't my family.

Holden is my handler.

I can count on one hand how many people in the world know where I am at this moment, and every single one of them wears a U.S. Marshals Service badge. Out of them, Holden is the only one who has any personal contact with me. They're tight-lipped, even within their own department, their security stronger than a virgin locked up in a chastity belt. Holden deals with the person behind the name. To the others, I'm just paperwork.

That's the saddest part of all, I think. I have one person in the world . . . one person I can turn to, one person I can call for help these days, one person who can listen to me, one person to understand, and he's only there because he gets paid to be.

It's nothing like I had before.

I had love, and compassion, someone to turn to when my world turned cold.

This girl . . . she has nothing.

The familiar black town car pulled right up to the curb in front of the apartment building. I'd seen it hundreds of times before, navigating these streets over the years, always driven by Cormac Moran. It parked, the engine still idling based on the smoke coming from the exhaust, but nobody got out of the thing.

I stared down at it, the evening breeze ruffling my hair, blowing tendrils into my face. I brushed them away, tucking the soft red curls behind my ears. It was just after dusk and the air was cool, summer having faded away much too quickly.

I was sitting cross-legged on the fire escape, the cold metal pressing into my thighs. My heels were abandoned on the other side of the open window, discarded on the living room floor when I realized I wouldn't need them today.

A few minutes passed before the passenger door to the car finally opened and someone stepped out. I recognized my father right away. He shut the door and stood along the curb as the car whipped back into traffic and sped away.

Once it was gone, my father's shoulders slumped, his poised posture fading. It was as if he'd just let out a deep breath he'd been holding for a long time. Even from five stories up, I could sense his exhaustion. For as long as I could remember, he always seemed drained, like he had little left to offer anyone . . . especially me. He had nothing for me, it seemed.

After running his hands down his face, he turned and stalked toward the building, disappearing from my view. A minute later I heard the front door unlocking, footsteps echoing through the apartment.

"Grace?"

I didn't respond, my eyes focused on my feet. My pantyhose were ripped from getting caught on some jagged metal on the fire escape, a line running the whole way down my left leg to my foot. My toenails were painted red to match my new dress. What a waste of effort.

"Grace!"

His voice had a panicked edge to it, his footsteps harder along the wooden floor. He seemed to be doing circles, checking all the rooms, before coming to an abrupt halt right by the window. I didn't turn to look, but I could sense his intense gaze.

He spotted me.

He shoved the window up further to come through, perching himself on the windowsill. He sighed exasperatedly, clasping his hands together in front of him as he propped his elbows on his knees.

"I forgot."

I forgot. He said those words like they were supposed to fix this, like they would make it better and not worse instead.

He forgot.

How the hell could he forget?

Ten years had passed since my mother died. I had been so young back then that I was starting to forget so much-the feel of her hugs, the sound of her laughter, the way she spoke my name-but I'd never forget her.

I'd never forget today.

I could feel tears in my eyes, and I blinked them back, grateful none escaped. I didn't want to ruin my makeup. I spent a long time doing it.

"I got busy," he continued. "I didn't mean to forget. It just slipped my mind."

We were supposed to go see her.

She was buried out in Queens.

We went every year on the anniversary.

Not this year.

"Look, I'm exhausted. It's been a long week and I'd like to get some sleep and forget any of this happened. I'm just so tired of all of it. I'm ready to forget."

I wasn't sure what to say.