The boy dropped to both knees and flung his arms around AnnaBelle's neck. Grant glanced back at the house. The screen door flapped against the house on one hinge. Note to self: the screen door will not hold the dog.

Carson loosened his grip on the retriever's neck. The dog whined, and the boy returned to the car for a red backpack. AnnaBelle took the strap, turned, and raced for the front door, backpack dangling from her mouth.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Grant muttered. He turned back to his nephew and went down on one knee. "Do you remember me, Carson? I'm Uncle-"

The boy launched himself at Grant. He caught the tiny body. Carson's arms wrapped around his shoulders with more strength than Grant expected. The boy's entire frame shook. He buried his face in Grant's sweatshirt and held on, as if he could lose Grant at any second. Overwhelmed by the boy's desperate embrace, Grant wrapped his arms around the slight frame. His eyes burned, and he blinked back unshed tears. Anger rushed through him. This should not have happened. Carson shouldn't have lost his parents.

"I'm glad to see he remembers you, Major." The woman offered a hand. In her other, she held an infant car seat with a baby strapped inside. A tiny face peered out from under a thick pink blanket. "I'm Dee Willis from child services."

Balancing Carson in one arm, Grant shook her hand. Carson was clinging so tightly, Grant could have let go and the boy wouldn't have fallen. But he would never do that.

He took the car seat, the responsibility of two children loading him down far more than their combined weight.

"Let me get the rest of their things." The social worker returned to her car.

Grant led the way inside, Carson still wrapped tightly around him. AnnaBelle spit out the backpack, then pranced and whined around Grant's legs as he led the way back to the kitchen. He set the baby seat on the floor next to the kitchen table. AnnaBelle gave her a happy sniff and rose on her hind legs to paw at Carson. Crouching down, Grant let the dog give the kid a solid slurp. The boy's grip loosened, and he reached out one hand to stroke the golden head.

Mrs. Willis set a small suitcase on the floor and a tote bag on the kitchen table. She was frowning at the dog. "There's enough formula and diapers in the bag for a few days, but she's a bit colicky."

"Colicky?"

"She cries at night."

"Oh." Grant wrote all of the baby feeding information down on a notepad by the phone.

She fixed Grant with a doubtful look. "I wouldn't let the dog get too close to the baby. Have you ever cared for an infant, Major? Because the foster family informed me that this baby is a challenge, even for an experienced caregiver."

"Yes." Technically, he'd only babysat Carson a few times each year during his annual visit, but she didn't need to know that. He gave her a level stare.

"Can you change a diaper?"

"Yes."

Her brow wrinkled as if she didn't share his confidence.

"If it's too much for you, the children can always go back into foster care," she said, and he decided he didn't like her very much.

Carson's grip tensed, the bony arm around Grant's throat pressing against his windpipe and threatening to strangle him. This was not the time to have this discussion, not with a terrified kid within earshot. Carson needed the same confidence in Grant's abilities as the troops he'd led into enemy territory.

"Ma'am, I've cleared buildings in a-hundred-and-thirty-degree heat wearing seventy pounds of body armor. Faith is a baby, not an IED. I a.s.sure you. We will be fine." He wasn't worried about feeding the kids or changing diapers. Those were tasks. Tasks were learned, but the emotional and psychological aspects of caring for two orphans terrified him. How did he talk to Carson about his parents' deaths? "My sister will be here tomorrow, and I'm expecting to hear from my brother any time."

"All right, then." She placed a business card on the table. "Call me if you need anything. We'll need to have a discussion about permanent arrangements for the children."

"Thank you." He showed the insensitive b.i.t.c.h out, with Carson clinging to him as if they were neck-deep in floodwaters.

Returning to the kitchen, he sat down. Carson's legs were wrapped around his waist. They sat in the quiet kitchen for a few minutes. What should he say to the kid? Faith made a fussy sound, breaking the silence.

"You hungry?" Grant asked Carson. "Sounds like Faith might be."

Carson shook his head.

"I guess it's time I figured out how to feed your sister."

Carson gave him a squeeze, then climbed off his lap. G.o.d, he was small, all bony arms and legs. His sad blue eyes peered out from under a shock of straight blond hair and freckles.

"Can you feed her?" Carson's look was more hopeful than doubtful.

"I'll get the hang of it," Grant bluffed. How hard could it be?

With a serious nod, the boy went to the tote bag and pulled out a bottle. "You put the powder in here. Then you add water and shake it up."

"Good to know. I'm probably going to need your advice from time to time." Grant rooted through the bag and came up with a can of formula. "Is this it?"

Carson nodded. Grant read the back of the can and mixed up the formula. The baby's fussy sounds escalated into crying. A high-pitched shriek pierced the kitchen. Grant jumped and fumbled the bottle, catching it just before it hit the floor. Faith launched into a scream that sent a flood of apprehension through Grant. Holy . . .

"Hurry up!" Carson covered his ears with his hands.

"h.e.l.lo, Faith." Grant crouched in front of the wailing baby and unsnapped the car seat's harness. He picked her up, his efforts to be gentle hampered by her stiff body and kicking legs. He hadn't held a baby since Carson was born. He'd forgotten how fragile they seemed. He settled in a kitchen chair and tucked her in the crook of one arm. She took the bottle with a greedy mouth, her big eyes staring up at him with rapt attention while she sucked away between hiccups. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a tissue from the box on the table and wiped the tears from her face. A small current of relief eased though him as she calmed and drained the bottle.

"Now what about us, Carson?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry." Carson sat next to him, resting his head on a bent arm, watching. At least while he'd been helping, he'd been reactive. Purple smudges underscored his eyes. Freckles popped on fair skin. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"I am. Any suggestions for lunch?"

"Waffles." Carson slid out of the chair. On his way past, he gave his baby sister an affectionate pat on the head.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," Grant said. "I could sure use a nap."

Carson pulled a box of waffles from the freezer. He dragged a step stool to the counter, eyed his uncle, and then loaded the toaster. When the waffles popped out, he put them on a plate. "Daddy always eats four, and you're bigger than him."

Eats. Present tense.

The ache in Grant's heart swelled until he wasn't sure he could swallow food. He cleared his throat. "Thanks. I don't think I can eat so many, though. Are you sure you can't help me out?"

Carson plunked a bottle of syrup down on the table. He went back to the cabinet for another plate, forks, and knives. "Mommy likes me to set the table."

"You're doing a great job." Grant kept his voice clear. Obviously, Carson wanted to talk about his parents, so talk they would, even if Grant would prefer to bury his grief until it had formed a solid scab like the thickened skin over the bits of shrapnel in his leg. His to-do list rearranged itself. Lee's estate issues got b.u.mped. Call school about grief counseling shot up to number one, and buy books on children and grieving took the number two spot. He'd need to read a baby book, too. Kate probably had one or ten around the house.

Carson moved a waffle onto the second plate. He poured syrup over it until it floated.

Faith's bottle was empty. Grant set it on the table and eased her over one shoulder. She let out a reverberating belch that would have impressed a mess tent full of recruits. He put her back in the car seat and helped Carson cut his waffle. They dug in together. Two kids, both eating. So far, so good.

Carson gave his baby sister a suspicious glance but finished his breakfast.

Grant loaded the dishwasher. Now what? He'd planned on getting the kids to take a nap so he could dig into Lee's paperwork and make a few calls. Grant needed to know more about his brother's life. Maybe he'd ask Ellie Ross next door. She seemed kind and intelligent. And pretty. Not that that mattered.

"What do you want to do?" he asked Carson.

The boy lifted a shoulder. Kids needed fresh air, right?

"Do you want to go outside and play with the dog?"

Carson shook his head. He looked like he would pa.s.s out where he sat. Grant spied crayons and paper tucked under the bowl in the center of the table. The fridge was covered with colorful, primitive drawings of stick people and gra.s.s and trees.

"Would you draw me a picture?"

"OK." Carson breathed out the answer as if the request was a huge imposition.

Great, he'd had the kids less than an hour and he was floundering already. Maybe that social worker was right to doubt him. A raw, wet sound jerked his attention back to the baby just as she spewed what appeared to be ten times more than she'd eaten all over herself, the car seat, and the floor.

Karma had a sick sense of humor. The baby was an explosive.

"I guess I have to get her cleaned up."

Carson huffed. "Better get used to it. She does that all the time."

Carson's head was bent over his drawing. Grant lifted the baby out of her carrier, holding her at arm's length. He found clean clothes in the laundry room. He wiped her off and changed her clothes and diaper, which took longer than field stripping and cleaning his rifle. But then his M-4 didn't try to wiggle away from him. A bath would have to wait until he reconnoitered the baby-bathing facilities and did some research. Faith babbled and grabbed at her toes while Grant stuffed her into a one-piece suit with a zipper up the front. He drew the zipper up her chest, and she let loose again. Regurgitated formula splashed over both of them.

Carson looked up from his drawing and heaved a long, disgusted sigh. The situation would have been funny if the prospect of Grant not being able to care for the baby wasn't so terrifying.

The social worker's statement rang in Grant's head. This baby is a challenge.

Words that had seemed b.i.t.c.hy at the time now felt prophetic.

With her pumps in her tote and snow boots on her feet, Ellie b.u.t.toned her wool coat, pulled on her gloves, and walked out the firm's back door. She'd worked an hour over her official five p.m. quitting time to finish a rush client report, throwing off her evening schedule.

She hurried around the building to the small parking lot. Still on her to-do list was a stop at the grocery store. The sun had fallen behind the buildings an hour before, and shadows stretched over the frozen ground. The wind whipped across the lot. Her boots crunched on the half-frozen snowpack. Ellie clutched her coat lapels together and dug her keys from her pocket. Her old minivan sat in the rear of the lot, where employees were required to park. Prime spots closer to the building were reserved for clients.

Shivering, she pa.s.sed into the shadow of a giant oak tree. She pressed the fob b.u.t.ton, and her car doors unlocked with a chirp. Sliding behind the wheel, she started the engine and turned the heater on full.

Something jabbed at her hip. Ellie jumped, her heart knocking against her rib cage.

"Don't turn around," a male voice whispered.

Without moving her chin, she rotated her eyeb.a.l.l.s down and right. Just over the center console, a gloved hand pointed a gun at her lower back. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a shadow in her peripheral vision. A man lay on the dark floor behind the van's front seat. Fear solidified in her stomach like ice.

He motioned with the barrel. "Eyes front."

Her gaze snapped forward. Her panting breaths puffed out and fogged the windshield. There was no one in sight. The only other car in the lot was Roger's Mercedes, and his office was in the front of the building. He'd never see or hear her. A hedge separated the law firm's parking area from an oral surgeon's lot next door. Not that it mattered. Their office wasn't open on Tuesdays.

Options whirled in her head. She couldn't get out of the car faster than he could pull the trigger. The way the gun protruded from between the seats, there wasn't room for her to try and grab it. The close quarters also made getting out of the way of a bullet impossible.

He prodded her again. The muzzle poked her in the kidney. "Pull out of the lot and make a left on First Street. If you shout or draw attention in any way, I will shoot you."

Light-headed, she shifted into reverse and depressed the gas pedal. The vehicle jerked backward. She stomped on the brake, and the car lurched to a halt.

"You dumb b.i.t.c.h," he whispered.

Ellie breathed and willed her shaking limbs to obey. She could crash the van once she got out of the parking lot. That was her only chance.

"No speeding, and if you crash this ride, I'll be able to shoot you no problem. I'm wedged tight back here. I'll be fine."

Her hopes dimmed. The air bag would deploy in her face and immobilize her. She'd still be helpless.

What did he want? Was he going to kill her? She wanted to open the door and run, to take her chances in the parking lot, where she had at least a chance of getting away. Once he took her somewhere else, he could do anything he wanted to her. But there was no way she could get out of the van fast enough.

She turned left onto First Street. Under her coat, sweat soaked through her silk blouse, and her snow boots seemed bulky and awkward on the van's pedals. Cruising at twenty-five miles an hour, she stopped at an intersection.

"W-where do you want me to go?" she asked.

"Make a left." He ground the gun into her back as he answered in the same hoa.r.s.e whisper.

She drove past the elementary school, now empty and dark. He levered his upper body higher to look out the window. "Pull into the parking lot of the thrift store."

Two blocks later, she turned at a lighted sign. St. Paul's Thrift Shop closed at four. Ellie had been there many times. She'd bought most of Julia's baby clothes secondhand. Gravel and ice crunched under her tires as she drove past the converted brick bungalow that housed the used clothing shop. Inside, the building was dark. A single light by the rear door cast a yellow glow across the pavement. He could kill her right here, and there was no one close enough to hear the shot. The lot was empty, except for one car parked in the very back. Light reflected off the windshield. Was there anyone inside?

Fresh terror sent sweat rivering down her back. She could smell her own fear, amplified under the heavy wool of her coat.

"Stop," he said.

She braked and waited, her hands clenching the steering wheel like a life buoy.

"Put the van in park and raise your hands."

Ellie followed the instructions. She was alone. He might have reinforcements. She fought to keep her breathing under control. Freaking out would not help. Think! She had to get away, but shock paralyzed her brain. Escape seemed impossible.

He tossed something over the seat into her lap. She flinched.

"Take a good look."

Ellie dropped her gaze. An eight-by-ten envelope. She opened it and slid out two photos. She picked one up, her pulse stammering as she recognized Julia walking up the driveway after school, her full backpack dangling from one shoulder. The second photo was her grandmother stooping to pick up the paper in the driveway in front of their house.

"I know where you live. I know who you love. You will do exactly as I say or your daughter and your grandmother will suffer. Do you understand?"

Ellie's head bobbed as if her neck had no muscles.

"You're going to find the Hamilton file and give it to me."

Shock swamped Ellie. This was about the Hamilton case? "I don't know where it is-"

"I don't give a f.u.c.k. Find it or I pick one of them to hurt." Reaching forward, he collected the pictures and envelope, tucking them inside his jacket. He pulled the gun away from her back, opened the sliding van door, and got out. Baggy black pants disguised his body, and a black hooded jacket shadowed his eyes. A scarf covered the lower portion of his face. Dressed differently, she could pa.s.s him on the street with no recognition. He'd whispered their entire conversation. She couldn't even identify his voice. In fact, since he'd taken his pictures with him, she had no proof the event even occurred.

Hoodie Man leaned back inside. "Tell no one about this meeting. If you call the police, I will kill your daughter. You can't hide from me. I'm watching."

"How do I contact you?"

"You don't. You'll hear from me. If you find the file, I'll know." He closed the car door and walked toward the headlights.