Loree Lough - Saving Alyssa

As she climbed into the backseat of George’s boxy blue SUV, Melissa looked up at Nate. “Oh, Daddy...I mean, Mr. Preston? Can you belt Cassie in with me?”

She looked so proud about remembering his new name. Overwhelming sadness wrapped around him as he looked into her angelic face. “Sure thing,” he said, tucking the doll under the belt. “Now you behave yourself, and listen to Alyssa, okay, Cassie?”

Nate slid into the passenger seat. Alyssa. Alyssa Preston. Would he ever get used to calling her that?

George got into the car, and as he inserted the key into the ignition, she said, “Oh no!”

The agent met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “What...did we forget something important?”

“Yes! Something very important! We forgot to give Cassie a new name!”

He swallowed hard, adjusted the Windsor knot of his rumpled blue tie. “I only gave you one job to do,” said the hard, silent gaze he aimed in Nate’s direction. He’d stressed that, because of facial recognition software, Cassie, who was visible in nearly every family photo, could not go to Baltimore. So Nate had come up with a two-birds-with-one-stone plan: stuff Cassie into Melissa’s backpack as they entered the terminal, and when she wasn’t looking, leave the doll behind. A necessary evil to ensure his baby’s safety. But he hadn’t yet shared the idea with George.

“How about this,” Melissa said. “Cassie has blue eyes like Mommy....”

The men exchanged a worried glance, because they knew where this was going. Knew other things, too. Things Melissa was far too young to understand. She would never again see her teacher and preschool classmates, beloved grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, or visit her mother’s grave at the Rose Hill Cemetery. Because all ties to their old life were forbidden. Including Cassie.

“...so how about if I call her Jillian?”

That wouldn’t work even if they didn’t have to get rid of the easily identifiable doll. Melissa waited for the grown-ups in charge of her safety and her fate to respond. Instead, George fiddled with the radio dials as Nate looked for an imaginary something in the glove box. As a kid, he’d fallen from a tree, all the breath whooshing from his lungs in the hard landing. He felt that way right now.

George, having more experience with situations like this, regained his composure first. “Know what I wish?” he asked.

In the eighteen months since O’Malley’s arrest, Nate had come to terms with his widowhood and had adjusted to life as a single dad. He more or less accepted the fact that because of his transgressions, he would never practice law again. When he learned that the marshals had built an entire livelihood for him around his questionable knowledge of tools, he figured he’d get used to that, too...thanks to George’s savvy advice. How would he fare without the big-hearted agent to advise and reassure him?

“What do you wish?” Melissa asked.

“I wish you’d write to me, once you’re all settled in your new place.”

“Oh, I will. And you’ll write back, won’t you?”

“You bet I will.” George winked. “Sure am gonna miss you, kiddo.”

“Daddy says our new ’partment has a sophie-bed. You could visit anytime you want.” She looked at Nate. “Right, Daddy?”

Oh, how he loved this kid! “George,” he said, “our sophie-bed is your sophie-bed.”

Ten minutes into the half-hour drive to O’Hare, Melissa dozed off.

“So you’re comfortable, working with Max?” George asked.

Comfortable. What a weird choice of words. Nate pictured Agent Maxine Colson, who, after hearing about the nightmares, hand-flapping and stammering that plagued Melissa right after her mother’s death, had pulled strings and called in favors. Not only had she secured authorization to line up a child specialist, Max had also gotten permission to Skype with Melissa during those critical in-between months, easing the transition. During their often hours-long daily sessions, she’d listened patiently as Melissa recounted her days, recited entire plot lines of cartoons and movies she’d watched, and read The Velveteen Rabbit...seven times. Melissa was comfortable with the pretty redhead, and that was good enough for Nate. Still...

“I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with a stranger again.”

Nodding, the agent stared straight ahead. “I hear ya. But Max is good people. I know, ’cause I worked with her before she transferred to the Baltimore office. She’s great with kids, and keeps a secret better than a priest in the confessional. If you have problems, you can trust her with ’em.”

Nate snorted.

“Cynic,” George teased. “But mark my words, you’ll change your mind about her.”

His imagination? Or was there an unspoken “People in your shoes always do” at the end of George’s statement? Not that it mattered. Nate had no intention of unburdening himself with the woman. As far as he was concerned, she had one purpose: to keep Melissa safe.

Correction. Alyssa. He’d better get used to calling her that. Better get used to referring to himself as Noah Preston, too. Nate Judson, former assistant district attorney for the city of Chicago, former husband of Jillian, former part-time law professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, was as good as dead.

Yeah, he’d cooperate.

But he didn’t have to like it.

CHAPTER TWO

Three years later...

WALKING THE BROKEN mountain bike uphill would have been a challenge even without her sprained ankle. Billie hoped the owner of Ike’s Bikes had earned his reputation as the guy who could fix anything, because the Cannondale had cost, used, almost as much as her four-cylinder pickup had, new.

She rolled the bike between two others in the rack—a McLaren Venge, easily eighteen thousand dollars, and the slightly more affordable Scott Spark Limited. After clicking her spokes lock into place, Billie noticed movement on the other side of the shop’s floor-to-ceiling door. The owner of the Venge, she presumed, garbed head to toe in Gucci, just like her ex had worn.

A tinny bell announced her entrance, and Gucci waved. Billie pretended not to notice by sliding onto a stool at the counter and leafing through a dog-eared copy of Bicycling Magazine.

“Be right with you,” called a DJ-deep voice from the back room.

Billie tensed. If the shop’s regulars dressed like Gucci, could she afford to have Ike repair the Cannondale?

Another customer—a guy in threadbare jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt—appeared from the back room, nodding a cordial hello to her, then Gucci, as he left the shop.

“Been riding long?” Gucci asked her.

“Not really.”

And though she hadn’t encouraged conversation, he launched into the story of how his first bike had been a Cannondale. A great way to break into the sport, he said, without breaking the bank. But Billie barely heard him because she was too busy remembering how she’d come into possession of hers: her obstetrician had recommended mountain biking as a great way to get back into shape, physically and emotionally, after Billie’s baby was stillborn. Dr. Ryan had recently upgraded to a SuperSix, and made her a deal on the Cannondale she hadn’t been able to refuse.

Gucci pointed. “So what happened to the ankle?”

“Tripped.” He didn’t need to know that she’d taken a curve too fast and skidded off the trail on Pennsylvania’s Highland Plateau.

“Name’s Jeff, by the way.” He took a step closer, stuck out his right hand. “Jeff Graham.”

“Billie,” she said, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.” She wasn’t pleased to meet him, because his looks reminded her too much of her ex-husband, and triggered memories of the ugliness that had begun once he’d discovered her antibiotics had canceled out her birth control. Chuck had used the surprise pregnancy as an excuse to come clean about everything he’d been up to, including his affair with Amber. She hadn’t been his first dalliance, and probably wouldn’t be his last, but she’d do for now, because he didn’t want kids, and neither did she. As if the awful truth hadn’t hurt enough, he had accused Billie of getting pregnant on purpose, to trap him into staying.