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  “I know that.” She looked away, out her window at the parade of azaleas lining the sidewalk leading up to an anonymous brick colonial, then looked back, directly into his eyes.

  Charlotte’s eyes were that same hazel, with tiny flecks of gold that changed with her mood. Just like Nellie’s. Now the gold had vanished. Buried under a somber green the color of inscrutable jade.

  “But why don’t you bring Mommy back?”

  He rocked backward, banging his head against the window. “Bring Mommy back?”

  His voice didn’t sound like his own; it sounded like a stranger’s. A stranger who hadn’t spent days being scrutinized by the police, press, and Charlotte’s parents, being accused of killing the woman he loved.

  A stranger who hadn’t faced lurid insinuations that things must have been terrible behind the walls of the Worth home if Charlotte had vanished of her own accord.

  What had brought him almost to violence were the “helpful” strangers placing calls to ChildLine asking, How could a social worker like Charlotte who worked abuse cases leave her daughter behind in the same house with a monster like Tommy? If the home was so intolerable that the mother ran away without a trace—or worse, the father killed her—shouldn’t someone step in and take the child away? For her own good, of course.

  Thankfully, Charlotte’s parents had put an end to that. They’d moved into Tommy’s house for almost a month—not just to keep an eye on their beloved granddaughter, but also as a quasi-suicide watch over Tommy, who’d driven himself about mad searching for Charlotte, for clues, for a way to go on living without answers…

  That was a year ago. A year ago this week, in fact. He’d spent the last few weeks reliving the horror for the parade of obligatory anniversary stories—including a segment on a national TV show that specialized in unsolved crimes. But if it helped find Charlotte, helped bring her home…

  Now, facing a daughter he’d tried so very hard to protect from the circus-freak-show atmosphere created by Charlotte’s disappearance, he dragged in a breath. “Sweetie, everyone’s trying the best they can to find Mommy and bring her home. You know that.”

  The adults in Nellie’s life, including a pediatric trauma counselor, had tried to explain what being “missing” meant. But how do you make a five-year-old understand the limbo between being here and being nowhere?

  They’d even talked about death—just in case. Tommy and Charlotte’s family refused to believe she was dead, but they needed Nellie to be prepared. Of course, the detectives and most of the world thought that was absolutely the answer to the mystery. So much easier to make a corpse vanish than a thirty-three-year-old woman.

  “But—” Nellie chewed on the corner of her collar. A few months ago it would have been her hair, but she’d finally let him take her for a haircut, even though it wasn’t the same as the way Mommy cut it. “Yesterday, Matthew said his grandfather died but the doctors shocked him and brought him back and now he’s fine, and you’re a doctor so how come you didn’t do something like that for Mommy, why didn’t you save her, why’d you let her go away and never come back?” The words emerged in one rushed breath. “Why, Daddy?”

  Tears chased down her cheeks. A tourniquet tightened around Tommy’s chest.

  Christ, he didn’t know how much longer he could take this, this feeling so raw. Helpless, powerless, angry, sad—there just were no words to describe it.

  How the hell was he supposed to heal his daughter if he couldn’t heal himself?

  Chapter 2

  LUCY HAD ONLY been working at Beacon Falls for two weeks, but every morning when she climbed the steps to her office situated in the rounded turret of the century-old Queen Anne, she couldn’t help but smile. As much as she’d loved being Lucy Guardino, FBI Supervisory Special Agent, there was something to be said about working in the private sector.

  She opened the door to her office. Sunlight beamed through windows on the curved wall, casting the antique loveseat and chair across from her desk in a glow of soft amber. It was Monday, so she watered her plants—a scant few drops for her bromeliads, an ice cube apiece for the orchids, and a careful dollop for the African violets that she cherished with extra attention because they’d been her mother’s favorites.

  After her coffee was brewed, she settled behind her desk, with its graceful curves that matched the circular space, and began catching up on the cases she was supervising. A mitochondrial DNA match from a molar recovered in a John Doe case in Kentucky meant that John Doe not only now had a name, but also a family to reunite with his remains. Valencia Frazier, her boss, would handle taking the news to the family and walking them through the logistics. Also, a new request for assistance in reviewing a cold case from Florida had arrived. She’d just began to skim through it to see which of her team would be best suited when a knock came and she looked up.

  Two men appeared in her doorway. Lucy smiled and waved them in. Both of average height, they couldn’t be more different. Don Burroughs, a Pittsburgh Bureau of Police detective from the Major Case squad, was in his mid-forties. Brown hair, brown eyes, he appeared totally unassuming… until those eyes latched onto a discrepancy at a crime scene. Then he became an unrelenting wolfhound following a scent.

  The other man, Japanese and with a face that was half smooth babyish innocence and half wizened seen-too-much, was Deputy US Marshal Timothy Oshiro. Every time Lucy saw Oshiro, an image of an ancient cypress tree flashed through her mind. Roots sunk so deep it was the original unmovable object… and if it ever came up against Oshiro’s unstoppable force, it would be doomed.

  The two of them together? She grinned. Things were about to get very, very interesting.

  “You guys get lost on the way to Krispy Kreme?”

  “Hey, Guardino,” Burroughs said, flopping into the antique Queen Anne chair across from her desk as if he was taking ownership of her office. The second thing his gaze landed on was the wedding ring on her left hand—after he’d checked out her bust line. Old habits. Although he was back with his wife, and last she’d heard things were going well, those were still the first two details Burroughs noticed in any woman. Probably had been since he was twelve. “Wow, you came up in the world.”

  Oshiro didn’t rest on such formalities. He barreled around her desk and plucked her from her chair to give her an extremely non-regulation bear hug. “Lucy-Mae,” he exclaimed. “How the hell are you?”

  “I’m good,” she said with a laugh. “Long as you don’t crack a rib.”

  He set her down gently, taking care of her left ankle. Last case she’d worked with him she’d ruined the progress she’d made rehabbing from a previous injury, and now she had permanent nerve damage, forcing her to wear a special brace and live in near-constant pain.

  “No cane?” he asked.

  “Gave it up for Lent.” It was May, and she’d only abandoned the cane a little more than a week ago, but he understood the sentiment and nodded his approval. “I take it you two aren’t here to catch up on old times?” She hadn’t seen Burroughs in a while, but Oshiro and his not-quite-girlfriend, June, had come to her daughter Megan’s birthday party last month.

  The two men exchanged glances. Oshiro backed off to balance his bulk against a blank space in the wall near the door, letting Burroughs take the lead.

  “Got a case for you,” the detective started.

  “A city case or a US Marshals case? Or both?”

  “It’s your own damn fault,” he said. “Coming here to Pittsburgh, forming that inter-agency, multi-jurisdiction task force.”

  “The one the FBI dissolved.” That and her permanent disability had led to her joining the Beacon Group, but it still rankled that the Bureau had ended a program that in less than two years had set a national standard for successful prosecutions.

  Burroughs shrugged. “What’cha expect? Typical bureau-crackpots. Anyway, a few of us have kind of kept it going. Unofficial like. We get together every month or so, swap case files that are bugging us, keep the id
eas flowing, you know?”

  “And somehow you got Timmy Oshiro working real cases instead of chasing fugitives?” She arched an eyebrow at the Deputy Marshal, who grinned in return. Oshiro led the multi-agency Western Pennsylvania Fugitive Apprehensive Strike Team, and his FAST squad lived up to its name.

  “A few of the locals assigned to me brought open cases with them. You know, to work on during down times,” Oshiro answered. Many of the actual man-hours the FAST squad spent tracking fugitives were occupied by the tedium of surveillance. “Seemed the perfect way to kill two birds,” he continued. “Work their cases that jump jurisdictions. Brainstorm, make some calls, review all the boring shit, so the guys on the street, can, well, stay on the street, knocking on doors. No biggie. Saved us from OD’ing on caffeine and doughnuts.”

  “We don’t work anything off the books,” Burroughs hastened to add, although Lucy knew from experience that the detective didn’t mind cutting corners when it came to red tape—as long as his ass and pension were well covered. “It’s all legit. Just keeping the lines of communication open, like you did with your squad. And it works. We’ve helped close some real whodunits.”

  Lucy leaned back in her chair, squinting at the two men. “I get it. You’re Batman and Superman playing Justice League. What have I got to do with it?”

  Another look between the two of them. “You know anything about amnesia?” Oshiro asked.

  Okay. Wasn’t expecting that. From Oshiro’s grin, she could see that he was pleased to catch her off guard. “I think you’re confusing me with Nick,” she said. Her husband, a psychologist who specialized in trauma.

  “Actually, tried him first,” Oshiro said. “Before we left the hospital this morning. But he was in with a patient.”

  Burroughs backed things up. “See, two days ago, Saturday, there was this girl, almost hit by a truck when she ran out of the woods. Was hiking the trail at Fiddler’s Knob, you know it?”

  “Sure. Beautiful rhododendrons and mountain laurel—and there’s a pretty waterfall above the old iron furnace. But that’s Scotia County, right? Outside Pittsburgh city limits. And definitely not federal jurisdiction—not for an almost hit and run.”

  “Wasn’t a hit and run,” Burroughs corrected her. “Trucker stopped. Turns out the lady was covered in mud, had slipped and fallen up on the mountain somewhere. Only she couldn’t remember what happened. Couldn’t remember anything.”

  “Your amnesia. What did the doctors say?” She still didn’t understand why a simple accident required the efforts of two law enforcement agencies, especially when it happened in neither of their jurisdictions, but she knew better than to rush Burroughs.

  “They admitted her for a concussion. Said she had a mild sprained ankle and contusions consistent with a fall. Nothing major. Except for the fact that she has no memory of who she is or anything before Saturday.” Burroughs glanced at Oshiro, handing off the conversational baton.

  “The hospital kept her for the weekend, ran a bunch of tests, said there’s nothing more medically to do. Called social services, who turfed it to the staties. Turns out the vehicles at the trailhead’s parking lot were vandalized on Saturday, and there was one car they hadn’t matched with an owner yet, so they didn’t have to work very hard. She’s a Sarah Brown, address in Pittsburgh.”

  Burroughs took over again. “The lot’s isolated, people lock their wallets and stuff in their cars before they hit the trail, so it’s not uncommon for thieves to strike there. But definitely inconvenient. Anyway, the staties asked us to join in on the fun.”

  Made sense. Most rural county sheriff departments in Pennsylvania only served papers; they didn’t actually do any law enforcement. Which left the state police stretched extremely thin. Especially their investigators.

  “Except we have no evidence at all that she was the victim of a crime other than the smash and grab,” Burroughs continued. “Best anyone can make out, she went for a hike in the woods, slipped and fell and hit her head—docs said it probably wasn’t even enough to knock her out, just a bruise—and now, poof, lost her entire life.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Then I got a look at her apartment.”

  He stopped, and neither man filled the silence. Damn, they’d gotten her curiosity revved up—exactly what this little soap opera routine of theirs was designed to do. They both knew she was a sucker for a good story, couldn’t stand cliffhangers. “And?”

  “And nothing,” Burroughs answered. “I mean no-thing. Literally. No photos, no personal mementoes, not even a freaking Christmas card list. Nothing to rebuild her old life or give us a clue who she is.”

  Now she knew why Oshiro was so interested. June had a vacant past as well, had had to rebuild her childhood from scratch.

  “You said her car was broken into. Maybe that’s where she kept her computer or phone or a tablet, and they were stolen?” It amazed Lucy how some people, her husband and daughter included, ran their entire lives from their phones, didn’t even bother with computers anymore. She much preferred the safety net of multiple backups and encryption, plus she hated squinting at the tiny screen—or being forced to admit she needed reading glasses. “If the thieves knew where she lived—”

  Burroughs shook his head. “No. I get what you’re saying, but this is different. Her place wasn’t burglarized. It was sterile.”

  Ahhh. She raised an eyebrow in Oshiro’s direction. “As in witness protection sterile? But when the staties ran her through NCIC, wouldn’t your brothers in WitSec have heard alarm bells?” It would have been standard procedure for the state police to run Brown’s name through the National Crime Information Center after they’d identified her.

  “Exactly why Burroughs called me. I put out a few feelers, but she’s not one of ours. We swung by her place this morning on our way here. And he’s right. Nothing to even start tracing her. A cipher.”

  “You think she’s on the run from someone.”

  “Neither of us get the vibe that she’s involved in anything criminal—” Burroughs hastened to put in. A bit too hastily? Lucy wondered. He didn’t usually go the extra mile, especially when there wasn’t even an official police case left to investigate. She bet this Sarah Brown was attractive. “Prints were clean.”

  Which meant no criminal record, but little more. A routine check wouldn’t access any of the confidential databases.

  “I met her, Lucy.” Oshiro’s expression turned serious. “If she’s running, stirring the wrong pot to put her life back together could put a target on her.”

  “But she deserves to have her life back,” Burroughs argued. Lucy had the feeling this was a re-run of an argument they’d already had more than once. “How’s she supposed to know who to watch out for if she can’t remember anything?”

  “You’re certain her slip and fall on the mountain was an accident?” Lucy asked.

  “The staties are. Because of the vehicular smash and grabs they took statements from everyone. One couple was near her when she fell—said they heard her shout, but it happened right before they heard the sound of the glass breaking and all the car alarms going off in the parking lot. And when they looked, she was back on her feet, so they didn’t stop. They didn’t see anyone near her either. Trucker’s statement was that she wasn’t scared or running from anyone, just disoriented.”

  Oshiro took a deep breath. “So… Since we have no crime, we can’t really help more. The docs discharged her from the hospital this morning, saying there’s nothing more they can do, it will just take time, so…”

  “So…” Burroughs said, his voice up ticking hopefully.

  “So…” Lucy finally relented, giving in to their obvious plea for help. It was nothing short of emotional blackmail, but she was intrigued. “Given the city’s perpetual lack of resources, especially when there’s no crime apparent, and given that the Beacon Group specializes in identifying missing persons…” Never mind that they were usually John and Jane Doe corpses, not living unidentified persons. “You came to me.”


  “See?” Burroughs said with a grin. “Told ya she’d take care of everything. Nothing to worry about, Guardino’s on the case.”

  Oshiro tilted his head, not as certain. “What do you say? You in, Lucy-Mae? I’ll owe you one.”

  Lucy snorted. Oshiro owed her about twenty-three thousand and one favors… starting with saving his life as well as June’s and her baby’s a few months ago. But when he twisted his face in that earnest little-boy expression he did so well, she couldn’t resist. And he damn well knew it.

  She stood. “I’m in.”

  Burroughs hopped to his feet. “Great. Sarah’s waiting downstairs.”

  “She’s here?”

  “We didn’t want to waste any time. She’s anxious to get her life back,” Oshiro said. “You can understand that.”

  “Besides, even if you said no, what’s she got to lose?” Burroughs added. “So she spends a morning with two handsome law enforcement professionals. Win/win, right?”

  Lucy somehow managed to restrain an eye roll as he rocked back on his heels and puffed out his chest. “All right. But first, let me get my team on board.”

  Chapter 3

  TOMMY PARKED HIS Volvo wagon beside Lucy’s Subaru. He was running late but couldn’t resist the temptation to pause before entering the house.

  Most people visiting the Beacon Group for the first time were fascinated by the sprawling Queen Anne mansion perched on the bluff overlooking the Monongahela River. The ancestral home of the Frazier clan, whose roots went back long before the American Revolution, it wasn’t the first house to stand sentry on this land, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  Instead of focusing on the curved turrets and numerous gables, Tommy’s gaze settled, as it always did, on the eternal flame in its iron tripod guarding the edge of the bluff a hundred feet from the house. The current owner and leader of the Beacon Group, Valencia Frazier, had created the flame as a memorial to her murdered husband, as well as to the generations who’d come before, lighting bonfires each night to warn strangers of the treacherous waterfalls that lurked, invisible, around the sharp bend of the river.