A host of people contributed to my writing this book, and I want to express my appreciation to each and every one of them for their time, their expertise, and their tolerance of a novelist whoâs a relentless perfectionist.
My thanks go out to:
Angela Bell, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI Office of Public Affairsâand the real-life equivalent of a fairy godmother!
Former SSA John Mandrafina, FBI Undercover Coordinator/Sensitive Operations Program
SSA James McNamara, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit 2
Dr. Morton Cowan, Chief, Allergy Immunology and Blood and Marrow Transplant Division, UCSF Childrenâs Hospital SA Laura Robinson, Senior Team Leader, Evidence Response Team, FBI Newark Field Office
SSA Rex Stockham, Program Manager for FBI Laboratoryâs Forensic Canine Program
SA James Margolin, FBI Office of Public Affairs, New York Field Office
SSA Gavin Shea, FBI White Collar Squad, Long Island Resident Agency
Sharon L. Dunn, Department of Pediatrics, Hematology/Oncology, University of Chicago
Detective Mike Oliver, retired NYPD
Simon Jorna, owner of Simonâs Beach Bakery Café, Westhampton Beach, Long Island, New York
Michael Greene, Simonâs Beach Bakery Café and tour guide of âAmandaâsâ apartment
And to a very special core of people:
Adam Wilson, the best (and most deeply missed) editorial partner any author could ask for
Valerie Gray, who stepped in at the crisis hour and finished the process with grace, enthusiasm and commitment
Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, my incredible agents and diehard advocates
Peggy Gordijn, the quiet force of nature who stays in the background and moves mountains
And most of all my family, who, every day and in every way, give me the love, the incentive and the creative input to make each book the very best it can be.
Thank you all. Youâre the very best of the best.
December
Manhattan
Amanda Gleason gently rocked her infant son in her arms.
A new baby was truly the reaffirmation of life. If she didnât know that before this moment, she knew it now. He was her child, her miracle.
Her responsibility.
She hadnât planned on facing motherhood alone. In fact, when Paul had disappeared from the picture, she hadnât even known she was pregnant. Maybe if she had, maybe if she could have told him, things would have turned out differently.
But they hadnât.
And now the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Decisions had to be made. Pressure sheâd never even imagined. And a bittersweet pain that came every time she held Justin in her arms.
She touched his downy head with one finger, stroked the peach fuzz of his hair. As she whispered softly to him, his eyes opened wide and he stared at her intently, visibly fascinated by the sound of her voice. She gazed into those eyesâPaulâs eyesâand her chest tightened. They were a lighter brown than Paulâs, probably because they had yet to mature to their true color. But the shape, the lids, even the thick fringe of lashesâthose were all Paulâs. As was his nose, a tiny version of Paulâs bold, straight nose with the slender nostrils. He even had the dimple in his cheek that was Paulâs. Other than his golden-brown hair color and small, pursed mouthâboth of which heâd inherited from herâhe was very much Paulâs son. And even at three weeks old, he was developing a personalityâeasygoing like Paul, inquisitive like her. He spent hours staring at his fingers, opening and closing them with a fascinated expression. And he was always looking around, seemingly transfixed by the world.
Thank God he didnât know how much of a battlefield his world really was.
âMs. Gleason?â A young nurse touched her gently on the shoulder. âWhy donât you get something to eat? Maybe take a walk? You havenât done either all day.â She reached for the baby. âJustin will be in good hands. Youâve got to take care of yourself or you wonât be able to take care of him.â
Numbly, Amanda nodded. She held Justin for one more brief, desperate moment, then kissed his soft cheek and handed him over to the nurse.
How many times had she done that in the past few days? How many more times would she have to do it?
Tears dampening her lashes, she rose, retracing her steps through the reverse isolation unit and out of Sloane Ketteringâs Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit. She stripped off her mask, gloves and gown, and tossed them into the discard bin, knowing sheâd have to repeat the same sterilization process when she returned. She stood there for a moment, head bent, taking deep, calming breaths to bring herself under control. The nurse was right. Sheâd be of no use to Justin if she fell to pieces. And sheâd done enough of that already.