“My sister . . . please help my sister . . .”
“It’s okay. Let me take a look at you. Take deep breaths. Just breathe.”
Breathe. She breathes. She can breathe; she’s alive.
Paramedics lunge through the door toward Noreen. One twists a tourniquet onto her arm; another takes her pulse; another crouches beside her, talking to her, telling her to hang on, hang on, hang on . . .
There are cops now, too, swarming in, closing around the man on the floor. He’s bleeding from a gunshot wound to his chest.
Rowan doesn’t give a damn whether he’s alive or dead; she only cares about her family. Dammit, dammit, he tried to hurt her family, tried to . . .
“Noreen!” she calls. “Noreen!”
The woman turns back toward Rowan. “Shh, she’s going to be all right.”
“Are you . . . who are you?”
“I’m Detective Leary. Here, can you sit up?” She stretches out a hand, and Rowan grasps it. The woman’s grip is warm and reassuring.
“You’ve got to help me, Detective. Please. I need to find my son . . . He disappeared, and they think . . .” She pauses, closing her eyes just for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts.
Mick. She has to find Mick.
“Your son disappeared?” The detective is solemn, but there’s a little twinkle in her eye. “Can you describe him?”
“He’s six--two, lanky, with green eyes and red hair . . .”
“Red hair? I’m kind of partial to that. Hmm, let me see what I can find out.” The detective steps closer to the door and calls, “Hey, Barnes? Can you come in here now? And bring your pal?”
A moment later, a large black man steps through the front door, his arm around Mick.
Rowan closes her eyes, this time in silent, thankful prayer. Then her boy is there, hugging her.
“He got here just as we did,” Detective Leary tells Rowan. “He heard you scream and he was running toward the house but my partner Detective Barnes here stopped him so that he wouldn’t get hurt.”
“What happened?” Mick asks, over and over as the paramedics rush Noreen out the door on a stretcher. “What happened?”
Rowan just shakes her head, spinning, spinning . . .
She has a feeling that it will be a long time before she can answer that question.
Right now—-as long as she has her boy back safely, and her sister is in good hands, there’s only one other thing that matters.
On her feet at last, she steps away from the bedlam, through the doorway into her study.
She dials Jake’s number. This time when it goes into voice mail, she’ll leave him a message. She’ll just say . . . she’ll say . . .
What the hell are you going to say?
But it doesn’t go into voice mail.
“Jake? You answered. I’ve been . . . trying to call you.”
“Yeah. I’ve been in a meeting, but now I’m out. I saw that you called a few times. Listen, I can’t talk about this right—-”
“It’s not that. It’s something else. It’s . . .”
“What?”
She looks around, spinning on the Gravitron. Spinning, spinning, and it’s all a blur: Mick, the detectives, Casey, the blood . . .
“Rowan?”
“Can you come home? I . . .” Her voice cracks. Dammit.
“I’m in Saratoga.”
“I know, but . . . something happened, and . . .” She swallows a sob. “I need you, Jake.”
“What happened? Is it Mick? Is he okay? Are you okay?” Concern nudges the anger from his voice.
The spinning slows.
Her gaze settles on a framed photo of herself and Jake on her desk. Arm in arm, smiling, wearing jeans and holding shovels: the day they planted the oak tree to replace the one felled by the storm.
She hesitates.
No more lies.
“We’re . . . not exactly okay. Not right now. We just . . . we need you home. Please.”
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Please, Jake . . .” Her voice breaks. “Please just come home.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.” Before he hangs up, Jake adds two last words: “Love you.”
At last, the world stops spinning. The ground is solid beneath her feet once more.
“I love you, too.”