Ellie drank some more of her whiskey. After she put down the glass, she took in a deep, slow breath and, squaring her shoulders, turned her attention to the picture on the right half of the corkboard.

This one was a five-by-seven of a black-haired boy a few months shy of celebrating his sixth birthday. He wore dark blue footie pajamas and sat Indian-style on a hardwood floor desperately in need of refinishing. His expression was what always drew her to the picture—the way he stared in wide-eyed rapture at the Christmas presents arranged under a small artificial tree bursting with lights and handmade decorations.

The boy’s name was Jonathan Cullen. His mother called him Jonathan, always, but everyone else called him J.C., including Ellie. She had no idea if J.C. was still alive, what he might look like now. As she stared at his photograph, she hoped, as she had thousands and thousands of times over the years, that wherever J.C. was right now, he knew she still loved him and missed him and was still searching for him.

That his twin sister hadn’t given up, would never give up.

CHAPTER 9

I’VE BEEN SHOT.

That was Sebastian’s only thought as he sank through the cool blue water belonging, ironically, to the very same pool where he had taught Paul to swim. He had played with him in this pool, had thrown Paul and his friends into the air in this pool when they were little, and that boy had grown into an adult monster that had given a hand signal to the person aiming the rifle from the neighbor’s bedroom window.

But he had been shot in the chest, not the head, and here came the question riding on the throbbing waves of pain: had the round penetrated the thin, light bulletproof vest he wore every day? It sure as hell felt like it had.

How much blood am I losing?

How much time do I have before I get light-headed and pass out and bleed to death?

Don’t let that prick win.

Sebastian could no longer hold his breath. His body ignored his brain’s order not to breathe and he found himself trying to inhale the water—not the brightest idea, since he wasn’t a goddamn fish. He pushed himself off the bottom of the pool and kicked and thrashed his way to the surface. The moment he felt the air hit his face, he tried to breathe, and his lungs and body revolted. He vomited up pool water and the digested remnants of the Coke and chicken salad sandwich he’d had for lunch. His loafers couldn’t find purchase on the slick bottom of the pool and he flailed about wildly in the water, his chest on fire and the pool steps directly in front of him, ten or so feet away.

His brain was locked in survival mode, and it screamed, Sniper could still be in the window, and don’t forget about Paul—where’s Paul?

A couple of quick glances revealed that Paul wasn’t in the backyard or near the driveway or anywhere else. Where the hell was he? As for the sniper, Sebastian didn’t bother to look as he swam madly toward the steps—although what he was doing wasn’t really swimming but more like stumbling through water and thrashing his limbs as he tried to suck in air between gagging, coughing, and heaving. Keep moving, he told himself. It’s hard to shoot a moving target, so keep moving if you want to live.