“Oh, and by the way, your son has sprouted a full set of teeth and started walking while you’ve been gone.”

Uh-oh. Full-on sarcasm.

Montoya chuckled despite a trace of admonition in her words. “Funny lady.”

“I can be if I have to.”

He checked his watch. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Fabulous! Think you can manage to pick up a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread? French, maybe, or Italian.”

“If you twist my arm,” he said, then added with a low chuckle, “Real hard. Or any other body part you prefer.”

“Like your nose?” she quipped back.

“Tell ya what, I’ll let you decide tonight.”

“Promises, promises, just give me a call when you’re leaving the office, and I’ll adjust dinnertime accordingly.”

“You’re on.”

“I’d better be.” She hung up and he was left smiling. Yeah, he’d gotten lucky with her. Real lucky. He glanced at the small photo on his desk of Abby, her shoulders bare as she held a swaddled Benjamin close. She gazed down at the baby, her eyes full of love. In the shot, little Ben was sleeping, dark eyelashes sweeping over his chubby cheeks, black hair framing his serene face.

Montoya’s heart swelled with an emotion he’d never thought he would feel.

“Hey!” Bentz popped his head into the office. “I’m going to have another talk with Father Father. Thought you might want to come.”

“Now?” He glanced at the clock on his desk.

“He’s a busy man.”

“Aren’t we all. Is that what you’re calling O’Toole? Father Father?”

“Yeah, premature, I guess. We don’t really know yet.”

Montoya rolled his chair away from his desk and reached for his jacket. “Guess we’ll find out soon.” The blood work was being processed. No DNA results back yet, but the blood sample Frank O’Toole had reluctantly deigned to give would soon reveal whether he was a potential candidate.

And if he wasn’t, Montoya thought, checking his sidearm and sliding it into his shoulder holster, they were back to square one.

In the darkness, with candles burning, a solitary window open to allow in a breath of night, I hang my robes on a peg. I take my time, heat the oil, then slowly rub the silky liquid upon my nakedness, anointing my body, feeling my hands run over my own muscles. Solid and sinewy beneath my skin, the muscles work smoothly as I massage them.

Shoulders and abdomen, rigid and strong.

Hips and thighs, muscular and glistening in the candlelight. Buttocks round, flexed.

I see my reflection in the narrow mirror.

Tall.

Handsome.

Nearly perfect.

But there are flaws.

One in my shoulder where a bullet had lodged, buried in the tissue until I had the strength to extract it. There is still a depression, a dimple marring the skin, but it is small, barely visible now. No real damage had been done.