Sam’s own stomach began to ache with anxiety. There were a lot of people she could call to pick him up—Shelby, either of her sisters, her stepmother, Nick, even Scotty’s Secret Service detail could escort him home. But because Scotty had asked for her, no one else would do. At the last light before the parking lot to HQ, she turned to Hill. “You’ll go to the Dominican Republic and work that angle?”

“Yes.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You do the same. Hope your son is okay.”

“Thanks.” Sam got out of the car and ran for the parking lot. Once inside her own car, she called Nick, but got his voice mail. “Hey, babe, just wanted to tell you I’m on my way to get Scotty from school. He’s got a stomachache. I’ll keep you posted. Love you.”

Sam took a circuitous route to Capitol Hill, trying to avoid midday traffic. Her blood pressure was through the roof by the time she illegally parked outside the school and ran inside. In the main office, the receptionist was on the phone. Sam held back her inclination to use her usual receptionist skills on this one, until she realized the woman was on a personal call.

“My kid is sick,” Sam said.

The woman had the nerve to hold up a finger.

Seriously? Sam wanted to reach out and snatch the phone out of her hand—and break the finger. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that Scotty would have to come back here tomorrow. “My kid is sick,” she said again, louder this time.

This time the woman frowned at her. “I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”

“Where can I find the nurse’s office?”

“I’ll call down there for you. Your son’s name?”

“Scott Cappuano.” The sound of his new name rolling off her tongue made her smile—on the inside. She refused to smile at the receptionist.

She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Scott Cappuano’s mother is here to pick him up.”

Scott Cappuano’s mother is here.

Her knees nearly buckled from the emotional wallop that accompanied five perfectly innocuous words that meant the world to her. When tears threatened, Sam turned away from the reception desk, fighting for composure. Her heart felt like someone was squeezing it. And then Scotty came into the office, dragging his backpack behind him, and nothing in the world mattered but whatever he needed. His Secret Service agents followed at a respectful distance.

“Hey, buddy,” she said, reaching for him and starting for the door.

“You have to sign him out, Mrs. Cappuano,” the receptionist said, pointing to a binder on the counter.