Millie laughed, but it was shaky. “She loves books. This is the perfect place for her to be.”

But where is the perfect place for me? Amos wondered.

Soberly, he crossed the library to where Abigail sat in a small chair, two smaller children at her feet, completely engrossed in the story she was reading aloud. She looked up at him, disappointment clouding her eyes. “Do we need to go, Papa?”

“Just for a little while. We need to have some lunch.”

“I am hungry,” she admitted, then looked down at the smaller children. “If you’re here when I’m finished with my lunch, we can read some more.”

The mother of the children met Amos’s eyes, her lips curving into a smile. “Your daughter is a very good reader. My twins never sit still long enough for me to read to them. Girls, can you thank Abigail for reading to you?”

“Thank you,” the twins chorused.

Abigail smiled sweetly. “You are welcome.” She skipped to a cart and set the book atop a pile. “That’s where Miss Millie said to put the books I’m finished with. I’m ready, Papa.”

He held out his hand, his heart settling when she took it without hesitation. It didn’t matter what he did or where his place would be. As long as his daughter was safe and smiled at him, it would be all right. It would be perfect.

They turned for the door as it opened, two women entering. They were clearly related. Mother and daughter, probably. Both had blond hair and the same brown eyes. The older woman’s hair was streaked with silver, but her step was energetic.

She and the younger woman walked straight to the desk. He wasn’t intending to eavesdrop, but he heard the older woman say his name and he froze in his tracks.

Millie cast him an anxious glance. “Amos? These ladies want to talk to you.”

The younger woman smiled, the kind of smile that was supposed to calm frayed nerves. “We mean no harm. Did you e-mail Jeff Bunker, sir?”

Amos stiffened. Reading his mood, Abigail stepped closer to his side, clutching his hand harder.

“Papa?” she whispered, and in that moment she was a scared seven-year-old again, the confident reader of Ramona the Pest gone like mist in the sunshine.

“I did.” Amos wanted to say more but had no idea which words would be the right ones.

The older woman stepped forward. “Are you Amos Terrill?” she asked, her accent sounding vaguely familiar. Russian, maybe?

He pulled Abigail closer, so that she stood partially behind him. “I am.”

The older woman smiled, the same smile that still brightened her daughter’s face. “My name is Irina Sokolov. This is my daughter Sasha.” She half bent, tilting her head toward Abigail. “And who is this pretty girl?”

Abigail was trembling and Amos was tempted to swing her into his arms and bolt for the door, but then the woman’s name sank in. “Sokolov, you said?” He’d read that name an hour before. It was in the article about Ephraim’s attempted abduction of Mercy from the airport. The attempt had been thwarted by an off-duty detective. Sokolov had been his name, too.