“Hey, beautiful,” a deep, familiar voice said. A big hand brushed over her hair and rested on her shoulder. She leaned into him as he sat down next to her, turned her face toward him, her head instinctively finding the perfect spot against his shoulder.

“You look a lot like my wife,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her. “Only my wife is always happy. I make sure of it.”

Her breath hitched in her throat as she looked up at him. “H-how did you know I n-needed you?”

He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Well, I like to think you need me every minute of every day,” he said, his dark eyes shining.

Anne sniffed and managed a little smile. “I do.”

He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.

To people who didn’t know them, Anne supposed they seemed an unlikely couple. Vince, forty-nine, more than a little world-wise and world-weary, a man who had dedicated his life to understanding evil. And Anne herself, twenty-nine, a former fifth-grade teacher who had dedicated her life to understanding children.

Yet they made perfect sense to her. Even as a child, Anne had been mature beyond her years. She had never been interested in young men. Vince was mature, strong, full of integrity, a man who knew his own mind. A man who had no interest in wasting his second chance at life.

“Tough morning with the demon child?” he asked.

“Don’t say I told you so.”

Vince shook his head. “I know you have to try. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Same old, same old. Dennis said something ... I just needed a moment. I’ll be fine.”

He brushed her dark hair back. “Tough cookie.”

“When I have to be.”

“The point is, you don’t have to be.”

“I know,” she acknowledged and deftly changed the subject. “What did Tony call you out on so early?”

“A homicide,” he said, getting what Anne called his cop eyes—an expression that gave away nothing.

“I know that,” she said with a hint of irritation. “Was it something bad?”

Stupid question. Nobody called Vince Leone for a bar brawl that ended with one idiot breaking the skull of another idiot. He got calls in the middle of night from detectives in Budapest, FBI agents in New York, law enforcement agencies all over the world, to consult on only the most grisly, psychologically twisted cases. If Tony Mendez called before dawn, he had a big reason.

“Do you know a woman named Marissa Fordham?”

“No,” Anne said, “but the name is familiar.”

“She was an artist.”

Anne thought about it. “Oh, right. She did a poster for the Thomas Center last year. It was gorgeous.”