After that, the ritual of “The Plugging In of Saint Electronick” had been the most anticipated moment of the holiday season in the Grant household. The parties had continued way into Rachel’s adulthood and only stopped the Christmas when Allison was living out her final days.

Grant wasn’t even sure where Saint Electronick resided now—somewhere deep in the cellar, he thought. He was certain that if he went down and saw it, he’d burst into tears.

He got up halfway through the show and left.

Once again, he stood and watched tourists and New Yorkers skate below the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. He knew it was time to move on when he started wondering where he might find the cord that disconnected the speakers blasting the nonstop holiday music.

He ended up on Fifth Avenue walking past department store windows—all brilliantly decorated for Christmas. He stopped in front of Saks Fifth Avenue and took in the Burberry display, staring for a long time at the pink and brown patterned cashmere scarf on a festively dressed mannequin. He thought how lovely it would have looked draped around Allison’s neck. It would have gone perfectly with her auburn hair and coloring.

For that matter, Rachel’s as well.

Grant let out a heavy sigh. Christmas was never going to be the same.

Especially this one—as a widower searching for a maniac in a foreign land.

It was just after midnight when he returned to Rachel’s apartment.

She wasn’t home yet—the lights were on exactly how Grant had left them a few hours earlier.

He passed the table with the laptop again.

This time, he stared at it a little longer, then went back to the foldout couch. He opened his carry-on bag and dug out his pajamas and toiletries. He tried unsuccessfully to avoid glancing at the computer on his way to the bathroom.

Finally, giving in to temptation, he sat down at the table. He glanced over at the door—prepared to jump up the moment he heard the knob begin to twist.

Grant tapped the keyboard.

The computer screen lit up and asked for a password. He thought about it. He typed in Allison—and got back the message Access Denied.

He figured what the hell and tried something else. Austin.

And got the same message for his trouble.

Grant shook his head. After the past two years—what did he expect?

What he expected was better of himself. True, he was a policeman and it was second nature to be inquisitive. But not spying on his one and only daughter.

He got up out of the chair, returned to bed, flicked on the television, and started flipping through the channels.

Perhaps they were showing Notting Hill again.

“Silver.”

Grant’s eyes flickered open.

Gray morning light was coming in through the window and Rachel was hovering above him. Disoriented, Grant sat up.

“Silver?”