Immediately after Finley woke from her coma, Luke had promised her that she’d be okay. It was proving harder to convince himself of that.

Days passed. Two, then three, then four of them. Finley’s progress was so impressive that they transferred her from the hospital to a rehab facility. Yet he still felt foolishly protective of her. On edge.

Every night since the one when they’d had their middle-of-the-night conversation, she’d insisted he return to his apartment to get quality sleep. What she didn’t know was that quality sleep was no longer an option. Nightmares infested his dreams. In them, Ken dragged Finley closer and closer to the cliff. Luke fought to reach her in time, but he never did. Each time he failed, he watched her fall.

At most, he got five hours of sleep a night. Which left him with a lot of time, alone and awake. He no longer watched TV or read news on his computer. He spent every free hour chasing down information on the Vance brothers, their families, their friends. Or writing about what he’d experienced before, during, and after the earthquake in El Salvador. Or praying.

Near seven o’clock on a Wednesday morning, six days after Finley regained consciousness, Luke received an email from CeCe.

It included a long list of all the people connected to the Vance brothers and every detail about them she’d unearthed. She’d even attached a photo of a drawing she’d created that showed the Vance family tree.

Luke increased the size of the drawing until it filled his computer screen. Hungrily, he searched the image for information.

One of Dennis Vance’s daughters worked at a law firm. Reading the name of her law firm was like slotting a missing puzzle piece into place.

When Luke reached Finley’s room at the rehab center two hours later, he found her sitting cross-legged on her bed, wearing a soft yellow sweater and leggings. She’d piled her black hair onto her head. He’d brought her jewelry box to her days ago, and now several rings glittered on her fingers. Yesterday, he’d caught her speaking passionately to one of the staffers about the need for more managed feral cat colonies. The day before that, she’d started asking the nursing and PT staff if they felt called to adopt a dog, foster a dog, or volunteer at her non-profit.

She was more and more herself all the time. So how come he couldn’t stop worrying that her health would backslide?

She beamed at him. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

“Then let me sleep on the sofa in here tonight. Please.”

“No. You’re running ragged even though I’m sending you home to sleep. I can’t imagine how worn out you’d be if you slept on this sofa every night.”