In the bathroom, he located bandages and antibacterial gel, thankful he hadn't packed these things yet. Back in the kitchen, the woman was looking around at the cluttered space.

"Where you moving?" she asked.

"Home. New Hampshire."

"How come?"

"Time for a change. How's your head feel?"

She took the paper towel off and looked at the blood that had soaked it. Her skin paled even more. "I'm not good with blood."

"You're doing fine." He urged her hand back to the wound. "Let's get the bleeding stopped before we bandage it. You want me to get you a Tylenol or something."

"It doesn't hurt that bad." She smiled. "Thanks for not letting me bleed to death on the street."

He chuckled at her attempt at humor and leaned against the countertop. "Were you on your way somewhere? Is there someone I can call?"

Her pale skin turned slightly pink. "Actually, I was on my way to visit you."

He pushed away from the counter. Glanced toward the door and forced his gaze back at the woman. He was being paranoid, but he couldn't help it. Nor could he help the demanding tone in his voice when he said, "Why?"

"You're Walter Boyle, right?"

He crossed his arms, clenched his fists. Made himself take a deep breath. "It's Nate, but yeah. Walter's my middle name."

"But in the Times—"

"I'm Walter Boyle. Who are you?"

She smiled, but he didn't return it. "We've never met. A few years ago, you worked on a story with my sister. Marisa Vega. Do you remember?"

The name had him steadying himself against his counter again. Remember her? She'd sat beside him on the bus, given him the story of a lifetime, and then, after a few weeks in hiding and with a little help from him, she'd disappeared.

Marisa. Her name rose like a crocus blooming after a long cold winter, changing the gray tones of his world into a bright hopeful spring.

Sheesh. He sounded like a bad poet.

She'd been twenty, five years younger than he. About five-five, shiny brown hair cut to shoulder length, deep brown eyes he'd not allowed himself to dive into. She'd looked like a cross between a younger Eva Longoria and an angel with wings unsullied and eyes unspoiled.

Not that he'd noticed. It was all about the job. At least that's what he told himself as he'd listened to her story, trying desperately to focus on her words and not on her pink lips forming the sounds. He'd been planning their future when she'd dropped the bomb.