She crossed to the bed and kissed Mac on the cheek.

“I’m right, you’re wrong,” she informed him.

“You haven’t heard a word I said.”

“Oh yes, I did.”

He cupped the back of her head, pulled her down for a more serious kiss. They both understood the importance of never leaving the house angry.

“Things are different now,” he said quietly.

“I know things are different, Mac. I’m the one wearing pants with an elastic waist.”

“I worry.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. According to last week’s exam, mommy and baby are doing great.” She sighed, relenting a fraction. “Eight to twelve more weeks, Mac. That’s all I’m asking for-this last little window before I become as big as a house, and then I have to obey your every command because I won’t be able to put on my own shoes.”

She gave him a final kiss, feeling his resistance in the set of his jaw. She straightened and headed for the door.

She heard his last words, too. The line he never spoke, probably never would speak, but remained in the air between them.

Her father had also put the needs of the Bureau first. And it had destroyed her family.

SANDY SPRINGS WAS LOCATED FIFTEEN MILES NORTH of Atlanta, off Route 285 and Georgia 400. A major metro area, it boasted four hospitals, several Fortune 500 companies, and, of course, a freshwater spring. While Sandy Springs strove for a family-friendly reputation, it remained best known for its nightlife, with bars that stayed open until four a.m. and a plethora of “massage parlors” always eager for new clients. Young, old, male, female, drunk, or sober, you could find a good time in Sandy Springs.

Which really started to annoy the locals. So in June 2005, they voted overwhelmingly to incorporate as a city, overnight becoming the seventh largest in the state. First order of business for the brand-new city council: form its own police department to crack down on the area’s less desirable elements. Sandy Springs was jumping on the urban renewal bandwagon, by God, right down to a new collection of very trendy restaurants.

Kimberly hadn’t worked with the new PD yet. She figured the officers would either be fresh-faced recruits or fifty-year-old state police retirees coasting into a second career in a middle-class metro area. She got a little of both.

Kid that met her at the door looked about three years away from shaving. The night sergeant, on the other hand, with his thinning hair and growing middle, had clearly been around the block. He shook her hand warmly, angled his head at the kid and gave her a look that said, Can you believe the puppy I got working for me? In case that wasn’t enough, he smiled and winked.

Kimberly didn’t return the wink or the smile and after a moment Sergeant Trevor gave up.

“We picked up the girl shortly after one a.m.,” Trevor reported. “She was working the MARTA station on-”

“She was working at the train station?” Kimberly couldn’t help herself. Somehow, she’d assumed the girl had been pinched during a raid on a massage parlor. Streetwalkers were reserved for the red light districts such as Fulton Industrial Boulevard. In theory, Sandy Springs was too…hip…for that kind of obvious display.

“Happens,” Trevor said. “Especially since we’ve started raiding more of the establishments. Some of the girls think they can blend in with the clubbers, you know, except the hookers show slightly less skin. Others…hell, they’re too strung-out to care, or operating on orders to pick up more chicks, that sort of thing. Gotta replenish the henhouse, you know.”

Trevor puffed out his chest, clearly wanting to impress the fed. Before this job, he’d probably been a security officer, Kimberly decided. Any occupation that allowed him to wear a uniform.

The kid had disappeared. Kimberly suspected that was also due to Trevor’s orders. He wanted this to be his show. She pinched the bridge of her nose and wished she were back at the plane crash.

She asked for Trevor’s report on the arrest. He printed it out, she skimmed the particulars. Time, location, other activity. It seemed very straightforward. Girl had been found with an ounce of meth in her pocket, and was now looking at doing some time. So naturally Delilah Rose insisted she was an informant for the feds.

“I’ll talk to her,” Kimberly said.

“Is it drugs?” Trevor blurted out. “She gonna turn in a dealer, maybe a supply network? Meth, hell, it’s taking over the entire state. Make her give you someone big. No penny-ante crap. The state’s due for a major arrest.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kimberly assured him drily. “Where is she?”

Trevor led her to an interrogation room, the other advantage of crying snitch. Rather than waiting in a holding cell, Delilah got her very own tiny square room and a can of Diet Coke. Not bad for a night’s work.

Kimberly paused outside the door. Through the one-way glass, she had her first view of the “informant.” She did her sizing up quickly and without giving anything away on her face.

Delilah Rose was white, a surprise in a state where the majority of prostitutes were African American or, especially in the massage parlors, Asian. She appeared to be early twenties, with the blotchy skin and dirty-blond hair of a woman living too hard, too fast.

As Kimberly stood there, the girl raised her face belligerently and stared at the mirror. Bright blue eyes, hard-set jaw. Tough. Sober.

Good.

“I’ll take it from here,” Kimberly told Trevor. “Thanks for giving me a call.”

“No problem. You’ll let us know-”

“Thanks for giving me a call,” Kimberly said again, and shouldered her way past the hefty sergeant into the tiny room.

Kimberly took her time. Closed the door. Pulled out a hard plastic chair. Had a seat.

From inside her jacket pocket, she pulled a mini-recorder. Next, a small spiral notebook and two pens. Finally, she made a show of checking her watch and writing the time at the top of the pad.

Then she set down her pen, leaned back in her chair, and, folding her hands over her stomach, proceeded to stare at Delilah Rose. Minute passed, then two or three. Kimberly wondered if Sergeant Trevor was watching on the other side of the mirror. No doubt he was rapidly growing impatient with this lack of show.

The girl was good, but Kimberly better. Delilah broke first, picking up her Coke, then realizing the can was empty and returning it nervously to the table.

“Want another?” Kimberly asked quietly.

“No, thank you.”

Ah, manners. Most suspects, informants, addicts tried them on for law enforcement, maybe falling back on that childhood promise that if you just used the magic word…They were very polite. At least at first.

Kimberly returned to silence. The girl cleared her throat, then began rotating the empty can with her fingertips.

“You’re trying to make me nervous,” the girl said at last, her tone sulky, faintly accusing.

“Are you high, Delilah Rose?”

“No!”

“Police said they found you with meth.”

“I don’t do drugs! Ever. I was just holding the bag for a friend. How was I supposed to know it was meth?”

“Do you drink?”

“Sometimes-but not tonight.”

“I see. And what were you doing tonight?”

“Hell”-now the attitude was coming out-“I wasn’t doing nothin’ tonight. Just visited a club for a little dancing. Then catching MARTA to fly home. Since when is needing public transport a crime?”

Kimberly merely eyed Delilah’s outfit. Underneath a navy blue jacket that was too thin for this time of year, the girl was a walking advertisement for spandex. Short, shiny skirt the color of eggplant. Jet-black halter top, so tight her breasts spilled out the sides. Then there were the four-inch stiletto heels.