"It matters more to me than anything in the world."

Marcelo blinked.

Ellen blinked back. For a minute, they played eye chicken.

Marcelo sighed, and his expression softened. "Okay, you win. Take the time you need this week, but that's it. I'll tell everyone you're not feeling well. It'll make sense, after you fainted dead away."

"You're saying yes?" Ellen was dumbfounded. "Why?"

"I'm trying to show you that I'm not a jerk."

"I know that. I never thought you were."

Marcelo lifted an eyebrow, dubious, but Ellen knew she'd never convince him otherwise, after what Sarah had told him.

"What about the homicide piece?"

"It can wait a week. The fire in the Yerkes Building is the new story."

"What fire?" Ellen had been in the love cocoon with Will and hadn't heard. The Yerkes was one of the biggest buildings in town.

"Three people killed, cleaning personnel, so sad. The building burned to the ground. Police suspect arson."

"Wait a minute," Ellen said, as the truth dawned on her. "Does that mean you didn't really need my draft, just now?"

"Uh, yes." Marcelo looked sheepish. "Oh well."

"You rat!"

"You don't think I'm a rat. You like me."

Ellen was mortified. "How do you know?"

"I run the newsroom. You think I don't know the news?"

Ellen laughed, embarrassed. "Oh yeah, so what else do you know?"

"Is it true?" Marcelo's dark eyes glittered in a teasing way.

"You answer me. Then I'll answer you."

"I know everybody believes that I'm attracted to you, and that's why you're not getting laid off."

Ellen flushed.

"And I have to say, they're half-right," Marcelo answered, his voice suddenly serious. His eyes met hers across the counter, with a very adult honesty. "I would love to take you out, I admit it."

Ellen felt a smile spread across her face.

"But that's not the reason you're keeping your job. You're keeping your job because you're a great reporter."

"Thank you. And what if this crush is mutual?"

"So is it?" Marcelo was grinning, but she couldn't believe they were having this conversation. Oreo Figaro listened, in shock.

"Yes."

"That's very nice to hear, but it's too bad. Nothing will happen between us. It compromises you. It compromises me. This is romance in the time of sexual harassment, and that means nothing good happens, never ever. Except maybe this." In the next second, Marcelo leaned over and planted the softest, sweetest kiss on her unsuspecting lips, and when it was over, he pulled away. "Never ever again." "Excruciating," Ellen said, meaning it.

"Mommy, don't go!" Will wailed, grabbing Ellen around the knees and holding on for dear life. She was dressed for the early flight, her purse on her shoulder, her roller bag packed and ready, but she wasn't going anywhere, blocked by the Wall of Guilt.

"Honey, I have to." Ellen rubbed his little back. "Remember, we talked about this? I have to go away for work but I'll be back very soon, in four or five days, probably."

"FOUR DAYS!" Will burst into new tears, and Connie intervened, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Will, you and me will have a great time. I brought ice cream, and we can make sundaes after school today. Won't that be fun?"

"Mommy, no!"

"Will, it's all right." Ellen had learned from experience that he would never calm down, so she gave him a last hug and kiss on the head while she pried his fingers off one by one, like the dewclaws of a kitten. "I have to go, honey. I'll call you tonight. You'll see, I'll be back soon."

"Say good-bye, W." Connie had him in hand. "Bye, Mommy, see you soon!"

"Love you, Will," Ellen said, opening the door the second she was freed and running out into the cold with her bag.

Wondering if every mother felt like a fleeing felon, at times.

The sky was a supersaturated teal, and kelly green fronds on the palm trees fluttered in the breeze. Lush olive green hedges lined the curbs, and thick lawns, edged to perfection, bordered dense reds of climbing bougainvillea, the orange and yellow of tiny lantana flowers, and dark purple jacaranda. And that was just the Miami airport.

Ellen slipped on a pair of sunglasses, driving a rental car, leaving the window open until the air-conditioning kicked in. She sweltered in her navy sweater and took it off when the traffic slowed to a stop. According to the dashboard, the temperature hovered at ninety-nine degrees, and the humidity mixed ocean salt, heavy perfume, and cigarette smoke like a beachside cocktail. In less than an hour, she'd be at Carol and Bill Braverman's.

She dug in her purse and found the paper with the home address, which she'd gotten online and MapQuested last night. The exit wasn't far up the highway. She leaned over the steering wheel, craning her neck like a sea turtle, not wanting to miss it. The traffic was stop-and-go, in impossibly heavy congestion that took up four lanes, wider than any expressway back home.

Traffic stopped again, and Ellen reflected on her mission. She'd have to wait for an opening to get the proof she needed and she couldn't predict when that would happen. She'd have to keep on her toes, and the hard part would be staying undercover. Nobody could know why she was here, least of all the Bravermans.

She left the highway, got off at the exit, and in time found herself cruising along a smooth concrete causeway over a choppy turquoise bay lined with mansions, many with glistening white boats parked along private slips. She reached the other side, where the traffic was lighter than it had been and the cars costlier. She took a right and a left, then saw the street sign outlined in bright green. Surfside Lane. She took a right onto the Bravermans' street.

Did Will start his life here? Was this his street?

She passed a modern gray house, its front a huge expanse of glass, then a Spanish stucco mansion with a red-tiled roof, and finally an ornate French chateau. Each house was different from the next, but she noticed right away that they all had one thing in common. Every home had a yellow ribbon tied out front, whether it was to a palm tree, a front fence, or a gate.

She slowed the car to a stop, puzzled. The ribbons were pale and tattered, like the one her neighbors, the Shermans, had back home, for their daughter serving in Iraq. But all these people couldn't have family serving in the war. She sensed the explanation before she saw it, cruising ahead to 826, then closing in on 830, which confirmed her theory.

HELP US FIND OUR SON, read a large white sign, festooned with yellow ribbons, and it stood planted in an otherwise picture-perfect front lawn. The sign showed the age-progressed photo of Timothy Braverman from the white card, and tiger lilies and sunny marigolds grew around its base, a living memorial to a son the Bravermans prayed wasn't gone forever.

Ellen's throat caught. She felt a pang of sympathy, and conscience. She had known from the Braverman website that they were missing Timothy, but seeing the sign with her own eyes made it real. The boy on the sign, Will or Timothy, looked back at her with a gaze at once familiar and unknown.

Please, no.

She set her emotions aside and looked past the sign. The Bravermans' house was like something out of Architectural Digest, a large contemporary with a crushed-shell driveway that held a glistening white

Jaguar. Suddenly two women in tank tops and running shorts walked past the car, pumping red-handled weights, and Ellen hit the gas, not to arouse suspicion.

She circled the block, composing herself and cooling down as she eyed the homes, one more lovely than the next. She had expected that the neighborhood would be wealthy; any family who could afford that reward would live in a nice place, and her online research had told her that she was driving through a neighborhood of three-million-dollar houses. In fact, according to zoom.com the Bravermans' house cost $3.87 million, which she tried not to compare with her three-bedroom, one-bath back home.