Charlotte laughed. "You got me there."

"So, how come Mr. Mills can't toss ball with me?" It was the third time that evening that Hank had mentioned him.

"I just don't want you going over there. He… uh… may be a little unstable is all."

"What's 'unstable'?" she asked.

"I don't want you bothering him."

"But I think he's nice." Hank's voice was suddenly garbled.

"Yeah, but what were all those red lights flashing in his house? What was up with that?" Matt asked.

"I have no idea."

"I thought they were cool," Hank mumbled.

Charlotte turned her head to see her daughter chewing on a Cow Tail candy.

"Where'd you get that, Hank?"

"She always gets them," Matt said.

"Nuh-uh." Hank said.

"Yeah-huh," Matt replied. "She gets them whenever Justin's dad works the concession stand. He gives them to her for free."

"So? He gave you a box of Hot Tamales tonight. I saw him!"

"Did not."

"Did so."

"Did not!" Matt yelled.

'Tattler," Hank snapped.

"Porker," Matt said.

Charlotte just hated it when the kids chose to work out the challenges of interpersonal relations on each other after 8:00 p.m., when everyone's tempers were short. And she hated to hear her own words come out in the universal boring, whiny, singsong of mothers everywhere, but what choice did she have?

"That is enough. Both of you."

Hank started sniffling, and Charlotte reached around behind the front passenger seat and held out her hand. "Give it to me, please " A sticky, half-eaten chocolate chew landed in her palm. "Now apologize to your sister, Matt."

Matt sighed loudly, temporarily drowning out the sound of sniffles. "Sorry I called you a porker," he said.

"Am I fat?" Hank asked in a soft voice.

Charlotte pulled into the drive, feeling tired to her bones. She got out of the car and tossed the candy into the trash can just inside the garage. Then she took Hank's hand.

"You're not fat, sweetie." Charlotte reached down and wiped the tears from Hank's face, leaving two pink clean streaks across her cheeks. "Let's get you in the tub, young lady. Matt, you can take a shower in my bathroom."

"People say I'm fat, Mama."

Charlotte gripped her daughter's hand tighter as they walked up the stairs to the porch. "People come in all shapes and sizes, Hank, and what you are is healthy and beautiful and athletic and I would ignore what other people say. Just focus on liking yourself and treating others the way you would like to be treated and it will all work out, sweetie."

They were in the kids' bathroom now and Charlotte tested the water pouring from the spout, then pushed the bathtub stopper into place. She turned around to see Hank standing before her nude except for her bright yellow ball cap, her round, firm, wide little girl body flushed from exercise and fresh air. Charlotte sat on the edge of the tub, held out her arms, and Hank fell against her.

"Daddy said I was perfect and graceful and the best ballerina in the world."

Charlotte pulled off the baseball cap and breathed deep from Hank's sweaty head and the crook of her neck. "I know he did."

"But some of the girls say I'm too big to be a ballerina."

She stroked her daughter's hair as the bathroom filled with warm steam. Charlotte wondered if her words would ever have the same impact as Kurt's had and wished once more that he was still with them.

"You love to dance, sweetie, and that's all that matters. I think you are a wonderful ballerina, too."

Hank sniffed. "I wish Daddy could see me dance in my recital."

"He'll see you."

"I want him to see me play in the majors, too."

"He sees you, baby."

Hank stood straight and looked into Charlotte's face. She was grinning once more, seemingly recovered from her brief moment of insecurity.

"I look like Daddy, don't I?"

Charlotte smiled gently at her daughter, seeing the need for confirmation in her eyes. "You sure do, Hank. And you've got his spirit, too-his kind heart and his way with people. You should be very proud of that."

Hank nodded. "So when you look at me, it'll help you to not forget Daddy, right?"

Charlotte pulled back, the air emptying from her lungs in surprise, and she shook her head. "Honey, I will never forget Daddy. What in the world made you say that?"

Hank chewed on her lip and briefly looked away from her mother. Then in a soft voice she said, "Don't be mad, Mama. I just wanted to make sure you won't forget him, even when you start to love Mr. Mills."

He was just finishing another report for the U.S. attorney when Joe noticed that his cut had bled through the plastic bandage again. That sliver of window glass must have sliced him deeper than he realized. He saved the file he was working on and walked to the bathroom medicine cabinet, pressing a new strip onto the left index finger.

liiat familiar twinge of nausea hit him, and he told himself that it was only a tiny drop of blood and it was his own blood, not Steve's. But then he caught sight of his face in the mirror and knew he wasn't going to be able to fight it tonight

He flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes, knowing that there was no way to change the ending to the scene that was about to replay in his mind. Steve Simmons would always end up lying with his left cheek slapped down in a puddle of blood in the Denny's parking lot, his car keys in his hands, his eyes wide with the shock of his own death. And Joe was always going to be on his belly on the asphalt beside him, gun drawn an instant too late, still breathing despite the spray of bullets, watching the four-door silver Lexus speed away.

The coroner's report later indicated that Steve died within minutes of his wife and son, a sign that Guzman had dispatched two separate crews to two locations that night. And Joe had wondered if maybe that wasn't a blessing, because Reba and Daniel never had to hear that Steve was dead and Steve never had to know that his job had gotten his family murdered.

Joe had been glad that there was no one at home waiting for him that night. Because they'd be dead now, too.

He turned on his side,, figuring he was in for another restless night. How was a man supposed to sleep? It had been two months since that night. Since then, he'd heard plenty of reassurances that it hadn't been his fault, from the DEA-appointed shrink, from Roger, from his cowork-ers. An informant had ratted out him and Steve under torture. There was nothing that could have been done. Risk was part of the job and Steve knew it. They all knew it.

Joe shot up off the bed and paced in the darkness. He had choices to make. Maybe all this free time in the middle of nowhere was just what he needed-time to think.

He could retire. Or go on to something else. God knew what, but something else.

Roger had suggested he move into a first-line supervisor position. The higher-ups had dangled a few choice posts in his face: San Diego. San Francisco. Seattle. And Roger had pointed out the obvious so many times that it made Joe's head spin: he'd put in twelve years with the Administration and had a GS 13 ranking. He had wide-ranging field experience as a case agent. He'd seen most of what the immoral, violent world of drug dealing had to offer and it was his duty to share that knowledge with other agents. A supervisory job was the next logical step.

Logical? Sure. Appealing? Not so sure.

Joe spread his palm flat against the bedroom wall, leaned forward, and hung his head. He took a few deep breaths, feeling a strange stillness descend upon him, starting at his shoulders, spreading down to his legs, then settling in the soles of his feet, firmly planted in the plush carpet of this strange house.