"No," Alex spoke up for the first time. "He needs to go to the hospital. He's too old to be out in this stuff."

"He can't," Timmie said, her focus still on her father. "It'll confuse him. And Medicare won't cover it."

"Yes it will," Alex assured her. "I'll see to it."

Timmie turned to see that Alex was smiling at her, and there was no pity in those lovely brown eyes. She could have kissed him on the spot. "Thanks," she said.

"After a couple of days at Memorial, we can figure out what else to do."

"Thank you."

And so she ended up walking her massive father out the doors of the church like a stunned bear, and spent the next two hours getting him settled in the hospital, where they tied him down and snowed him all over again so he wouldn't sing to the other patients or hit the staff. And then she went home to confront her baby-sitter for letting him get loose in the first place.

"You didn't tell me he could be that fast!" the babysitter protested. A strapping forty-year-old woman who claimed experience in children and adults, she'd come highly recommended and even more highly paid for. And she'd let that old man out on her first night.

"I've told you before," Timmie snarled, her temper worsening. "He could talk you into robbing the rectory for him. You never believe him unless he says he has to pee. Are we clear on that now?"

"Well, don't blame me," she objected, puffing her full chest out like a pigeon with a crow in sight. "I did my best."

Which meant Timmie was running out of relief baby-sitters, and it was a long way to go till the ninth inning.

The entire time Timmie had been confronting the baby-sitter, Meghan had been bouncing on the balls of her feet as if she'd saved her grandfather instead of letting him get loose.

"Well, what do you have to say, young lady?" Timmie demanded, swinging around on her. "Didn't you even notice your grandda walk out the door?"

"I was busy, Mom," Meghan apologized, eyes glinting oddly, her hands wrapped tightly around each other. "I was so busy."

Timmie definitely didn't like the look of this. "Doing what?"

"I had to answer the phone," the little girl all but sang.

Timmie's stomach dropped. She wasn't a nurse because she liked bedpans. She was a whiz at diagnosing symptoms. And she diagnosed Meghan's with no problem at all. God, no, not this.

"Who was on the phone, Meghan?" she asked, knowing.

Meghan beamed and spread her hands. "Daddy."

Timmie thought she was going to throw up. "Who?"

Meghan began to dance around. "Daddy. My daddy. I told you he'd find us, and he did. He said he'd figured we'd try and come here, and he was awfully upset with you for taking me away like that. Didn't I tell you, Mom? He misses me so much. He's coming to see us."

Timmie sat down so fast she unlodged a pile of health flyers and sent them cascading to the floor. Meghan kept pirouetting around the room like a sprite on high air. As for Mrs. Filpin, she was busy stuffing her knitting into her bag and mumbling about ungrateful clients.

Jason. Oh, Jesus, Timmie had known it. He'd finally come off that last high and decided to look for them, and now it was going to start up all over again. The lawsuits, the harassment, the control, just to prove he still could. And Timmie just didn't have the money or the patience to deal with him this time.

"Did he say when he was coming?" she asked, trying very hard not to scream.

"No," Meghan sang, still twirling. "He has some business to finish. He's so busy, but he's coming right here when he's finished. And he's going to buy me a pony!"

He was waiting, just like always. Playing Timmie along, stretching her out, lurking just below the water like the shark in Jaws until she let down her guard.

"I just can't do it," she muttered to herself, unable to move. Unable to think past the overwhelming urge to run to work and drown herself in some good, mindless trauma.

She was going to need a lawyer. She was going to need a nursing home. Hell, she was going to need a new baby-sitter.

Screw it, she decided, getting back to her feet. She'd think about it all tomorrow. She and Scarlett, soul mates to the end, the only difference being that Scarlett looked better in curtains and Timmie knew what to do with a parking lot full of injured soldiers. But both of them up to their elbows in manure, and neither of them knowing how to admit defeat.

Tomorrow. After she waded around in an accident or two at work, just to settle her nerves.

"Meghan?"

Meghan came to a sliding halt a couple of feet away, her hair still flying, her expression once again caught between warring emotions—this time, exhilaration and guilt. Timmie held out her arms.

"Come here, punkin. I need a hug."

"But you're mad at me."

Forget the exhilaration. The kid radiated a hundred percent apprehension from those big blue eyes. Afraid, even as high as she was, that she'd be left. If she were bad, if she were noisy, if she was too demanding. If she chose one parent over another. Her father had done it. Wouldn't her mother? Most days it wasn't noticeable. On a day when her grandfather had slipped his bonds and her father had called, it was glaringly obvious. And nothing Timmie could do would convince her otherwise.

"Yeah, I was a little mad," she admitted. "But mostly with Mrs. Filpin. She was the adult. She should have watched Grandda."

"What about Daddy?" Such a small voice.

Timmie grinned. "How could he watch Grandda?" she asked. "He's in California."

Meghan almost smiled.

"Do I love you?" Timmie asked, a game as old as her child.

"Yes."

"No matter what?"

A hesitation this time, which spoke volumes about how little a small girl trusted her father, no matter how excited his call had made her. "Uh-huh."

Timmie smiled right through the terrible comprehension. "Well, then, let's hug on it."

Meghan rushed at Timmie as if afraid the offer would be withdrawn, and Timmie hugged Meghan before she had the chance to back out, a tiny flood wall against the frustrations of Timmie's life.

"I love you," the little girl whispered.

"Me, too." Timmie picked her up and swung her into her arms. "Come on, munchkin. Let's go read Charlotte's Web and feed Renfield some flies."

"I don't think Mrs. Filpin likes Renfield, Mom," Meghan whispered in conspiratorial tones.

Timmie had to laugh. "Well, that settles it then. She's history."

She'd made it up only two steps before the phone rang. Setting Meghan down with a pat on the bottom, Timmie turned for the dining room. She picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Don't you listen?"

Timmie stopped cold. The voice was a whisper, low and raspy. Creepy. "Just a second," she said, and turned to her daughter. "Head on upstairs, honey. This'll only take a second."

When she was sure she heard Meghan's footsteps enter her own room, Timmie returned her attention to the call. "You wouldn't be the thoughtful person who left flowers in my locker, would you?" she asked in deceptively sweet tones.

"Has it occurred to you yet," the voice responded, "that you can't afford to lose your job? Or worse?"

Never one for a slow temper, Timmie fought against absolute meltdown. "You threatening me?"