Had to get this right.

Never mind how crazy rescuing Eden like this felt . . . right was right, and God made it so.

Wyatt dried the palms of his hands on his pants as he stepped up to the concrete landing, took one last look down the street, drew a deep breath to calm his nerves, and lifted his finger to the doorbell, aware that he wasn’t as steady as he could be. And there was a thin line of dirt under his nail.

He thought about cleaning it, but now his jitters were getting worse and he knew he was stalling. If he didn’t do this now, it might not happen. So he pressed the button and stepped back when he heard the chime inside.

Had to get this right and now he had. It was now out of his hands. It all came down to—

The door swung in and Wyatt found himself facing a girl with long blond hair, dressed in a light-blue hoodie and a pair of jeans.

Eden.

“Can I help you?”

He was so surprised at seeing her—and only her—right there in front of him, that he didn’t know what to say.

She stared up at him with brown eyes, as innocent as a dove, one hand on the doorknob, at a loss.

Tell her, Wyatt. Just tell her.

He glanced over her head to be sure the woman wasn’t close by, then said it.

“Your mother wants to see you. She wants you to come. She loves you. No one can know that I’m here.”

Not smooth enough. His voice was too raspy. He quickly cleared his throat.

“I’m your father. Please, you have to come with me. Your mother has been looking for you for thirteen years.” Then, “Your real name is Eden.”

“Alice?” The call came from down the hall.

He quickly reached out a hand so that she could take it and they could run before it was too late. “Please . . .”

The foster parent, a woman in her forties or fifties with short, curled blond hair stepped out into the hall with a dishtowel, drying her hands.

“Who is it, dear?”

Wyatt froze, eyes locked on the woman’s. He should be thinking fast on his feet and saying something, but he wasn’t always good in that way and at the moment his mind was blank.

The woman started down the hall toward them. All Wyatt could think to do was grab Eden and run, but he couldn’t just grab her without her knowing what was going on—the poor girl would be frightened. Maybe scream. Might even get hurt.

“How can we help you?” the woman asked.

“I . . .”

But he didn’t know what to say. And before he could figure anything out, Eden moved to her left out of sight and vanished into the house, leaving him alone with the woman down the hall. The foster parent took one look in the direction Eden had gone and must have seen something that frightened her, because when she looked back at him, her jaw was set.

“I think you should leave.”

She stepped up to the door and pushed it closed. The lock snapped into place.

Wyatt stood unmoving, staring at the door, stunned. Just like that?

This wasn’t good. An image of Kathryn’s face, sagging with dread, strung through his mind. And with it, the sickening awareness of his failure.

And then the realization that standing on the landing looking dumbstruck might be seen by either someone in the house or a neighbor as creepy. Which he wasn’t.

So he turned and headed back to the truck, walking on feet that felt like lead. Mind blank. A knot in his throat. But he knew what he would do. What he always did. She would know . . . She always did.

Kathryn answered his call on the first ring.

“Do you have her?”

He took a deep breath. “The mother was there . . . Not at first but as soon as—”

“What do you mean ‘not at first’?” she interrupted. “Did you talk to her?”

“No. Not to the mother—”

“To Eden! Did you do what I told you to do? Please tell me you didn’t mess this up!”

“No, sugar, I swear.” He told her what had happened in short order, exactly as it had, because she would insist and he had long learned it was better that way. Integrity was important if you wanted any peace of mind.

The phone remained silent for a few seconds after he finished. She was reeling and he didn’t blame her.

“Kathryn?”

“We’re running out of time.”

“I know. But I—”

“You go back in there, Wyatt.” Her voice was lower now, unnervingly intense but calm at the same time. “I don’t care how you do it but you get me my daughter and you get her now. Break the door down if you have to. Take her. She may not understand now but she will when she learns the whole story.”

“Break the door down?” His mind spun with what that might mean. “What if she won’t come?”

“Then take her!” The receiver went silent for a few seconds. Kathryn continued with unmistakable clarity. “You don’t harm a hair on her body, but you make her come with you. You understand what I’m saying, Wyatt?”

He hesitated only a second.

“Yes, sugar.”

The phone went dead.

He returned it to his pocket with a trembling hand, mind gone on fear. He honestly didn’t see how he could do what she insisted, not without raising an alarm. Not without risking injury to one or both of them. Not without getting caught and blowing any further chances of ever getting Eden back home.

Then again, he’d probably already blown any further chances. Eden would tell the woman that her birth mother was trying to get to her and the authorities would seal her up tight. God had provided a way for them to find Eden, hadn’t he? Then God would also now make a way for her to come with him, and this was the only way Kathryn could see it. She had faith—it was now only a matter of his own faith. Eden had to be rescued—sometimes doing good required taking risks.

Wyatt thought about Eden’s plight all of these years, having been thrown away into an orphanage as an infant against her mother’s will. And about the hole in Kathryn’s soul since that day, searching in vain for her lost daughter.

And with those thoughts drumming through his mind, he got out of the pickup truck, walked calmly to the back of the camper shell, opened the lift gate, withdrew his gloves, the hammer, and the duct tape, and headed across the street.

2

Day One 7:42 pm

WHY? I suppose that’s a question the runs through every thirteen-year-old’s mind, but judging by the way most other kids talked, I doubt the question was as prevalent in their minds as it was in mine.

Why? Why me? Why am I so different? Why can’t I quite figure out where I belong? Why do I speak differently than most people my age? Why does everyone keep saying that I’m so smart when I feel mostly clueless? Why is my IQ so high and my learning so advanced and my knowledge so low? Why do people look at me strangely?

But for me there were even more questions, most of which I kept hidden because I didn’t know anyone I felt comfortable asking. Like who? Who am I, really? Who made me this way? Who are all these other people? Who is my mother, who is my father?

And what? What am I? What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to even think now?

The counselor I see once a week, Amy Treadwell, tells me that all of the testing they’ve done on me shows that parts of my mind work much more like an adult than a thirteen-year-old, like the parts that absorb new information and the way I speak.

On the other hand, she says that I’m quite naïve. Too trusting.

Evidently something terrible happened to me when I was younger. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember, and either no one knows, or no one wants to tell me. In fact, all I do know is what I’ve learned during the last six months of my life. Everything before that is gone from my mind.

Think of my mind like a perfectly tuned, powerful computer. When I awoke from whatever happened to me six months ago, my operating system was still there, humming along, so I had good command of language and I could process information perfectly, but the hard drive that held all of my memory had been wiped clean.