He trembled, though she knew he wasn’t cold. Then, finally, she felt his body relax. His breathing began again, a little rapid at first, though it was clear he was trying to steady it. His arms wrapped around her waist, but he allowed them no exploration, no caresses. He simply held her body close to his, and this time, he held her tightly.

Christine held her breath and double-clicked on Send. In minutes her article would spit out from the newsroom’s printer, then roll on the presses-presses that were actually stopped and waiting. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being in this position.

Despite her exhaustion, the adrenaline had kept her mind racing and her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her palms were still sweaty. She wiped them on her jeans before she shut off the laptop computer, folded it shut and unplugged it from the phone jack. Modern technology-she didn’t understand how it worked, but she was grateful. It had allowed her son to sleep soundly down the hall while she pounded out her fifth consecutive frontpage article. She wondered what the record was at the Omaha Journal.

She glanced at her watch. The newspaper would be an hour late hitting the streets, but Corby seemed content. She gulped down the last of her coffee, avoiding the glob of cream and sugar congealed at the bottom. She couldn’t believe she had gotten through it without a cigarette.

She slid the laptop off the desk, knocking a pile of envelopes to the floor. Picking them up put an immediate end to her elation. Several were late notices for bills she couldn’t pay. One, from the State Department of Nebraska, remained unopened. It contained more forms in triplicate with old-fashioned blue carbon paper between each copy. How could she trust and believe in a state that still used carbon paper? This was the system that was going to track down her ex-husband and make him pay child support? It was bad enough that Bruce had screwed her. But how could he screw his son? She hated that Timmy couldn’t see his own father, that she didn’t even have a way to contact Bruce. And all because he didn’t want to pay her any child support.

She stuffed the pile of envelopes behind a lamp on the desk, hidden for the time being. Her newfound success had only brought a small raise in pay, and it would be weeks, months, before it made a difference.

She could sell the house. She plopped onto the sofa and looked around the room she had spent hours wallpapering. She had pulled up musty carpeting and sanded the wood floor herself until she saw her reflection in its varnished surface. Outside the window-now black with night-she knew every inch of her backyard. She had replaced scraggly bushes with beautiful pink roses. A brick walkway-bricks she had laid herself-had transformed her garden into a retreat. How could she be asked to give this up? Outside of Timmy, this house was all she had.

Nick didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Her journalistic success wasn’t about hurting him. It was about saving herself. For once, she was doing something all on her own-not as Tony Morrelli’s daughter or Bruce Hamilton’s wife or Timmy’s mom, but as Christine Hamilton. It felt good.

She regretted all those years she had put on a show for her family and friends. She had played the role of supportive wife and good mother. All those years she had obsessed in making Bruce happy. For over a year she had known about the affair. It was hard to miss the credit card bills for hotels she had never stepped foot into and flowers she had never received. It had only made her more obsessed. If her husband was having an affair, it had to be her fault-something she lacked, something she wasn’t able to give him.

Now, it embarrassed her to remember the expensive Victoria’s Secret teddies she had bought to lure him back to her. Their lovemaking, which had never been fantastic, had become quick, sultry one-act plays. He had slammed into her as if punishing her for his own sins, then rolled over and slept. Too many nights she had snuck out of bed after waiting for his snores. She’d peeled off the sometimes torn and soiled teddies, and then cried in the shower. Even the pulsating, scalding water couldn’t make her whole again. And that the love had disappeared from their marriage was surely her fault, as well.

Christine curled up on the sofa and pulled an afghan over her shivering body. She was no longer that weak, obsessive wife. She was a successful journalist. She closed her eyes. That’s what she would concentrate on-success. Finally, after so many failures.

Wednesday, October 29

Maggie had offered to go to Michelle Tanner’s with Nick, but he insisted on going alone. Instead, he dropped her off at the hotel. Despite their intimacy-or perhaps because of it-she found herself relieved to be away from him. It had been a mistake getting so close. She was angry and disappointed in herself, and this morning during the drive into town, she punished Nick with her silence.

She had to maintain her focus, and in order to do that, she needed to maintain her distance. As an agent, it was stupid to get personally involved, not just with one individual, but with a community. An agent could quickly lose his or her edge and objectivity. She had seen it happen to other agents. And, as a woman, it was dangerous to get involved with Nick Morrelli, a man who rigged his house with romantic booby traps for his one-night stands. Besides, she was married-degrees of happiness didn’t count. She told herself all this to justify her sudden aloofness and to absolve herself of her guilt.

Her damp clothes still reeked of muddy river and dried blood. The ripped sleeves of her jacket and blouse exposed her wounded shoulder. As she entered the hotel, the pimple-faced desk clerk looked up, and his expression immediately changed from a “good morning” nod to an “oh, my God” stare.

“Wow, Agent O’Dell, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Do I have any messages?”

He turned with the gawkiness of a teenager-all arms and legs-almost spilling his cappuccino. The sweet aroma drifted in the steam, and despite being a fast-food imitation of the real thing, it smelled wonderful.

The snow-almost six inches and still falling-clung to her pant legs and dripped inside her shoes. She was cold and tired and sore.

He handed her a half-dozen pink message slips and a small sealed envelope with SPECIAL AGENT O’DELL carefully printed in blue ink.

“What’s this?” She held up the envelope.

“I dunno. It came in the mail slot sometime during the night. I found it on the floor with the morning mail.”

She pretended it didn’t matter. “Is there someplace here in town I can buy a coat and boots?”

“Not really. There’s a John Deere implement store about a mile north of town, but they just have men’s stuff.”

“Would you mind doing me a favor?” She peeled a damp five-dollar bill from the folded emergency bills she kept stuffed in the slot behind her badge. The kid seemed more interested in the badge than the five. “Would you call the store and ask them to deliver a jacket? I don’t care what it looks like, as long as it’s warm and a size small.”

“What about boots?” He jotted down instructions on a desk pad already filled with doodles and notes.

“Yes, see if they have something close to a woman’s size six. Again, I don’t care about style. I just need to get around in the snow.”

“Got it. They probably don’t open until eight or nine.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be in my room all morning. Call me when they’re here, and I’ll take care of the bill.”

“Anything else?” Suddenly, he seemed eager to earn his five dollars.

“Do you have room service?”

“No, but I can get you just about anything from Wanda’s. They deliver for free, and we can put it on your hotel tab.”