“Your garden is nicer than mine.” Erin began to prattle on about her day, and he thought about smoking a cigarette, just half even, but then reconsidered. Raven would complain and Erin would give him that sigh of hers. Yeah, it was bad for him, but a man needed a few vices.

Instead, he listened to two of his favorite women talk and occasionally grunted or responded. All the while, he drank his beer and half-listened to Kings of Leon as they floated through the air from the stereo in the house. Not a bad way to spend the evening.

Forty-five minutes later, the pizza arrived, so Brody let himself be lured inside by the scent and his growling belly.

He stood for a moment, looking around. His dining room table was large enough for twelve—more if he put the leaf in. Even though his siblings were out on their own, Brody enjoyed that his was the place they sought when they needed to reconnect. His couches were comfortable and worn. The media center was state-of-the-art, because while his brother and sister made the music, they weren’t the only ones who loved listening to it. A big flat-screen plasma hung in his television room downstairs, where he could play on the Wii or the Xbox, and he’d recently picked up a very fine pool table at a garage sale.

In truth, his wilder days had passed and he found he’d rather hang at home in comfort than at a club. If he needed a woman, he could find several with a few calls. If he needed company, the same applied.

Brody enjoyed that most people saw the broad shoulders, the tattoos and the wary eyes, and thought him a rough-and-tumble bad boy. In reality, he liked to watch movies and eat popcorn with his baby sister. One of these days he’d bounce nieces and nephews on his knee and teach them bad habits.

“You’re pretty mellow tonight,” Erin said as she slid a plate laden with pie toward him.

“I have it good. Why not be mellow? Pretty women to my left and right, good music, good beer and good friends.” He tipped his beer toward Ben, who’d wandered in a few minutes before, not so miraculously, when the pizza had shown.

She smiled. “Good. By the way, I thought of a new tat I want you to do.”

“Whatever you say, baby girl.” He shrugged, happy to do it. He’d done all her inkwork and trusted it would continue that way. Raven handled the piercings and that was fine by him. But Erin’s tats were special, like she was, and Brody wanted to be sure no one he considered inferior ever did work on her.

The predictable argument broke out between Erin and Raven about why Brody should do it instead of Raven, while Ben and Brody looked on before returning to their dinner.

Ben rolled his eyes at the exchange and looked back to Brody. “We need to go for a ride on Sunday. You up for it? The weather should be good. I thought a trip out to the Olympics? We can stop and eat some crab before we turn around.”

Brody respected the man who cared so much about his sister. The guy was good people, and he’d come along at a time in Erin’s life when it would have been a hell of a lot easier to run in the other direction. That went a long way in Brody’s book.

Sunny weekend with bikes and friends? “Yeah, that sounds damned good.”

2

Pain sliced through her as his fist connected with her jaw, sent her flying back against the table they’d bought years before at a flea market. Wood splinters rained on her as she slid to her knees, bright points of light painting her vision as breath tore through her lungs.

He hauled her to her feet, but her right leg buckled and she fell again. He’d used a baseball bat on it. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was broken. Knew she’d never dance professionally again. But her mounting fear had nothing to do with that.

Blood marked the pale tile in the entry, and had smeared where he’d hit her and dragged her while she screamed and fought. And then he’d hit her until she couldn’t fight much anymore. Handprints, spatters, smears—all ominous portents of just how far the situation had deteriorated over the past nearly three hours.

In the midst of the beating, of the verbal abuse, of being sick from the pain and of watching him tie off and be unable to find a vein for long minutes at a time, she’d tried to focus on a plan. Time had passed; he’d dragged her from room to room, becoming increasingly agitated. He broke things, like he wanted to break her. He wouldn’t.

The clock on the living room mantel chimed four times. Her baby was due home soon. She knew he’d harm her daughter. Knew he had to be stopped before he could get his hands on Rennie. She only had herself to count on, but no one was going to hurt her child. Not while she still had breath.

Elise pulled to a stop in her driveway and looked into the backseat. Rennie was asleep, her well-loved blankie curled against her side, pillowing her head, pale blonde hair spread around her face.

An ache, both sharp and sweet, spread through Elise’s chest at the sight of the unlined forehead, the trouble-free face of sleep. Seattle had been very good for the both of them. Hard, yes. A long way from the life Rennie had known and Elise had been supported by. There’d been no choice; there was nothing left but pain for them in New York. But, wonderfully, they’d begun to place roots there in the Northwest. Rennie was settling in, making friends. Rennie even expressed an interest in sports. Her baby girl—oh hell, not a baby anymore; the kid was nearly seven, going on forty—was coming out of that dark place they’d both been in.

More than that, Elise felt safe for the first time in a decade. That was more precious than she cared to even contemplate for very long. The price had been higher than she’d ever imagined. But, she thought as she bent to ease Rennie from the seat and carry her into the house, there was no way but forward, no direction but up.