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that?”
    To his surprise, she smiled. Not at him, at some hidden memory. “He’s innocent. I know it. Just as I know you are the one to save him.” She turned her head, stared at him straight on. “Promise me, David. Promise me you won’t give up on him.”
    He already had, years ago. Given up on the idea that his father could be innocent, that he wasn’t the son of a vicious, cold-blooded killer, that justice hadn’t already been served. Michael Manning was exactly where he should be: behind bars.
    But David had never been able to deny his mother anything. “I promise,” he whispered. Her fingers tightened on his hand with surprising strength. “I promise I’ll keep fighting to get him released.”
    Not the same as believing in Michael’s innocence. And not promising any future relationship with the man who’d given David half his DNA.
    Maria nodded. It was enough. “Thank you, David. I know you always keep your promises.” She sucked in the oxygen. Her gaze drifted toward the window with its view of the endless Texas sky. “I’d hoped to see him. One last time. But...”
    David choked back a sob, wishing he could promise her that, anything to bring comfort to the woman who had sacrificed so much for her son and the worthless man who’d fathered him.
    “I know, Mom.” He patted the air above her hand, not wanting to cause her any pain with his touch, his words as empty as the gesture. “It’ll be all right.”
    She closed her eyes, eased into her drug-induced twilight sleep, her features at peace, accepting her son’s lie.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 2
     
     
    LUCY GUARDINO LOVED everything about being a woman. In fact, her favorite photo of herself was taken when she’d been requalifying on the FBI weapons range, firing a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun while eight months pregnant, grinning like a madwoman.
    As she slid her new Beretta M9A1 into the paddle holster on her waist and glanced in the mirror to check that it wasn’t too obvious beneath her blazer, her gaze went to the rumpled bed where her husband, Nick, had just this morning reminded her of the many, many pleasurable advantages her gender provided. Oh yes, Lucy loved everything about her life, about being a wife, a mother, a woman...except...
    Shoes. She pulled her dark curls back from her face and glanced down at her sock-clad feet peeking out from beneath the hems of her slacks, the white plastic ankle-foot-orthotic brace glaring against the hardwood floor. It’d been four months since she’d almost lost her leg after being mauled by a vicious dog. The surgeons said it was a miracle she could walk again, much less mostly without need of a cane. But the nerve damage—there was no easy cure for that. She’d always need the brace, would always be in pain.
    Always have to find damn shoes. During her medical leave, she’d worn sneakers while rehabbing, but today was the first day of her new job, leaving the FBI for a consulting firm that worked cold cases. An office job—she refused to think of it as desk duty—with a team to manage, people to meet and greet, an image to project.
    Sneakers were not going to cut it. Neither were her almost-as-comfortable hiking boots.
    She’d dressed in her best testify-in-court suit but had forgotten she usually wore low-heeled pumps with it—shoes she couldn’t fit her AFO brace into.
    Lucy opened the closet door and was greeted by a host of Nick’s button-down shirts, slacks, and his handful of suits—seldom worn now that he’d set up his own practice as a trauma counselor and wore jeans most days. Even so, his side was much more colorful than hers—and more crowded. All she had were four conservatively cut pantsuits like the one she wore, a dozen blouses in various shades of white and off-white, and a few lonely date-night dresses she hadn’t worn in she couldn’t remember how long.
    She pushed the suits aside and found what she was searching for: her black