“Seems piqued.”

With a laugh, she wrapped around him. “I’ve thought about you, thought about this. Don’t be needy, Emily, don’t push in just because he’s just right. So I didn’t make a move either.”

He pressed her back against the post so he could kiss her again, and fall into the kiss, the give of her body.

“So, that’s a yes about dinner?”

“I’ll cook tonight, you’ll stay. The kids will need that when we tell them about Graham. Now, Saturday night, I’d like a genuine date.”

“You’ve got it.” He closed his eyes, held her. “I was afraid you’d start seeing someone else before this was done.”

“Me, too—about you.” Drawing back, she took him by the tie again. “Come on with me.”

“I—now? Right now?” he said as she pulled him to the door, and through.

“Kids won’t be home for some time. Instead of going to the store, we’ll just make do with what we’ve got in the pantry. It’s time, Detective Lee Keller, we both made our moves.”

“Better make that Chief Keller,” he told her, as they started upstairs. “I’m taking the job.”

He not only took the job, but by June he moved into the house on the lake. In a few months, with the mountains flaming with fall, the lake shimmering under in the sunlight, they married.

* * *

When Zane entered his senior year in Lakeview High, he went as Zane Walker. It didn’t erase all the years of Bigelow, but it made him feel better about himself.

He kept his grades up, his room tidy—both out of habit and a fear that would linger for years. He hung with Micah, worked out with Dave, teased his sister.

He did his chores, helped out with the family business, thought about girls.

He went to counseling.

If he sometimes woke in a cold sweat, he could get up, go to the window. And remind himself what side of the lake he lived on now. He could remember there was no one just down the hall who’d storm in, use fists on him.

All that was over.

So was his most cherished dream.

Zane Walker would never play professional baseball. Scouts would not come calling. He could play pickup games, town leagues if he wanted. But his arm was no longer a rocket, and never would be again.

More than his elbow had shattered the night he’d fallen down the stairs. His dreams, every one that really mattered, shattered with it.

He hadn’t given them up, not right away. He’d dealt with the surgery, the recovery time, the physical therapy. When Dr. Marshall gave him the go-ahead, he started lifting again.

He built back the muscles, but he couldn’t build back the full range of motion. Not what was needed to wing a ball from the hole to first, not in the majors.

Not even, he had to accept, in college ball.

All he’d ever wanted, for as long as he could remember—the one thing he was really good at and loved right down to his bones—poof. Over.

He’d even broken down in therapy over it—embarrassing. But Dr. Demar had understood, or seemed to. He didn’t have to just get over it, like boom, oh well. He was allowed to be sad, to be angry.

Since he was both already, he didn’t need permission. But it helped to have it. It helped that Emily didn’t nag at him to stop sulking or bitching. And Dave let him sweat it out, or vent. And Lee—who knew Lee and Emily would, you know. Lee dug on baseball almost as much as Zane, could talk statistics, had a pretty good arm himself. He’d played right field with the cops back in Asheville.

He moved through it, though he often stretched out on his bed with a ball in his hand, rubbing the stitching.

He knew he needed a new plan, but it was hard to see past the shards of his dream. Still, he had to consider his options because college loomed.

Where it once represented freedom, college now stood vague and cloudy—a path cloaked in shadows, riddled with pits.

Medicine, never. Even though he admired Dave and his work as an EMT, he’d never go near being a doctor.

His grades would help him get into a good school. Maybe part of pushing himself there came from residual fear, but good, solid grades helped. When he thought about it, he guessed he liked his lit and history classes best. But where did that get him?

He didn’t want to teach. Serious gak on that. He could write okay, but didn’t want to try to go there either.

Military? No way. He already felt he’d lived his life regimented, under orders, in fricking uniform.

His thumb and fingers stroked the stitching on the ball, slowly caressing the waxed red thread.

He thought being a cop might be cool. Lee was cool, and he’d like, a lot, putting bad guys away. Without Lee, who knew if Graham would be behind bars? He wanted to put people like Graham behind bars.

So … maybe.

He started reading books about criminal justice and law and how it all worked. He had a lot of firsthand experience on that, too. The more he read, the more he thought while stretched out on his bed rubbing the stitching on his baseball, the more he began to see a path—not so shadowed and pitted.

Not just a path, he decided. A purpose.

He spent a lot of time working out the best way to hike the path, to reach the goal. He wanted a map of the twists, turns, potential pitfalls before he talked about it.

Talking about it made it real. If he made this his hope—no more dreams, but hope he could maybe handle. But if that cracked, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do.

He took a chance, gathered up that hope, and walked downstairs. Britt had some after-school deal, and Lee would pick her up at the end of his shift. So for now, it was just Emily, and that’s where he wanted to start.

She had something simmering on the stove that smelled like comfort on a cool rainy night. While its warmth drenched the air and that rain pattered outside, she sat at the counter with her laptop.

She looked so happy. Happy just shined over her like light. That was Lee, he supposed, because they fit together like they’d always been. He didn’t know what to make of it, exactly. His parents had fit—rough, jagged, shiny pieces all dark and gritty underneath. But his aunt and Lee? That fit smooth and easy so the whole house worked like the stew on the stove. A comfort.

He’d owe them both for the rest of his life.

She looked up when he came all the way in, that happy all over her. Even as she beamed a smile at him, she flushed a little, closed the laptop in a way he recognized.

Secrets.

“Hey, pal, how’s it going?”

“Okay. That smells really good.”

“Chicken stew. Gonna make some dumplings to top it off. I had a yen.”

“Do you need some help?”

“Not yet, but maybe at dumpling time. Something’s on your mind. Sit down, let me have it.”

He knew she meant it, knew she really wanted to know, knew she’d listen. And still nerves jittered up his back.

“Well, okay. Here’s the thing.” He sat, shifted, forgot his pitch altogether. “I’ve been thinking about college.”

Was it relief he saw rush over her face; support he felt when her hand covered his and squeezed?

“That’s good, Zane. What are you thinking?”

“My grades are good.”

“They’re several degrees up from good. They’re stellar.” When he hesitated, she gave his hand another squeeze. “Let’s just put this out there. I know, I really know, how hard it is for you to lose the dream of playing pro ball. The doctor said you could try college ball, so—”