Emily sat wide-eyed, listening to John’s side of the conversation while nursing her third cup of coffee. Though she tried to decipher what Dr. Brown was saying on the other end, she wouldn’t know for sure until John hung up the phone. It had been a long night. Neither of them had slept much. When Emily got home, the nanny, Becca, was still there. Usually, her day was done after dinner. Luckily, they had a few trusted people they could call at the last minute if there were evening emergencies. Having help was especially nice on occasions like yesterday, when calls came demanding Emily’s immediate attention at Everwood. Last night, instead of taking the risk of the children overhearing their conversation, she and John left the house so that she could fill him in on the problems at Everwood. With each word, each description, John’s anger grew. Ever since the new protocol began, Claire’s response has been negative instead of positive, add to that the recent sedation incident, and Emily was ready to call it quits.

Yesterday, the nurse tried to explain—too much sedation would reduce the necessary brain activity keeping Claire from her visions—hallucinations—whatever they wanted to call them; nevertheless, it was obvious, too little resulted in a traumatic episode for Claire—and for Emily. It was almost 4:00 PM before she left Everwood, and Claire still hadn’t eaten. Emily refocused on John’s words.

His tone was more inquisitive. “...do you have any more specifics?” “Has this aide worked with Claire in the past?”

Emily tapped his arm and raised her eyebrows in question. When he didn’t respond, Emily whispered, “Does she know if Claire ate anything yesterday?”

John nodded as he continued, “All right, thank you, Dr. Brown, but we still need to hear from Dr. Fairfield. I have questions about yesterday’s DTI—questions which apparently only he can answer.” “I will, thank you.” “Goodbye.”

Emily sat her coffee cup down, as sleep deprivation overtook her tone. “Why didn’t you ask her about eating?”

For the first time since he came home last night, John smiled. “I didn’t ask, because she volunteered. Claire not only ate last night—compliantly—she went outside. According to the aide who works with her”—John’s eyes widened—“Claire wanted to go outside.”

“Really”—sarcasm prevailed—“and how did this aide know that? Did she say that Claire spoke?”

Shrugging his shoulders, John replied, “I didn’t ask. I’m just happy she ate and moved from that chair where she always sits. Maybe you should be too?”

Emily stood to leave John’s home office. “You know that if I believed them—I would be, but come on—she was incoherent all day—couldn’t sit—much less stand—for hours after the last dose of sedative. Now they want me to believe she ate and wanted to go outside. Fine—I’ll play their game; however, if she’s not greeting me with a Hi, Em today, I’ll know they’re lying to pacify us.”

As she reached the doorway, Emily turned around. “Are you going into Rawlings today?”

“No, I’m waiting for Dr. Fairfield’s call. If it doesn’t come, then you and I are going to Everwood. Be sure Becca isn’t planning on going home anytime soon.”

“Thanks, John. I know things have been difficult at work since Patricia left.”

Shifting in his chair, John replied, “It was at first. Her knowledge was invaluable; however, the new assistant is catching on fast.”

“You never told me, why was she let go?”

Smiling, he said, “You know the old saying—I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you—and well, I like having you around”—smiling wider, he added—“most of the time.”

Emily shook her head. “Yes, sorry. Sometimes I forget that Rawlings Industries is as top secret as the government.”

“Even more so...” she heard John say as she walked away.

Strength does not come from winning. Your struggles develop your strengths. When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender, that is strength.

—Arnold Schwarzenegger

Harry’s head throbbed, his face ached, and breathing was more comfortable with shallow breaths. Pushing through the dark veil of unconsciousness, he tried to make sense of his condition. Momentarily, the memories wouldn’t come. There were sounds that Harry didn’t recognize as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Through blurred vision, he realized he was in a hospital room, and for some reason, his left eye refused to open. An IV ran from his left arm to someplace behind him. Looking beyond his bed, Harry saw SAC Williams in a chair near the window. Fighting to find his voice, Harry whispered, “What happened?”

As if propelled by an electric shock, Williams was instantly at Harry’s bedside. “Baldwin, nice of you to finally join the party.”

Harry winced as he reached for the controls to raise the bed, so Williams pushed the button for him. As the bed began to move, Harry held his breath—the pain in his side was excruciating.

“Hey, son,” Williams said. “You have a few broken ribs—you might want to take it easy for a while.”

At that moment, Harry’s last memories returned with a vengeance. Suddenly, the pain was forgotten—panic flooded his system, causing his heart to accelerate and his voice to come too loud. “Jillian! SAC? Jillian, someone needs to make sure she’s all right.”

SAC placed his hand on Harry’s arm. “She is, son. Your daughter and ex-wife have been moved to a safe house.”

Relief replaced the panic as the pain from his ribs came back. Exhaling, Harry winced and said, “Good—but I bet Ilona’s pissed!”

“Her daughter is safe, but you’re right, Ilona isn’t happy about the situation, but she understands the threat. We need to know what happened.”

Before he could respond, SAC William’s phone rang. He held up a finger and walked toward the window to talk.

Harry closed his eyes, laid his head against his pillow, and remembered the whole terrible episode. Behind his closed lids, he saw the driver of the SUV, the one who picked him up at the airport. When he’d first entered the dark vehicle, Harry hadn’t paid the man much attention. He was a driver—the FBI had plenty. It wasn’t until he’d saved Claire’s message and was listening to Rawlings’ that he began to notice the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, periodically watching him; then Harry heard the voicemail from the bureau. Before he asked the driver why they were no longer headed toward the field office, Harry casually removed his gun from his holster.

“Give that to me.” The man’s voice held the slightest of a Lebanese accent. Harry couldn’t remember if he hadn’t noticed the accent before, or if the man hadn’t spoken until that moment.

Harry pointed the gun to the side of the driver’s head and calmly commanded, “Pull the car over, asshole.”

Laughter filled the otherwise silent vehicle. Seemingly undeterred by the threat, the driver tilted his head to the right. Harry glanced toward the passenger seat, half expecting to see someone materialize. No one did. Instead, the driver reached over and pulled down the sun visor. Taped, where the mirror should’ve been, was a picture. Staring at Harry, with big, beautiful, blue eyes and light, blonde hair was Jillian. The picture could’ve come from Facebook or been taken in person. Either way, it didn’t matter—Harry was living his worst nightmare—his Achilles heel—his vulnerability. This asshole was threatening Harry’s four-year-old daughter. Panic erupted in his gut as adrenaline flooded his system.

“Where is she?” Harry growled.

“She’s still with that pretty little ex-wife of yours.”

“How do I know she’s safe?”

“You don’t.” The driver lifted a well-worn stuffed bunny—pink and thread bore. Harry had only seen the bunny once—in person—when he purchased it. At the time, he wasn’t even sure Ilona would give it to their daughter; however, through the years it’d been a reoccurring item in many of Jillian’s pictures. Harry knew, without a doubt, it belonged to her.