As she walked toward her office, Catherine smiled, her words not audible to anyone, “In time, my dear, I promise, that it’ll be even better.”

Harry finished his report. His case in West Virginia was done. Tomorrow, he’d fly back to Palo Alto. He considered calling Liz and warning her, but as a sneaky grin came to his lips, he decided it would be more fun to surprise her. Since he’d been called away before Christmas, they hadn’t had a chance to celebrate the holiday. With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, he’d try to think of some way for them to enjoy the next one. Harry believed if he gave it a little thought, something would come up.

With a few minutes to spare before leaving the field office, Harry decided to utilize the bureau’s database. It didn’t take him long to back-door his way into his old case. Within seconds, he’d accessed the Rawlings/Nichols files. When he did, he was rewarded with new information. It appeared Anthony Rawlings had continued to stay in contact, as ordered by the FBI. Claire Nichols Rawlings had given birth to a healthy baby girl. For a split second, Harry wondered if the baby had blue or brown eyes. As fast as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it away. That wasn’t his purpose for this walk down memory lane. For the last two months Harry had successfully distanced himself from all things Rawlings/Nichols. He wanted to keep that distance—forever; however, there were a few things that kept eating at him. If he were to truly ever have closure—he needed to resolve some issues.

He accessed the tissue sample analysis for Simon Johnson. Since Rawlings confessed to paying for Simon’s demise, no one had taken the time to verify the Johnson case. Harry wanted to let it go. He wanted Anthony Rawlings to rot in jail for a very long time. Without a doubt, hiring someone to sabotage a plane was a crime, and of that—without a doubt—Rawlings was guilty. Of actually murdering Simon Johnson—Harry wanted to say—yes, Rawlings was responsible—but he couldn’t. Johnson’s body had been so badly burnt, the forensics were difficult.

The toxicology report came back with one hundred percent accuracy that actaea pachypoda was not in Simon’s system. Over the last few months, Harry had begun to wonder, what was in Simon’s system. Now, as he accessed the data, he found the answer to his question—the only foreign substance detected in Simon’s tissues was diphenhydramine. Harry scrolled to the raw data—diphenhydramine, micrograms/liter 17.5. Saying a silent prayer that his snooping would go undetected, he wrote down the information and backed out of the system. He was finally getting his life and his head where they needed to be. Harry didn’t need the powers that be to know he was still obsessing over a closed case.

A quick Google search on his phone confirmed Harry’s thoughts—diphenhydramine was more commonly known as Benadryl. He and Simon had been friends for a few years. Harry tried to remember if Simon had allergies—after all, his plane did crash in the late fall. With the dryness and fires often associated with autumn in California, it would make sense that he’d take Benadryl during allergy season. Harry had Simon’s medical history on his laptop back at the hotel and made a mental note to check for allergies. One last search, then Harry was done—he wanted to know the lethal volume of distribution for diphenhydramine...he waited.

After a few clicks, the answer appeared—lethal volume of distribution for diphenhydramine in adults—19.5 mg/L—children 7.5 mg/L—and infants 1.53 mg/L. Simon’s volume of distribution didn’t fall in the lethal range. Once again, Harry had more questions than answers.

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.

—Mark Twain

Claire stared down at their three-month-old daughter. She remembered to breathe, as air fought with pride and love, to fill her chest. Staring at Nichol’s big brown eyes, she watched the chocolate come and go as her stubborn little girl fought unsuccessfully to keep her eyes alert. The lids fluttered slower and slower, each blink lasting longer than the last, until sleep overtook her round, angel like face. While her pink lips pursed and her long, dark lashes rested upon her rosy cheeks, Claire swooned helplessly, finding it difficult to look away from the child resting peacefully in her arms. Claire wasn’t the only one held captive by Nichol’s charm. It reached out to anyone within her sphere, including Madeline.

Claire rocked Nichol gently as Madeline’s rich laugh and hearty voice filled the tropical air, “Madame el, she eats well! Your beautiful daughter, she’s growing every day. Look at those cheeks!”

Both women peered at Nichol’s soft skin nestled against Claire’s breast. Answering in a stage whisper, Claire replied, “She is—too fast! I want to hold her and rock her forever.”

“Enjoy, because soon she’ll be crawling all over this floor. Next, she’ll be running all over the island.”

Claire shook her head. She couldn’t imagine her little baby girl crawling, much less running. Enjoying the even pace of the rocking chair, Claire closed her eyes and sighed. “I never imagined it would be so amazing.”

“Madame el, do you want me to put the princess in her crib?”

Claire started to say, no, when she looked up and saw Tony enter the room. The gleam which normally occupied his soft brown eyes—especially since the birth of their daughter, was gone. In its place, Claire saw darkness. She wasn’t sure the cause. Was it worry or concern? His stoic expression hid any revealing clues, yet she knew there was something. It wasn’t just his eyes; she could feel the tension radiating from his every pore. It’d been so long since she’d seen him this way. Instinctively, she understood he wanted to speak to her alone.

Feigning a smile toward Madeline, Claire relinquished the sleeping bundle. “I’d love to sit here all day; however, I’ll admit, Nichol needs a good nap in her crib—if we’re going to ever get her on the right schedule.”

“Oui, Madame el, we will.” Madeline looked toward Tony and back to Claire. Her smile faded as the lines in her forehead deepened. She continued, “If you need anything, or you Monsieur, please call for me. After I put the little angel down, I shall be in the kitchen.”

Tony remained silent as Claire acknowledged Madeline’s words and watched her walk away. Once they were alone, Claire made her way toward her husband. With each step forward, she analyzed the man before her, standing silently staring out at the beautiful, blue sea. Despite his casual attire, Claire recognized his stance, the tightness in his shoulders and clinched jaw. She knew he was contemplating a thousand things—he was, once again, the CEO of a billion dollar conglomerate—the man with unfathomable responsibilities—the man before paradise. She needed to know why.

Reaching for his arm, Claire looked up into his dark eyes. “Tony, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“I need to tell you something”—his tone matched his gaze, strong and demanding—“but first, I want you to promise that you’ll do as I say.”

Claire stood a little taller. “I love you—I promise that. What I’m going to do has yet to be determined.” The muscles under her fingertips tensed. Softening her pitch, she implored, “Tony, please tell me what happened. You’re scaring me.”

Turning, he clutched her shoulders as his stare bore down from above. Undaunted, she waited for his explanation. Behind his eyes, where she used to see only darkness, Claire now saw fury, indecision, and love. The sound of the surf filled the void while Tony wrestled to organize his words. Finally, his warm breath hit her cheeks and he implored, “Don’t you understand? I need to know that you and Nichol are safe.”