Half Moon Chronicles: Legacy

By J Michael Gonzalez

Nicolette Cooper, a refugee from the Los Angeles sex industry, returns to her hometown, Half Moon Bay, hoping to rebuild her life after seven grueling years away.

Nicolette is surprised to find chemistry with her high school sweetheart, Daniel Hayes, an ex–Army Ranger. Their relationship rekindles as they begin a rocky second courtship. Their courtship is interrupted when they are visited by a powerful spirit which drafts them into a primal conflict of good vs evil, granting them power along with a vision of a post-apocalyptic landscape should they fail in their duties. Both of them are marked as new Celestial Advocates — beings who protect the mundane world from the Hidden World.

Only Nicolette and Daniel — granted abilities they must quickly discover and learn to master — stand between the people of Half Moon Bay and the ancient powers now vying for ascendancy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Michael Gonzalez
• Release date: Apr 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370902026

J Michael Gonzalez

I've spent nearly two decades in high tech, working for a variety of organizations at all stages of growth and as an independent consultant. I've had an interest in writing since I was old enough to put pen to paper, but recently decided to make the jump off the proverbial cliff and switch to writing full time. I've mostly worked in tech, but along the way, I've studied a variety of martial arts including Latosa Escrima, Wing Tsun, and Tae Kwon Do as well as dabbling a teeny bit with combat handgunnery. I've lived in the back country of the American Southwest, hiking, climbing, whitewater canoeing, and caving. I've even competed in a ballroom competition or two.

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Half Moon Chronicles: Legacy

By J. Michael Gonzalez

© 2017 J. Michael Gonzalez, all rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not download it, or it was not downloaded for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is strictly coincidental.

Author's Website

http://jmichaelgonzalez.com

ISBN: 9781370902026

And on the pedestal these words appear:

'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away

Percy Shelley, Ozymandias

Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.

John Milton, Paradise Lost

Contents

Copyright

Expected Company

Leaving LA

Time On Paper

Art Therapy

Wind Change

The Learning Curve

Strength Limit

Fast_Friends

Marked: Daniel

Marked: Nicolette

Ground Zero

Ryan

Burdens

Kashmir

Chemistry

Cleanse the Evil

Seek the Truth

The Knee of the Curve

Hallucinatory Terrain

Deja vu

A Sortof Date

The Club

Near Miss

The Ride Home

Other Fish

Questions Asked

The Second Arrow

Harbingers

Father and Son

Catalyst

The Rubicon

Something Brave

Fugue

The New Reality

Leaps of Faith

Wreckage

Prologue

Chapter One: Expected Company

WHEN the knock finally came, Miles was just finishing his preparations in the kitchen. He had been expecting his visitor since awakening with a panicked shout in the predawn hours, sweat-soaked sheets twisted about his body. The dream had imprisoned him with razor-edged images of violence and ruin, stubbornly resisting his semi-lucid struggles to awaken. Though many of the dream’s specific details had attenuated throughout the afternoon, two images had retained their dream-like hyperreality, coming into focus as the rest of the dream faded: yellow eyes glimmering in the foggy gloaming, watching him through his kitchen window; and the girl, eyes glazed with the ecstasy of her magic, fire and decay spreading in her wake, corrupting everything she touched. Though the premonitions had been coming less frequently of late, this was one of the strongest he could remember; it filled him with dread, like some monstrous scorpion clinging to his back, its claws pulling at his thoughts.

There’s work to be done, he thought grimly as the knock was repeated, a tight lipped smile touching his features as familiar undercurrents of fear and excitement percolated through him.

He briefly settled in his chair at the kitchen table, checking his preparations, ignoring the twinges in his knees and hips as he sat. Earlier that afternoon, he had experimented with the placement of the sword relative to his chair, arranging the furniture and practicing until he could snatch the scabbarded blade without looking and execute a left-handed slash over the kitchen table. He had practiced the move—ignoring the dull pain in his joints—until he could grab the scabbarded blade, draw and cut between ticks of the clock mounted over the refrigerator behind him. He nodded once in satisfaction as he scanned the kitchen one last time, his heartbeat quickening.

The work of a Celestial Advocate is a young man’s work, he thought, though he still looked forward to sparring with this adversary. He chuckled at his vanity, knowing it was foolish, but unable to suppress his anticipatory excitement. He crossed his small, sparsely furnished living room, unconsciously flexing his hands, pushing away the dull fibrous pain; nearly six decades of work with fist, sword, and heavy caliber firearms had taken their toll.

Even Celestial Advocates have a limited shelf life, he mused, still an integral part of the celestial machinery even if they’ve been granted a special place within it.

It was a risk answering the door unarmed...but even weakened by age as he was, an Advocate was never truly weaponless. He paused, one hand on the doorknob, closing his eyes in concentration as he extended his senses beyond the door; he sensed darkness (was it nighttime already?), fog...and his visitor, standing on the other side of the door. His concentration deepened as he unconsciously cocked his head to the side (a tremor of unease passed through him; it wasn’t so long ago that he hadn’t needed to concentrate at all); he realized he was searching for a heartbeat which wasn’t there.

He nodded as his eyes opened; he had read that part of the premonition correctly, then.

As his guest knocked a third time, a mischievous smile began pulling at the corner of his mouth. He pulled open the front door, revealing a tall, nondescript man wearing a pea coat—at least, he would have appeared nondescript to someone unable to pierce his Glamour.

To Miles, he looked like something else entirely.

The man favored Miles with a sardonic smile, dipping his head in a nod of subtle mockery.

Miles smiled gently back, waiting.

The man’s smile became forced as he realized that Miles was waiting for him to speak, that he wasn’t going to make an invitation until it was explicitly asked for. It was an absurd and childish power play, but one which the man was forced to concede.

His voice was a pleasant tenor, though his accent was hard to place—neutral news caster American, perhaps with the slightest hint of upper class London, I’ve always wanted to meet you, old man. If you would be so kind...it would be nice to step in out of the damp.

Miles smiled graciously, I’ve prepared some tea; it’s just finishing brewing.

The man hesitated, frowning slightly, but hid his irritation well, Tea would be lovely. He made no move to enter.

Miles waited a moment longer, fighting to suppress his smirk, then stepped back, Then by all means, come in and join me for a cup.

Thank you.`

Inviting evil into your home, he thought, always a tricky prospect. He’ll doubtless leave a token behind...bother.

Have I become arrogant?, he wondered, a trickle of doubt pooling in his thoughts.

The man made his way through the living room into Miles’ kitchen, settling at the table at his gesture. His visitor watched patiently as Miles prepared the tea in silence, long practice lending artistry to his careful, precise movements. It unnerved Miles to have his guest almost at his back, though he wasn’t so foolish as to let his visitor completely out of his sight; he had arranged his kitchen so he could watch the other out of the corner of his eye with the sword propped against the granite countertop near his hand. He glanced into the alcove over the kitchen sink, at the small ‘decorative’ mirror in a stylized brass sun-shaped setting. He smiled faintly at what he saw there...or didn’t see, really. He had mounted it there—thirty years ago? thirty seven?—after another guest had unexpectedly tried to kill him; his shoulder still twinged when the weather turned stormy.

I remember your sire, Miles murmured, wondering how long their veneer of civility would last.

He heard the frown in his guest’s voice, "She still holds a grudge over your murder of Carbrey."

The emphasis on the pronoun was unmistakeable. Miles suppressed a quiver of fear, forcing an indifferent shrug as he returned to the table bearing two glazed cups decorated with white herons taking flight over a forest pond, I’ve been abundantly clear about the boundaries of my domain. Carbrey and his get were trespassing; I disposed of the invading vermin accordingly. It was fortunate you weren’t part of the raiding party, Berwyn.

Miles struggled to hide a smirk as he affected a muddled expression, ...or Attercop, is it now?

It was childish and mean-spirited, but he couldn’t repress the impish glee that surged through him; the temptation to goad his visitor was hard to resist. He struggled not to grin as his visitor became unnaturally still, his gaze filling with malice. He quickly regained control, schooling himself back to stillness.

Pity, Miles thought, revising his estimate of his guest’s threat upward as doubt momentarily bubbled back to the surface. Disposing of him would have been easier if he could have been taunted into a rage.

Archangel, old man; I am Archangel now, his visitor sneered. Miles filled Archangel’s cup first, disappointed that he’d side-stepped the gibe before continuing, The Dark Lady has a long memory, old man. She won’t forget your slight.

‘...and neither will I’, Miles silently finished for him. Though his sire’s destruction had freed Archangel—his new name symbolic of that release—Miles had always known Berwyn...Archangel...would eventually seek him out.

Miles shrugged again, filling his own cup before settling across the small kitchen table from his guest. He pretended to sip his tea as he studied the man, noting Archangel’s gaze flicking to the sheathed sword propped against the granite countertop. Archangel’s lips tightened in consternation before he could master his countenance, returning to patient stillness as he reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the blade.

Miles suppressed a chuckle, No old friend, that’s not The Sword—I hid that from you weeks ago. You’re worried that if you can’t see it, I must have some trick planned.

He grinned at his visitor. The weapon leaning against the countertop—though real enough to kill—was partially meant as a prop, a distraction from the Desert Eagle mounted under the table. He doubted it would destroy Archangel, but half a dozen .50 caliber silver-tipped slugs would probably ruin his day.

His visitor’s frustration momentarily boiled over, "You won’t be able to hide here in your little ghost town much longer; the world is changing, old man! The old order is collapsing; something new must grow in the vacuum!"

Miles grimaced, And naturally you—

Give me the girl! Archangel interrupted. We both know she’s returned to your domain. What will you do when her power manifests? This little ghost town you’ve made will become the very little eye of a very big storm. Do you think to stand against the entirety of the Sundered Havens with your decrepit carcass, old man? Can you even pass an hour without pissing yourself? Or do you plan to...dispose of her...when she comes into her power? Murdering your own kind has never been your modus operandi, despite your reputation. Give me the girl, and you can grow old here in your little graveyard.

He smirked, adding, "Well..older, at any rate."

Miles suppressed an inward sigh; another premonition come true—the Mortal Heir was in his domain. He had prayed she wasn’t, that she could be someone else’s problem; he had been so tired, lately. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Merdathin’s mysterious visits were somehow related.

The pieces fit, he thought, his jaw tightening with consternation. Merdathin never did anything with a single purpose in mind. If he ever resurfaced, Miles resolved to ask him before killing him...even supposing he could kill him.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, irritated at his wandering focus; he had more pressing matters to consider.

It all comes back to the girl, he thought sadly. He pitied her for the misery and sorrow he foresaw in her future. He had fought to keep his domain free of monsters like Archangel, but he knew his visitor was right on both counts: when she came into her power, she couldn’t be ignored; and Miles wouldn’t murder an innocent. He shuddered at what her life would become if he allowed Archangel to take her away. It would be better if she was dead than to fall into his hands.

Or the Dark Lady’s, for that matter.

He would die to prevent it, he decided—though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Staring into his visitor’s eyes, he felt a chill run down his spine, a cold premonitory prickle that left him sweaty and shaken, wishing he could handle the loaded Desert Eagle mounted under the table, knowing its cold solidity, heavy with deadly purpose would bring him comfort; he was suddenly filled with certainty that the girl was not to be his task, that his work for the Celestials was almost done; but the way been prepared, his successor chosen. If his successor should fail...he shuddered as dream images of fire rose before him; it might be better if she died in her sleep after all. He suddenly felt small and exhausted, his mind unfocused in his failing body.

Still an integral part of the celestial machinery, he reminded himself bitterly.

As if reading his thoughts, Archangel ground his teeth with frustration. His patient smile returned, becoming predatory as he moistened his lips with the tea, It’s almost time, old man.

Miles stared out the window, taking in the chilly, foggy evening, suppressing a shiver of fear as he nodded, Almost. But not tonight, I think.

A sudden calm descended over his thoughts. He gently placed his tea cup on the table, his lip curling in response to Archangel’s widening smile. He heard the faint creak of muscles bunching.

Thunder filled the kitchen as Miles pulled the trigger underneath the table, the percussion splitting his eardrums, jolting his ribcage, making the teakettle jump on the countertop. Blood splattered the wall behind Archangel; his agonized bellow shattering the mirror in its decorative setting as he stumbled backward, his chair slamming into the wall behind him with a cottony thud! after the Desert Eagle’s thunder. Miles triggered three more rounds from under the table, spattering the off-white paint behind Archangel with overlapping sprays of gore, forcing him back another step.

The scabbarded sword was already in his other hand when Archangel roared again. Miles dropped the pistol as Archangel flipped the table out of the way, an errant splinter stinging Miles’ neck as it shattered into kindling. The blade was a silvery blur as he drew and cut to meet Archangel’s lunge. A fan of blood sprayed across the wall as Miles felt the tug of razor edged steel pulling deeply through flesh. Even in his dotage, he was fast, bringing the blade around for a second cut.

It should have finished it.

It should have...

Homecoming

Chapter Two: Leaving LA

NICOLETTE started her long journey home from her friend Angela's place early on a Sunday morning— well before the sun began to rise. Angela hadn't been awake to see Nicolette out the door, which suited Nicolette just fine. Her presence at Angela's house had made Angela nervous. She was probably worried that Nicolette would ask to spend another night, and another after that, and so on until either Nicolette brought the cops down on her, or she had to kick out her unwelcome roommate. Just thinking about it made Nicolette want to sigh. She wasn't like that anymore, if she ever really had been; her memories of her time with Angela as her friend were pretty hazy. Nicolette had genuinely wanted to spend exactly one night, just long enough to make a couple of phone calls and have somewhere warm to sleep afterward. She had a schedule to keep, a journey that she’d been planning for the last two and a half years.

Today, it was finally starting.

Her journey had truly started with the click of the door latch behind her; Nicolette suspected that no amount of knocking would have brought Angela to the door once that lock clicked shut. She sighed, a little hurt, but aware that perhaps the suspicion wasn't wholly unjustified. Still, it had been great to sleep indoors in a bed; it beat sleeping in the bus terminal or wandering around downtown until it was time to go.

Thank you, Angie, she murmured into the chill predawn silence, her throat aching with emotion, you came through for me.

Knowing the best way she could repay her friend would be to leave without fuss, she turned and began her walk to the corner where she intended to catch a bus downtown. She felt giddy as she stepped down from the front porch to the walkway, then through the flaking wooden gate to the sidewalk. It was exciting; she was moving from the known to the unknown, feeling a little bit like old Bilbo after he had been dragged from his comfortable and predictable hole. The Road goes ever on and all that.

She was truly leaving. That in itself was a victory worth celebrating.

She had little hope that her reception at the end of her journey would be a warm one; at this point she was hoping for a quiet, unnoticed arrival and a little breathing room to begin rebuilding. The bus arrived on time, roaring and wheezing down the somnolent city street, its noise and stink magnified by the slightly hazy stillness. She stepped aboard, pausing to study the sleepy people on the bus, most of them likely on their way home from late shifts or Los Angeles nightlife, wanting only to find cool sheets and a warm blanket.

Not unkindly, the bus driver tapped the fare-box, Gotta pay to play, honey.

Nicolette quietly dropped in the requisite change and wandered down the aisle, stumbling slightly as the bus lurched back into motion. She sat on the left side of the bus, sliding all the way to the window. She watched the city shudder past, hands folded patiently in her lap, unconsciously fiddling with the coil of wire wrapped around her ring finger.

She stepped off the bus downtown, barely noticing the sleepy urban landscape surrounding her; its novelty had long ago ceased to register. It was just scenery, now—hopefully just bad memories she could start working to forget in an hour or so. Suppressing a shiver in the chill pre-dawn, Nicolette walked the quarter mile to the Megabus terminal. The man in the ticketing window glanced at her id, accepted her cash, and gave her a ticket for the 6am North Bound Shuttle. Nicolette hadn't really expected any trouble, but she dreaded being recognized or having to explain where she’d been the last three years. He barely even noticed the blonde-haired, dark-eyed girl. To him, she was just another traveler with her own reasons for leaving the city anonymously on the cheap.

She almost made it across the platform before a middle aged man in a cheap suit intercepted her, asking her to autograph his pocket silk. The intensity of his grey-eyed stare had unnerved her, though his request was unfailingly polite. She was surprised by the dull ache in her chest as she watched him quickly hurry away, as if afraid of being seen with her.

At least he said ‘thank you’, she mused, forcing herself to feel bitter amusement at his furtive retreat in lieu of the hurt shame that threatened. Almost 4 years since she’d last been in front of a camera and fans still recognized her.

She hurried across the platform, keeping her head down, wishing she'd brought a hat; one enounter like that was plenty.

The bus reminded her of an elderly man wearing wraparound sunglasses, its tinted windows and nondescript blue body evocative of safety, anonymity, and travel under the radar. Her nervousness eased as the bus began to board moments after she finished her business. She took a seat on the lower level, near the back. She didn’t have any baggage to check.

Just the clothes I'm wearing, she thought, the contents of my pockets, and the bitter cup I’ve been given to drink from.

She thought back over the long boredom, back through all the humiliations and indignities moving to LA had necessitated, her regret and loneliness and doubt...and couldn't find pride in a single thing she had done here. But the alternative to leaving had been worse.

At least I escaped from Mother, she thought, caught in the familiar ache of paired guilt and relief.

Seven years after her escape, two years after her mother had died, Nicolette still felt guilt and a sense of failure. She could never shake the feeling that she could have tried just a little bit harder, that perhaps there was some kind of effort threshold and if she had just managed to cross it, everything might have come out okay. She knew that was fallacious, that her childish need for approval was hard-wired into her brain, that it would take years to fully exorcise that feeling, but that knowledge did little to assuage her guilt.

But if she had stayed in Half Moon Bay...

(three drops of blood, spattered on ugly yellow linoleum)

She blinked rapidly as the ugly memory shifted, willing it back to sleep

With a shuddering roar, the Megabus came to life, grumbling resentfully at the lightening cityscape. She waited for the vibration to change into a rumble as the bus slipped into gear.

As it put on its traveling shoes, she thought with a slight smile, impatience and anticipation shouldering aside her self-recrimination and guilt.

Do a little dance, sing a little song, get the heck out tonight, she thought, suddenly nervous. She wondered if this was how Orpheus must have felt when the gates of Hades opened.

One difference between you and me, Orph old pal, she thought, is that if I turn around and LA disappears, good riddance.

Of course, LA bore more resemblance to Hades than Eurydice in her heart. Abruptly, the bus lurched into motion, sliding along the curb, then making the turn into traffic. Her spirits rose as she realized it was finally happening—she was finally leaving LA—with luck, never to return.

Maybe you never left Harlan alive, Patty, she thought, but I sure as hell am leaving LA alive. Damaged, maybe. Battered, definitely. But alive.

She had escaped; for now that was enough.

An hour later, as the sun rose over the mountains, the bus was climbing the long slope into the Grapevine on the 5N. Soon it would descend into the sere Central Valley, laboring its way back up the state to the South Bay of the San Francisco Bay Area, one more stop on her way to the coast—to Half Moon Bay.

To home, she hoped, her eyes filling with unshed tears.

She turned to face the window, hands in her lap, calmly watching the landscape as the bus slowly but inexorably put the miles behind it. Her plan was finally in motion; for the moment there was nothing for her to do but wait.

Chapter Three: Time On Paper

TWO days later, Nikki sat in a small, claustrophobic office, blinking rapidly from the eye-watering stench of dust, industrial cleaning fluid, and aftershave. In an effort to distract herself from her burning sinuses, she let her gaze wander, soaking up myriad tiny details hoping to gain insight into the character of the man sitting across the cluttered desk from her. Her gaze fell on the plaque on his desk, a simple triangular wooden block with a plastic name plate, reading ‘Diego Garcia’.

Parole Agent Diego Garcia, she mentally added. Her parole agent. She studied him as he sifted through the pile of paperwork on his desk, an open folder sitting in a little cleared space on his blotter as paperwork, keyboard, mouse, pens, pencils, paperclips—general chaos—threatened to cross the little cleared semi-circle. She frowned, wondering at the implied metaphor for her. She shook her head, pushing the thought out of her mind as she sought distractions to keep the thought from creeping back in. She looked up at the wall behind him, studying the line of framed degrees on display, along with several citations of merit.

Bachelor of Arts, Psychology, UC Berkeley.

Bachelor of Arts, Criminal Justice, UC Berkeley.

Master of Science, Criminology, University of Pennsylvania.

She swallowed hard, momentarily overawed, He must have wanted to be a parole guy since high school, she murmured, then froze when he looked up. Sorry, I was just looking at your wall—at your pictures—degrees on your wall, and was just babbling like an idiot thinking out loud.

She coughed, blood rushing to her face, Maybe a little too loud.

He smiled absently as he looked back down, his scrutiny of her paperwork leaving her feeling as though she was suffering through a particularly thorough doctor’s exam. She wanted to simultaneously check the buttons on her blouse and take a very long, very hot shower. He was swarthy, middle aged but fit—perhaps a little bit too sedentary for his own good. His black hair was cut short, though it was starting to go prematurely white; perhaps the contrast made the white more visible. He was only average height, but somewhat muscular and broad shouldered, his blue chambray work shirt pulling ever so slightly tight over his shoulders.

Nicolette had the sudden urge to scatter his paperclips on the floor, or run her fingers through his hair. She fought to suppress nervous giggles at the mental image of Agent Garcia’s hair standing at all angles, struggling to keep her composure at the inappropriate absurdity of the thought. She desperately wanted to break the feeling of solemnity the whole proceeding had, to mitigate the fear engendered by that solemnity. Anything to make Garcia seem more human and less...institutional. It was that last which filled her with fear— that to him, she may as well have been a bent paperclip, an annoyance shuffled from one end of the desk to the other until it was finally tossed in the wastebasket when it became a nuisance. Only in her case, it was back to prison instead of the wastebasket...though she supposed there wasn’t much difference.

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from visibly shaking, her nervous mischief gone.

She watched his lips moving as he subvocalized some of the paperwork he was reading. She was momentarily fascinated by the way his pencil-thin mustache seemed to exaggerate the movement of his lips. She briefly wondered whether his lips would be soft or if his mustache would tickle. Whether he’d be fun to kiss.

Jesus Nikki, she thought, he’s old enough to be your father!

She forcibly pushed the thought away, painfully conscious that her desperation to humanize P.O. Garcia drove the inappropriateness of her thoughts. Unfortunately, once acknowledged, the thought stubbornly refused to go away. She found herself wondering what she would do if he made an advance, if allowing it would help her chances of staying out jail.

She took a deep breath, forcing her fear back; so far, Garcia had given no indication he was that kind of man.

He nodded as if unconsciously agreeing with her thoughts, then closed the folder resting in its little window of calm, Let’s talk about you and your situation. You’ve reviewed the terms of your parole? He paused long enough for her to nod before continuing, Good. I see some really promising things in your file—things which I don’t see often; you joined a substance abuse program, you sought out counseling, you got your GED and managed to get an AS degree as well.

Biology, from Finchler.

He nodded absently as he continued, That takes hard work and dedication.

She sat back, surprised at the implied compliment, listening for a ‘but’ in his words; she was disconcerted when she couldn’t find one.

That’s a good foundation we can build on, see if we can set you up to get through your time on paper as painlessly as possible.

She nodded, studying him, wondering what his angle was. She felt a weary sort of surprise as she realized that it might just be possible his intentions could be trusted, that his interests and hers might coincide.

He smiled, despite puzzled lines appearing on his forehead, You seem surprised.

She nodded, suddenly finding speech eluding her.

Miss Cooper—may I call you Nicolette?

Nikki is fine, she murmured hoarsely.

Nikki...you’re young, intelligent, a hard worker—you have all the tools necessary to succeed. We just...

He trailed off as he wondered if his client's tears were a good sign or a bad one.

A good sign, he decided, as he offered her the tissue box which normally lived on his desk. It wasn’t common that his clients reacted so emotionally, but he liked to be prepared. Of course, Nicolette Cooper wasn’t very representative of the type of clients that he usually saw—he could probably count the number that had earned Associate’s Degrees while incarcerated on his hands with fingers left over. He waited patiently for Nikki to regain her composure.

She smiled apologetically, crumpling a damp tissue in her hand, embarrassed at her display of emotion. The tension and fear had been building since her release; by the time she knocked on his door, her composure had been paper thin.

The conversation she’d had with Daniel’s mother, Ramona, hadn’t helped, she reflected ruefully; two days later, she still felt bruised and torn from their exchange. The bitter knowledge that Ramona’s anger was at least partly justified had left her feeling stripped bare and defenseless against her words.

I’m going to make this right, she thought, determinedly pushing aside her discouragement. I don’t know how, yet...but I will.

She met Garcia’s measuring gaze with a tremulous, embarrassed smile.

I’m sorry, she finally continued, It’s been a trying couple of days.

He nodded sympathetically, giving her a moment to regain her composure before continuing. He became businesslike and professional as he caught her eyes with his own, Let’s talk about your living arrangements. I spoke with your father, and it sounds like he wants to help out.

Nicolette nodded, fighting to remain outwardly calm as conflicting feelings roared through her.

So like Dad, she thought bitterly, always good at finding the middle ground between his obligations with a minimum of personal involvement. And he says I’m not a good influence?, she thought indignantly, her pain and wounded pride competing for space in her emotional landscape. Where were you when Mother was being insane? What were you doing when your eldest daughter ran away from home to get away from that lunatic? How does taking the brunt of Mother’s insane