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      About the Author

      DEBRA WEBB was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually, she met and married the man of her dreams, and then tried various occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a daycare centre, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for a living came true. You can write to Debra at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA, or visit her website at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

      This book is dedicated to all the fans of the

      Colby Agency. Thank you for your faithfulness

      to this series. Please enjoy the first in this new trilogy

      revolving around Jim Colby, Victoria’s son.

       Chapter One

       Friday, February 18

       St. Louis, Missouri

      Willow Harris shifted the car into Park and turned off the engine. She drew in a slow, deep breath and ordered herself to remain calm.

      This particular part of the east side of St. Louis wasn’t exactly the kind of place a woman wanted to find herself in at dusk, but she had no choice.

      He’d called.

      She’d had to come, no matter the time of day or night. The man she’d driven here to see didn’t keep the usual business hours.

      Before getting out of the car she said one last prayer. Please, God, let the news be good. She wasn’t sure she could take any more bad news.

      Eight months.

      She’d been fighting to get her son back for eight long months. An eternity. Hurt welled up inside her at the idea that she’d missed his second birthday. Just last week. She’d missed so much already. All those evolving toddler moments. Precious changes that no mother should miss.

      Nothing would bring those moments back.

      Closing her eyes, she forced the painful thoughts away. She had to be strong. She would never be able to bring her baby home again if she couldn’t hold herself together better than this.

      “Whatever it takes,” she murmured as she opened her eyes and firmed her resolve. No weakness, no fear. “I will do whatever it takes.”

      Willow emerged from her car and headed for the office of Davenport Investigations. She’d been here several times before. But this time was different. This time she would be given an update on the man who’d actually managed to get close enough to send back pictures of her son.

      No one had gotten that close before.

      Anticipation fluttered in her chest.

      She couldn’t wait to see the pictures of her baby.

      Eight endless months had passed since she’d last seen him.

      She hadn’t been able to hold him… to kiss his sweet little head. Maybe if she were really lucky, this man would be able to reunite her with her precious child.

      After numerous failures he could be the one.

      The bell over the door jingled as she entered the suite of offices that sat tucked between a dry cleaning service and a small chain drug store, both of which had long ago gone out of business. The small waiting room was empty and absolutely silent as usual. Not once during her four previous visits had she encountered another client. Mr. Davenport explained that he carefully arranged appointments to ensure complete privacy. As much as she understood that need, walking into his office alone this close to dark made her a little uneasy.

      Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.

      She passed two upholstered chairs flanking an end table, the magazine-cluttered top highlighted by the dim glow showering down from a ceramic lamp. No desk, no chair, no telephone and, evidently, no receptionist. Just a space-challenged room designed for waiting.

      Since she’d timed her arrival to the minute—experience had taught her not to bother coming early—she strode up to the door that led into Davenport’s private office and knocked. He should be waiting for her to show up about now.

      “Come in, Ms. Harris,” he called through the closed door.

      Willow moistened her lips, took another deep breath and entered his office.

      He sat behind his massive wooden desk, didn’t bother standing as he gestured for her to have a seat. She’d wondered at his lack of social etiquette at first, but the hope that he could help her had overridden any second thoughts. Desperation had a way of doing that.

      His desk, credenza and file cabinets were clear of clutter as if he’d taken care to lock away every single scrap of paper that might reveal information regarding one of his clients. However lacking in decorum he might be, he was definitely discreet.

      “You have good news?” she asked as she settled into the lone chair on her side of his desk. “And the pictures?” Hope bloomed in her chest at the mere idea of seeing her baby, even if only in covertly snapped photos.

      He tossed an envelope in her direction. “I received these day before yesterday.”

      Willow didn’t ask why he hadn’t let her know about the pictures before today. Nor did she inquire as to why he avoided giving her an answer as to whether or not he had good news. He most likely had his reasons for doling out information in the way he did, reasons she probably wouldn’t want to know. That was something else she’d learned about this man, he didn’t like prying questions unless he was the one doing the asking. Her fingers trembled as she opened the envelope and took out the digital prints. Her heart thumped hard and tears burned in her eyes.

      Ata.

      Her baby.

      He looked so big… so different. Two years old. And she’d missed that special day. The need to hold him was suddenly so intense that she could scarcely breathe.

      How could the man she’d thought