Saving Alyssa. Loree Lough
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Max observed, “your mom focused all her ‘neat penmanship’ energy on you, because Eddie’s writing is horrible!” She fanned herself with the pages. “Why doesn’t he type his letters on the computer, so people who aren’t hieroglyphics specialists can read them?”
“Keep it up and I’ll revoke your reading privileges,” Noah said wryly. “And to answer your question, he writes because our mom insists it’s more personal.”
And as he opened Grace’s letter, Max zipped her lip.
Noah’s sister and her firefighter husband still shared their sprawling rancher in Glendale Heights, and her letter read like a to-do list for Stan. The porch needed a coat of paint, and the boxwood hedge hadn’t been trimmed since last summer. Stan’s excuse? That Eddie had borrowed the hedge trimmer and the paint sprayer, and as usual, hadn’t returned either.
Noah hit Replay on the CD player while Max read Grace’s letter. “Another beer?” he asked.
“Better not,” she said. “How would it look if a cop stopped me on the way home?”
Noah tossed both bottles into the recycling bin.
“I’m wondering...do Grace and Stan have kids?” she asked.
“No, but not for a lack of trying. I’m wondering something, too.”
Heavily mascaraed green eyes opened wide. “About?”
“You.”
“Uh-oh...”
“You’re great at what you do, there’s no getting around that. But are all these questions you ask the result of careful training? Experience? Or were you just born nosy?”
Max rolled her eyes. “It’s stuff like that makes me wish I’d set you up at the Comedy Club instead of this bike shop.”
“Well, it’s a natural question. You’re too young to be so nosy.”
“Now there’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one!”
“So why aren’t you married?”
Max sat up straighter. “Aren’t you just full of questions tonight.”
“Reading mail from my family makes me nostalgic. So shoot me.”
“Can’t. The agency makes me account for every bullet fired....”
“You’re not getting off that easy,” Noah said. “If you’d had a mind to, you probably could have been a model. So which is it—you’re a workaholic or a man-hater?”
Max threw back her head and laughed. “Neither. I just don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and all the good marshals are spoken for.” She shrugged. “But you’re a fine one to talk. Three years in the program, longer than that since your wife died...why are you still unattached?”
Noah frowned. “I can’t believe you’d ask such a question.” For one thing, Jillian didn’t simply die, she’d been murdered. Even if his conscience allowed him to see other women, his fatherly instincts would never permit him to trust anyone to babysit Alyssa.
Max nodded. “Yeah, well, other people in your situation manage it. At least they didn’t become monks.”
A stony silence descended. Max rolled her eyes, then asked, “So how’s that li’l princess of yours?”
“Still a happy, well-adjusted kid,” he said, nodding toward Alyssa’s door. “Mostly thanks to you.”
Max waved the compliment away. “Knock it off, will ya? You know how easily I blush.”
“Yeah, well—”
“If you’re about to go over that same old ‘it’s my fault’ ground again, spare me, okay? Sit down. Read your dad’s letter.” Max paused, softened her tone. “I know you like to save his for last.”
He couldn’t deny that he’d gone down that road too many times to count. Couldn’t deny that he enjoyed hearing his dad talk about the crazy antics of his microbiology and immunology graduate students. This time, however, the letter sounded more like an official report on Senator O’Malley and others affiliated with Noah’s downfall.
“Listen to this,” he said to Max. And then he read aloud, “‘I can’t prove it, of course, but rumors are circulating that indicate a certain slimeball is still cutting deals and calling the shots from his Stateville prison cell. But don’t worry. I’m keeping an ear to the ground.’” Noah met Max’s eyes. “What does he mean by that?”
She sat up straighter, reached for the letter. “Don’t get your boxers in a knot. It’s probably nothing.”
“No offence, but that’s not much comfort. Why do I get the feeling Alyssa is still in danger, even after three long—”
“Shh,” the agent said, pointing at Alyssa’s door. “What if the kid hears you?” Max folded his father’s letter, returned it to its envelope. “Okay if I take this back to the office?”
“Why? I thought you guys read every word before the mail is delivered, so you can black out every name and date.”
“We do. But the letters pass through a lot of hands between here and Chicago. I’d rather err on the side of caution than take any chances.”
“I know that Alyssa and I aren’t the only people you’re assigned to, and that the letters have to pass through three, sometimes four post offices to throw off the bad guys.”
“Hey, don’t knock it,” Max said. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
“So far. I guess. And that isn’t much comfort, either.” Noah inhaled a shaky breath, remembering the alarm in his father’s letter. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I appreciate everything you and the agency have done for us.”
Reaching across the space between them, Max gave his hand a gentle pat. “There’s a 99 percent chance that what your dad heard is a rumor. The mad rantings of a foolish old convict, shooting off his mouth and thumping his chest to prove he’s still a big shot.” She held up a finger to silence Noah’s protest. “But I’ll look into it. You have my word on it.”
The clock struck the half hour.
“Nine-thirty? How can that be?” Grunting and groaning, Max tugged her boots back on, then shrugged into her jacket. Almost as an afterthought, she gave Noah a hug.
“Relax,” she said, patting the envelope in her pocket, “and let me take care of this. If there’s anything to it, I’ll let you know.”
He locked up, then sat on the edge of his recliner and stared at the scuffed hardwood beneath his bare feet. He was tired. So tired of worrying that every stranger had been sent by O’Malley, to finish what he’d started. Tired of pretending this life they were living was normal.
Alyssa would be disappointed to learn they hadn’t sent anything for her, so Noah stuffed the letters back into the manila envelope, sealed it and placed it in the lockbox hidden behind a row of ancient Reader’s Digest books on the top shelf of the bookcase.
Noah held his head in his hands and tried to think of something about their world that wasn’t a lie. When nothing came to mind, he slumped onto his chair and drove his fingers through his hair. Maybe when he answered the family’s letters, he’d ask them not to write, at least not for a while. It was hard enough holding things together without their black-and-white reminders of what life was like compared to what it could have been: Alyssa sleeping in a tiny apartment above a bicycle shop, instead of her big sunny room in Chicago. A dad who sold bike chains and air pumps instead of putting bad guys into prison. A dad who had become one himself.
If she hadn’t already lost so much, he might be tempted—
“Aw, don’t cry, Daddy,” his daughter said, climbing into his lap. Holding his face