correlate with her own personal and professional calendar. Naturally, she arranged the finest prenatal care available, and I was born through a scheduled cesarean section, and proved very healthy, of the proper weight and size. She had, of course, already arranged for a nurse, so I was given excellent care, and tested and examined regularly to be certain my development was strong.”
The birdsong, so happy, seemed out of place, as did the sudden jeweled whirl of a hummingbird toward a pot of scarlet dianthus.
“Do you know all this because you found out, or because she told you?”
“She told me. I always knew. The knowledge was part of my education. Education, along with my physical health, were priorities. My mother is exceptionally beautiful, and she had some disappointment in that while my features are pleasing enough, my coloring good, I didn’t reach the level in appearance she’d hoped for, but I made up for it with intellect and motor skills and retention. Overall, she was very satisfied.”
“Oh, baby.”
She hunched in when he put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“You’re just going to have to swallow that one.”
“I’m telling you this so you understand my basic genetic makeup. My mother, while satisfied with me on the whole, never loved me or wished to. She never accepted I might have my own goals or desires or plans. Hers, for me, were again very specific and detailed. For a very long time I thought she didn’t love me because I was lacking in some area, but I came to understand she simply didn’t love. She has no capacity or aptitude for love, and no skills at displaying affection. Factoring genetics and environment, I also lack the capacity. I may not have the skills for relationships, but I understand emotions and affection are primary needs in developing and maintaining them.”
Brooks thought, What a load of crap. But he structured his response more carefully. “Let me get this straight. Because your mother’s cold, selfish and appears to have all the finer feelings of a sand flea, you’re genetically predestined to be the same.”
“That’s very harsh.”
“I can be harsher.”
“There’s no need. When factoring both genetics and environment, what’s often termed nature and nurture —”
“I know what the hell it is.”
“Now you’re angry.”
“That’s a mild term for it, but not with you. Let me ask you something else. If you’re so genetically incapable of love and affection, how come you love that dog, and he loves you back. And don’t try to pass it off as training.”
“We need each other.”
“Need’s one part of it. If he got hurt or sick and couldn’t function as a guard dog, would you get rid of him?”
“Of course not.”
“Because it would be cold and selfish and downright mean, and you’re none of that. And because you love him.”
“He’s a dog, not a person. There are people who feel strongly for and about animals, and don’t have the same feelings for or about people.”
“You feel something for me.”
With no helpful answer, Abigail stared down into her wine.
“What about your father?”
“Donor.”
“Okay, what about the donor? If she didn’t tell you specifically who he was, you found out. You’re too smart to let that slide.”
“She wouldn’t give me his name or certain details. When I was twelve I … accessed the information.”
“She kept files.”
“My conclusion was—is—she felt it important to keep track of his health, any potential problem areas. So yes, she kept files. I hacked into them.”
“At twelve.”
“I’ve always had an interest in computers. He’s a physicist. Very successful and respected. He was in his early twenties when he donated, several years younger than my mother at the time.”
“Does he know about you?”
“No. It’s not done.”
“You could have contacted him.”
“Why? Why would I disrupt his life, his family? We have a biological connection and nothing more.”
“He has a family.”
“Yes, he married at thirty-one. At the time I accessed the information, he had one child and was expecting another. He has three children now. I’m not one of them. I’m the result of a donation.”
“Is he still married?”
“Yes.”
“So he can develop and maintain a relationship. You’ve got his genes, too.”
For a moment, a long moment, she watched the flight of the hummingbird—that sapphire blur—until it whizzed out of sight.
“Why would you want to be with someone whose skills and aptitude for personal connections are stunted?”
“Maybe I like the idea of watching them grow, and being part of it. Then there’s the fact I’m hung up on you. Factor those together.”
“There are other reasons I shouldn’t let this continue. I can’t tell you what they are.”
“Yet. I know you’re on the run from something, something that scares you enough you need that dog, all this security, all those guns. Whatever it is has you behind locks, actual and metaphorical. When you trust me enough, when you figure out that needing help isn’t the same as being weak and needy, you’ll tell me. But for now, I should fire up that grill.”
She got to her feet when he did. “How much of your interest in me is wondering what’s behind the locks?”
She needed honesty, maybe more than most, so he’d give her honesty. “It started out that way. I still wonder, partly because a cop always wonders. But mostly now? When you opened those locks, even a little, Abigail, you got me. You got me,” he repeated, taking her hand, pressing it to his heart.
She looked at her hand, felt that strong, steady beat. And let herself go, let herself lay her cheek there. When his arms came around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and the emotions rose so fast, so hard and fast. To be held like this on a cool spring night by someone who cared.
It was like a miracle, even for someone who didn’t believe in them.
“I still don’t know what to do with this, with you. With any of it.”
“Let’s see how it goes.”
“I can try. Will you stay tonight?”
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head. “Thought you’d never ask.”
She stepped back, steadied herself by looking into his eyes. “I’ll go make a dressing for the bag o’ salad.”
And saw that quick flash of humor light his face.
“That’d be great.”
When she went inside, he walked over, took the cover off her grill. Oh, she had him, all right, he thought, more than was comfortable. But he believed he’d get used to it, just like he believed easing open those locks, a little at a time, would be worth the effort.
In Chicago, only two blocks from the club where Ilya had met Elizabeth Fitch one summer night, he toured the dingy apartment that housed one of their most profitable computer scam operations. He often oversaw this area himself, so while his presence generated some nerves, work continued smoothly.
Several operators worked computers, blasting out spam advertising job offers for work at home, Canadian
