David's face filled with an expression I could never put there, as much as I tried: a son's joy returning a father's love and pride.

Flora, Jeremy, Elizabeth, and my parents came huffing up the path bearing cake and utensils. I stood, still stunned by what David had done, by what Ty had offered, by the fact that I was actually thinking of risking my heart . . .

Elizabeth brought me back to earth. "Yancey called. Said he has a lead on a job for us. Right up your alley, he says."

I rolled my eyes. "You know what? I need a vacation."

A smile crinkled her eyes as Ty came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. Pure reflex had my body relaxing back into his, fitting perfectly. "At least this time you won't be going alone."

David bobbed up, using one crutch to balance himself as he offered a piece of cake to Elizabeth. "What are you guys talking about?"

"How'd you like a trip to the beach?" I asked him.

"Sure." Then he looked at me suspiciously. "Wait. Are you sending me away?"

"No." I rumpled his hair-and with his hands full he had no defense. "I'm talking about a trip for the family." I intertwined my fingers with Ty's. "The whole family."

Masterson almost made things too easy, Hutton thought as he watched through his binoculars. Unless he was hosting a social function, Masterson's staff had weekends off, and this weekend was no exception. Just as Hutton had suspected, Masterson's ego had gotten the better of him and he hadn't hired any security. Typical.

Masterson had spent the day working at his desk and then had relaxed with a steak on the grill and a bourbon-Bookers. He'd sat out on the patio for a while, looking old and alone, Hutton thought, before changing into swim trunks and doing fifty laps in the Olympic-sized indoor pool.

Hutton used the time Masterson spent swimming to move into position. And, just like always, Masterson climbed out of the pool, threw a towel over his shoulders, poured himself another bourbon-a double this time-and headed into the sauna.

Usually he'd spend just ten minutes or so in there, then either go back to get more work done or go to bed.

Not tonight.

Hutton followed him inside, closing the door behind him just as Masterson stood, surprised enough that he spilled some Bookers from his glass.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "We can't risk being seen together. You need to leave."

Hutton said nothing. Simply stood, enjoying the moment. Masterson didn't realize it yet, but they'd come full circle from the master-employee relationship that had begun ten years ago.

Masterson's gaze dropped, and he took in the skin-tight gloves Hutton wore. Ah, that's what Hutton wanted. To see the fear, the panic swallowed in a single heart-galloping gulp before acceptance set in.

He rarely indulged himself in showing himself to his targets-if they truly were surprised by their deaths, they tended to appear all the more accidental.

But this time he was very happy to make an exception. "Sit down."

Masterson started to take a step forward, unaccustomed to being ordered around, but Hutton drew his pistol and that squelched any rebellion before it started. "Rich man like you, living alone, a robbery gone bad works just as well as any other scenario."

Masterson nodded and sank onto the bench. "How are you going to do it?"

He'd never had a target ask that before. Hutton wondered if it was a bit inhumane to answer. But if knowing how he was going to meet his maker was Masterson's last request, he'd honor it.

"Dosed your bourbon. It's a plant extract similar to digitalis but untraceable. I'll swap out the bottles before I leave, of course. Just in case. But a man your age, drinking in a sauna, falling asleep in the heat after all that exertion-"

"It will appear like a heart attack."

Hutton nodded. "Less painful than a real one, if that helps any."

Masterson met Hutton's gaze, raised his glass with a challenging quirk of one eyebrow, and downed it all in one gulp. He carefully set the glass down. "How long?"

"Not long at all. Just relax."

"You do realize that when I die, they'll find everything. All those secrets out in the open."

"I'm willing to take the risk. Besides, I'm not that easy to catch." He didn't add that he was planning to retire-everything, the travel, the job, the name. Canada might be a nice place to settle. After all, he was still young, might just start a family-especially if he could get lucky enough to find a girl as smart as AJ Palladino.

Funny how his first failure had been his last. Full circle. He liked it when things balanced out that way.

Masterson's face grew flushed and his breathing rapid. His eyes slid to half-mast as his body slumped to one side. Hutton sat down beside him, holding his wrist, his fingers on his pulse. Seemed only fitting to keep him company. After all, Hutton did owe the man a lot.

Masterson had created Hutton. Now it was time for Hutton to become his own creation.

The pulse became fainter, then vanished all together. Masterson went still. Hutton waited several minutes, checking for breathing and a heartbeat. Silence.

Without saying good-bye, Hutton left as silently as he had entered.

Be sure to read Rock Bottom by Erin Brockowich with CJ Lyons Turn the page to read an excerpt from the book.

MASS MARKET EDITION.

AVAILABLE IN NOVEMBER 2011.

ONE.

"Hi, you're on the air with AJ Palladino, the People's Champion." I couldn't help but cringe every time I chirped the greeting, but the station manager insisted on using the title foisted on me by People magazine, so I had no choice.

Unlike my freelance research work, this radio gig kept food on the table and a roof over our heads. Small price to pay. Didn't mean I had to like it.

"AJ, hi again!" came a woman's voice. Happy, unlike many of my callers. "It's Martha. Martha from Pennsylvania."

The computer screen in front of me lit up with Martha's history and her previous calls. But I didn't need to read the details. As soon as I heard her name and voice I remembered. "Martha from Deer-creek. You were having some problems with a fish kill in your stream, if I recall?"

"You remember! Thanks to you, we've been able to finally get things put right."

"We found you a contact with your state Department of Environmental Protection, and I think the local Ag-extension was going to help set up monitoring for your well?"

"The Ag-extension folks were so helpful. Turns out we weren't the only property affected. Two more farms downstream were as well. And the DEP, well, there was some hassle there at first, but I did what you said, I kept calm and just insisted that they do their jobs and investigate. And you know what? Turns out it was a dry cleaner from in town. Too cheap to pay to safely dispose of all those chemicals, he thought he could come out here and pump them into our creek! But they caught him, red-handed. And now he's paying to clean it all up-him and the state. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for all your help. It means the world to me and my neighbors."

It wasn't often that people took the time to call back and say thanks, so of course I smiled and gave my producer a double thumbs-up. "Thank you, Martha. Without people like you being willing to take a stand for what's right, guys like your dry cleaner would get away with destroying our environment and our communities just to save themselves a few bucks. You're a real people's champion."

My producer cued the cheers, applause, and celebratory sound effects. We signed off from Martha and took the next call. "Hi, you're on the air with AJ Palladino, the People's Champion."

"You're the one who took on Capital Power, won all that money for those folks?" This guy didn't sound near as happy as Martha.

"I helped. It wasn't about the money, though. It was about helping the people whose families suffered after their water was contaminated by Capital Power." I chose my words judiciously. The court case was famous, over and done with for four years, but every day someone just had to remind me of it-and of how far I'd fallen since.

Cinderella, the day after the ball. When she learned the prince didn't put the toilet seat down, the royal horse stalls needed mucking, and glass slippers weren't the most practical attire when running your ass off all day long in a palace with marble floors.

"What about helping all us people out of work now that Capital declared bankruptcy? You gonna go to court for us? Fight for our right to feed our families?" His words skidded together, building momentum like a NASCAR driver spotting the checkered flag.

"Sir, I'm not a lawyer-"

He drowned me out before I could finish my routine disclaimer. "No, you're just the bitch who took my job and my house, and now I can't even look my wife and kids in the eye. We're living in a tent. A goddamn tent! All because of you-"

I signaled my producer to record and trace the caller's location. Sitting up straight, I pressed my headset hard against my ear, as if I could channel the intentions behind his words.

"Sir, tell me more. How many kids do you have?" I tried in vain to engage him. Some were like that-they'd phone in to rant and vent and call me names that had the producer tapping the bleep button faster than a telegraph key. Those shows always made the station manager grin as ratings spiked. Usually I gave as good as I got. But something about this guy. . . .

"What do you care? The People's Champion, my ass. This is all your fault. Remember that, bitch. All your fault."

A blast thundered through my headphones. I tore the headset off, my ears ringing so loud I didn't realize I was shouting. "Sir, sir! Are you all right? What happened?"

The ON THE AIR light faded to black. I climbed off my stool, my balance wobbly. "Did you find him? Is he okay?"

"We've called nine-one-one. There's nothing more I can do." My producer was calm as he switched out PSA spots to fill the dead air.

"That was a gunshot."

The switchboard lights danced like firecrackers. He ignored them. We wouldn't be taking any more calls. Not today. Maybe not ever.

Sinking into the chair beside him, I cupped my ears, trying to muffle the screeching echo still rattling my fillings. "He's dead, isn't he?"

The direct line rang. He answered it, listened, then said, "Thank you," and hung up.

"Tell me." I wanted to throw up, needed to throw up, just to have an excuse to curl up alone in a bathroom stall, but instead I hung on to the arms of the vinyl chair, squeezing all my hope into their faux-leather padding.

"You can't blame yourself," he said in a tone meant to be kind.

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the sight of his lips moving, letting the echo of the gunshot stampede through my brain.

"He's dead."

Four months later ...

The tug-of-war in my stomach was a tractor pull pitting an eighteen-wheeler against a Panzer tank. My blinding headache as I hunched over the steering wheel of the van and peered through the equally blinding rain didn't help. Once we'd left the concrete tangle of highways surrounding D.C. and made it over the West Virginia border we were on two-lane switchbacked highways crossing through the Appalachians.

Home. The word filled me with dread-and yet also offered a tantalizing feeling of anticipation. Maybe this time....

When we were kids, we used to whine that Scotia, West Virginia, was the town where dreams went to die.

But I'd escaped.

I'd lived my dreams. Lost most of them. Except the most important one, the one sleeping in the backseat, his corduroy snores harmonizing with the beat of the windshield wipers.

David. Almost ten years old and going to meet his grandparents for the first time. Not to mention his first trip to the mountains. First time leaving D.C. since he was an infant in my arms.

Was I crawling back, a failure, a fool for returning to the town that had tried so hard to assassinate my dreams? Or was I really still just a kid myself, coming home at twenty-seven to be healed?

Lord, how I wanted it to be the latter, that Walton's Thanksgiving special where John Boy reunites with his father and everyone ends up safe and sound, wrapped in a crazy quilt of love....

I passed the WELCOME TO SCOTIA, POPULATION 867 sign and noted the bullet holes that had blown out the center of every "o" and dotted every "i." Nothing changed. Good-bye, Walton fantasy-hello, Scotia reality.

With all the finesse of a roundhouse punch, that reality hit home when I pulled up in front of my parents' house and saw that the only light on was upstairs. Last week, when I'd called to let her know I was coming home, my mom had been so excited by the idea of getting to know her only grandchild that she'd insisted I stay with her and Dad instead of with my grandmother, as I'd planned.

She'd gushed about preparing a room for us to share, said it would be no problem to accommodate David, none at all. Of course, she'd also poured on the guilt about me keeping David from her for so long-as if it'd been my idea.

Goes to show how low I'd fallen that I'd taken her at face value. Of all people, I should have known better. Usually I'm the biggest skeptic in a crowd, too guarded, barricaded even, but she'd suckered me into trusting her. And stupid me, I'd told David about it.

"Is the ramp around back?" he asked, his voice still ragged from sleep. "If they don't have it ready, I could use my crutches."

David was so excited about making a good impression on his grandparents-he'd changed clothes three times before we left D.C. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that he had his face pressed against the window. A kid on Christmas Eve, searching the sky for Santa.

And I was about to give him a lump of coal. Courtesy of my folks, Frank and Edna Palladino.

"No crutches. Not in this rain and mud."

"Mo-o-om." He dragged it out to three syllables. "I can do it. You're not going to carry me." The horror!

"Let me run in first, see what's going on." See if I could salvage anything, protect him from having all his familial fantasies crushed.

I jumped from the van before he could protest and dashed through the rain to the front porch of the only home I'd ever known. The doorknob was icy cold. I stopped myself before turning it. Going on ten years since I left-should I knock first, like a stranger?

The doorbell echoed through the darkened downstairs. After a few minutes the hall light came on, and my father came tromping down the steps. He looked surprised to see me, but long experience told me he was faking it. Denial, our family's drug of choice.

"Angela, what are you doing here?" He opened the door. He didn't invite me inside but instead stood there filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, barricading the entrance.

"Did you forget we were coming today?" For David's sake, I didn't lash out the way I wanted. Instead, I played along with his delusions. "That's okay, we can sort things out in the morning. Mom said she'd have the downstairs bedroom ready for us." It was a tiny room, called the "maid's room" back ninety years ago when the house had first been built, but it had its own bath and wouldn't need a lot of work to accommodate David's wheelchair.

"Well, see, we just didn't realize how much work it would take. . . . " He peered over my head to the van, trying to make out David's face. But the windows had steamed up, and all you could see of David was a black blob bouncing in anticipation. "It's just not fair to your mom, asking her to care for a crip--, a handicapped child. And not fair to you or David," he added, as if he was doing us a favor.

As much as I'd have loved to punch him in the nose and take David away from this town, we had nowhere to go. If there was one thing I'd discovered in the years I'd spent away from Scotia, it was that as long as I had breath in my body, I'd do whatever it took to protect my child.

Didn't matter if it meant facing down a grizzly with its tail caught in a hornets' nest or groveling to my parents. David was my heart and soul-everything I did, I did for him, so he'd have a future better than any I'd ever dreamed of, so he'd have a present that was the best I could give him, so he'd never look upon his past with dread and anger and fear like I did.

I dug in for one last try. "Is Mom around?"