Before I could snap back with some kind of clever rebuttal, he was gone.

I finished packing, threw my bag in the car and found David to say good-bye. He was in Flora's front room, furiously drawing in his sketch pad. He shut it and shoved it into his backpack before I could see what he was working on. I knew better than to ask.

"Here's how this is going to work," I told him, using my "don't try to find any loopholes" voice. "You're going to listen to Elizabeth and do what she asks you to do without talking back. You're going to shower every morning without her needing to remind you."

He squirmed at that. For some reason personal hygiene had become a sore topic lately-he'd go days without showering or changing his clothes. Then when I bought him deodorant-well, you would have thought I was asking him to commit social harikari! Flora says his behavior is normal for boys David's age. I'm not sure about that, but it's not normal for my David. Heck, he used to love showers so much I'd have to restrict him to only two a day, max.

"You will pick up your clothes and do your laundry and not wear the same thing every day," I continued, pushing my luck. An eye roll and shoulder shrug were his only answer. "And," I pulled him into a tight sideways hug-slash-headlock, "you will remember that I love you very, very much and I'm coming home just as soon as I can. Okay?"

He squirmed free, but not before I landed a loud kiss onto his head.

"Whatever." His tone verged on adolescent ennui, but a smile creased his face and suddenly my baby boy was back. "Did you invite grandma and grandpa to my birthday? And Mr. Masterson?"

It wrenched my heart every time he called my folks "grandma" and "grandpa"-much less when he mentioned Cole's father with no term of endearment since they were still virtually strangers.

Masterson had met with David twice under my supervision at his mansion. I'd sat right outside the study door while they'd talked, trying hard not to flashback to the last time I'd stepped foot in Masterson's study-ten years ago when I'd told him I was pregnant. We'd argued, and on my way home a coal truck had run me off the road and into a retention pond. I'd almost died, David as well.

David and Masterson's talks felt more like job interviews-David dwarfed by the twelve-foot-high ceilings, his head barely reaching the top of Masterson's massive walnut desk that sat on an elevated dais so he could look down his nose at everyone.

At least that's how I saw it-I'm a bit prejudiced.

"You did remember to invite them, didn't you?" David repeated when I didn't answer.

Actually, I'd been hoping he'd forgotten about inviting them. I just knew that any event that combined my folks, Masterson, Flora, and me was certain to end in disaster.

"Mom . . . please, it's my birthday. I want them here."

"Okay. I'll ask them." I snuck in another kiss and quick hug before he could escape. "Bye. Love ya."

He waved absently as he wheeled himself back out into the sunshine, ready for his next adventure.

I sighed and headed in the opposite direction. It was going to be a long couple of days.

My folks live in a house that's almost a century old and filled with junk. Seriously. After my big brother, Randy, died, my mom's already obsessive tendencies turned to hoarding in a desperate effort to preserve Randy's memory.

From the outside it looks like a normal house. White siding, Cape Cod, two stories, gables, shutters hanging a little crooked, paint a bit faded.

Walk inside the front door and if the doors to the other rooms are closed-which they always are-everything still seems normal. Maybe even a bit Spartan with Randy's black-rimmed photo the only personal item in the foyer. My father makes sure the steps are kept clear. He also put in new doors to block the other rooms from view. Enabling Mom and drinking his way into denial are his two main passions in life.

Open one of those closed doors and you unleash an eruption of worthless junk. Comic books, soda bottles, sporting equipment, model airplanes, toys, clothing, ball caps-it's enough to fill five Dollar Generals five times over.

But never enough room for me. Or David.

I knocked and waited for Mom to answer. She's Old Man Masterson's bookkeeper and works from home, using my old room as an overstuffed office. Dad is a foreman at the mine, so he was at work. In the spring, after I accidentally entered my childhood home and discovered Mom's "little secret," they'd both made it clear that I was no longer welcome without an invitation.

Of course, I refuse to let David anywhere near the place until they clear out at least the first floor. Five months later and I don't think they've done anything except rearrange the piles of junk into new piles of different junk.

"Angela Joy," Mom said when she opened the door. "What brings you here?" She glanced past me-probably to make sure I hadn't called Adult Protective Services. Not that I hadn't been tempted after she and Dad refused any help or counseling. But when I'd talked with a caseworker and Elizabeth researched it, we discovered that since there were working bathroom facilities and exit routes, my parents were in no imminent danger.

So said the law. I disagreed. But, as usual in my family, no one paid any attention to what I thought.

"I'm leaving for business. Going to be gone a few days, and David wanted me to remind you about his birthday party."

"A business trip?" she said in disapproval, leading me inside. She kept on walking up the steps, never looking back to see if I was following. "Do you think it's wise? A single mother leaving her son alone? In my day-"

"He won't be alone." What did she think I'd done the ten years I'd raised David on my own in D.C. as a single mom? Lock him in a closet while I was at work? I didn't ask-my folks never did get my sense of humor, and sarcasm was lost on them. "Elizabeth is going to stay at the summerhouse, and Jeremy and Flora will be watching him as well."

She made another noise, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, but I ignored it. The second floor hallway was barely negotiable, a tight passage etched out between piles higher than my head, precariously stacked against both walls.

"Don't touch anything," she snapped. She hadn't forgiven me for stepping on a bobble-head toy and breaking it the last time I was here.

We entered her office, weaving our way past stacks of document boxes, paper files, and several cheap filing cabinets. She took the only chair at the TV tray that held her laptop. I stood, holding my arms tight to my sides and trying not to breathe too deeply for fear of coughing up dust and setting off an avalanche.

"Where are you going?"

"Colleton Landing, South Carolina. It's just north of Savannah."

"South Carolina?" she said in alarm, swiveling her chair to face me. "You can't go there. They've got alligators and sharks and swamps and isn't that hurricane still out in the Atlantic and-"

"Don't worry, this job is inside a plant, not out in the field." I didn't tell her it was a nuclear plant that produced radioactive medical isotopes. In addition to OCD, Mom also plays at being an amateur hypochondriac-she's always healthy but thinks up the worst possible diagnoses for anyone else who makes the mistake of revealing a symptom. "Most I'll be facing is mosquitoes as I walk from the parking lot."

Wrong thing to say. Her eyes grew even wider. "Mosquitoes? We're talking West Nile and Eastern Equine Encephalitis and maybe dengue fever. I'll have to look that up."

I blocked her path to the computer. "Mom. I'll be fine." Took a deep breath, bracing myself. Over the years not only had my mother's hoarding and hypochondria blossomed but she was pretty near agoraphobic-had only made it over to Flora's once in the five months we've been here.

"You and Dad are coming for David's birthday." She stared at me blankly. "Saturday. At Flora's."

Her gaze darted away from mine as if answers lay in the stacks of documents surrounding us.

"Mom. David's expecting you. It's important."

"Well . . . " Her voice trailed off as her gaze sharpened, snagged by some doo-dad out in the hallway. "We'll see. Your dad and I are so busy, you know."

Before I could say anything, she darted past me and began rummaging through a pile of boxes from Amazon and QVC, some opened, some still sealed, a few bent and smashed by the weight of junk covering them. A football rolled past her grasping hands, followed by a Game Boy and a lava lamp. Any of which her grandson would most dearly appreciate. Instead, they were gathering lost memories of another boy, long since dead.

"I ordered this for your brother," she muttered as she dug deep, her head buried in the pile.

Randy had died fifteen years ago. His room was a shrine, frozen in the past. My old room was the present-her job with Masterson, no trace of her only living child.

And the rest of the house? As the pile of junk shifted and swirled beneath her movements, my mind flashed to a gruesome future-she and Dad buried alive.

"Mom-" I started, then bit back my words. I'd tried to get her into counseling, had tried cleaning things myself-both of which had been disasters. Dad had threatened to cut me and David out of their lives forever if I didn't stop "interfering." If it was only me, I would have walked away. But I couldn't deprive David of his only family, no matter how mixed up they were.

"Found it," she exclaimed in delight, emerging from the shuffle of junk, holding a slim box aloft. "I'm sure your brother won't mind if you borrow it. You might need it down there in South Carolina."

She thrust the box into my hand. It was a four-inch fixed stainless-steel SOG knife. Nice one with its own nylon sheath. I started to give it back but stopped. Ever since a killer had caught me empty-handed and defenseless, I'd been carrying the small folding Buck knife I'd had since I was a kid, but I could definitely see the potential intimidation factor in this one. It looked like something a Navy SEAL would carry. With that sheath it would fit perfectly in my boot.

"Manners, Angela Joy," Mom chided when I didn't say anything.

"Thank you," I mumbled. My head was splitting and Grandel was waiting. At least flying on a private plane I wouldn't have to worry about getting the knife through security. "I have to go now. But you'll be there Saturday, right?"

Too late. She was already on her knees scrabbling through the pile, searching for more buried treasure. She waggled her hand at me without looking and I left.

As I closed the door behind me, the house seemed to sigh. Whether happy or sad to see me go, leaving my mother trapped inside her memories, I wasn't sure.

SIX.

"You're late," Elizabeth said as I pulled into her driveway. She hopped into the passenger seat before I could turn the engine off.

"Had to deal with my mother." I resisted the urge to sigh. "What happened to Grandel?"

"I sent him on ahead in his hired car. Figured this would give us a chance to talk."

"Sneaking around behind the client's back. Wow. This case is off to a great start."

My sarcasm wasn't lost on Elizabeth. "Welcome to the real world. Look, I know this case isn't our usual area of expertise, so I called a friend."

"A friend?"

"Well, a guy I kinda dated once or twice. He's a radiation oncologist at Penn. Super-scary-smart."

"So why'd you stop dating him?"

"It was a blind date, right after Hunter and I divorced. Larry's a great guy but he's pretty intense. OCD, you know what I mean?"

"Oh yeah, I know about OCD." Now I did sigh, thinking of Mom. "So Larry knows about nuclear plants and all this stuff?"

"Some of it. Theoretical stuff, mostly. He gave me an earful about how important having a US source of isotopes is. Said they're used in PET scans and diagnosing heart attacks in addition to treating all sorts of cancer."

"Okay, I get it. Grandel's saving lives with his plant. Not sure how knowing that is going to help me make sense of what's going on down there."

"Hey, my specialty is family law, divorces and prenups, and custody-not like I have a bunch of nuclear physicists on my speed dial. Anyway, I e-mailed you Larry's contact info in case you need advice."

Finally I got it. Elizabeth wasn't buying Grandel's GQ act either. He wasn't in this to save lives; it was all about the bottom line. "Wait. You mean in case I don't like what Grandel is telling me, I can double-check with Larry, see if he's pulling a fast one?"

"Something like that."

"Distrusting our own client. Feels like I'm back in D.C."

"Hey, never forget the first rule of law."

"Trust nobody-"

"Assume nothing."

Elizabeth nodded. "I also did some research on Grandel's foreign venture capital partners that he's worried about. Turns out they're from Japan."

"Japan? After what happened with the earthquake and tsunami and those plants going into meltdown, I'd think they'd be the last country to want a new nuclear plant."

"The plants damaged by the tsunami were forty years old. And given the amount of rebuilding they need to do, they need energy, fast, and can't import enough oil without crippling their economy. Apparently almost a third of their energy supply came from nuclear power before the accident and the government still thinks investing in new, safer nuclear technology is its best option."

"But after the accident, the Japanese public-"

"Is not too thrilled with the idea of new nuclear plants. So of course Grandel's potential investors are seeking a fool-proof, weatherproof, god-proof technology. They're apprehensive about public opposition and hypersensitive to any hint of scandal or cover-up. They're coming to tour the plant next week to make their decision."

"Hence the worry and the tight deadline."

"Exactly."

"So I'm supposed to educate the population about a new kind of nuclear reactor, calm their fears, get them to actually support the plant, and stop their opposition-all in a week? Elizabeth-"

"I know, I know." She smiled-her best "it'll be okay although I have no idea how" smile. "But if anyone can do it, you can."

We pulled into the parking lot of the general aviation airfield outside Smithfield, the county seat, about half an hour over the mountain from Scotia. It wasn't a "real" airport-no terminal, just a few fiberglass hangers and a dozen small planes lined up in a field. On the tarmac waited a sleek, small jet.

Elizabeth helped me with my bags-the travel pack and a messenger bag that held my laptop.

We approached the jet. Another plane, a small single prop, revved its engines, preparing for takeoff.

"I forgot to call Masterson." I stopped and grabbed my cell phone.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" Elizabeth shouted over the noise.

"Promised David I'd invite him to his birthday party on Saturday." I dialed. I didn't bother about the noise-it would give me an excuse to cut the conversation short. "Mr. Masterson, please. AJ Palladino." His secretary put me on hold. A minute later Old Man Masterson was on the phone.

"AJ, what do you want?" Typical, curt and to the point. Masterson blamed me for his son's death, so our conversations tended to be undercut by anger.

Not too hard to understand, since I still blamed myself for Cole's death as well. Intellectually, I knew it wasn't my fault-but emotionally, well, that was going to take some time.

"David asked me to invite you to his birthday party on Saturday at Flora's."

"Boy sent me a written invitation. I have it on my schedule." His tone softened when he spoke of David.

Even I couldn't ignore the fact that Masterson was smitten with his grandson-proud of his accomplishments, determined that David would be his legacy. He wanted David to take his father's name, carry the Masterson surname. I told him it would be up to David, not me, once he was old enough to decide.

Unfortunately, you give a man like Masterson an inch and suddenly he's camped out in your living room, proclaiming squatter's rights. His response had been to bring suit, requesting permanent visitation rights whenever he wanted.

Elizabeth was doing everything she could to stall the proceedings. I hadn't told anyone else about it yet, hoping it would all magically go away, but sooner or later I'd probably have to face Masterson in court-with my son the prize.

"What's all that noise?" he asked before I could hang up.

"Airplane. I'm leaving for business."