Catherine made her way through each room, eventually ending up once again in the master bedroom. It was the one place in the house that called to her more than any other. She took out the photo album she'd discovered the night before and went through the pictures again, settling on the wedding photograph. Now that she'd seen Dylan's father in person she had a better reference for the differences and similarities between the man in the photograph from thirty-something years ago and the man she'd seen today.

Richard Sanders had his arms around his bride. He looked like someone in love, as did his wife. Dylan's mother was slender and petite, with golden brown hair swept up under a veil. Tiny diamond earrings matched the diamond necklace around her neck. She was a pretty woman with a spark in her eyes that reminded Catherine of Dylan.

Why had she walked away from Dylan and Jake? And just as important, why had she never come back?

Maybe there was no good reason. Catherine had certainly grown up with a lot of kids who'd been deserted by their parents. That wasn't a new story or even an unusual one. So why did she have the feeling that there was something about Dylan's mother that needed to be discovered? It had to exist in her relationship with Richard.

Putting the album aside, Catherine went through the rest of the dresser drawers, striking pay dirt when she got to the last one. It was filled with papers and envelopes and, most important, journals. She pulled out one after another, realizing that Dylan's grandmother had kept diaries her entire life.

She sat down on the floor, leaned her back against the wall, and began to read. The journals began almost sixty years earlier, when his grandmother, Ruth Monroe, had been a little girl. Catherine skimmed through the first book. Apparently Ruth had been born and raised in San Francisco. Her father had run a hardware store. Her mother had been a teacher. Ruth had been the oldest of three children and the only girl, which often made her feel like an outsider, as her brothers were inseparable.

As Catherine continued to read, she began to feel a connection to the little girl telling her life story in bits and pieces. Her heart began to open, and she felt the emotions when Ruth graduated from eighth grade, when she went to high school, had her first kiss, fell in love, lost that love and thought her heart was broken. She followed Dylan's grandmother into her early twenties, to her first job as a receptionist at the San Francisco Herald and her desire to work her way up to reporter, only to continue to be shunted to the society and fashion pages instead of hard news.

Catherine wondered if Dylan knew that his grandmother had shared his passion for journalism. Or maybe he did know, and that was why there was such a closeness between them.

Eventually Dylan's grandmother's ambition was tempered by love. In covering a high-society party, she met and fell in love with Conrad Sanders, the executive vice president of an insurance company. Within a year they were married and expecting a baby, a girl they named Eleanor. Two miscarriages followed Eleanor's birth, and Ruth despaired of ever giving her husband a son.

Catherine wiped her eyes, feeling the woman's sadness and burden as if they were her own. Then she smiled as she flipped through the pages and saw the entry announcing that she was pregnant. Ruth would have her baby boy. And she would name him Richard. Dylan's father had certainly been wanted. And spoiled, according to Ruth, who had chronicled her years as a mother and her guilt at wanting to give everything to the son she had waited so long to have, even at the expense of favoring Richard over Eleanor. Treated in many ways like a little prince, Richard had apparently earned his sense of entitlement at an early age.

As she picked up the next journal, Catherine realized she needed to turn on the lamp. The afternoon had passed and daylight had faded. Checking her watch, she realized it was almost seven. She'd been so wrapped up in the journals she'd lost track of time. The house was certainly quiet. Dylan must still be going over his tapes or working on his computer. Maybe she'd just read one more journal and then go see what he was doing.

The next diary picked up years later, and her pulse quickened as she realized that Ruth was writing about the fact that her precious Richard had asked a woman to marry him. The young woman's name was Olivia Marshall. She was a kindergarten teacher working at her first job. Richard's father, Conrad, was not happy about his son's choice. He thought Richard could have done far better than a teacher who came from a broken home and had not a speck of blue blood in her. But Richard was infatuated with Olivia. He'd even told his mother that Olivia had cast a spell over him. Ruth wrote in her diary that she was secretly thrilled about the match, because she thought Richard needed someone to soften him, to show him another side of life, but at the same time she also worried that Olivia wasn't strong enough to take on her son.

Had Richard broken Olivia's spirit? Was that why she'd run away? Catherine starting flipping pages, realizing that if Ruth had written about everything else, she'd surely written about the breakup of her son's marriage. But the journal ended with the celebration of Jake's birth, years before Richard and Olivia had split up.

Setting the book aside, she dug deeper into the drawer and pulled out two books tied together with a frayed light blue ribbon. As she held the journals, a wave of warmth started in her hand, spreading through her body. Her spine began to tingle. There was something in here, something important. She tried to untie the ribbon, but it was knotted. Anxiety pooled in her stomach. She looked up, wondering why the shadows on the walls were growing bigger. She felt as if something bad were coming. Perhaps she wasn't meant to know. The knot stubbornly eluded her attempts to undo it. She was about to go in search of a pair of scissors when the window shattered.

The blast drove her back against the wall as shards of glass flew across the room.

Shocked by the unexpected attack, she froze, trying to figure out what had happened. Had someone thrown a rock through a window? A baseball? But it was dark outside, and there was no sound of anyone yelling an apology.

"Dylan!" she called in a panic, terrified to take a step.

"Catherine," he yelled back, his footsteps quick as he bounded up the stairs. He ran into the room. "What the hell happened?"

"Something came through the glass."

He started forward. "Wait." She put up her hand. "Don't get too close to the window. It could be a trick, a way to get you in sight."

Dylan squatted down next to the jagged, shattered pieces of glass on the floor. He searched for whatever had broken the window.

"I don't see a rock or a brick or anything," she said.

Dylan glanced at the windowpane and then at her, his gaze worried. "I think someone shot the glass out."

"No," she breathed, putting a hand to her heart. Had whoever shot Erica in the park come after them?

Dylan grabbed her hand and pulled her from the room.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they ran downstairs.

Before he could reply one of the windows burst in the living room; a second later the one next to it suffered the same fate. Yet there was no preceding sound of a shot.

"Why can't I hear a gun?" she asked.

"He must have a silencer," Dylan said grimly as they took cover in the hallway.

"Oh, God," Catherine murmured, more scared than she'd ever been in her life.

"Stay here. I'm going to run to the den, grab my computer, and then we're getting the hell out of here."

"We need to call the police."

"If we do, I'll be arrested."

"It's better than being dead."

"Just wait here. Okay? One problem at a time."

Catherine put her hand against the wall, steeling herself for the sound of another window breaking, but all was quiet, almost too quiet. Her heart pounded against her chest. She had trouble taking a breath. And she felt almost light-headed. But she couldn't pass out. She had to fight for her life.

Think, she told herself. If they were going to make a run for it, she needed her purse, her money. She could live without the rest. Her bag was on a table at the end of the hall. Staying close to the wall, she moved down the corridor on silent feet. She stuffed the journals she still had in her hand into her purse and had just put the strap over her shoulder when the window in the dining room shattered. The scream came out of her mouth without conscious thought.

Dylan rushed out of the den, his computer case in his hands. He looked relieved to see her in one piece. "I told you to stay put."

"I had to get my purse. How are we going to get away? As soon as we try to leave, he'll shoot us. That's probably what he's trying to do right now, flush us out of the house."

"I know, Catherine, but if we don't go, we're sitting ducks."

A second window burst in the dining room. The shooter was playing with them. She blinked back tears of terror.

"The garage," Dylan said. "We'll take your car. We can get into the garage through the kitchen door."

With her heart in her throat, she followed him out to her car. He'd backed it in, so at least they'd be driving forward when he opened the garage door.

Dylan threw his stuff into the backseat while she buckled her seat belt. Then he pushed a button on the side of the garage, jumped into the car, and waited for the door to go up. The next two minutes would be the most dangerous.

"Get down," Dylan told her. "On the floor."

She undid the seat belt and tried to squeeze herself into the space between the seat and the front console. "What about you?"

"I'll be fine. Hang on."

She grabbed the edges of the seat and prayed as Dylan pushed his foot down on the gas and the car shot forward. The window next to her shattered, and she screamed as the car skidded out of the driveway.

Chapter 14.

Dylan sped down the street, relieved that that last bullet hadn't hit him or Catherine. He took the turn with a squeal of tires, and as the car straightened out, he glanced in the rearview mirror for headlights. Sure enough, there they were. Was it the shooter or just a random car? He couldn't afford to make the wrong decision. He hit the gas hard again.

Catherine started to wipe the glass off her seat.

"Stay down," he told her tersely. "I think he's following us."

"Can you see him?"

"There's a car, looks like a small truck." Dylan turned right, then left, trying to elude their pursuer, but the vehicle clung to his tail. He saw the silhouette of a man with a cap on his head, but he couldn't get any more detail than that.

Finally he reached the Pacific Coast Highway, a stretch of road that ran along the ocean. There would be more traffic, more cars, which he hoped would prevent the man from taking another shot. Dylan headed north, moving in and out of the lanes as he tried to lose the truck. He passed the Cliff House perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, winding his way through the tree-lined roads of the Presidio, finally ending on the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. There was no way to turn off, and with the bustling traffic on the bridge, Dylan decided leaving San Francisco was his best bet anyway. With the merging of lanes the small truck appeared to be a dozen cars behind them now.

As he left the bridge, reaching the four-lane freeway once again, Dylan pressed the accelerator, hoping to use his small lead to his advantage. With the burst of speed the wind ripped through the missing window, thundering loudly through the car. He glanced over at Catherine, still huddled on the floor. Her head rested on her arms, which were pressed against the edge of the seat. Her hair covered her face, so he couldn't see her expression, but he could see her body shake with each breath she took. He wanted to tell her she could get up now, they were safe, but the area on this side of the bridge was surrounded by empty rolling hills, and if the truck caught up to them now it was possible the shooter would take another drive-by shot. He didn't want Catherine in the line of fire.

For miles he drove, constantly checking the mirror, searching for some sign of the truck. It seemed to have vanished. He wanted to relax, but he couldn't. To date every move he'd thought was the right one had turned out to be wrong. If he'd stayed in Tahoe instead of running back to San Francisco, he wouldn't have been in town when Erica was killed and would have been absolved of the crime. Instead he'd played into the killer's hands. He'd helped to set himself up. What a fool he'd been.

So now what? What was coming next?

Catherine lifted her head, wiped off the remains of the glass from the leather cushion, and climbed back onto the front seat. She let out a weary sigh as she stretched her cramped legs as best she could in the small space. Then she leaned back against the headrest, letting the wind from the broken window blow through her hair.

In the shadows of the night her pale face stood out in sharp relief. Her eyes were huge, wide and scared, but her chin was up, her arms crossed in an almost defiant posture. She wasn't going to quit on him. He could count on her.

The realization hit him hard. He was almost afraid to believe it. Other than Jake, he'd never let himself depend on anyone, and here he was counting on Catherine to stick with him. She certainly didn't have to. She had no obligation to him. She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. But still she'd stayed. Even now she was quiet, going along for the ride, not demanding to be let out at the nearest police precinct.

He was surprised by her loyalty, not sure how to handle it. Did he even want such a commitment from her? What would she expect in return?

Too much, probably. She'd want everything. And he couldn't offer her that. He was broken inside. He didn't admit that often, not even to himself, but Catherine deserved a whole man, one who hadn't been damaged by his past. She deserved that. She'd had it rough herself, and although he didn't know the extent of her pain, he knew it ran deep.

The next few minutes flew by in silence. He had no words at the moment, and apparently neither did she. They were running for their lives from an enemy they couldn't name. He'd always been able to name the bad guy in every story that he'd covered, from wars to kidnappings to murders, but this time was different.

The problem was, he had no idea how to identify the people in the game, and the farther away he ran, the farther he got from all the players. But he was afraid to stop. So one mile ran into another. He hoped that with distance would come clarity and a chance to regroup and make a plan that would put them on the offensive. Unfortunately the gas gauge on the car told him he was running on empty. He took the next exit. The last thing he wanted to do was run out of gas and end up stranded on the side of the highway.

"Why are you getting off?" Catherine asked in alarm, darting a quick look over her shoulder.

"We're almost out of gas. I haven't seen any sign of the truck in the last hour. I think we lost him at the bridge."

"Are you sure?"

The need in her eyes demanded only one response. "I'm sure. It will be okay, Catherine. We're safe now."

"I know you're humoring me."

"I expected you would," he said with a weary smile.

"Where are we?"

"Sonoma County, wine country. I saw a sign for Cloverdale, so we're about an hour or so north of San Francisco."

Dylan pulled into a gas station and turned off the car. His pulse quickened as he opened the door. In the next few minutes they would be extremely vulnerable to any other cars entering the station. He hoped he'd truly lost their tail.

He got out of the car, headed over to the cashier in the minimart, and laid down two twenties. Returning to the car, he inserted the hose into the tank and drew in a deep breath as he gathered himself together. Adrenaline still ran rampant through his body, making it difficult for him to focus. But that was what he needed to do-concentrate and think of a way to save them both.

While the gas was pumping he grabbed the window wiper and walked around to Catherine's side of the car. He scraped away the remaining pieces of glass from the window frame, careful not to get them on her.

"If you hadn't told me to get down, I could have been killed," she said, drawing his gaze to her thankful blue eyes.

"But you got down, and you're all right," he told her, sensing that she needed the confirmation.

"Because of you." She paused. "You're bleeding."

He glanced down at his arm. "Just a scratch from the glass."

"You were lucky the bullet didn't hit you."

"I know."

"If you hadn't taken charge I'd probably still be huddled in the hallway of your grandmother's house, not knowing what to do."

"I doubt that. You were already getting your purse, looking for an escape route. You like to sell yourself short, but I've seen you in action. I know you've got guts."

She gave him a watery smile. "You're being really nice to me."

"Well, don't thank me by crying," he said sharply. "I hate it when women cry."

Catherine shook her head, blinking back her tears. "I never cry. I'm a tough girl."

"You are definitely that." He leaned in the window and kissed her on the lips, thinking he was doing it for her, to give her comfort, to make her feel better, but in truth he was the one who needed the connection, who needed her power, her strength-the strength she so often didn't see in herself. Her lips were soft and sweet under his. He forced himself to pull away, battling a desire to forget about everything and just lose himself in her kiss for the next few hours, days, or weeks.

"I think it's done-the gas," Catherine said, interrupting his thoughts.

He started, realizing he'd been staring at her like an idiot. "Right." Moving back around the car, he took out the hose and replaced the cap. Before returning to the car he took another look around, not seeing any sign of the truck. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

"Where are we going now?" Catherine asked, an expectant look in her eyes.

"We have to find somewhere to stay tonight-a motel, I guess. We need to figure out their next move," he said as he turned the key in the ignition.

"Don't you mean our next move?"

"I think it's fairly obvious that they're in control of this game," he said, hating to admit it.

"Only it's not a game." Catherine paused. "We should be dead, Dylan. Why aren't we?"

The question had been running around his brain for the last sixty miles. The shooter had played with them, torturing them with anticipation as he decided which window to shoot out next. At any point he could have come in through one of the broken windows and taken them out, but he hadn't. There was only one reason why.