She caught a glimpse of them both in the mirror above the sink-his broad back straining, butt pumping-round cheeks bare and gleaming. It would have been comical, with her one boot off and one boot on, jeans flapping from one ankle, her head visible above his shoulder, bouncing with each thrust, occasionally bumping the wall.

It would have been, if it weren't for the expression on her face.

Eyes half-closed, mouth open as she gasped her pleasure, she looked like somebody else. Like somebody who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to grab it with both hands and hold on tight. Like somebody who was doing just that.

She watched him kiss her throat, his mouth so warm and soft, his eyes closed, lashes long and dark against his freshly shaved cheeks. He was so sweet. So solid and strong.

And she was what he wanted, even though she'd tried her best to chase him away.

"Linds," he breathed. "God..."

Yeah, he'd seen her at her worst, and he still wanted her. Needed her.

Loved her.

Lindsey watched herself start to come, and then she didn't watch because her eyes closed as he kissed her, as she felt his own release, as together they crashed past the point of no return.

They would not be mere friends after this. This time, there would be no going back. Only forward.

If she dared.

Lindsey opened her eyes.

In the mirror, Mark's reflection panted for breath, his head against the wall.

She saw her own hands, twisted tightly in the cotton of his T-shirt, as if, were it up to them, they would never let him go.

Sophia went looking for Tom, but found Decker instead.

He was scrutinizing the maps that someone had tacked up on the restaurant wall, just staring at them as if, were he only to look hard enough, he'd figure out where Tracy was being held.

As usual, he knew Sophia was standing behind him, without even turning around. "Tom's on the phone with the police chief," he told her. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes," she said. "I hope so. I was getting nudgy, just sitting around waiting for this meeting to start, a little cabin feverish..."

Decker finally looked away from the maps. He had this way of looking at her sometimes, as if they were barely acquaintances. As if he couldn't quite remember her name. Polite, yet distant. She hated when he did that. "Tom still doesn't want you spending much time outside, and I'm sorry, but I've got to agree."

"No," she said, "that's not...Trust me, I'm not in any hurry to go hiking again. In Hawaii, sure, but..."

He smiled, but again it was loaded with politeness.

Getting to the point would be good. "I started organizing the training equipment we were using the other night. Packing it up. But I've counted three times, and I'm still short a jacket. In addition to Tracy's. If she somehow managed to take a second jacket with her..."

Then they could conceivably still track it via the computer. Sure, it would require some effort. They'd need additional sat towers, or teams to move the temporary ones that had been set up...

Suddenly the look in Decker's eyes was anything but polite and reserved. He advanced on her, intense to the point of ferocity. "Show me."

Jenk's watch alarm sounded and, because he was still holding Lindsey, he shifted her to one arm and shut it off with his teeth.

He could feel her watching him, and he turned to meet her gaze.

"Hi," she said. "I mean, that was kind of like a giant, extraspecial hi, no words necessary, but I just felt it needed to be said."

He smiled. "Hi."

"Is your shoulder okay?"

"Never better."

"So was your watch set for a five- or a ten-minute warning?" Lindsey asked, smoothing down the part of his T-shirt that she'd grabbed onto toward the end there.

"Fifteen," Jenk told her, searching her eyes, aware that they were having this conversation as if they hadn't just made love, as if he weren't still inside of her. "It's really twenty minutes before the meeting officially starts, but I wanted to get there early."

"Wow," she said. "We've got time to get some food and coffee. Unless...we're just going to stay here like this forever...?"

He pulled out, letting her slide down, feet on the floor, and instantly missed her warmth.

Lindsey immediately went about turning her jeans right side out and getting herself cleaned up, so he did the same. Now was apparently not the time to discuss what it all meant-that kiss she'd given him in front of Tommy, and this latest, yes, very special greeting. She was either going to get scared and run again, or not. There was little he could do until it happened.

Although this time, if she left, he was going to go with her. It was definitely much harder to walk away from someone who insisted upon tagging along.

"So did it work for you, too?" Lindsey asked, and Jenk didn't understand until she added, "For a few minutes, I actually stopped seeing...you know. That face."

Ah, crap. Jenk nodded. "Yeah, it worked. But yeah, she's going to haunt me for a long time, too." Whoever she was. He'd made up his mind that the woman they'd pulled out of the quarry wasn't Tracy. It was possible that dental records would prove otherwise, at which time he'd have to deal, but until then...Not Tracy.

"She's going to haunt me forever," Lindsey said, as she went into the separate room that held the toilet and bathtub. She closed the door only partway, leaving it open a crack so they could continue to talk. "I've got a bunch of things already in that file. You know, the one labeled Nightmare Material, to be reviewed regularly over the next eighty-plus years, including when upon deathbed."

"Oh, yeah?" He worked hard to make his voice come out sounding casual and relaxed, as if his heart wasn't in his throat, since by introducing the topic, she'd given him permission to ask questions. "You mean, like when your partner shot you?"

She was silent for a moment. "Yes," she finally said. "Like that." She paused again. "His name was Dale. He was...We were friends. I mean, I knew he was having problems with his wife, but he always talked about winning her back, like it was a given. She just needed some time, he said." Another pause. "I had no idea she'd gotten remarried. I had no clue he was using drugs-I mean no clue. One day, he didn't show up for work, so I went to his apartment and...He drew on me. I thought he was kidding at first. I mean, he was standing there, aiming his sidearm at me and...Then I thought he was drunk. I tried to talk him down, but...He shot me. I hear myself say it, and I still can't believe it. I mean, it would be like you shooting me."

"That would never happen," Jenk told her. "Never."

"I know," she said. "I didn't mean to imply...It was just...such a surprise. Why didn't I know he was so desperate?"

"I used to spend a lot of time replaying situations where I made mistakes," Jenk told her through that crack in the door. "Trying to figure out what I could've done differently, to change the outcome."

"Yeah," she agreed. Maybe it was easier for her to talk when they weren't face-to-face. "Although it's a real bitch when you realize that doing just about anything other than what you did might've made the situation end differently." She made a frustrated noise. "The thing that I beat myself up for the most is that I didn't see it coming. I should have. I should have known. Instead, it just blindsided me."

"Probably similar to when your grandfather died, huh?" Jenk said. "His just not waking up one day? That had to suck."

"Oh, yeah," she agreed.

"Because you were used to a big, looming, impending doom," he guessed. "All those years, living with your mother's cancer..."

Lindsey flushed the toilet. She came out and washed her hands in the sink, splashing water up and onto her face, too. "The hardest part of that nightmare," she told him, after drying herself on one of the hand towels, "was actually when she was given a clean bill of health. Statistically, people who made it that far in their treatment tended to live cancer-free, but...Hers recurred, much sooner than anyone expected." She met his eyes in the mirror. "That was it for me. She lived another twelve years, but she was sick almost all that time. It wasn't really living. It felt more like she took twelve years to die. It was like living with a death sentence."

Which she'd done while working hard to hide all of her fear and grief and anger and frustration from her mother.

"You once accused me of having a plan for my life," Lindsey told Jenk now. "Watching TiVo and-"

"I know what I said," he interrupted. "I was angry and-"

"Truth is, I don't have a plan," she said. "I'm unable to plan. I trained myself not to when my mother first got sick. Projecting myself into the future meant..." She shook her head.

It meant imagining a time when her mother was gone. Jenk reached for her, but she deftly sidestepped him.

"I mean, sure, I can do it for work. You know, set schedules and strategize how to get the bad guy, or how to evade capture. I can do that. But when it comes to my personal life..." She shook her head. "I have no long-term career plan. And I never take vacations-I mean, I take time off, but I don't go anywhere."

How do you plan for tomorrow, when tomorrow might not come? Jenk reached for her again, this time with the pretense of pulling her over to the bed, so she could sit down. She hadn't had the luxury of a nap and was obviously exhausted. He tugged her down beside him, their fingers interlaced.

"I know people who have one-year, five-year, ten-year plans for their lives," she said. "Look at you. You joined the Navy to become a SEAL, right?"

"Yeah," he said, wishing they had more time, hoping this conversation was just one of many to come. "That was my goal, right from high school."

"What's next?" she asked. "Are you staying in, or...?"

"I'm in for another few years," Jenk told her. "And then...Well, Tommy's made it clear he wants me. It would definitely be fun to work with you again-and get paid what you're getting."

But she was shaking her head. "See, you know what you're doing, where you'll be. I don't have plans for two years from now. I don't have plans for next weekend."

"You could spend the weekend with me," Jenk offered. "That is, if you're up for two in a row, because the one after that is Christmas."

She pulled her hand away. Stood up. "I don't know, Mark."

He'd scared her. Okay. "This isn't a marriage proposal, Lindsey. This is just about spending time together. I love being with you. It's that simple."

She managed a smile. "The sex is great."

"The sex," he agreed, "is great." If she wanted to pretend that sex was all this was, he was willing to let her. At least for now.

But then she turned away. "God, I'm really screwed up."

"No, you're not," he said. "Well, a little, maybe, but who's not?"

"You're not," she countered.

"Hello," he said. "I'm the one who thought using his fourteen-year-old self's criteria for selecting a wife was a good idea."

"That was just testosterone talking." Her smile faded far too soon. "Seriously, I don't want to hurt you."

"You keep saying that," he said. "So just don't hurt me."

"I'm afraid of everything. Plus, I've got this totally messed-up relationship with my father, who wishes I'd never been born."

"You've talked to him about this?" Jenk asked.

"Well, no, but-"

"Linds. Then how do you know-"

"I overheard him talking to my mother. After my grandfather died, he found out his biological father was responsible for terrible war crimes-genocide-in China before the U.S. even got into World War II. And then in the Philippines...So many Allied prisoners died because of him. He was a monster. It was like finding out my real grandfather was Joseph Goebbels. I can't believe I'm telling you this!" She found her jacket. "We really need to go."

Jenk didn't stand up. "So let me see if I've got this right. Because his father was a monster, your father felt as if he shouldn't have had a child, as what? Some kind of punishment or penance? Like his lineage should die out or something?"

Lindsey nodded.

"That's crazy," he said. "Because your father didn't spring forth from his father's thigh. He's just as much his mother's child."

She put on her jacket. "Look, it's his craziness. I don't-"

"But you believe it, too."

"No, I don't."

He didn't push. "Well, good." He also didn't believe her. "Because that is crazy. I mean, if your father really does feel that way. If this wasn't just something he said in a knee-jerk reaction. God knows no one in your family's ever had a knee-jerk reaction before."

That got the smile he was hoping for, along with an eye roll. "Yeah, but I'm nothing like him. My father is an economics professor. He talks reeeeally slowly. I don't think he's ever said anything he didn't mean."

"To you," Jenk pointed out. "But he wasn't talking to you, right? He was talking to your mother. And he'd just found out that his father lied-and Henry was his real father, biology be damned. Henry lied to him. That had to have hurt."

She nodded, acknowledging that. "We should go."

Jenk put on his jacket, pocketed his room key, and followed her outside. They were halfway down the stairs before he said, "You know, sometimes, when people hear stuff when they're kids, they believe it without questioning. And they hang on to those beliefs as adults, and they don't stop to think, is this really true? And sometimes when you stop and really think about those beliefs, you realize, wow, that's really wrong. Or believing that doesn't help me."

Lindsey wasn't running away, but she wasn't exactly hanging on his every word. Still, Jenk kept going-both talking and following her through the gently falling snow.

"I was afraid of heights for the longest time," he told her. "I had a total fear of falling, like I really believed if I fell, I'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. I almost didn't make it through BUD/S because of it. And I sat down with it, and I thought about, and I realized it was probably something my mom had drilled into me when I was, like, two years old, so I wouldn't climb the trees in our yard or play on the roof or something. But it didn't apply to me anymore. As an adult, I could learn to climb, learn how to do it as safely as possible. I really went after it, to knock the fear-the belief-out of my system. I did a lot of rope work at first, and purposely took falls. It was scary, but I wanted to be a SEAL. I wanted it badly enough."

She'd stopped, but now she pushed through the door to the motel lobby. "I don't know what I want," she admitted.

Ouch.

She must've realized how harsh that sounded, considering that the rather obvious subtext of his words were if she wanted him badly enough she, too, could face down her fears. Because she added, "Please don't take that personally. It's not about you."

Yeah, right.

"It's about...me." Lindsey struggled to find the words. "I really don't know...anything. For me, tomorrow is this...gray shadow of a doorway that I know I'll step through. It's coming-it's unavoidable. But I can't see through to the other side. For such a long time, I didn't want to see. And now, no matter how hard I try, I just can't see."

On one side of the lobby, someone-probably Stella-had set up a little Christmas tree. It was only about four feet tall, but it was alive, its roots in a big container. It was covered with ornaments of all different shapes and sizes, and lights that flashed off and on.

"Check this out," Jenk said, taking Lindsey's hand and pulling her over to it. "My mother is so totally into Christmas, she added a room onto our house that she calls the Christmas Tree Room. It's really the playroom, but she insisted on cathedral ceilings, so she could have a twelve-foot-tall tree. It's got a ceramic tile floor, because back when they built it, Chewie was a hundred and ten in dog years, and he got so upset when he had an accident-"

"Your dog was named after Chewbacca?"

"He was an awesome dog," he told her. "Now they've got Threepio, who's a little high-strung. Anyway, picture this: The tree's at one end of the room, and it's like this one-smothered in ornaments, and each one has its own history. In fact, the trimming of the tree, which always happens on Christmas Eve, is all about telling the stories. Like, the year I was born, there was a fire in the attic, and all but three ornaments were destroyed. You'll know my mother likes you if she lets you hold one of them. She's in the no-flashing school as far as the lights go. But multicolored. None of that monochromatic crap on her tree. Her words. There'll be a fire in the fireplace, and a creche on the mantel, but don't put Jesus in the manger until Christmas morning or there'll be trouble. And don't be freaked out by the tiny Santa-head mugs. They're antiques, and they need to be out on display, even if seeing them makes you realize that the difference between Santa and Satan is the placement of a single N.

"My dad is into the ritual watching of The Christmas Story-you know, the kid who wants a BB gun-'It'll put your eye out,' and the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. But the best part about Christmas at my house is that you never know who's going to show up for dinner. Foreign exchange students, coworkers whose families lived too far away, kids from the teen shelter...One year it was a trio of drag queens who'd gotten snowed in and stranded at the train station." He laughed. "From that year on, there's been mandatory tiara wearing at dinner. We draw straws to see who gets the honor. My mother swears it's all fair, but it's usually always me or my dad. Can you picture me sitting at the table in pink rhinestones? Please pass the gravy..."