Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Tuesday, March 29, 10:15 a.m.

“Hey, Tino.”

Tino Ciccotelli smiled at the nurse on duty at the ICU desk. “Mrs. G. So good to see you.” And it was. Although Tino wished he’d seen her nearly anywhere else but here.

Here, in a hospital.

Tino had come to hate hospitals. Not that anyone liked them, of course.

Marian Gargano smiled back in that motherly way she had. She was his oldest friend’s mom, and he’d spent more time at her kitchen table during his teen years than he had his own.

There had been a number of times over the years that he’d wished she were his mother.

The thought used to make him feel guilty, feel like he’d betrayed his own mother, but at the moment he was too tired to care.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You look exhausted.”

“Because I am. Just got off a plane.”

“Where were you off to this time?”

“Knoxville, Tennessee. Murder victim. I interviewed a child who witnessed her mom getting killed.”

Her expression softened. “I’m so sorry, honey. I know those cases take it out of you.”

They did. He met victims and their families at the worst times of their lives. It had begun to wear on him, the constant sorrow. Interviewing children—be they witnesses or victims—made the sorrow so much worse.

“Someone’s got to do it.” And that someone was him. He did what he did for the victims, for their families. He played a small part in getting them justice. “I was able to get a good sketch. Cops have already ID’d the killer.”

Usually, he tried to take a break between interviews, but the request had come in the night before to get back to Philly for another victim. The woman he was here at the ICU to see was, thankfully, still alive to tell her own story.

D. Johnson, white female, age seventy-five. She’d been beaten within an inch of her life but had somehow survived. Must be a tough old bird.

Hopefully, her memories of her attacker would be crisp enough to be useful. Hopefully, Tino would be able to take those memories and turn them into a “wanted” poster.

Marian came around the desk to cup his cheek. “This one’s going to be harder.”

Tino frowned. Miss Johnson was the survivor of an assault. Not a sexual assault, thank the good Lord, because those were devastating. “Why?”

It was Marian’s turn to frown. “It’s Mrs. Johnson.”

So a Mrs., not a Miss. “And?”

Marian’s expression became confused. “Did you not read the file they sent?”

“I only got a name. D. Johnson.”

“Dorothy Johnson, Tino. Your old art teacher from high school.”

Tino felt his knees wobble and had to take a step back. “What?” he whispered, because Dorothy Johnson had been the first person to nurture his ability, to tell him that he was good, that he was really good.

She’d given him the confidence to pursue art as a career.

She was the reason he stood right here, right now.

“ She’s the victim?”

Marian nodded sadly. “She was attacked in her own home. Luckily Charlie has been checking on her nearly every day. She found her only about a half hour later.”

Oh God. Charlie. No, not Charlie. Charlotte.

Once again Tino’s knees wobbled. “Charlotte is here?”

She’d been his first kiss. His first love. His first heartbreak.

Marian’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh. If I’d known you were in the dark, I’d have texted you. Given you the heads-up. When was the last time you saw Charlie?”

“Graduation. She went off to college and we parted ways.” He shrugged. “Grew apart.”

“Well, she’s in there with Dorothy, so pull up your big boy pants and get your butt in there.”

The command in Marian’s tone almost made Tino smile. He’d heard that tone so many times as a teenager, usually because he and Cliff had gotten into some trouble or other.

And several of those times, Charlotte had been right in there with them. She’d been a good girl, but she’d liked adventure. Wanted out of Philly. Wanted to see the world. Wanted to be somebody.

Tino wondered if she’d gotten her wish.

“Yes, ma’am. But first, I have something for you.” From his sketchbook, he pulled a single sheet, its edges finished and smooth. “Happy birthday, Mrs. G.”

Marian took the portrait done in charcoal, her eyes suddenly glassy with tears. “Tino,” she breathed. “It’s...I have no words, son.”

And he had no words every time she called him son. “Turned out okay, I guess.”

She gazed at the portrait of her granddaughter, blinking once to send the tears in her eyes streaking down her cheeks. “You are magic.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with her praise. He was an artist. A pretty damn good one, if he said so himself. But to hear the woman who’d been more of a mother to him than his own had been say he was magic...

That was everything.

“Cliff made a pretty baby,” he said.

She sniffled, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “I think Sonya had something to do with it.”

Sonya and Cliff had become first-time parents ten months ago and Tino was little Addison’s godfather. It was the first time he’d been a godfather to someone outside the Ciccotelli clan. Although Cliff was as much his brother as Dino, Gino, and Vito. Sonya was as much his sister as his own sister, Tess.

Cliff and Sonya and Tino and Charlotte. They’d all been joined at the hip in high school. Tino had assumed they’d all be together forever. Then Charlotte had gone away.

“Probably more than something,” Tino allowed, “considering Addison’s a carbon copy of Sonya as a baby.” He sighed. “I need to go. I’ve stalled long enough.”

He had to go in and see Mrs. Johnson. Hurt and scared. He didn’t want to see her that way. He selfishly wanted to remember her as his high school art teacher with her colorful headscarves and flowing dresses and the bangles that sounded like little bells whenever she moved.

“Not stalling,” Marian said kindly. “We all need to recharge every now and then, Tino.” She cupped his cheek again. “You come see me at home, and I’ll make you a pie.”

“Cherry?” he asked hopefully.

“Would I make you anything else?”

He grinned at her and squared his shoulders. “Gotta work.”

She hesitated. “She looks bad, Tino. Be prepared.”

Tino swallowed and forced himself to ask the question he’d been dreading. “How bad?”

“She’s here, kiddo, in the ICU. Her chances of survival are fifty-fifty.”

Tino sucked in a breath. “She might die?”

Marian’s smile was sad. “We hope not. We’re giving her the best care possible.”

“I know. Okay, then. Time to work.”

“Room one fifteen. She asked us to reduce her pain meds so that she could be sharp for the police artist.”

So she knew he was coming. Or at least that a police artist was coming. He hoped she’d be happy to see him. Or that he could at least give her some comfort. “Thanks, Mrs. G.”

Bracing himself, Tino walked to Mrs. Johnson’s room. He paused at the large window to get a read on the situation, which was his custom before interviewing an ICU victim. The rooms were mostly windows so that the nurses could keep eyes on their patients, so his view of Mrs. Johnson was unobstructed.

He sucked in a breath and let it out carefully. Oh, Mrs. Johnson. I’m so sorry.

Sorrow grabbed at his heart as rage bubbled up from his gut. Someone had hurt her. Someone had put their hands on her and broken her body.

She looked awful. Bruised, her eyes swollen. One was nearly swollen shut. One of her arms was in a cast and the raised area of the bedding made him think that one of her legs was in a cast as well.

Someone had broken her bones. Three of her fingers were splinted, her hands wrapped in bandages. As was her head.

Her face was the same color as the pillow she lay against.

But her hair was still the same bright red it had been all those years ago. It was dyed now, white roots peeking out, but it had been her natural color then. The bright red made her paleness even more stark.

Beside her was a woman.

Charlotte.

Charlotte sat in a chair, but her arms were folded on the edge of her aunt’s bed, her cheek resting on one arm. Mrs. Johnson’s free hand was stroking Charlotte’s golden-blond hair.

Charlotte’s hair color hadn’t changed, either.

He couldn’t see her face, but there was a box of tissues next to her elbow. Like she’d been crying.

The older woman’s eyes were closed, and had it not been for the rhythmic stroking of Charlotte’s hair, Tino would have thought she was asleep.

He crept quietly into the room, taking the only other chair and setting it lightly on the other side of the bed, farthest from Charlotte.

“Mrs. Johnson?” he murmured, not wanting to wake Charlotte.

Partly because she seemed exhausted. Partly because he hoped to put off their reunion a little longer.

Until he felt stronger. Because seeing Mrs. Johnson so injured was ripping his heart out.

Slowly Mrs. Johnson turned her head, fixing her open eye on his face. She studied him for a long, long moment—so long that Tino thought that she didn’t recognize him.

“I’m Tino?—”

“Ciccotelli,” she said, her voice hoarse and rasping. “I know who you are.” One side of her mouth lifted before she winced. Her lip had been split open, two stitches visible. “Dammit.”

Startled, Tino chuckled. “I’ve never heard you swear before.”

“Because you couldn’t hear what I was saying in my head when you were in my classroom,” she said tartly. Then she saw the sketchbook in his hand. “You’re the police artist?”

“I am. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it is. I’ve always wondered what happened to you.”

“What did you think had happened?”

“That you were in jail,” she said dryly. “You and that Cliff Gargano. Always getting into scrapes.”

“Never illegal ones, though. Mostly,” he amended when she just looked at him. He sighed. “I should have come to visit you.”

“Probably. But I get why you didn’t. It was awkward.”

“I guess that’s one word for it.” Heart-wrenching was another. To visit her, either at school or at her home, when all it did was bring back memories of Charlotte? “I’m here now, though. And I’m mad as hell at whoever did this to you.”

She grimaced. “So am I. So I guess we should get started so that you can be on your way. I’m sure you have other responsibilities.”

“Not today. I have all the time in the world for you.”

“Well, I don’t have all the time in the world before my next pain pill, so...”

He chuckled again. “I missed you.”

Another attempt at a smile was followed by another wince. “And I you. You’ve done well for yourself?”

“I make a living. Mostly work for cops and PIs, but I do portraits occasionally. I own a house with my brother Gino out in Mount Airy. We do okay.”

“A bachelor pad.”

“Less than you’d think. We clean and everything.” He opened his sketchbook. “So. Let’s get started so you can have another pain pill. And don’t worry. Now that I know you’re here, I’m going to be here every day. You’ll get better and be discharged just to be rid of me.”

“You’re still cheeky.”

“Some things don’t change.”

Mrs. Johnson glanced down at her niece. “Some things do. Should I tell her you were here if she doesn’t wake up before you’re gone?”

“Yes.” I think. “Of course. I hope she’s been happy.”

Mrs. Johnson hesitated. “I don’t know. She feels guilty about what happened to me and I don’t know why.”

Tino frowned. “Guilty how? Like because she wasn’t there at the time?”

“I don’t know. You should ask her.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I will. Now, what can you remember about the man who hurt you?”

“He was tall,” she began. “Bald. Big fists. Brown eyes. Like amber.”

Tino began to sketch.

* * *

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Tuesday, March 29, 10:40 a.m.

“He was tall. Bald. Big fists. Brown eyes. Like amber.”

Charlotte Walsh blinked at the sound of her aunt’s voice, wincing as her head throbbed and her neck ached.

She’d started to lift her head when it all came rushing back.

Dottie. Aunt Dottie was here, in the hospital. In the ICU. Because someone had beaten her almost to death.

Charlotte had found her, had thought her dead, even after she’d checked for a pulse. Dottie’s had been so weak that Charlotte had missed it. The medics had arrived quickly, had been so kind.

They’d found a pulse, and Charlotte had found a little hope.

“About how tall, Mrs. J?” a man asked.

He had a nice voice, Charlotte thought. Melodious and deep. Soothing and peaceful. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“Six feet,” Dottie rasped. “Maybe a little shorter. Average. I’m sorry.”

“Hush now,” the man said gently. “You don’t ever apologize. Never to me. What about his nose?”

Charlotte straightened from where she’d fallen asleep, closing her eyes and swallowing a groan as pain spiked up the back of her neck. It was a usual pain, one that she’d felt several times a day in the years since her car accident, but it never failed to startle her.

A gnarled hand covered hers as the conversation paused.

“Charlie?” Dottie asked. “You okay? You need some ibuprofen?”

That her aunt would be worrying about Charlotte when she was the one in an ICU bed was classic Dottie.

Charlotte forced her lips to curve. Forced her eyes to open so that she could meet Dottie’s concerned gaze. “I’m fine.” She turned to the man sitting on the other side of the bed. “Who’s?—”

Her throat closed so abruptly that, for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

His voice had been familiar, and now she knew why.

“Tino,” Charlotte whispered.

Tino Ciccotelli. Her first kiss. Her first love.

She’d broken his heart, and for that she’d always hated herself. He hadn’t deserved to be treated the way she’d treated him, but she’d been so desperate to break free. So terrified of what he’d offered. So desperate to fly far, far away.

And here I am. Back where I started.

She’d never fly again, her wings permanently clipped.

Broken. I’m broken. And more than a little bitter.

“Charlotte,” Tino said quietly, his eyes the same rich dark brown that they’d been when he’d been only fifteen, when he’d first kissed her. Sixteen, when he’d first told her he loved her, his words sweet and uncertain. Seventeen, when he’d said they’d get married and have a house with a white picket fence and meatloaf on Wednesdays.

Eighteen, when his eyes had filled with tears and desperation as he’d begged her to change her mind. To keep him.

To stay.

How she’d turned and walked away from him, she’d never know. But she had.

She’d regretted it ever since.

She hoped he’d found love with someone else, because he deserved it. She hoped he didn’t hate her, but she hadn’t missed that he’d called her Charlotte when he’d always called her Charlie.

Did you think he’d be glad to see you? No, she couldn’t expect that. Even though she may have secretly hoped for it whenever she’d pictured herself seeing him again.

He’d changed, of course. He was older, but still so classically beautiful that it hurt her heart. He’d always reminded her of a Michelangelo sculpture, all those years ago. He still did.

He was broader now, more muscled.

Even more handsome, which didn’t seem fair. She was so glad that her scars were covered by her clothing. At least her face looked...well, not the same, but she’d aged pretty well. As had he.

His thick, black hair was longer now, almost reaching his shoulders, its natural curl somewhat straightened by the weight of it. He’d worn it short and curly back then. Both styles complemented his face.

Self-consciously, she smoothed her hair as her gaze fell to the sketch pad in his hands. “ You’re the police sketch artist?”

“I am,” he said. “Hard to believe, I know.”

“ I thought he’d be in prison,” Dottie said dryly.

Charlotte laughed, surprising herself. It had been so long since she’d laughed at anything. “Dottie.”

Tino smiled, but it was subdued. “We were working on a description of her attacker, and we’re time-constrained. She needs her pain meds.”

Charlotte bit back a flinch, his words feeling like a reproach. “I’m sorry, Dottie. I’ll be quiet.”

Dottie patted her hand. “Nonsense. I’m okay. I can do this.” She drew a shallow breath that rattled alarmingly. “Let’s go on, Tino.”

Charlotte frowned at the rattling sound. All Dottie needed was to get a respiratory infection on top of everything else. Carefully she squeezed her aunt’s hand. “I’m going to talk to the nurse, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“I’m fine, Charlie.”

“I don’t like the way you’re breathing. I’ll be back.” She pressed a kiss to Dottie’s weathered cheek. “Excuse me, Tino.”

She didn’t need to hear her aunt describe her attacker again. She’d already heard it several times, as Dottie had been forced to tell her story over and over.

And every time Charlotte had heard it, she’d been secretly, overwhelmingly terrified that the description could be his .

It could have been him , the little voice in her head insisted. He’d been average height and he’d had big hands. Cruel hands.

Hands that had left her with scars on the inside and outside.

No. It could not be him. He’d been in prison for a year and would be for seven more.

She grabbed the cane that rested up against the wall behind Dottie’s bed, ignoring Tino’s widening eyes as she used it to stand. She didn’t always need the cane, but when she was tired she did.

She was so damn tired.

She hoped that she’d managed to keep her expression bland. She wasn’t ashamed of the cane, but she didn’t want him to see how much it hurt to simply stand.

She still had a little pride, it seemed.

He said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her as she made her way to the door and out into the hall. But he didn’t ask Dottie about her, merely continuing his interview.

“Let’s go back to his face,” he said to Dottie. “His nose, what was the shape?”

Charlotte heard her aunt telling Tino that the man had a large nose. Dottie remembered his nostrils flaring as he’d hit her. The man had smiled, and it had made him look insane.

It isn’t him . He’s in prison.

Charlotte had not brought this trouble to her aunt’s door. I’d never forgive myself.

She found the nurse at the station. “Hi. I’m so sorry to bother you, but my aunt’s breathing is labored, and she sounds like she’s got an infection or something in her lungs.”

“Her nurse heard the same thing,” the nurse said kindly. “Her doctor’s put her on an antibiotic, and we’ve called in a respiratory therapist who can hopefully help.” The woman tilted her head, studying Charlotte’s face. “Do you not remember me?”

Charlotte blinked hard. She’d been sleeping by Dottie’s bedside for two days. Everything was fuzzy.

She hadn’t recognized the nurse, but now she looked harder, dropping her gaze to the woman’s nametag. Marian. Oh my God.

This day was becoming one big blast from the past. “ Mrs. Gargano? ”

Mrs. Gargano smiled. “Yes.”

Charlotte’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. I should have recognized you right away.” She’d spent a large part of her youth in the Gargano household. Tino and Cliff Gargano had been best friends and Tino had been unhappy at home, so the Gargano house was where they’d all hung out.

“Well, it has been twenty years,” Mrs. Gargano said, excusing Charlotte’s rudeness.

Twenty-four , Charlotte thought, but who’s counting ? “Still. You were so kind to me back then. So good to Tino.”

“You were both good kids. It was a pleasure having you both in my home. Tino’s still part of our lives, of course. He and Cliff are still best friends and he’s godfather to my granddaughter. Cliff and Sonya’s baby is only ten months old. They tried for years to get pregnant and had given up long ago. Then...well, miracles happen.” She patted Charlotte’s hand. “Remember that, honey.”

“Miracles like my aunt recovering? If she gets pneumonia, that’s not good at all.”

“No, but we’ll work hard to keep it from getting that bad. Can I ask you a personal question?”

Charlotte stiffened. “You can ask.”

“The cane. Hip or leg?”

“Both.”

“Sleeping in that plastic chair can’t be good for it. I’ll have a better chair brought in so you can get some rest.”

Charlotte waited for more questions. What happened to your hip and leg? How did it happen? Who did it? What did you do to provoke him?

But no more questions were asked, and after a moment, her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Mrs. Gargano.”

She winked. “You can call me Marian now. I’d say you’re of age.”

I feel ancient. But Charlotte made herself smile. “Marian. You’re still very kind.” She looked over her shoulder to the room her aunt occupied. The need to know about Tino Ciccotelli’s life warred with her unwillingness to seem too curious. Need to know won out. “I didn’t expect Tino to become a police artist.”

Marian chuckled. “Me either. Tino’s been doing work for the police for...my goodness. It’s been nine years. Started doing some sketches for his brother Vito, who’s Homicide.”

Charlotte stared. “Vito Ciccotelli is a cop?”

“An important one. Solved a serial killer case nine years ago with some help from Tino’s sketches. Maybe you read about it? The killer’s name was Simon Vartanian.”

The name was familiar and the details she remembered sent a chill down her spine. “I think I read about it in the news. I didn’t know Vito and Tino were involved.”

“Well, they were. Both of their careers kind of took off then. Tino travels all over the country doing sketches for police departments and private investigators. He’s got a real gift.” Her eyes widened. “And here he is.”

Charlotte turned to see Tino approaching, sketchbook under one arm. “Mrs. Johnson gave me a little information,” he said, “but not enough for a decent sketch. I’ll come back in a few hours for more. Her pain is just too great right now. She wasn’t able to speak toward the end of our interview. She needs her meds.”

“I’ll see that it happens,” Marian promised. “Charlotte, why don’t you get something to eat? You’ve been in your aunt’s room for two days and the night nurse said you didn’t leave to eat.”

Tino turned to frown at Charlotte. “You need to eat. Come on. I’m starving too. We’ll get an early lunch.” He leaned over the desk to kiss Marian’s cheek. “See you later, Mrs. G.” He took Charlotte’s arm, gently steering her toward the elevator.

“I can’t just leave Dottie,” Charlotte protested, pulling her arm free.

Tino released his hold immediately. “She wanted you to take care of yourself. That was the last thing she told me before the pain took over. She knows you haven’t left her side, and she’s worried. Let’s go eat, and I’ll bring you right back. We won’t even go far. I promise.”

Charlotte looked back at the nurses’ desk. Marian was speaking to Dottie’s nurse and the two of them looked up, both giving her shooing motions.

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But just fast food. I can’t take too much time.”

Tino scoffed. “I thought you became a chef.”

“I did. And how did you know that?”

Tino had the grace to look a bit abashed. “I looked you up once, years ago.”

“Well, I’m not a chef anymore, and I need to eat quickly.”

Tino pressed the button for the elevator. “I know just the place.”