Deanna’s cell phone rang with a California area code. Her heart skipped a beat as it did whenever he called, but especially today as he’d never called twice in one month before. In fact, Roland usually called no more than once a quarter.

She answered as she was walking out the door into the hallway. “Hello… “ She punched the number one and the call clicked through.

Slipping into the women’s room at the end of the hall, she stepped into a stall and latched the door.

“Hi, it’s me,” Roland said quietly on the other end.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he answered. “But I thought I should let you know right away. I had a visitor yesterday. Said he was from a newspaper in Sacramento and was interviewing inmates.”

“Did you talk to him?”

He coughed, and she didn’t like the sound of it—thick and liquid.

“No, I said I wasn’t interested in helping. But he was persistent. Asking about where I grew up and if I thought how I was raised caused my problems. I wouldn’t answer anything and asked the guard to take him out.”

“Okay, you did the right thing. He was probably telling the truth, but we can’t be too careful.”

“I think I should quit calling this number. It’ll be on the prison logs, and if someone paid off one of the clerks in the warden’s office, they could get it.”

Deanna’s stomach sank. They’d been so careful over the years, but they’d never actually had anyone digging. And her journalistic instincts told her that someone was now. And if they’d found Roland, that meant it might already be too late to protect Teague’s nomination.

“I’ll get a burner. I want you to be able to call me. I’ll send you a care package with the information. Is there anything you need?”

He sighed and coughed again. “You don’t need to do that. You know they give me food and clothes. That’s all any of us really need.”

“Don’t be silly,” she chastised. “I enjoy it. I don’t really have anyone else to buy things for. You’re doing some poor rescue pet a favor—if I have you to buy things for, I won’t adopt him and then leave him home alone fifteen hours a day.”

He tried to laugh but broke down into a coughing fit.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, just had this cold that won’t go away. Luckily, it hasn’t kept me from going to work.” He chuckled at his own dig.

“Have you seen the doctor?”

“No, they don’t think it’s serious enough. They offered me some tea at night before bed, but it don’t help that much.”

“I’m going to call your attorney and get you sent to the infirmary.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Yes. I do. Even over the phone, I can tell that cough is something to be concerned about. Please. Let me make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Okay,” he conceded. “I sure appreciate it.”

“Of course. I…” She paused, unsure what she wanted to tell him—I care about you. I love your brother. You’re my family. I do it because he can’t, but I know he would want to. “I’m happy to help. I’m going to send you some nice slippers to wear in your cell, and all the new magazines. I also put some money in your account so you can buy more toiletries if you need them.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, his voice thick.

“Just be healthy, and your attorney will get you to the infirmary soon.”

They ended the call, and she leaned against the wall of the stall, her mind spinning with possible conspiracies. Her breath caught, and she slowly unlatched the bathroom door, leaning out to look around. The room was as empty as it had been when she entered five minutes earlier.

“Don’t be paranoid, Forbes,” she whispered to herself. She stepped out, washing her hands before she called Roland’s attorney, who promised to insist that he be sent to the infirmary immediately.

When she returned to her desk, there was a note from Brice waiting for her.

Have a lead on something about our nominee. Check your email.

Her hands shook as she sat and opened her email account. The article was from a Chicago newspaper fifteen years ago. The headline read Local man convicted of first-degree murder in gangland shooting.

It was the story of Roland’s conviction for killing the little boy whose gangster father brought him to a drug deal. Even though she knew the details, it made her stomach churn to see it again. The email that included the article had another note from Brice: This is the brother who died. A quick Google search doesn’t turn up a death certificate but an inmate at San Quentin. I’d hope that my new star investigative reporter would have done a similar search.

Deanna sank to her chair, burying her face in her hands. The word “fuck” came to mind. Add “cluster” to it, and it approached what she had on her hands. She lifted her head and looked around the newsroom. The glass wall of Brice’s office showed her that he was on a phone call, his back to her cubicle. She shut down her computer, quickly snatched up her belongings, and blew out of the newsroom as quickly as possible. She needed time to formulate a plan, figure out how to deal with this, before she faced him.

And she needed help. Help that only two people in the world could provide. One of them was a nominee for the Supreme Court and couldn’t know about all this. The other one was who she would talk to, because she was the only other person in the world who cared about both Teague and Roland and wanted the best for them both.

* * *

It was afternoon by the time she pulled the rental car up to the front of the neat brick bungalow with the fenced-in front yard. She gingerly exited the car, watching the quiet street as though she expected the paparazzi to leap out of the bushes at any moment, shouting questions and demanding answers that she couldn’t and wouldn’t give them.

The low gate to the property was ajar, and she walked up the front path to the porch that ran the width of the house. When she finally reached the front door and knocked, she was so nervous, her palms were sweating and she’d started to get a migraine.

The red door swung open, and there she was, looking nearly the same as she had years before when Deanna had first met her. Her dark hair had some salt amid the pepper, and there were a few new lines around her eyes, but those eyes were still sparkling with intelligence and her figure was neat and youthful in a pair of skinny jeans and a bright turquoise tunic.

“Yes?” Teague’s mother asked, looking at Deanna with a furrow in her brow.

“Hi, Ms. Patchett, you probably don’t remember me but I’m—”

“Deanna Forbes!” Lydia said. “I can’t believe it! After all these years. And Lord, look at you, child. You’re just as beautiful as ever.”

Deanna’s heart warmed. “You remember me.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m so happy to see one of Teague’s old friends. Please come in.”

She stepped aside, waving her arm to indicate that Deanna should enter. They walked into the charming living room with the fireplace along one wall and beautiful golden wood floors.

“Your house is lovely,” Deanna said.

“It is. Teague bought it for me when he made partner at his firm. Youngest partner in the history of his firm.”

Deanna could see the pride beaming in Lydia Patchett’s face.

“Now come sit down. Would you like some soda or a water?”

Deanna took a place on the sofa. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

After Lydia had taken a seat across from Deanna, she smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

Deanna nodded. “Yes, it has.”

“What are you doing these days? Do you live here in Chicago?”

“No, I actually live in Washington.”

“I see,” Lydia said, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“I’m a reporter with the Washington Sentinel, but I’m not here as a reporter. Nothing we discuss is for publication, I promise.”

“Okay.”

Deanna could tell that Lydia was now suspicious, but she forged ahead anyway, determined that she would make Lydia see how important this was.

“Ms. Patchett—”

“Lydia, please.”

Deanna smiled. “Lydia. I’m not sure how much you know about Teague and me breaking up back in college.”

Lydia shook her head. “He never told me the details, but I know you broke it off with him.”

“I did, and I regretted it every day afterwards. It was a terrible mistake on my part.” She looked down at her lap while she gathered her thoughts. “A couple of years after Teague and I split up, I started working for a paper in Boston. I was assigned to a story about sentencing inmates to life imprisonment versus death row.”

Lydia didn’t blink, but her lips tightened into a flat line.

“Teague told me—when we were dating—he told me about Roland.”

Lydia didn’t move a muscle.

“So when I was researching this story, I went looking for him, and I ended up going to meet him at San Quentin in California.”

Lydia was nearly as still as a statue, the only movement, her index finger on one hand that tapped rapidly on her knee. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, child. My older son, Roland, died before Teague was even out of high school.”

Deanna sighed. “I understand the story that you and Teague decided to tell all those years ago, and I understand why you did it. But you need to know that it might scuttle his chances at the Supreme Court now—unless I can do something to stop it… When I couldn’t be with Teague all those years, I felt closer to him when I could devote energy to Roland. We’ve been in contact for almost a decade. I’ve visited him several times. We talk every few months on the phone, and I send him care packages, put a little extra money in his commissary account so that he can get toiletries and some treats.”

She heard the older woman’s quick intake of breath.

“He’s polite and gracious, and he’s stayed out of trouble for many years. In fact, he’s been studying to get his college diploma. He thinks he’ll be done in another year and a half or so.”

Lydia made a small noise, and Deanna saw her eyes grow red, but she didn’t shed a tear, and she didn’t acknowledge the truth of what Deanna was saying.

“He and I have been so careful all these years. I’ve been a reporter coming to see him for an ongoing series of stories about inmates. We’ve never mentioned Teague by name. He would tell me stories about his little brother, and I would tell him stories about my ex-fiancé. It made both of us feel better, and it helped me deal with what I lost when I didn’t stick by your younger son.”

“So you used this man—this prisoner—as a substitute for Teague?”

“No. Absolutely not. I tried to fulfill some of the obligation that Teague had told me he felt toward Roland but wasn’t able to act on. And in the process, I came to care about and respect Roland in his own right. He’s a kind and repentant man. He knows he’ll never see the outside again, even though I think he deserves a second chance. But he’s come to terms with that, and in fact, I think he feels that it’s justice. He talks about the boy he killed quite a bit. He understands exactly what he took from the world, and he feels that justice is being served.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Lydia asked, her voice soft and very sad.

“I think someone—my boss at the paper—knows or suspects that Roland is alive. He’s putting a lot of pressure on me to dig up dirt on Teague while they’re going through the nomination process. He cares more about selling papers than doing what’s right, and he knows that a scandal surrounding Teague will do that.”

Lydia’s spine stiffened, her expression turning to steel in a moment. “My boy has worked his entire life for this. When he wasn’t even a teenager yet, he wanted to sit on the bench like Justice Marshall. He learned about him in the fourth grade.” Her voice became softer as her mind wandered back to that day. “He came home more excited than I’d ever seen him. He told me, ‘Mama. When I grow up, I’m going to be like Mr. Marshall the judge. I want to help teach the people that everyone should get the same rights, no matter what color they are.’”

“I want him to have this too. And so does Roland. And that’s why I need your help. I have to throw my boss off this line of inquiry. I need a way to convince him that Roland really did die all those years ago and that the Roland Smith he found in the California prison system is not Teague’s brother.”

Lydia watched her for a few moments, her gaze giving away nothing. It was very clear to Deanna where Teague got his cool under fire from. He was his mama’s boy through and through.

“You must think I’m a horrible mother,” she finally said. “Abandoning one son to protect the other.”

“I would never presume to know the choices you faced, ma’am.”

Lydia shifted in her chair, absently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Roland had been in trouble off and on for years. Gang violence, drugs, petty crimes. I tried to intervene, but I was working two jobs most of the time, and Teague was such a little guy, he needed me in ways that Roland didn’t.”

Deanna nodded. She’d done enough reporting on social conditions in America’s inner cities to know that life as a single mother in the housing projects of Chicago was never easy.

Lydia stood and began to pace between the sitting area and the fireplace.

“As Roland drifted further and further away from me—away from my influence—I started to see that Teague was unique. He was such a smart boy, and not just with books. He understood people. He was intuitive, the teachers called it. And he was ambitious. He wanted to be the best at everything he tried. He got all As, he was captain of the debate team and a star on the baseball team.” She pinned Deanna with a desperate gaze. “I was terrified that if I stopped putting all my energy into Teague in order to try to save Roland, I’d end up losing them both.”

“I understand,” Deanna said sadly.

“Do you? I’m not sure that I do sometimes, but I know at the time I was terrified, and I truly thought that Roland was beyond my help, or nearly so. I’m not sure how I feel hearing that you’ve seen him…spoken to him.” Her voice cracked, and Deanna could see that a very composed and proud woman was only seconds from breaking down.

“I’m not here to make you feel bad or to judge you for the choices you made. You’re a mother, and you did what you felt you had to to save your child.”

Tears finally rolled from those eyes that looked so much like Teague’s.

“And now you need to save Teague again. I need you to help me figure out how we can do a better job of hiding Roland so that Teague doesn’t lose this appointment that he wants so badly.”

“Have you seen Teague? In Washington?”

Deanna nodded before taking a much-needed gulp of air. “Yes. We’ve been…we’re…”

“Does he know you’ve kept in touch with Roland?” Lydia interrupted.

“No. I want to tell him, but not until after he’s been confirmed. If he knows now, I’m afraid…I don’t know, it’ll be so much lying for him.”

“He’s been lying for over fifteen years already.” Lydia finally sat back down, but this time on the sofa next to Deanna. She took Dee’s hand in hers and squeezed it lightly. “I made him do it. Lie. Cut his brother out of his life entirely. I did that. Not him.”

Deanna nodded. “I know, and I know that he was fully aware of Roland’s situation, but I think at this point, Roland might as well be dead for all Teague knows about him.”

“That’s a horrible thing, isn’t it?” Lydia looked away, her eyes growing hazy again. “To live all those years and never know your own brother? To be trapped inside that place with no letters, no visits, no one who loves you.”

One powerful sob flew out of Lydia’s chest, and Deanna held the other woman’s hand tighter. “But I’ve been that for him—at least a little bit. I could never replace his actual family, but he hasn’t been alone. Since I found him, he’s never been alone.”

“Why?” Lydia asked as she struggled to contain her emotions. “Why would you do that? Teague didn’t know, I didn’t know, and the world didn’t care.” Recognition cycled through her face as she puzzled it out.

“You’re still in love with him.” She held Deanna’s hand firmly in hers, and Dee nodded slowly. “Does he know?”

“I haven’t said it to him, but yes. He knows that I still loved him when we split up all those years ago and that time hasn’t killed those feelings.”

Deanna thought back to that morning when she’d woken with Teague’s mouth on her most sensitive places. The way he’d looked at her, the tenderness he’d used when he brought her to a climax. They both liked things rough and hard, but that morning, it was almost as if he could sense how tenuous it all was—could feel that she held information that could ruin them.

Lydia smiled. “Oh, child, you do have it bad, don’t you?”

Dee felt her cheeks heat and smothered a giddy smile. Yes, she had it pretty damn bad.

“All right,” Lydia said, standing and brushing off her slacks. “How are we going to fix this? What do I need to do to keep everyone from finding out about Roland?”

“I have an idea,” Deanna answered.

* * *

Three hours later, Deanna made her way through the Chicago airport, having found a flight with a standby seat. In her briefcase was a copy of a death certificate for Roland Smith, as well as a recorded interview with Lydia sobbing over the loss of her precious boy all those years ago. Given the guilt she felt over Roland, it wasn’t much of a stretch to get her to cry, and the interview felt and sounded as real as anything Deanna had ever done.

Now she was on her way back to DC to hand all of it over to Brice, and hopefully put him off that line of inquiry permanently.

As she reached the gate and sat down to wait the last twenty minutes before boarding, her phone chimed. She pulled it out of the front pocket of her purse and looked to find a text from Teague.

T: Are you home from work yet? Thinking about you. Want to stop by.

She smiled to herself. He’d been to her house or had her come to his nearly every night since they started seeing each other again. They didn’t go out, realizing that they might be spotted since Teague’s face was on TV and in the papers every day now, so they were stuck making dinner, getting delivery, and entertaining each other at home.

And, my God, could the man entertain. Twenty-two-year-old Teague had been sexy and fun, and a perfect match for her in bed and out. Thirty-four-year-old Teague was hot as hell—confident, assertive, big, hard. She fanned her face with her hand for a moment before returning his text.

D: I had to fly out of town for a last minute interview. I’m in the airport now. My flight should be boarding in a few.

T: Don’t leave town without telling me again. Where are you?

She rolled her eyes. And bossy. Did she mention he was bossy as well?

D: Your old stomping grounds—Chicago. Will you be telling me whenever you leave town for a few hours?

T: Yes, but that’s not the point. What if something happened to you? I want to know you’re safe.

Deanna’s eyes burned slightly as she read his words. If he only knew—she’d never in her life felt as safe as she did in his arms late at night.

D: Yes, sir. From now on you’re the first call I make if I go anywhere outside the district.

T: Good. I’d extend that…you should let me know if you go anywhere after dark or with any men either, but I won’t push my luck right now. When will you be back?

D: Flight lands at Dulles at eight twenty.

T: I’ll be there to take you home. Come to the level four pickup.

She sighed. God, if he kept this up, it was going to be a very long two hours.

D: I’ll be there…

She waited, considering it, letting fear get the better of her for a moment, but then she remembered that day twelve years ago when she’d let fear take over. No, the days of allowing fear control her were over. She knew full well how she felt about him, and he deserved to hear it.

D: I love you.

She waited, heart pounding against her ribs like a mallet against a drum. But the answer came quickly and with all the confidence that Teague showed in everything else in his life.

T: I love you too, baby. Get rid of your panties so I can make you come in the car. See you soon.

Deanna’s jaw dropped and her cheeks heated. Filthy, filthy man. She grinned. And so damn sexy.