“Officer Bullon, there’s an important call for you on line three.”

“I’ll be right there.”

London nodded for the officer to go ahead. There was no point in him staring at London while London stared at surveillance video from a gas station robbery in Fort Worth. He wished he could say for sure that the man brandishing a knife at the sales clerk was his father—and therefore have him locked away for a few years—but the image was grainy at best and impossible at worst. The robber had the same build as his dad, but height and weight weren’t a concrete identifier in the eyes of the law. If he had a clear view of his face …

He rubbed his thumbs into his bloodshot eye. Staying up till all hours talking to Maia last night did nothing for his brainpower. Nevertheless, he’d do it all over again for the chance to hear her lovely voice. She didn’t talk like other women. There was a breathless quality and a deepness in her tone as if she’d smoked, although she hadn’t. Her mom had, though; maybe the second-hand smoke damaged her vocal cords. It didn’t sound like damage to him—she sounded perfect, unique.

She’d left town with her entourage as soon as the doctor signed the release papers, leaving Dallas empty and joyless in her wake. Okay, so maybe the whole city wasn’t affected by her departure quite like he was, but the bright sunlight was confirmation he’d done the right thing by kissing the stubbornness right out of her in the hospital.

Last night she’d sung with Sloane Kent, the country music sensation, at a concert in Boston. He’d watched the YouTube video a dozen times, amazed at her ability to walk and even perform a few dance moves with stitches in her leg. Her dress covered her knees, so he couldn’t ascertain how they’d bandaged her. He prayed they used compression to keep it from swelling. So far the accident hadn’t made headlines. He wondered who, if anyone, at the studio knew she was patched together.

The least impressive part of the video was Sloane Kent putting his arm around Maia like they were the best of friends—or more. Wondering about the two of them had London pulling his phone out of his back pocket to text her. He wasn’t making any progress on the stupid video anyway. His thumbs worked like rapid-fire machines, punching the letters.

How long have you known Kent?

About twelve hours, give or take. Why? Do you want his autograph? ;)

He chewed his cheek, typing and deleting his text several times before he hit send. You looked like you were friends. I just wondered. He debated sending a smiling emoji. If he sent one, then he might look like he was trying too hard to be casual. If he didn’t send it, she might think he was being pushy. She responded before he finished his internal argument.

It’s called acting. She added the emoji with his tongue stuck out.

He let his shoulders drop in relief. Somewhere in the precinct, a phone rang. A tall officer in uniform crossed in front of the door, his face buried in a file.

We’re friends now. Good friends. I might spend Christmas with him.

Shoulders back up. He searched for the devil emoji with fire coming out of its head. He had to scroll through several pages to find the right one. When he finally found it, he pounded the stupid red face with his thumb five times and hit send.

She replied with five laughing-so-hard-they-cried emojis.

You are not, he inserted a barking laugh emoji. There—he could emoji with the best of them.

No, really. His wife invited me for the holidays.

He pushed the air out of his lungs. She was toying with him. He kind of liked it. That’s like—forever away. Do people make Christmas plans when the beaches are open?

All the time.

Really?

Yeah, how do you think Hawaiians prepare for St. Nick? Except she didn’t spell out Santa; she used a Santa emoji.

“I didn’t even know they had Santa,” London muttered. What’s up next on the Princess Maia tour? He smirked, knowing the princess comment would irk her. He suspected part of the reason she didn’t like the nickname was her desire to feel normal in her private life. Well, as normal as life could be when she had a group of people attached to her every moment like a—well, like a real-life princess. The only character missing from her traveling circus was a bodyguard. She said she wasn’t important enough to need one, but he begged to differ.

New York and the Ed Sullivan Theater.

His chest caved in with disappointment. Sooooo far away.

There was a pause that lasted long enough he glanced up from the screen and watched two officers escort a man past the open door. How messed up was his life that he wished the man in handcuffs was his father?

There are these things with wings called airplanes, Maia texted. They go all over the world. Even from Dallas to New York.

He grinned like a big dope. She’d been away for five days and not once had she come close to saying she missed him. The words on his phone didn’t exactly say she pined for him, but they implied it. He’d take that any day of the week. A date in Times Square sounds perfect. Airplanes? Who knew, right?

Before a reply came through, Officer Bullon came back in the room. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” London tucked his phone away. “I can’t tell if that’s him or not.” He pointed to the television.

Officer Bullon spun a pen around his thumb. “It was a long shot, but I wanted to follow the lead.” The pen stilled. “Listen, I think you should stay in town.”

“What?” London scooted forward on the rickety chair. Seriously, couldn’t they afford a chair that didn’t feel like it was going to collapse underneath him at any moment? “Why?”

“The vandalism to your mom’s business happened while you were out of town.” He tapped the pen on the frayed folder in front of him. “And when she reported the man in her bushes, you were in Mexico. And the postal dates on the anonymous, threatening letters all correspond with Titan away games.”

“You think he waits until I leave town to go after Mom?” The idea made him sick. His dad was a coward.

Bullon’s heavy jowls jiggled. “He’s manifesting typical behavior of a rejected stalker.”

“Doesn’t everyone reject their stalkers?”

“No, the name is based on what triggers the stalking behavior. In this case, it was the divorce.”

“So, Mom rejected him and he wants to get, what? Revenge?”

“In many cases, I’d say yes. But in this case, I believe the subject of his revenge is you.”

“Me?”

“When your parents divorced, you took your mother’s side, rejecting your father.”

Heck yeah, I did.

“And now he feels the need to even the score.”

London flattened his palm against the steel tabletop. The cold was enough to ground his thoughts, and he remembered what his mom had told him the day after the break-in. “If I can’t hurt you, I’ll hurt something you care about,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?” Bullon leaned over the edge of the table.

London pressed down and pulled his hands back, making a high-pitched whistling noise. “If he can’t hurt me, then he goes after my mom.”

Bullon spun the pen around his thumb again. “Exactly. That’s why I think you should stay in town. If you’re here, he doesn’t look for another target.”

London cursed under his breath. “I can’t stay in town forever.” His job wasn’t conducive to being a homebody.

“He’s never interfered with football. Football’s one thing he seems to respect.”

“Yep—sounds about right.” London pounded his fists on the table.

“I understand you’re upset. This isn’t easy to hear.”

“No—it makes perfect sense. Which is why this situation sucks.” He gave the confused officer a rueful smile. “I have a date in Times Square tomorrow night.”

“You’ll have to postpone.” Bullon leaned back in his chair, at ease. Of course he was at ease; he wasn’t the one standing at the starting line with Maia and having the race called off.

London’s stomach seized up. In the hospital, Maia had said that they’d had their chance at love and blown it. What if …? No, there was no way he could believe they were done. Second chances were real—they happened all the time in life, and this was his second chance. He wasn’t going to let it slip away so easily, nor was he going to let his father damage his life.

Maia had already expressed concern about having missed their window. If he didn’t show tomorrow, she’d take it as a sign that she was right about the two of them. He’d worked so hard for this chance with her; he wasn’t about to let his dad ruin it for him.

Which was why he couldn’t tell Maia how crazy his father had become over the years. She was already looking for reasons they couldn’t be together. He couldn’t hand her one by unloading his baggage—especially over the phone. He needed to keep his dad in the shadows.

“When you find my dad, hold on to him. I’m going to press charges.” He curled his fingers around his knees.

Bullon shrugged. “We already have the warrant for vandalizing the flower shop.”

London smacked his hand on the table, frustrated at the officer’s lack of interest. “He’ll post bail before the night’s over.”

“Unless you have something stronger …”

“How’s child abuse and attempted murder?” The words slid out of his mouth like an ice cube, thick and hard and too fast to control.

Bullon’s mouth dropped open. In the mental cloud of barely controlled rage, a stadium of fear, and shock, London thought Bullon’s mouth was extremely small compared to the rest of him.

London’s whole frame shook. He felt small and unsure and afraid his dad would walk through the door, pick him up by his shirt front, and haul him home for a “talk.” He swiped at the sweat riveting down his neck.

Bullon worked his mouth several times as if it had gone dry and he desperately needed a drink. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and apologetic. “The statute of limitations on child abuse cases in Texas is two years after your eighteenth birthday.”

London gulped. “I’m too late.” In the back of his head he believed he would one day have justice, that he’d see his dad suffer for what he’d done to a child—to him. He hadn’t even thought about a time limit. There shouldn’t be a time limit on child abuse. The child who’d been beaten was still inside of him, still battered and bruised and confused and crying out for help. “That sucks!” He smacked his fist on the table, making Bullon drop his pen.

Bullon scrambled after it. “It does. It certainly does.” He cleared his throat. “But, there is not a statute of limitations on attempted murder. Did your dad …” He trailed off, leaving the horrible, unspoken question to hover over the steel tabletop.

“Not me—Mom.” London had tried so hard to forget. Everything had fallen apart for him the morning of prom. His dad had almost killed his mom, and London’s kidneys were bruised and his rib cracked. He’d gone to prom, despite the damage, and lost Maia. That was the single worst day of his entire life, and it was still messing with him.

Bullon straightened. “Will she sign a statement?”

London scratched his chin as he thought. The room wasn’t as hot as it had been moments ago when he thought of taking the stand and recounting the horrible ways his father had inspired him to be better at football, to run faster, to think smarter, to take a hit and keep on coming.

Well, he was going to take the lesson and throw it right back in his dad’s face. It was time to switch from defense to offense.

“I’ll bring her in tomorrow.” He stood up, towering over Bullon and the table and the twirling pen. “You find my dad.” Smacking his fist once more on the table, he stormed from the room.