Instead of making her feel safer, the police car in the rearview mirror made Cait more nervous. She glanced up again and again to confirm that it was still there, but she hated the idea that Monteforte and Jarman thought she needed the escort. Did they think that whoever had tried to snatch Leyla would make another attempt? It made no sense. If A-Train wanted payback, he would have come after her directly. And Cait couldn’t really believe that Nizam’s sisters had tried to abduct the baby, never mind the fact that they were too poor to hire someone to do it.

No, the men in their dark-windowed sedans had come after Leyla for some other reason, and there was only one connection she could think of that made any sense. Sean.

Her brother was never able to speak plainly about the work he did for the government, but Cait knew he worked in intelligence, and she had the impression that his covert operations involved infiltrating terrorist organizations and training camps in the Middle East. If dark-suited men had come after Leyla in a car with untraceable plates—after watching Auntie Jane’s house and looking for an opening—Cait figured it had to be connected to Sean somehow.

A strange unreality settled over her. The world looked different to her today. It even felt different on her skin. What would the police do now? If the canvass of the neighborhood turned up nothing, what would they do?

Before leaving her aunt and uncle’s house, she’d retrieved her car charger from the trunk. Now, one hand on the wheel, she plugged in the phone to charge and called Channel 7, then asked to be transferred to Lynette’s office. As she waited on the line, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Noon had come and gone, and she realized Lynette had probably already left for the day. On the weekends, she usually only worked mornings.

“Lynette Thompson.”

“Good, you’re still there,” Cait said.

“Who is this?”

“Sorry. It’s Cait McCandless. Listen, you wanted me to save the A-Train story for you. But I’ve got something else now, and it can’t wait.”

She told the story as quickly and succinctly as she could. Lynette stopped her only twice to ask questions—one about the untraceable license plate on the car out front and the other a more personal inquiry.

“Do you have anyone who can come stay with you?”

Was Lynette asking her if she had friends? The question troubled Cait, because she had no clear answer. Of all the kids she’d gone to school with, only a handful of those relationships had survived into adulthood. Of those, two lived out of state and one out of the country entirely. Miranda Russo had remained local, but had gotten married while Cait had been in Iraq, and they had seen each other only once since she’d come home—an awkward lunch in which Cait had realized that they didn’t really know each other anymore. Her best friend in high school had been a guy named Nick Pulaski; they had stayed in touch, but Nick had grown up to be an unreliable burnout who smoked far too much pot. There were only three people she still kept in touch with from her time at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, but those were e-mail and Christmas card relationships, far more about the time they’d spent together than the lives they now lived.

Then there was Jordan, of course. These days he was probably her closest friend. And in any inventory of the people she might call when she was in trouble, she’d have to include Ronnie Mellace. She and Jordan and Ronnie had been inseparable during their stint together in Iraq. But it wasn’t like Ronnie lived down the street.

“There are people I could call,” Cait told Lynette. “My aunt and uncle live here in Medford. But I’m fine.”

Cait glanced in the rearview mirror at the police car, and then at Leyla’s car seat. She could see Leyla’s right hand, open and relaxed, and knew the baby had started to fall asleep.

“If you come into the office—”

“I don’t want to leave my daughter with anyone, Lynette. Not right now.”

“How about if I send someone to you? We can do the piece at your place. Who do you want to interview you? Aaron’s off today, but you’re friendly with Sarah Lin, right?”

“Yes. Sarah would be perfect. Do me a favor, though? Can you put Jordan on camera for this?”

“I don’t think he’s still here,” Lynette said.

“He’ll come in for it. I can call him myself, if you want.”

“You’ve got enough to think about,” Lynette replied. “I’ll take care of it. We’ll run it on the six o’clock broadcast, but we’ll want to tease it at five. Does three o’clock work for you?”

“As soon as they can get here,” Cait said.

She turned into the driveway of the house on Boston Avenue where she rented the first-floor apartment. The bright green VW bug in the driveway belonged to David, the Tufts graduate student who lived upstairs.

“Cait,” Lynette said.

“Yes?”

“I won’t try to tell you there isn’t exploitation in what we do—you know better—but you’re doing the right thing, publicizing it like this. We’ll tell the story, and if anyone saw anything useful, they’ll call in. Meantime, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Thank you,” Cait said.

They exchanged awkward good-byes and Cait ended the call. She killed the engine and sat in her car, listening to the engine ticking as it cooled. After several long seconds, she realized the car should not be so quiet, and she turned to find that Leyla had fallen asleep. Once again, her daughter’s schedule would be messed up all day.

But she was safe, and beautiful, and alive.