"I know that. You're too smart to fall out of your own bed." Ellen jiggled one last time and finally wrenched the guardrail from the bed. "Sorry."

Will giggled.

"Stupid guardrail."

"Stupid guardrail!"

"See ya, guardrail." Ellen took the guardrail to the other side of the room and set it on the floor. "Wouldn't wanna be ya."

Will giggled again.

Ellen came back to the bed, where she could see Will wriggling in his bed. "Are you being a wiggle worm?"

"lam!"

"I'm coming in. We're having a slumber party."

"What's that?" Will scissored his legs.

"It's people having a party when they should be sleeping." Ellen eased onto the skinny bed, on her side. "Scoot over, wigglehead."

"Okay." Will edged backwards, and Ellen reached for him and wrapped him up in her arms. She didn't want to think about Amy Martin and the Bravermans anymore. She wanted to be where she was, right this moment, holding her son close.

"How's that feel? Good?"

Will hugged her back. "I made a snowball."

"You did? Cool."

"It's on the porch, did you see?"

"No." Ellen gave him a squeeze. "It'll be there tomorrow. I'll look at it in the morning, first thing."

"Do you have to go to work tomorrow?"

"Yes." Ellen didn't know what would happen at work tomorrow, with her story unfinished. Right now, she didn't care.

"I hate work."

"I know, sweetie. I'm sorry I have to work."

"Why do you?"

Ellen had answered this more times than she could count, but she knew it wasn't a real question. "I work so we have all the things we need."

Will yawned.

"Maybe we should settle down and go to sleep. Party's over, and slumber is beginning."

"I won't fall out," Will said again, and Ellen hugged him close.

"Don't worry. You won't fall out. I'm here to catch you."

"Good night."

"I love you, sweetie. Good night." Ellen cuddled him, and in the next minute, she could feel his body drifting back to sleep. She caught herself beginning to cry and willed herself to stop. If she went that way, she'd never come back, and this wasn't the time or the place anyway.

Flip it.

She really couldn't be sure that Beach Man was the carjacker. A tracing couldn't tell anything with accuracy, and composites were based only on a verbal description. Lots of men had narrow eyes and long noses. If the composite was too unreliable to prove that the carjacker was Beach Man, then there was no link between Will and Timothy.

Ellen smiled in the dark, feeling a tiny bit better. Maybe Amy would email her, tell her the story of Will's birth, and explain why she'd put him up for adoption.

Will shifted in his sleep, and she snuggled him. She couldn't resolve tonight whether her fears were founded or completely insane. But behind them lurked an unspoken question, one that she couldn't begin to acknowledge, much less articulate to herself. It had been lurking in the back of her mind from the moment she'd seen the infernal white card in the mail.

She hugged Will closer, there in the still, dark room, and the question hung in the air above the bed, suspended somewhere between mother, child, and the false stars.

If Will is really Timothy, what will I do?

Chapter Thirty-four

Ellen entered the newsroom the next morning, exhausted after only two hours of sleep. She hadn't been able to stop her brain from thinking about Will and Timothy, and she felt raw, achy, and preoccupied. She had on the same jeans and shirt she'd worn yesterday, but with a different sweater, and she hadn't had time to shower. She'd checked her email too many times on the way in, but there'd been no email from Amy Martin.

Get a grip.

"Good morning, dear," Meredith Snader said, passing her with an empty mug on the way to the coffee room, and Ellen managed a smile.

"Hey, Mer." She tried to put the Braverman business behind her, but her head was pounding. The newsroom was mostly empty, and she hustled down the aisle, trying to get her thoughts together for the meeting about the homicide piece. Through the glass wall of his office, she could see Marcelo at his desk and Sarah sitting across from him, laughing about something.

Great.

Ellen figured the laughter would stop when she told them she'd be late with her end of the story. She dropped her handbag on her desk, shed her jacket, and hung it on the coatrack, seeing that Sal and Larry were entering Marcelo's office, holding styrofoam cups of coffee and looking like the journalists Ellen had grown up idolizing. She hated that she was about to crash and burn in front of the local Woodward and Bernstein. She girded herself and headed to Marcelo's office, where he looked up expectantly from behind his desk.

"Come in, Ellen." Marcelo smiled, his eyes flashing darkly. "I didn't get your draft. Did you email it?"

Ellen arranged her face into a professional mask. "Marcelo, I don't have the piece done. I'm sorry."

Sarah looked over. Larry and Sal turned around. Marcelo blinked. "You don't have it?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"No, sorry." Ellen's temples thundered. "I got a little bogged down and I need a few extra days."

"Maybe I can help. That's what they pay me for."

"No, you can't," Ellen blurted out, but Marcelo was still smiling, his head cocked and his eyes sympathetic.

"Let me see what you have so far. I'm not looking for perfection. I can't be, with these two slackers on the story." Marcelo gestured at Larry and Sal. "Their draft needed the usual overhaul."

"Kiss my ass," Sal said, and they all laughed except Ellen, who had to come clean.

"Marcelo, to be honest, there is no draft. Not yet." She felt vaguely sick, unmasked and vulnerable. They were all looking at her in surprise, Marcelo most of all.

"Nothing?" Marcelo frowned, confused.

"No worries," Sarah chirped up. "I've got it covered."

"Please wait." Marcelo held up a large palm, but Ellen was looking over at Sarah, too angry to let it go.

"What do you mean, you have it covered?" she asked.

Sarah ignored the question. "Marcelo, Ellen refused to talk with my source, Julia Guest, so I did and wrote it up. I think it puts a human face on the issue quite nicely." She handed him some sheets from a stack she cradled against her chest. "Check it out."

Ellen felt stunned. Sarah had just stuck a knife in her back. The girl wanted her job and was taking no prisoners.

"Who's this source again?" Marcelo was asking, eyeing the pages.

"She's been active in the efforts to stop the violence and has organized the community on the issue. She knows all the players and she feeds to the Mayor's Office."

"What's her stake in this?"

"She organized last month's demonstrations and one of the vigils."

"Is she in local politics?"

"Not officially."

"Thanks, but that's not what I had in mind." Marcelo, troubled, handed her back the pages. "It sounds to me as if she has no stake. If she doesn't have a stake, she's not the story."

Ellen cleared her throat. "I interviewed one of the mothers who lost a son, a second-grader who was murdered. I also spoke with the boy's teacher and the funeral director who prepared his body."

Sal whistled. "Grieving mothers are a homerun."

Larry nodded. "I like the funeral angle, too. It's different. Original."

Marcelo looked relieved. "Okay, Ellen. Good. So you just don't have the draft yet. When can you finish it?"

"Next Friday?"

"She's been working on that Sulaman follow-up," Sarah interrupted, and Ellen turned on her, not bothering to hide her feelings.

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been working on Sulaman, right?" Sarah asked calmly, lifting an eyebrow. "That's the real reason you blew this deadline, isn't it?"