"It's my favorite!" Will exclaimed, then grabbed the cat, and gave him a kiss. "I love you, Oreo Figaro."

"I love you, too," Ellen replied, in her Oreo Figaro voice.

Will giggled and set the cat back on the floor. "Can I open my presents now?"

"Yes, but gimme a kiss first." Ellen bent over, and Will threw his arms around her neck. If she was expecting a big reunion kiss, she wasn't getting one, not when there were gifts waiting to be unwrapped. Will ran out of the room, and she called after him, "Love you!"

"Love you, too!"

Ellen went to the cabinet and got a trash bag for the gift wrap, then straightened up, remembering that the last time she had stood here, she had killed a man. She turned to the wall where Moore had slid down, as if to reassure herself that it wouldn't still be bloodied.

But it was.

A sudden horrific flashback shot out of nowhere. Before her eyes, Moore slumped against the wall. Bright red blood spurted from a deep hole in his forehead. A crooked grin crossed his face.

Ellen froze, remembering. That smile was crooked because it turned down on the right. Like Will's.

She put it together, stunned. She hadn't noticed it then, because she was sure that Bill Braverman was Will's father. But now that she knew that he wasn't, the crooked grin assumed a new significance. Then she remembered what Moore had said that night to Carol.

You shoulda said to him, "Honey, wifey-poo isn't the good girl you think."

Ellen stared at the wall, but it had turned green again. She stood a moment, shaken, trying to collect her thoughts, trying to process what she had just learned.

If Bill wasn't Will's father, she had at least a guess who was.

Epilogue

About a year later, there was another winter snow and another party with wrapped presents, balloons, and crepe streamers crisscrossing the living room, which this time was packed with noisy, sugar-fueled classmates of Will's. They ran back and forth, played with new toys, ate grocery-store sheet cake, and generally wreaked havoc for his fourth birthday.

"Watch out!" Will shrieked, running with a new laser sword, and Ellen grabbed it from him on the fly.

"Don't run with this."

"Please!"

"No, you'll hurt somebody."

"Aw, Mom!" Will took off after his friend Brett, and Ellen's father came over, his eyes glittering with mischief.

"I'll take that weapon, my lady."

"What for?" Ellen handed it over.

"You'll see. This will do nicely." Her father examined the laser sword, and Barbara joined him in her elegant white pantsuit, a multicolored party hat perched atop her head.

"Ellen, don't let him have that. He'll embarrass us all."

"Too late for that," Ellen said with a smile. She had come to love Barbara, who wisely hadn't tried to replace her mother, because no one could. But somewhere along the line, she had opened her mind to the possibility that if you could love a child no matter how he came to you, then you could also love a mother, no matter how she came to you.

"I need this for my golf lesson." Her father gestured across the crowded room to where Bill Braverman and his pretty date were talking with Connie and Chuck. Her father called to him, "Bill, come here. I need your expertise."

"Coming." Bill strode over in his out-of-place linen jacket, pants, and tassel loafers, making his way through the kids and ruffling Will's hair.

"Look how fast I go, Bill!" Will called after him.

"Good for you!" Bill entered the dining room, grinning, but her father was all business.

"Show me what you were saying before, about my grip." Her father flipped the sword around so that the point faced the floor, then wrapped his fingers around the hilt, swinging it like a golf club. "You said it was my elbow, right? Not tucked in enough?"

"Not exactly, let me show you." Bill focused on his task, and Barbara moaned.

"Please, guys, anything but golf."

"There is nothing but golf," Bill said, smiling, then turned to Ellen. "By the way, I have those papers for you to sign, for Will's trust. When he's of age, he can decide how much he wants to set aside for Charbonneau House."

"Great, thanks." Ellen smiled, and in the next second she felt an arm encircle her waist and tug her into the kitchen. Before she knew it, Marcelo had taken her into his arms, hugged her gently, and given her one of his best kisses.

"This is a wonderful party," he purred into her ear. "Very romantic."

"It's the Snickers bars. Snickers equal romance." Ellen put her arms around him, stretching out her hands over his shoulder. Her engagement ring sparkled prettily in the sunlight, and she never would have guessed that green would make such a nice backdrop for a diamond. It gave her a new appreciation for photosynthesis.

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" Marcelo asked, chuckling.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at your ring."

"Just kiss me," Ellen said with a smile, but suddenly Will burst into the kitchen and stopped himself before he ran into them.

"Marcelo," he said, looking up, "are you gonna kiss Mommy?"

"If you say it's okay, W."

"Do it! She likes it!" Will hugged Marcelo around the leg, then ran out of the kitchen, and Ellen smiled.

"Good move, asking permission."

"I know who the boss is." Marcelo kissed her softly and sweetly, then whispered, "Eu te amo."

And for that, Ellen didn't need a translation.

Acknowledgments

I have always been a fan of "write what you know," and this novel arises from a new sideline of mine: newspaper columnist. More than a year ago, I began writing a weekly column for The Philadelphia Inquirer called "Chick Wit." (check it out online at my website, www.scottoline.com) To stay on point, this novel grew naturally from my observations of the rewards and stresses of a reporter's life, especially in bad economic times, but it's important to head this disclaimer: Look Again is fiction.

I made it up, every word.

The newsroom herein is not The Philadelphia Inquirers, and the fictional owners of the newspaper, as well as its reporters, staff, and editors, are not anyone at the Inquirer. And though, like every newspaper, the Inquirer has suffered in this economy, the paper is nevertheless thriving due to the talent, hard work, and business savvy of its amazing publisher, Brian Tierney, with the help of Pulitzer Prize winner and great guy Bill Marimow and marketing whiz Ed Mahlman, as well as my friend and editor Sandy Clark, who has been a warm and loving guide in new terrain. I owe much to her, so thanks, Sandy.

I needed to do lots of research for Look Again, and I owe a huge debt to the following experts. (any and all mistakes are mine.) A big hug to brilliant Cheryl Young, Esq., a divorce and family lawyer who is an expert on the intricacies of the law, as well as having an understanding of its very human implications. Big thanks, as always, to Glenn Gilman, Esq., and detective extraordinaire Art Mee. Thank you very much to Dr. John O'Hara of Paoli Hospital, as well as Brad Zerr, who put me in touch with Dr. Glenn Kaplan, head of Pediatric Surgery at Paoli Hospital in Paoli, Pennsylvania, and Tina Saurian, nurse manager of the Maternity Unit. Thanks, too, to Dr. Paul Anisman, chief of Pediatric Cardiology at Nemours/alfred I. Dupont Hospital for Children in Wilmington, Delaware. Dr. Anisman showed me around and answered all my dumb questions, so I got to see firsthand the wonderful work he and his staff do for babies and children from around the world.

Thanks, too, to Rosina Weber of Drexel University, as well as dear pal and now Harvard prof. James Cavallaro, Esq., and his great wife, Mad] a Rodigues. Thanks to Dr, Harvey Weiner, director of Academic and Community Relations at Eagleville, for his expertise and for the good work he does for those suffering from drug and alcohol addiction. Thanks, too, to William Fehr, consultant and pal of Mama Scottoline. Thanks to Barbara Capozzi, Karen Volpe, Joey Stampone, Dr. Meredith Snader, Julia Guest, Frank Ferro, Sandy Claus, Sharon Potts, and Janice Davis.