"Hello?" I whisper into the darkness knowing that I'm not trying to shelter anyone from my voice. I live alone. I sleep alone.

"Tess?" His voice is deep and melodic. "Are you at home?"

I squint as I pull the phone from my face, staring down at the corner of the screen I take note of the time. "Landon, it's six. What time is it there?"

"It's six," he repeats back. "Are you at home?"

I swing my bare legs over the side of my bed. I reach forward to grab hold of the water bottle I placed on my bedside table when I was undressing last night. My plan was to take one of the ibuprofen tablets that I kept in the top drawer but the headache I had then, hadn't kept me from sleeping. I prop the bottle against my side as I try to wrestle the lid off.

"Are you home, Tess?" he repeats. "Where are you?"

I push the unopened bottle to the floor as my frustration rises. It's mid-day in Athens and he decides that now is the best time to call me? He's a pilot. His life revolves around time. He must have known there was a good chance that he'd wake me.  "Why do you keep asking me that? I'm at home. Where else would I be?"

"Let me up," he says gruffly. "I've been in the lobby for ten minutes trying to buzz you."

I bolt to my bedroom window, arching my neck to try and catch a glimpse of the front of the building. It's futile. The only thing in my view is the street, which is already filled with cars and a few scant pedestrians as dawn breaks over the city. I take a step back, my eyes searching the room for my robe.

"Are you still there?" His voice is impatient. "I need to see you. Please, let me up."

"The buzzer doesn't always work," I offer, not because it matters. It's a buffer to give me more time to absorb what is happening. "I need to get dressed."

There's a pause before he speaks. "I'll wait down here until you're ready. Call me when I can come up."

I end the call. He's here. He wasn't supposed to be back until Wednesday but he's here now and before he leaves this building, he's going to explain to me everything he knows about my father.

***

"It was your birthday?" I run my hand through my damp hair. I'd showered quickly after he called me to tell me he was in the lobby. It was selfish on my part to make him wait but I needed to wash yesterday from my skin. I'd pulled off my clothes when I got home last night and slid between the cool sheets on my bed.

There was no pull towards the shower then. I wanted sleep and nothing more but this morning I wanted to face Landon without any trace of the hell I'd been through after hearing about my dad.

"That day. It was the day you saw my dad in the elevator." His eyes skim over the pale jeans and black blouse I'm wearing. "I didn't tell you because I don't celebrate it."

That's a far cry from how I've lived my life. When I was a youngster, my parents made certain that each of their children had an experience to remember when it was their birthday. There weren't parties with schoolmates or cakes formed into the shape of princesses or rocket ships. It was more precious than that.

My father would drive us to school on our special day so we could avoid the crowded bus filled with our classmates. He'd always have a treat hidden in the outside pocket of his suit jacket. On my seventh birthday there were a pair of tickets to the circus in Boston and on my twelfth birthday it was an invitation to accompany him to the ballet in New York.

My mother cooked the dinner of my choice and baked the same chocolate cake she did each and every year. Even when I was in college, she'd surprise me after class, cake in hand, and a twenty dollar bill tucked into a handmade birthday card. I've kept each of those cards, along with each gift that I found in my father's pocket.

"Why don't you celebrate it?"

He sits on my sofa, his long legs bent at the knees as his shoes tap an uneven beat on the floor. "I stopped when my dad died. I stopped caring about it."

I study him for a moment. He's dressed in black pants and a white shirt. At first glance, almost any woman passing him would stop to take a second glance. He's handsome in a way that suggests that he's comfortable with the man that he is, but it's a carefully honed façade. He's struggling with demons that have consumed him for years. Guilt has worn him down. It has stolen things from him. Things he may never get back.

Chapter 6

"I asked my father to come to my apartment that night because it was my birthday," he stops to swallow. "I knew that he wouldn't resist. I also knew that he'd never suspect it was a trap."

It was a trap. The word itself conjures up images of a man standing alone with his hands pointed at the ceiling as dozens of armed and shielded policemen close in on him. It wasn't that way with Frederick.

His face was calm when the elevator doors flew open. He was smiling at Landon. It's no wonder considering he just spent time with the son he must have cradled in his arms exactly thirty-two-years before that day. It was the same son who had held onto him desperately when their boat capsized. The son who was so lost in his grief that he stopped recognizing his own life as vital and important.

Frederick had taken much more than the trust of his family when he disappeared. He'd taken the person Landon was that day with him.

"I went to see him that next day at the police station because I wanted answers but he refused to talk to me."

He'd told me that when he found me on the street in front of my office talking to Ansel. "When did you talk to him again?"

"Not until that Saturday afternoon when I saw him with my mother," he stops to run his hands over the thighs of his pants. "Dane was there too but he didn't say a lot."

I'm not surprised by that. I'd spent less than an hour with Landon's younger brother but I could sense his quiet strength. They were similar in ways neither likely recognized. Even the motions of their hands as they speak are hauntingly alike.

I nod. I know that he's trying to explain, in a very long winded way, how his father ended up in a position in which he could offer information in exchange for a plea deal. It would all be fascinating if not for the fact that Frederick threw my dad to the wolves as one of his bargaining chips.

"How does your father know mine?" I blurt the question out as my hands fly to my hips. "Were you helping the police by getting close to me? Have you been seeing me so you could find out more about my dad?"

"What?" His neck turns suddenly so he's looking directly at me. "You think that? How can you think that?"

"How can I not think it?" I throw the words back at him as I lean forward. "Your dad told the police things about my father. He knew my father."

"Jesus, Tess." He pushes himself to his feet. "I don't know what the fuck went on between your dad and mine. I don't give a shit about any of that."

I do give a shit. He may not feel the same love for his own father that I do for mine. I admit that I have no grasp on what's going on in a legal sense, but I know my dad has always told me that a person's actions reveal more about them than any words they may say.

My father didn't take me out in a boat and then risk my life so he could swim to the shore and disappear. He has been there for me each and every day since I was born. That alone speaks of his character. If he did do bad things, he didn't flee. He stayed in plain sight.