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dangled overhead and he realized this was where he had last seen Rebecca.
    Finally.
    Only Patrick couldn’t see the doorway. It was gone, replaced by a huge, ragged hole. The wall was buckled, lopsided and charred. Bricks bulged and hung loose like toy building blocks tossed and shoved out from the other side. Water seeped from one of the holes in the wall and a smell like rotten eggs, maybe sewage, flooded the area. He prayed that Rebecca wasn’t still inside the restroom when the blast went off.
    That’s when Patrick tripped, slamming himself against the sharp bricks, ripping the palm of his hand open, but managing to stay on his feet. When he looked down he saw the long dark hair first and thought he had tripped over a mannequin. After all, the legs were twisted and knotted together like they were made of plastic and were stuffed into a garbage bag. But there was nothing plastic about the eyes that stared up at him through the tangled hair. Her jaw had been torn away, leaving a wide gaping smile. Patrick’s first reaction was to reach down to help her up. Then he jerked back when he realized she must be dead.
    He took a better look at the twisted pile of legs he had tripped over and for the first time his head began to swim and his knees felt a bit spongy.
    The legs were no longer connected to the rest of the woman’s body.

CHAPTER
9
     
    Lanoha’s Nursery
Omaha, Nebraska
     
    N ick Morrelli pulled out a credit card. He knew his sister Christine was watching him so he tried not to wince, flinch or clear his throat. All signs she would be looking for.
    She had already told him that he didn’t have to pay for the fresh-cut nine-foot Fraser fir Christmas tree. In fact, she had told him three times, leading him to insist, making him pretend that it was no big deal. And why would it be a big deal? Never mind that he had just left a prominent position with the Suffolk County prosecutor’s office in Boston to move back to Omaha. It wasn’t like he was fired or let go. The decision had been entirely his choice.
    Choice, not impulse.
    Impulse was the word his mom and Christine used.
    “Your father knows you love him, Nicky,” his mom had said when he told her he was moving back to Nebraska. “He doesn’t expect you to leave your life and be at his side.”
    At the time Nick wanted to tell her that the old Antonio Morrelli would want that exactly. He’d want everyone to uproot and rearrange their lives to accommodate his schedule especially now when he appeared to be near death. A massive stroke had left Nick’s father paralyzed and bedridden several years ago. Now his only means of communication were his eyes. Maybe it was simply Nick’s imagination but he swore he could still see that same disappointment and regret in those eyes—now watery blue instead of ice blue—every single time the man looked at him.
    Nick had tried most of his life to do what his father expected, tried to fill the huge shoes. His father had played quarterback for the Nebraska Huskers, so Nick made sure he played quarterback for the Nebraska Huskers, but Nick only played for one season. A disappointment to his father who had redshirted as a freshman. His father had gone to law school, so Nick went to law school, only he had no interest in practicing law or filling the vacancy his father had left for him in the law firm his father had started.
    Nick had even run for and had been elected county sheriff, the position the elder Morrelli retired from as a living legend. But Nick had embarrassed his father, again, by tracking down a killer his father had allowed to go undetected under his own watch. It should have made up for all the rest. Nick had succeeded after all. But that wasn’t the way Antonio Morrelli looked at it. Instead he saw it as his son embarrassing him, showing him up and making him look bad publicly.
    Nick’s move to Boston had probably been the first thing he had ever done on his own and for himself without the influence of