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would.
    Bobby’s mind conjured up the image of a retirement party one day. He’d be surrounded by colleagues and family when the police came, knocking down the doors and hauling him off to prison. How would he feel then, starting a life prison term at a time when he’d probably be getting released if he’d only fessed up earlier?
    And none of this even touched on the issue of the boy. What the hell were they going to do with him? Bobby supposed there were still orphanages somewhere, but they couldn’t just drop him off on the front step of some building.
    He placed his hand on the phone and paused. This was it. The point of no return. What the hell was he going to say?
    Nothing. You say nothing. You just go back to your car and let fate take care of this.
    And when they finally caught up to him, how would he explain forgetting about the guy he killed five, ten, thirty years ago?
    “Okay, Bobby, you can do this,” he said aloud. After another pause for a deep sigh, he settled himself down and made his phone call.

5
    A PRIL S IMPSON OFFERED up a little prayer of thanks that she’d been able to drive all the way home without falling asleep. She feared sometimes that this pace might kill her. Eight hours at McDonald’s followed by another four cleaning offices downtown was only half of the available hours in a day, but as the baby in her belly continued to bloom, she needed more sleep than she could find.
    Some nights, she lay awake in her bed crying, wondering how she was ever going to get by with two children to care for. She remembered those endless nights when infant Justin refused to sleep, crying and crying and crying until she finally had to leave the apartment for fear of doing something to hurt him. Now her son was nearly three, but still terribly two, and she was going to have to find a way to deal with another infant. She wasn’t sure she could do it.
    Not that she had a lot of choice anymore. She’d decided to keep the belly squirmer, and that’s all there was to it. To hell with what William thought.
    William was a pig. He’d been a pig for as long as she’d known him, and if it hadn’t been for the night of drunken passion that had created Justin, she’d never in a million years have married him. William wasn’t the father, but he was a man, and at the time, that’s what she thought she needed most.
    April pulled into her space at The Pines and scanned every compass point for signs of trouble before turning off the ignition and climbing out of her tiny Geo. Her little Chevy served as her symbol of freedom—her statement to the world that she wasn’t completely useless. It also was the only asset that she owned outright and in her own name. One day, it might just be her ticket out of here.
    Making sure she’d gathered all her stuff, she didn’t bother to lock the doors as she walked away. Better that a thief get into the car and find nothing to steal than break out the windows and leave her with a big mess in the morning. If they wanted to steal the car itself, more power to them. She could use the insurance check.
    As she crossed the dark playground on her way to her building, she kept her hand in her coat pocket, wrapped around the tiny .25 that she’d bought six years ago but never fired. William liked to say that she could empty a whole clip into someone and only piss him off, but if that bought the time she needed to avoid a rapist or a weapon bigger than hers, then that was just fine. Killing wasn’t her bag. Surviving was.
    She kept her eye on the cluster of kids over by the sliding board, watching without turning her head, as they did the same to her. What could they possibly be doing outside at four in the morning? Where were their parents? And why would they want to be outside on such a cold night? In the summer, it almost made sense, as a means to escape the stifling heat of the apartments, but not tonight. Here in Pittsburgh, spring felt too much like winter.
    Twenty, thirty yards