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happy holiday.”
    Two hours later, the shift had finally come to an end. After assuring Reece that she’d be at their house for Christmas dinner, Molly retrieved her coat from the nurses’ locker room and left the building.
    Unlike the previous night, the street was quiet and empty in the midnight hour. A huge white galleon of a moon soared high in the sky, illuminating the men wrapped in sleeping bags, blankets or newspapers, sleeping in doorways, all their worldly possessions piled into purloined shopping carts.
    Molly stopped in front of the crèche. As she’d feared, the towels intended to represent the baby Jesus had been stolen. One of the lambs and an angel were also missing and someone had painted gang signs on Joseph in seasonal red and green paint. A lingering scent of spray enamel blended with the aroma of garbage from the overstuffed Dumpsters and diesel fuel from the trucks that roared by overhead on the freeway.
    As she continued walking to the bus stop, Molly thought it sad that those truckers were having to work on Christmas, the one day of the year they should be home with their families.
    Families. As content as she was with her life, there were times Molly found herself wondering what would have happened if things had been different? If the police could have convinced her father to surrender, that long-ago Christmas Eve? Or if Tessa hadn’t been taken away from them and adopted by some unknown family. Not a day went by that Molly didn’t think about—and pray for—her missing sister.
    She was standing on the corner, waiting for the lightto change so she could cross the deserted street, when she became aware of someone coming up behind her.
    She reached into her coat pocket, intending to give the poor beggar her usual referral to the mission, when a gloved hand came over her mouth and she was dragged backward, toward the alley.
    She fought the man, flailing out with her arms, digging her heels into the sidewalk, trying to slow him down long enough to allow someone to come to her rescue. But he was strong. And so determined.
    Her breath was trapped in her lungs, blood drummed deafeningly in her ears. Molly tried going limp, but all that did was earn a vicious curse and cause her hips to hit the pavement with a painful thump.
    Her assailant tossed her onto a pile of boxes as if she were a rag doll.
    Molly lay on her back, the man standing over her. She couldn’t see his face because of his garish black-and-purple ski mask. His clothes—camouflage printed shirt and pants topped by an faded army denim jacket—were ragged and filthy. His hair was long and stringy and unkempt.
    She grabbed hold of the nearest box and flung it at him, but he knocked it away as if it was no more than a fly. And, to her amazement, he laughed. A rich roar of pleasure that was such a contrast to the menace in those black eyes that she almost believed she must be imagining it.
    A nearby sound suddenly caused him to stiffen, as alert as an infantryman on reconnaissance. Taking advantage of his momentary shift in attention, she scrambled to her knees and on a half crawl, half stagger, triedto make her way over the tumbling, shifting pile of cardboard.
    Unfortunately, he proved faster and, grabbing hold of her hair, yanked her back as the cat, who’d made the distracting noise, shot out of the alley.
    He held her down with a booted foot that threatened to crush her chest. “What’s the hurry, honey?” His deep voice vibrated through her, sending icy fingers of fear zipping up her spine.
    â€œYou don’t want to do this.” She tried for a calm, reasonable voice, but the tremulous tone gave her away. “I can help you. I can help you find someplace to stay, some food—”
    He struck her, a vicious blow to the face, cutting her off in midsentence. Seeming pleased with himself, he hit her again, with a backhanded slap that made her ears ring.
    â€œPlease.”