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some sort of meaning? The past was gone and couldn’t be reshaped or relived. He’d made the decision to let her go. She was somewhere else, hopefully thriving and happy. If she ever gave any thought to him at all, expletives and vile curses were probably included.
    Contacting her and performing a major grovel occasionally entered his head, but that’d be a damn stupid thing to do. He wasn’t the same man he’d been back then. What they’d had couldn’t be resurrected. Honor had gotten on with her life. He needed to get the hell on with his, too.
    He shook the melancholy away. Fishing, swimming, and diving in the midst of paradise—how could a man ask for anything more? He ignored the small voice that whispered the names of the people he loved, the people he’d hurt.
    Disgusted with himself, he twisted around, grabbed his sunglasses, and headed out the door. The sun would be up soon. He wanted to get on his boat and be miles from land before that happened. This was his life now; he damn well needed to get used to it.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

    I haven’t had sex in over four years .
    Of all the things Honor believed one should be thinking when a wickedly sharp knife was being held to your throat, this wasn’t one of them. Nevertheless, the thought was there and, sadly, all too true. Today was her thirtieth birthday and her life had become one long workday after another. She was in a serious rut. Though that overregimented, mundane life was about to end if she didn’t do something about the idiot holding her from behind and threatening to “spill her guts,” as he had shouted in her ear.
    “Calm down, Edwin,” Honor said calmly. “There’s no reason to get more years added to your prison sentence by killing an FBI agent.”
    “And think of the mess.”
    If Honor hadn’t been standing on her tiptoes to avoid being cut, she would have rolled her eyes. When Miller Moss—or Mossy to his friends—started trying to negotiate with a criminal, there was no telling the outcome. The man had a mind for statistics and facts, but when it came to his negotiating skills, he was all thumbs.
    “I didn’t kill that girl!” Edwin Simpson shouted.
    Honor winced. If she lived through this, she wondered if she could get disability for a hearing impairment. Her right ear rang, making her position even more painful.
    “If you didn’t kill Shelly Amos, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?”
    “Yeah, like anyone’s going to believe me. I made a mistake years ago and paid my dues in prison. Does anyone give me credit for that? No. I can hardly find a job and every time some dumb bitch gets killed around here, you assholes come looking for me.”
    Honor had almost been feeling a hint of sympathy, until the “dumb bitch” part. Shelly Amos had been a bright, beautiful twelve-year-old child, abducted while walking home from the library. Her bloody clothes had been found, but so far, no body. To have Edwin Simpson, a sleazy pervert down to his black socks and white sneakers, make a comment like that was Honor’s tipping point.
    With the sincere hope that he really didn’t intend to kill her, Honor relaxed, dropping her body slightly. Simpson relaxed, too, but the knife caught her when her feet went flat on the floor. Stung like hell, but she ignored it.
    Jerking her head back as hard as she could, she slammed it into Simpson’s throat. As he gurgled his pain, his hands loosened and then fell away. Honor followed with a heel kick to his shin, then whirled and slammed her forearm across his face. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose. Grabbing his right hand, she twisted until she heard a satisfying pop and Simpson bellowed like an angry hyena. The knife thudded to the floor and then Simpson fell forward. Seconds later, Honor had him handcuffed.
    As she got to her feet, she was surprised by the blurry sway of the room. What the hell?
    “Honor! Sit down!”
    Her eyes blinked up at Mossy.