And unlike Caldwell Auto, they had seen Fi-Fi worth saving.

Mels’s old Civic was backed out to the kind of fanfare that West Coast Choppers revealed their masterpieces with.

Then again, Mels’s ancient set of wheels, back in working order, was a miracle: Somehow the team here had gotten her into shape again.

“Oh, look at her!” Mels walked over as the mechanic got out from behind the wheel. “It’s…well, it truly is a miracle.”

That was the only word that kept coming to her: Her steady and sure car had been resurrected out of its catastrophic injuries and was once more on the road.

Frankly, she felt a kinship with the Civic. She had been through a crash, had pulled herself back together, and was about to hit the road. With Fi-Fi’s help, of course.

“Thank you so much,” she murmured, blinking fast.

A quick signature on some paperwork, and then she was sitting in the driver’s seat, running her hands around the wheel. Parts of the dash had had to be replaced because of the air bag deployment, and Fi-Fi smelled different—a little like clean oil. But she sounded the same and she felt the same.

Mels briefly closed her eyes as that familiar pain came back.

Then she opened them, reached over to her left hip, and drew the seat belt across her lap. After clicking the thing home, she put the engine in drive and eased out into traffic.

The previous three weeks had been…illuminating. Scary. Lonely. Affirming.

And her solace, apart from work, had been writing it all down… everything from stories about her father to details about the man she’d fallen in love with, to the aftermath.

Well, part of the aftermath, at least.

Hopping onto the highway, she allowed the other cars to set her speed as opposed to rushing around them impatiently. And she stopped at a deli on the way home, because it was a little past lunchtime and she was exhausted and starving from packing up her room and putting everything she owned into a little U-Haul trailer.

She wasn’t due in Manhattan until the following morning, so maybe when she got back to the house she’d take a nap in the sunroom.

Funny, she’d been doing that a lot lately, stretching out on that sofa that looked out over the garden, her head buttressed on a pillow, her legs crossed at the ankles, a throw blanket pulled up to her pelvis.

She had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

Right after Matthias had died in front of her, she hadn’t slept for days, her mind spinning with a ferocity that made her feel like she was going insane. She’d been obsessed with replaying the whole thing over and over, from the impact outside the cemetery to Matthias taking that bullet in front of the garage. From seeing him in the hospital to sharing his bed. From her suspicions rising to their falling once again.

To the SanDisk.

As she came to a slowdown around a stretch of construction, she glanced at the radio. Bracing herself, she leaned in and turned the knob—

“—explosive investigation conducted by the New York Times into a shadow organization that, for decades, has been operating under the nation’s radar, conducting assignments at home and abroad—”

She turned the thing off.

Staring out over her pristine new hood, she tightened her grip on the wheel.

After three days of not sleeping and thinking over her options, she’d put a call in to her contact at the Times and driven down to meet him face-to-face.

When she’d turned the flashdrive—and the name of Isaac Rothe—over to Peter Newcastle, her only caveats had been that he not ask her where she got it, and that he not attempt to follow up with her in any way—because she had nothing to add.

The story had finally broken the morning before, on the front page of a paper with the resources, the balls and the worldwide reach to do the information justice. And the fallout was already beginning, government agencies up in arms, senators and congressmen addressing cameras and microphones with outrage, the president scheduled to do a Q & A with Brian Williams at nine this evening.

In the end, she’d decided to give the story of a lifetime to someone else for two reasons: one, she valued her own life too much to roll the dice that there wouldn’t be retaliation; and two, if she reported it under her own byline, that meant she’d used Matthias, that he hadn’t been anything more than a source to her, that she’d helped when she had not out of the goodness of her heart, but because she’d been following a story.

It was kind of in the same vein of his having given her the intel to prove he’d been truthful—she passed it on to someone else so nobody could ever say that she hadn’t loved him.

Not that anyone knew about him.

At all, as it were. There had been nothing in the paper about his death—or his body. And when she’d gone back to the garage in the middle of her seventy-two-hour period of crazy-crazies, all she’d walked into was a police scene that had turned hot again.

Gone, gone, gone. The vehicles, the personal affects, any signs of inhabitation.

Jim Heron, and his friend, had disappeared.

End of the trail.

It was strange—she had started sleeping again the night after she’d gotten back from the trip to Manhattan to meet with Peter. Which was how she’d known she’d done the right thing with the flashdrive…

She had not expected to hear from the man again.

Except then, three days prior to the big story’s release, he’d called to let her know the massive article was coming out—and to offer her a job. He’d said that wanted someone with her kind of tenacity and focus to come in at the junior level—and she’d stopped him right there, explaining that a source had given her the files as is; she’d done nothing to compile, organize, or format the information.

“But you got to the source, didn’t you.”

Well, yes. And had her heart broken in the process.

In the end, she’d accepted the offer. She wasn’t stupid—and she was ready to get back to hard work and start pulling long hours again. Maybe it would help with pain management….

God, she missed Matthias.

Or rather, what they might have had.

Because he had told the truth. About everything.

Pulling into her mom’s driveway, Mels parked Fi-Fi behind the U-Haul and left the window down, because the day was clear as a bell, without any rain in sight.

She ate half her deli sandwich at the counter, drank a ginger ale, and cleaned up just in case her mom returned from her camping trip on Lake George early.

Couch?

Why, yes, please…thank you.

Stepping out into the slate-floored sunroom, she popped the sliders and felt the warmth rush in. It was seventy-five in the sun, and the air smelled like fresh-cut grass, because the lawn men had come that morning.

The sofa was perfectly soft and cozy, and as she lay down, she took that blanket and SOP’d it, pulling it over her legs. Settling back, she glanced around at the potted plants on the little tables and the rocker and the fat armchair in the corner. So familiar, so safe.

She wasn’t aware of shutting her eyes or falling asleep…but a little later, the strangest noise woke her.

A scratching.

Jerking awake, she lifted her head off the cushions. On the far side of the screen, there was a little mutt of a dog, his fur standing straight up at all angles, his head cocked, his eyes kind under bushy eyebrows.

Mels sat up. “Well…hello, there.”

The animal pawed again, but carefully, like he didn’t want to damage the screen.

“Ah…we’re not a dog house, I’m afraid.” They’d never done the pet thing. “Are you lost?”

She expected him to run off when she approached, but he just stayed at the door, dropping his butt to the ground, as if that were the polite thing to do.

The moment she slid the screen back, he shot in and wagged in a circle at her feet.

Crouching down, she tried to find his collar or a tag or something—

“Hi.”

Mels froze.

Then she turned so fast to the screen door that she fell over.

Standing there, in the sunlight, between the jambs was…Matthias.

Mels grabbed on to her own throat and started breathing hard.

He lifted a hand. “I…ah…yeah, hi…”

As he stuttered, she decided it had finally happened. Instead of getting better, her brain had snapped free of reality completely—

Wait, wait, wait, this had to be a dream.

Right? This was just a dream—she’d fallen asleep on the couch and was imagining that that which she had wanted to happen was actually occurring.

His voice sounded so perfect in her ears: “I know I said I wouldn’t come back, but I thought maybe, now that the story was out, you might see me.”

“You’re dead.”

“No.” He lifted his foot like he was going to walk in, and then stopped. “Can I come in?”

She nodded numbly—because like there was another response?

And in the dream, he was as he had been, tall, harsh faced, intense. He wasn’t limping, though, and his eyes and scars were as they had been just as he had left her.

After that angel had taken them from him.

Matthias leaned back against the jamb. “I was surprised you gave the story to someone else.”

Well, what do you know, her subconscious was up on current affairs. “It was the right thing to do. The safer choice.”

“Yeah, I—”

“I love you.” Now it was his turn to jerk in shock. “Sorry, but I have to tell you. I’m going to wake up from this soon enough, and I’d kick myself if I didn’t actually say it to you once. Even if it’s only in my dreams.”

His eyes shut as if he were absorbing a physical blow.

“I know what the angel did to you,” she explained. “You know, about your sight and things. So I know you didn’t lie to me about that. Or how you felt. And to be honest, that’s the only thing that’s gotten me through this.”

Eventually, his lids rose up. “This isn’t a dream.”

“Of course it is.”

“I’m alive, Mels. I’m here for good.”

“Uh-huh.” What else would he say in her made-up construct of reality? “I just want you to know that I understand why you did what you did, and I’m really glad you came forward with all that stuff about XOps. You did the right thing—wrapped it all up in a good way. So Hell can’t be where you went. Right?”

Matthias came over to her, kneeling down on the bright green Astroturf rug that was supposed to look like a patch of grass in the middle of the flagstone.

“This isn’t a dream.” He reached out with a shaking hand and touched her face. “Trust me.”

“That’s exactly what I would want you to say,” she murmured, grasping his wrist and holding him in place. “Oh, God…”

As she breathed him in, her broken heart hurt so badly that she couldn’t bear the pain—because she knew she was going to come out of this soon, and it would be over, and she would have to go back to a world where she missed him like crazy, where things that should have been said hadn’t been, where what might have been could never be.

Lonely place. Cold place.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her into his chest.

She went willingly and rested against him, hearing a vital heartbeat beneath his sternum. And Matthias began to speak to her, telling her again how it was all real, his voice low and raspy, like he was struggling with his own emotions.

When a cold, wet nose bumped under her arm, she drew back. “Well, hello, little man.”

“I see you’ve met Dog,” Matthias said.

“Is he yours?”

“He’s everyone’s.”

Huh? “He just showed up here. Right before you did.”

“That’s because he cares about you. And…is there any chance you have any food in the house he could eat? I think he’s hungry.”

“Just half my sandwich.”

The little dog curled into a sit and wagged his tail as if he understood every word—and wouldn’t mind taking one for the team and polishing off whatever she’d left uneaten.

On some level, she couldn’t believe they were speaking so nicely and normally about deli meat, but in dreams, weird things happened—

“Oh, hello! Who’s your friend?”

Mels jumped and looked up to the doorway into the kitchen: Her mom was standing there with luggage hanging off her shoulder, a sunburn on her nose, and a smile on her face.

“Mom?”

“I came home a little early.” The bags dropped and her hair was smoothed. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Abruptly, her father’s voice came back to her, telling her she didn’t need to believe in something for it to be real.