The minute he lowered me to the ground, I scrambled back. The hellhounds were inches away from me. They could have lunged at me or grabbed a foot and dragged me across, but they didn’t. They did, however, growl. Their jaws snapped, their teeth clinking together with each gruesome promise.

I clambered to my feet, then came face-to-face with the woman I assumed was Reyes’s birth mother. She was beautiful. With soft blond hair and gentle gray eyes, she’d aged gracefully despite the stress of living with what had happened. They had never had any other children, their sorrow so great. Or that was my guess.

“Mrs. Loehr,” I said, trying to calm my racing heart.

“You know what happened to my son?” she asked, her features suddenly hard, and I could tell she wasn’t sure if she could believe that. If she could allow herself to hope after so many years. “You know what happened to Ryan?”

That had been his name at birth: Ryan Alexander Loehr. The fact that he had the exact same middle name and that all three of his first names—his birth name, current name, and celestial name, Rey’aziel—started with an R had boggled my mind since I first learned of it.

I looked over my shoulder toward the convent, the roof barely visible from my vantage. While no one had noticed my absence yet, it wouldn’t be much longer before they did. I turned back. Mr. Loehr. He had dark hair and brown eyes, which could explain away Reyes’s coloring, because he got none of his features from his birth parents. I could only assume he actually did look like Lucifer. He was certainly handsome enough. But I had to stave them off. Even for just a little while.

“Let me start by saying I am married to the man I believe to be your son.”

Mrs. Loehr covered her mouth with a small hand, her eyes glistening already.

“If you will go back to Albuquerque, I promise I will get in touch with you. This is something I’m going to have to break to Reyes slowly.”

“Reyes?” she said, her voice soft. “His name is Reyes?”

I didn’t give his last name. I didn’t want them Googling their son and discovering anything before I had a chance to explain.

“Will you please trust me and not call the FBI until I can tell my husband what I’ve done?”

“You wrote the letter,” Mr. Loehr said.

“I did.” I placed my hands on my belly. “I wanted you to know that your son was alive and well. That he was beautiful and wonderful and the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Loehr said. “Why didn’t he contact us? Why haven’t you told him you found us?”

I closed my eyes and lowered my head. “He was violently against my contacting you.”

My statement hurt her. I could feel a sharp pang pulse through her.

“Not for the reasons you might think.”

“Then why?” she asked.

“Because he feels he no longer deserves you.”

“What?” Her face showed her astonishment.

I took her hand in mine. “I’m not going to lie to you. He’s had a hard life. A very hard life.”

She pressed her mouth together to keep from sobbing.

“He doesn’t want you to know what he’s gone through. He doesn’t want you to feel any more guilt than you already must.”

She covered her mouth again as Mr. Loehr wrapped an arm over her shoulders.

“Please believe me, he is not going to be happy when he finds out I contacted you.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Yes. He won’t do anything drastic. He might, I don’t know, storm out or something else guys like to do, but that’s about it. He dotes on me.”

“Can we just—?” Mr. Loehr began, but his voice cracked with the weight of emotion roaring through him. It took my breath away.

“Can we just see a picture of him?” Mrs. Loehr said.

“Of course.” I brought up my photos on my cell, scrolled through until I found a shot that wasn’t of him half naked, and handed it to them.

They gasped. Both of them.

In the picture I’d chosen, he was wearing a nice button-down. It was casual but nice. Really, really, really nice. Hell, they all were.

Mrs. Loehr touched the screen in disbelief. “He looks like your uncle Sal.”

“He looks more like my great-grandfather.”

Maybe there really was a family resemblance. Once we got to the point where I could talk to them in public without risking my marriage, I’d insist on full access to the family albums.

“He’s beautiful,” she said, her voice forlorn.

“That’s what I keep telling him,” I said, completely serious.

Mrs. Loehr smiled sadly. “When? When can we meet him?”

I bit my bottom lip in thought, then said, “If you will just give me two days, I promise he’ll come around.”

“Is that our grandchild?” she asked, and the question stunned me to my toes.

I ran my hands over my baby bump again in awe. “Yes,” I said, suddenly thrilled Beep would have real grandparents. Denise didn’t count. “Yes, she is.”

“May I?” She stepped forward, hesitant.

“Of course.”

She rubbed a hand over my belly as though I were Buddha. Which made sense. I felt like Buddha.

“What’s her name?”

“Um, well, Beep. For now.”

They both laughed softly. Even Mr. Alaniz laughed.