Instinct—and everything he was—pushed him forward, into the confrontation. He pulled back instead, until he reached Ally Whitman’s bedroom door at the end of the hall in the east wing of her Pennsylvania mansion. The antique copper handle turned easily under his hand; the door didn’t creak. He stepped in, onto the plush carpet, without making a sound. She woke anyway, a light sleeper—no surprise after what she’d been through. She saw him and sat up in bed, her lips opening. He lifted his index finger to caution her to silence as he mouthed, “He’s here.” She always slept with a reading light on, and was nodding now to let him know that she’d seen and understood his words. As she clutched the cover to her chest, the sleeves of her pajama top slid back. A nasty scar ran from her wrist to her elbow, evidence of a serious operation to piece together the bone beneath. Not that she would ever share that story with anyone. She was a very private person, not a complainer, tough in her own way.
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