He spun back around, stared into the dark emptiness again and saw nothing. Disappointed. At that wretched word, his chest nearly collapsed in on itself. He fell to his knees, raised his hands over his head to shield himself from the blows. They didn’t come. They would later.

Disappointed? Why?

You know why.

His mind raced. He thought as hard as he could until stray bits of memory formed in his mind. The mission. He’d had a mission. But he’d done everything right. Everything as it should be. As instructed.

You failed me.

No, I did everything right. It was perfect.

You. Failed. Me.

And he knew that was right. “Give me another chance. I’ll do better. I promise.”

That’s why I’m here.

Another chance? His heart began to beat. Could he really have another chance? He would do it right this time. He would not fail again.

Can you do it?

“Yes. Yes, I can do it. I will do it. Will you help me?”

There was no answer. He reached out, trying to find the voice. But there was nothing. No, he wasn’t reaching out. He couldn’t move his arm. Couldn’t move his legs. Couldn’t move at all.

Where was he?

His eyes flickered open. He saw flashes of light. Tubes. He heard beeping. People were moving him, turning his paralyzed body over. Nurses? They were—washing him? Where was he?

Then his eyes closed again and he felt nothing.

His panic climbed to a frenzied terror. He struggled to keep swimming, but the waves battered against him, weakening him until he felt like an old man. Still, he forced his arms to move, his feet to kick. After an eternity, the current reversed and forced him up again.

He paddled with his arms and legs as hard as he could. As the water gushed over him like a geyser, his head finally burst through the surface once more.

He couldn’t see, even in the moonlight. There was too much blood in his eyes.

He threw his head back and once more gasped in wonderful, sweet air. His vision cleared a little.

Rocks.

Right there. The edge of the blowhole. He reached out for them. Slid. Reached again.

The surface was too slippery. His hands were numb. He couldn’t pull himself out of the hole. Another wave would come over the lava wall soon. The waves were monstrous tonight, the sea at her angriest.

Refusing to give up, he reached again.

This time, he found a knob in the formation. Just beyond it was an indentation, forming a sort of handle. The pang of hope in his chest nearly burst his heart. He grabbed onto the knob and struggled to heave himself out of the water.

Part way up. A little more. His chest ached, his arms shook with fatigue. One more tug. Just one more and he’d be out.

But he couldn’t do it.

His arms gave out. His hand slipped. He cried out and slid back down into the swirling water. He could hear the roar of the next wave gathering. His heart pounded.

Think. Think.

He was still wearing his clothes. His open shirt. It might save him. Once again, he reached out for the knobby rock. With the last bit of strength he had, he tied the tail of his shirt around the outcropping. Maybe it would hold him up and keep him from being swept out to sea.

But just as he secured the cloth, the mountainous wave shot over the lava wall and rained down on him like a tsunami. It forced him down, down.

The water rose over his head. His shirt slipped off his body, caught around his neck.

But his shirttail held. He tried to grab onto it, use it like a rope, but his arm was twisted at the wrong angle.

Panic seized him. He fought hard. He had to reach the surface again but his strength was giving out. He couldn’t hold his breath much longer. He thrashed the water with his feet, beat it with his arms. He was so tired. His muscles, his ribs ached like fire. He couldn’t hold his breath. It was too much.

He fought to keep his mouth shut but his throat spasmed. His chest convulsed. Terror pounded in his eardrums. He would not open his mouth. He would not. Just a little longer.

But he couldn’t do it.

Of their own will, his lips sputtered and his jaw snapped open. He gasped and water flowed down his throat.

His body jerked. He gagged and coughed. That only made him take in more water. He was flailing now, his body convulsing. His head felt light. As if he were in a dream. He tried to wake up, but he could hardly move. Time seemed to stretch out into an endless vacuum.

His kicks slowed. His arms began to drift. His efforts to breathe ceased. And then there was blackness. He was still.

It was over.

Still tethered to the rock by his shirttail, his body bobbed in the waves as his life slipped out of him and into the sea.

“Purging my house.” He hurled the suitcase into the snow on the front yard. It broke open and her clothes tumbled onto the snowy grass. Then he gave her a hard shove.

She stumbled outside onto the cold concrete porch. Her feet were bare. She was still in her bathrobe.

“Leon,” she begged. “Let me back in. What will the neighbors think?”

“They’re at work. Besides, no one cares about you. They know what you are.” He pushed her again.

She staggered off the stoop and landed with a hard thud on the ground next to her clothes.

He grabbed her purse from a chair and tossed it into the snow beside her. “Take this and go, Miranda. Go away from me.” His voice shook with dark rage. “I never want to see your face again.” He turned and slammed the door so hard, it made her eardrums vibrate. She heard him turn the key.

Her chest heaving, she tried to catch her breath. As she sat on her bruised butt in her front yard in Oak Park, Illinois, dressed in only her PJs and bathrobe, staring up at the cheery, pink stucco two-story she’d lived in for seven years, Miranda didn’t wonder whether her “Lord and Master” had beaten her up and chucked her out because she hadn’t gotten the crease in his police uniform just right. Or because she’d mouthed off when he’d complained his steak was a bit singed last night.

She knew exactly why he’d done it. She had dared to lunge at the great, the powerful, the all-holy Leon Groth, with her nails bared.

And why had she done that? Not because he’d said she was stupid. Not because he’d called her a filthy whore. Not because he’d told her she was tainted, ruined. She was used to that.

Because early this morning, he’d snuck out of the house with her three-week-old daughter and given her up for adoption.

Adoption.

“Don’t worry. They assured me she’d go to a good home. A family who’ll never know her true origin. I’m not a monster, after all.”

Amy. Her baby.

How had Leon pulled it off? He must have forged Miranda’s signature on whatever documents he needed. As a cop, he was connected. He had friends on the force who’d turn a blind eye for a favor owed. He knew court clerks, judges.

The cold seeped into Miranda’s bones. Angry tears welled up in her throat. Amy. Her baby.

Get her back. I want her back.

She’s gone, Miranda. They took her away and neither of us will ever know where she went. You’ll never find her again.