Her mother’s fair complexion and Mayflower lineage provided a marked contrast to her father’s darker good looks and steel-town toughness. Mat put a log on the fire in the new fire pit. “We took advantage of you,” he said bluntly.

Nealy cuddled her warm tea mug. “It happened so gradually, and you were always so cheerful about stepping in, that we were oblivious. Reading what you wrote … It was clearheaded and heart-wrenching.”

“I’m glad you’re going to keep writing,” her father said. “You know I’ll help however I can.”

“Thanks,” Lucy replied. “I’m going to take you up on that.”

Out of nowhere, her mother hit Lucy with one of the roundhouse punches that were her political specialty. “Are you ready to tell us about him?”

Lucy tightened her grip on her wineglass. “Who?”

Nealy didn’t hesitate. “The man who’s taken the sparkle out of your eyes.”

“It’s … not that bad,” she lied.

Mat’s voice dropped to an ominous rumble. “I’ll tell you one thing … If I ever see the son of a bitch, I’m going to kick his ass.”

Nealy lifted an eyebrow at him. “One more reminder of how grateful we all are as a country that I was elected president instead of you.”

PANDA WALKED AROUND THE BLOCK twice before he worked up the nerve to go inside the three-story brown brick building. Pilsen had once been home to Chicago’s Polish immigrants but now served as the heartbeat of the city’s Mexican community. The narrow hallway was covered in bright graffiti, or maybe they were murals—hard to tell in a neighborhood where bold public art figured so prominently.

He found the door at the end of the hallway. A hand-lettered sign read:

I’M ARMED AND PISSED OFF

WALK IN ANYWAY

Where the hell had Kristi sent him? He pushed open the door and stepped into a room decorated in early Salvation Army with a cracked leather couch, a couple of unmatched easy chairs, a blond wood coffee table, and a chain-saw-carved eagle sitting beneath a poster that read:

U.S. MARINES

Helping bad guys die since 1775

The man who emerged from an adjoining room was about Panda’s age, rumpled and beginning to bald, with a big nose and Fu Manchu mustache. “Shade?”

Panda nodded.

“I’m Jerry Evers.” He moved forward, arm extended, his gait slightly uneven. Panda’s gaze inadvertently strayed to his leg. Evers shook his head, then tugged up the leg of his baggy jeans to reveal a prosthesis. “Sangin. I was with the Three-Five.”

Panda already knew Evers had been in Afghanistan, and he nodded. The Marines in the Fifth Regiment had been hit hard in Sangin.

Evers waved the file he was holding in the general direction of an upholstered chair and laughed. “You were in Kandahar and Fallujah? How’d you get to be such a lucky son of a bitch?”

Panda pointed out the obvious. “Others had it worse.”

Evers snorted and slumped down on the couch. “Fuck that. We’re here to talk about you.”

Panda felt himself being to relax …

BY THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER, Lucy had settled into life in Boston and the apartment she’d sublet in Jamaica Plain. When she wasn’t writing, she was at work, and even though she was tired all the time, she’d never been more grateful for her new job and busy schedule.

“What do you care?” The seventeen-year-old sitting on the couch across from her sneered. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout me.”

The spicy scent of tacos wafted into the counseling room from the kitchen where, each day, the Roxbury drop-in center served dinner to fifty or so homeless teens. They also offered showers, a small laundry area, a weekly medical clinic, and six counselors who helped the runaways, couch hoppers, and street kids as young as fourteen find shelter, get to school, work on their GEDs, secure Social Security cards, and look for jobs. Some of their clients had substance abuse problems. Others, like this girl with the beautiful cheekbones and tragic eyes, had fled terrible physical abuse. The counselors at the drop-in center dealt with mental health issues, medical issues, pregnancy, prostitution, and everything in between.

“And whose problem is it that I don’t know anything about you?” Lucy said.

“Nobody’s problem.” Shauna sank deeper into the couch, her expression sullen. Through the window in the door, Lucy could see some of the kids pulling down the Halloween decorations: flying bats, black cardboard witches, and skeletons with red glitter eye sockets.

Shauna took in Lucy’s short black leather skirt, hot pink tights, and funky boots. “I want my old social worker back. She was a lot nicer than you.”

Lucy smiled. “That’s because she didn’t adore you like I do.”

“Now you’re just being sarcastic.”

“Nope.” Lucy gently laid her hand on the teenager’s arm and spoke softly, meaning every word. “You are one of the universe’s great creations, Shauna. Brave as a lion, cunning as a fox. You’re smart and you’re a survivor. What’s not to love?”

Shauna whipped her arm away and eyed her warily. “You’re crazy, lady.”

“I know. The point is, you’re a real champion. We all think so. And whenever you want to get serious about keeping a job, I know you’ll figure out how to do it. Now go away.”

That outraged her. “What do you mean, go away? You’re supposed to be helping me get my job back.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“By telling me what to do.”

“I have no idea.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have no idea? I’m turning you in to the director. She’ll fire your ass. You don’t know nothin’.”

“Well, since I’ve been here less than a month, that might be true. How can I do better?”

“Tell me the things I have to do to keep a job. Like showing up on time every day and not disrespecting the boss …” For the next few minutes, Shauna lectured Lucy, repeating the advice she’d received from other counselors.

When she finally wound down, Lucy nodded in admiration. “Wow. You should be the counselor instead of me. You’re good at it.”

Her hostility vanished. “You really think so?”

“Definitely. Once you get your GED, I think you could excel at a lot of jobs.”

By the time Shauna left, Lucy been able to solve at least one of the teen’s problems. It was such a small thing, but it posed a monumental barrier to a homeless kid. Shauna didn’t own an alarm clock.

Lucy gazed around at the empty counseling room with its worn, comfortable couch, cozy armchair, and graffiti-inspired mural. This was the work she was meant to do.

She left the center later than usual that night for her apartment. As she headed for her car, she popped open her umbrella against the chilly evening drizzle and thought about the writing she still needed to do before she could collapse into bed that evening. No more haunting the halls of Congress; no more banging on corporate doors to see big shots who wanted to meet her only so they could brag that they knew President Jorik’s daughter. Turning a book into her public platform was far more satisfying.

She sidestepped a puddle. A floodlight illuminated her car, one of only two vehicles still left in the parking lot. She’d nearly finished her book proposal, and half a dozen publishing houses had already asked to see it. Considering how many writers struggled to get published, maybe she should feel guilty about that, but she didn’t. The publishers knew that her name on the spine of a book would guarantee big press and big sales.

She’d decided to tell the personal stories of homeless teens through their eyes—why they’d fled their families, how they lived, their hopes and dreams. Not only disadvantaged kids like Shauna, but the less publicized suburban teens living a nomad’s existence in affluent communities.

As long as she focused only on her work, she was energized, but the moment she let her guard down, her anger returned. She refused to let it go. When she was bone tired, when her stomach refused to accept the food it needed, when tears sprang to her eyes for no reason … Anger was what got her through.

She’d nearly reached her car when she heard the sound of someone running. She spun around.

The kid came out of nowhere. Wiry, hollow eyed, in dirty, torn jeans and a rain-soaked dark hoodie. He grabbed her purse and shoved her to the ground.

Her umbrella flew, pain shot through her body, and all the fury she’d been holding inside her found a target. She screamed something unintelligible, pushed herself off the wet asphalt, and chased after him.

He hit the sidewalk, passed under a streetlight, and glanced back at her. He hadn’t expected her to give chase, and he ran faster.

“Drop it!” she shouted in a rush of adrenaline-fed rage.

But he kept running, and so did she.

He was small and fast. She didn’t care. She was juiced on vengeance. She raced down the sidewalk, her boots slapping the pavement. He swerved into the alley between the drop-in center and an office building. She went right after him.

A wooden fence and a Dumpster blocked the exit, but she didn’t retreat, didn’t think about what she’d do if he had a gun. “Give that back!”

With an audible grunt, he pulled himself on top of a Dumpster. Her purse snagged on a sharp corner. He dropped it and threw himself over the fence.

She was so rage-crazed that she tried to climb the Dumpster after him. Her boots slipped on the wet metal, and she scraped her leg.

Sanity slowly returned. She gulped in air, her fury finally spent.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She retrieved her purse and limped back toward the sidewalk. Her leather skirt had offered some protection when she fell, but she’d torn her hot pink tights, scraped her leg, skinned both knees and hands. Still, despite the ringing in her ears, nothing seemed to be broken.