FBI Special Agent Hannah Cambridge was in a strange city juggling work and motherhood, and failing miserably. As was her habit, she woke with a start, heart racing and feeling confused, blinking at the unopened moving boxes in her beige-walled bedroom. She was alone.

It took a moment to realize her cell phone had woken her, and when she did, Hannah untangled her arm from the sheets and slapped at the device on her bedside table, accepting the incoming call without reading the caller ID. It was summer, and though her brownstone had central air, she felt hot and sweaty as dreams lingered and reality scratched at her consciousness.

Work. Check. The baby needed to be fed and changed. Check, check.

Jack was dead ... check.

Anxiety clutched her belly and worked its way up, pressing at the back of her throat until she could barely breathe. Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the phone as she grimaced through the familiar wave of grief. Jack died last September, and his murder still threatened to cripple her with sorrow almost a year later.

Hannah pushed dark blond bangs from her eyes, blinking past tears as she struggled to speak without revealing she was upset. "Cambridge here."

"It's Ferguson. I wanted to call you sooner, but ..." She could hear the detective suck in a breath as he paused.

"What? What's going on?"

Detective Padraic Ferguson — tall, sexy, ex-military — after long hours and lots of legwork, was the one who had discovered Boston had an active serial killer on its hands for at least four months now. In her new role as FBI liaison for the task force, its team leader, Hannah heavily relied on Ferguson, even more than normal. She was just back from maternity leave, a new mom, and needed all the help she could get with the transition. There were rumors he was crushing on her big-time. Sometimes Hannah didn't mind.

"I've conferred with Lieutenant Pepperidge and the DA's office," he said. "I wanted to call you earlier, but you were exhausted, and really, there was nothing you could do, so —"

"Talk to me." She sat, swinging her legs over the bed's edge, wiping her tears.

"Hannah, there's been movement in the case. The bureau felt the need to send more personnel. They're here at the office. You need to come in. Now."

"Okay." She stood, disabled her alarm clock, and stretched out her aches and pains. Ellen had cried most of the night, so yeah, she was still exhausted.

"And Hannah?" Ferguson still sounded hesitant. "I sent a protective detail to your apartment last night."

Hannah's eyes glazed over as she turned her head toward her bedroom door, visualizing the baby's bedroom down the hall. Protective detail meant she was in danger. Her four-month-old, Ellen, was in danger. "What happened?"

"Your computer was on when I left the precinct around midnight." He paused, as if asking a question, but before she could decipher what information he was seeking, he continued. "Hannah, our killer sent you one of his emails. You're his next target."

Her legs gave out and she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed with a strange buzzing in her ears. "I'll be right in."

She hung up before she revealed her panic and triggered the detective's protective streak. Hannah had already lost so much. She refused to lose control over her life, too. Given a chance, she knew Ferguson would use this threat as an excuse to put her in bubble wrap and hide her away. He couldn't know she had other responsibilities that made that impossible. He didn't know about Ellen. None of her co-workers did.

The baby cooed from the other room as Hannah fought for composure. Clenching and then shaking out her hands, she struggled to slow her racing heart, hating her weakness, hating that her job put Ellen at risk. And most of all, she hated that Jack had been murdered and left her in this precarious position.

After his death last fall, Hannah had left the D.C. office and transferred to Boston, taking a desk job that allowed her to work from home. Pregnant, hoping to avoid the inevitable questions from her superiors, the transfer also allowed Hannah to put needed distance between herself and the Murtagh case; the one that got Jack killed. Now, she had a new life — back in the field, new city, a healthy, happy baby — but Jack's killer was still out there. Eventually, Hannah would learn to trust people again, to tell them about her daughter, but ... not today.

Hannah dialed Natalie, a fellow agent and friend, one of the few who knew about the baby, and that Jack was Ellen's father. At call's end, Natalie promised to grab the first flight to Boston and be at Hannah's apartment by nightfall.

Hurrying past the moving boxes lining the hall's edges, she stepped to her daughter's crib and found her fine, if disgruntled. Unlike the rest of the apartment, Ellen's room was decorated. Framed pictures of sunflowers hung neatly on pale yellow walls. The white eyelet drapes and bedding were new, and chosen with care. As was the new baby furniture — solid wood crib, bureau, changing table — which gave the room a cheerful vibe as morning sunlight streamed in from its two large windows.

Baby smell fragranced the air. As did wet diaper.

Ellen was on her back, shaking her drool-covered fists and kicking her feet. Blinking and scowling at her lamb mobile, Ellen saw Hannah approach and quieted, smacking her lips. The baby was hungry and their morning routine had begun.

"Hey, sweetie." Lifting Ellen, she kissed her cheek. "Yuck," she teased, wiping her mouth on her nightgown's sleeve. "You're a yucky girl, aren't you?" She laid the baby on the changing table, irrationally afraid of dropping her. Hannah's confidence was still shaky when it came to caring for her daughter. Without warning, she felt a pang of worry that she'd gone back to work too soon, but after that month-long stay in the hospital, and then three months of maternity leave ... "Mommy's got to work early today."

Putting the phone on speaker, she multitasked, changing Ellen and calling Mrs. Branaghan, a retired nurse and now Ellen's babysitter, who lived downstairs. The line connected immediately. "Mrs. Branaghan, I need a favor." She explained the situation, afraid the woman would refuse given the target on Hannah's back.

"I'll be right there," she said. A wave of gratitude swamped Hannah. Mrs. Branaghan sounded concerned. She cared, and that mattered more than Hannah could possibly express. She and Ellen were alone in the world, so they relied on their friends, and Mrs. Branaghan was once again proving she was a true friend.

"I'll make sure the police stay until Natalie arrives tonight," Hannah said. "She's an FBI special agent who specializes in this sort of thing." Another friend.

Their conversation ended quickly, and Mrs. Branaghan's prompt arrival made it possible for Hannah to leave the apartment fifteen minutes later, despite growing agitation, fumbling with zippers, and a frantic search for clean socks and Hannah's left shoe. Hair wet and clipped back, no makeup to hide her pallor ... her composure fried ... Hannah still counted it a win that she got out the door.

Sergeant Patrick O'Neil met Hannah downstairs. In his late fifties, he was New Sudbury precinct's street supervisor for the day shift. Shaved head, blue eyes, sexy as hell, O'Neil was the real deal. He handed her a paper cup filled with...