“Yeah.” She met his eyes.
“I’m going to have to kiss you again.”
She took his hand, threading their fingers together. “Come on. Before Ham sends out a search party and finds us making out like teenagers.”
“Too late for that.”
But he followed her toward the house anyway.
Toward whatever came next.
Together.
BUDAPEST, HUNGARY, 2015
Snow fell in thick, silent flakes outside the warmly lit window. Each one caught the amber glow from inside beforedisappearing into darkness. Alan stood in the shadow of a bare oak tree, breath frosting in the December air, watching a scene that carved him hollow every year.
Fifth Christmas Eve.
Fifth year alone.
Inside the cozy apartment, Timea’s family had gathered around their small living room, just as they had when she was alive. Her mother, Margit, sat in the same threadbare armchair, reading aloud from a worn copy ofA Christmas Carol.The same tradition Timea’s father had started decades ago, before the cancer took him.
Alan imagined her voice—Hungarian-accented English wrapping around Dickens’s words.
Timea’s sister, Kata, curled on one end of the sofa, dark hair spilling over her shoulder, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She had Timea’s eyes—those warm blue depths that used to light up when she laughed.
Her brother, Zoltan, sat beside his wife. Their two-year-old daughter, Eszter, slept against his chest, tiny fingers clutching a stuffed rabbit.
Two years old.
Alan’s chest clenched. His child would have been five by now. Would have been sitting in that living room, maybe on Timea’s lap, listening toNagymamaread about Tiny Tim and second chances while snow painted the world white.
The child would have had Timea’s laugh. Her stubborn chin.
Maybe his blue eyes.
The empty space on the sofa where Timea should be sitting turned him brittle. Every year, Alan expected someone to fill it—a new boyfriend for Kata, maybe, or one of Zoltan’s friends. But they always left it empty. Saving room for her.
Not that they didn’t know she was gone, but... but perhaps, like him, they simply couldn’t accept a world without her in it.
Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him.
Alan’s muscles tensed, hand instinctively moving toward the Glock under his coat.
“Beautiful family.”
The voice was cultured, American with an eastern accent, the kind of accent that came from expensive schools and old money.
Alan turned slowly. The man standing ten feet away looked to be in his sixties—silver hair perfectly styled despite the falling snow, wearing an expensive wool overcoat. But it was his eyes that caught Alan’s attention. Pale blue. Ancient. Carrying the kind of pain that only came from losing everything that mattered.
Former CIA Director Tom Crowley. “You come here every year.”
A statement, not a question. “You’ve been watching me watch them.”
“For about an hour now.” The man took a step closer, movements careful and nonthreatening. “Every Christmas Eve for five years. Same tree, same time. You’re either remarkably sentimental or remarkably stupid.”
“Probably both.”