A wicked gust of winter wind buffeted Amanda Hawthorne toward the front entrance of her brother's home. She wrapped her flimsy coat tighter around her body and lowered her head. Another cold blast nearly knocked her down. Even the weather fought to keep her out of Vince's house. Well, this freak ice storm wouldn't win, and neither would her brother. He'd be furious, but she was staying. Just until she found another job.

She breathed in, hoping to kill the perpetual French–fry smell that permeated her clothes from her final shift at Jimmy's Chicken Shack. She could have lived with the odor and her aching feet, but she couldn't take his octopus hands, his foul breath or his large body trapping her against the wall in his storage room. She shuddered at the memory. She wouldn't go back. But first, she had to face Vince.

With a deep breath, she unlocked the door. "Big brother, I've got bad news. You may have houseguests for a while—"

Her voice trailed off. The photos that had lined the entryway hall lay shattered on the tile floor. The small table near the doorway teetered on its side, crushed.

"Vince?" Her heart thumped like a panicked rabbit.

She ran into the living room. The place was in shambles. "Ethan?" Oh, God. Where was her son?

She rounded the couch and skidded to a halt. Vince lay on the floor in a pool of blood, eyes staring up at her, sightless. A hole in his chest, a gun in his hand.

Her knees shook and she swayed. No.

She whirled around the room, frantic, searching. "Ethan!" she screamed. He had to be here. He had to be okay. He was only five. "Ethan, where are you?"

Deadly silence echoed through the house. Her body went numb. This couldn't be happening. Her son was her life.

Then she saw it. A small, bloody footprint on the wood floor. Streaks of red trailed across the carpet toward the entertainment center. So much blood. Too much blood.

"No!"

A horrified, wounded cry ricocheted through the quiet room.

The sound came from her.

Shaking, her mind whirling through unthinkable images, she followed the blood to the cabinet. Sobs clutched her throat as she tossed aside a slew of DVDs dumped in front of the oak furniture. Bracing herself for the worst, she held her breath and opened the door.

Empty.

She clutched at the wood to keep herself from collapsing. "Ethan!" Her stomach roiled. She should never have left him. Ever!

A choked whimper broke from behind another section on the unit.

"Ethan?"

She snatched the brass handle and yanked it open to reveal her five–year–old huddled in a ball, rocking back and forth. Alive.

Amanda's knees quaked with relief. She couldn't stop the tears that poured down her face. Her son was alive. She snatched him from the cabinet and folded him into her arms. She couldn't stop touching him. His arms, his legs, his hair, his tear–streaked face. With a trembling hand, she stroked his blood–stained pants. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. "U–Uncle Vince."

"I know, little man. I know." She rocked him back and forth, her chin on his soft hair. His small arms clung to her as if he would never let her go. "It's okay. Mommy's here." She repeated the words over and over again, as much for herself as for Ethan.

She shot up a thankful prayer, then her gaze fell to her brother's body. Blindly, Amanda searched for the cell in her pocket to call 9–1–1. She pulled out the phone and started dialing.

Ethan grabbed her hand, his eyes wild with panic. "No, Mommy. Uncle Vince said for us to run away."

She clasped Ethan to her, trying to calm him even as an icy wave of terror threatened to freeze her from the inside. Vince had been a stand–and–fight kind of guy. A cop. If he'd said that, then they weren't safe in this house. Maybe not safe anywhere.

"Where?" she murmured. "Where can we go?"

Ethan wrapped his arms tight and squeezed. "Blake. Go to Blake," he whispered in her ear, his voice shaking with a terror no child should ever feel.

She stilled. "Where did you hear that name, little man?"

"Uncle Vince." Ethan buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Go to Blake."

Ethan stuck his thumb in his mouth, something he hadn't done in over a year.

Go to Blake? Why would Vince say such a thing? Blake Redmond hated her brother. No way was she going to Blake for anything. She'd take care of herself and her son.

Pressing Ethan's face against her shoulder, she ran to her brother's body. With a gulp, she crouched down. She snatched the gun from Vince's hand for protection, hurried to his desk and wrenched open the drawer. Thank goodness. The grocery money was still in the bank bag. She stuffed it and the gun into her purse.

Amanda carried Ethan to the front hallway, pried her son's arms from around her and set him down. "We're getting out of here, Ethan." She kissed his forehead, then bundled him into his navy–andorange coat, scarf and gloves. She tugged on his hat and covered his ears.

Ethan sneaked a look into the living room at Vince, and his face went blank. He'd shut down. Amanda gave his hat a last tug. "Don't worry, Mommy will take care of you."

With Ethan in her arms, she raced out of Vince's house into the cold late–November night. How would she ever make things all right? She had nowhere to go, no one to help her. She only knew they had to get away.

Hands shaking, she unlocked the car, tossed her purse inside and settled Ethan into his booster seat. He scooted back. She brushed his hair aside. "We'll be safe."

Someone grabbed her from behind. "You won't keep the promise," the deep voice sounded in her ear.