He remembered the day she’d told him about the job offer in Miami, how excited she’d been about the chance to reclaim her family’s legacy. He remembered his own excitement about the FBI acceptance, the feeling that everything was finally falling into place for both of them.
And he remembered the terrible moment when they’d realized that their dreams were pulling them in opposite directions, that choosing their careers meant choosing against each other.
In his medicated sleep, Holt found himself wondering what would have happened if they’d made different choices. If he’d turned down Virginia and stayed in Florida with June. If she’dbeen willing to give up Miami and follow him to Quantico. If they’d found some middle ground that honored both of their ambitions.
But those were questions without answers, roads not taken that led to lives unlived. The reality was that they’d both been too young and too proud to compromise, too focused on their individual goals to see that love sometimes required sacrifice.
Holt had spent his career profiling criminals, understanding the motivations and triggers that led people to make devastating choices. But he’d never been able to profile himself, never been able to understand why he’d let the best thing in his life walk away rather than admit that maybe his father’s death didn’t have to define everything he became.
Now, lying in a hospital bed after finally achieving the justice he’d spent forty-six years pursuing, Holt couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d won the wrong battle. Marcus Volkov was dead, the Volkov organization was dismantled, and a dozen other crimes would never be committed because of the operation. But what did any of that matter if he’d sacrificed his family, his happiness, and his chance at a different kind of life?
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d dedicated his career to understanding the psychology of loss and trauma, helping other people heal from violence and tragedy. But he’d never learned how to heal from his own wounds, never figured out how to move beyond the fifteen-year-old boy who’d sworn vengeance over his father’s grave.
As the hours passed and the morphine did its work, Holt’s dreams became more fragmented but no less vivid. He saw flashes of the life he might have lived with June, children they might have had, quiet moments stolen between their demandingcareers. He saw himself growing old beside someone who understood him completely, someone who’d loved him before he became the Director of the BAU, before he became defined by his pursuit of justice.
But dreams were just that, dreams. The reality was that June had moved on, built a successful career, and probably a happy life without him. She’d remarried, had children, and become everything she’d always wanted to be. And he’d become everything he’d thought he wanted to be, only to discover that professional success felt hollow when there was no one to share it with.
When Holt woke again, the room was darker, and his son was no longer beside the bed. A different nurse was checking his monitors, this one younger and more energetic than the woman from earlier.
“Good evening, Mr. Dillinger,” she said cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Holt admitted.
“That’s normal after what you’ve been through. But you’re healing nicely.” She smiled warmly at him.
Holt nodded, accepting the inevitable. He’d been through enough medical emergencies to know that brain injuries were nothing to take lightly, and rushing back to work would only set back his recovery.
“Where’s my son and my mother?” he asked.
“They went to get some coffee and should be back any minute,” she told him.
As the nurse finished her checks and left him alone again, Holt found himself staring at the ceiling and thinking about the choices that had brought him to this moment. Forty-six years of single-minded pursuit, countless criminals brought to justice, and a reputation as one of the FBI’s most effective directors. And yet, lying here in this sterile hospital room, all he could think about was a conversation that had never happened with a woman he’d lost nearly four decades ago.
Holt wondered where she was now. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to having checked up on her. He’d found she’d remarried, had a child, and gotten her father’s law firm back. A flash of pride hit him. Holt had never doubted she’d do it. He thought about maybe looking her up before he left Miami, but before he could entertain that idea, the door to his room opened, and his son and mother entered. Holt pushed the idea aside, dumping it in his pile of bad ideas before turning to his mother and son, although the thought and image of June stuck in his brain. While a weird feeling that she was close by filtered through him. Holt shook it off and put it down to him being in Miami. Since he’d arrived here, June had been on his mind. Which was only natural, as this was her town. But still, as he’d come awake, he’d felt it. Like his dream had followed him into reality, and she was right down the hall from him.Stop it, man,Holt admonished himself.
The door to his room flew open.
“Sister, we need you in the emergency room,” another young nurse said. “Sorry, Director Dillinger.”
Holt gave her a weak smile, and the feeling hit him again, a lot stronger this time. And again he shook it and put it down to his being in Miami and knowing June lived here.
6
JUNE
The guest room looked perfect, June decided, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She’d changed the sheets to the crisp white linens that Ace preferred, arranged fresh towels on the dresser, and even put a small vase of gardenias from the backyard on the nightstand. But as she surveyed the room one more time, her eyes landed on the heavy damask curtains that framed the large windows.
They looked dull, she realized with a frown. Not dirty exactly, but lacking the rich burgundy color they’d had when she’d first hung them five years ago. The cleaning company wouldn’t be back until next week, and she couldn’t have Ace staying in a room with dingy-looking curtains.
June glanced at her watch. It was barely ten in the morning, and Carmen wouldn’t be home from her shift at the fire department until late afternoon. She had plenty of time to give the curtains a quick steam cleaning.
The basement yielded the steam cleaner she’d forgotten she owned, buried behind boxes of Christmas decorations and Trevor’s old golf clubs that she couldn’t bring herself to donate.June changed into old jeans and a faded University of Miami t-shirt, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and got to work. She ignored the pain in her ribs, taking one of the painkillers that she’d refused to take unless really necessary. But right now, it was necessary, as just fixing up the room for Ace had put her in burning pain. June couldn’t let it stop her. She had a mission.
The guest room curtains came first, heavy panels that required careful attention to avoid water damage to the surrounding walls. But once June had them looking vibrant again, she found herself eyeing the living room drapes with a critical gaze. When had they started looking so tired?
One room led to another, and before June knew it, she was systematically working her way through the entire house. Seven bedrooms, three entertainment areas, her home office, and the reading room that had been Trevor’s favorite retreat. Each space had its own window treatments, from delicate sheers in the breakfast nook to the heavy velvet panels in the formal dining room.
The work was methodical and oddly satisfying. Steam, smooth, move to the next section. Her mind could wander while her hands stayed busy, and for the first time since the accident, June felt useful instead of like an invalid being forced to rest.
