Ah, hell. She was so obviously married. Those were her kids. She was probably content in her little life here in Bum-Fuck with her lucky son-of-a-bitch husband, whoever he might be.

She probably didn't even remember him.

Joe was sweating by the time he'd reached the last box and caught his reflection in the floor-length closet mirror. He stopped, straightened, and jogged to the glass, where he bared his teeth.

The left front tooth was as straight and white as its companion, but anyone who looked close enough could see it had a story to tell. It was his story, and hers, and dammit, every time he saw that tooth he thought of her, which meant he thought of her at least twice a day. Over thirteen years that was, what-nearly ten thousand times? And that didn't even count all those times she'd invaded his dreams, when she'd come to him sticky with honeysuckle juice, her skin hot to the touch, so much fire in such an innocent-looking little package.

When she drove away that day, he'd forced himself not to turn around and memorize her license plate number. And it was surely the single biggest mistake he'd made in a life full of them. What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking at all, of course. He'd been young and stupid and so damn sure that there would be an endless supply of incredible women in the world that he just let her drive away.

Joe let his mouth relax and stared intently at the man in the mirror. He was older and smarter now. He'd seen more than his share of injustice and violence, and it showed in the lines around his eyes, the taut pull of skin over his cheekbones. And lately, he swore he could sometimes see the Carmine Bellacera of his childhood staring back at him-except that his dad never went in for the reclusive writer look; it was GI Joe all the way to the grave.

Joe smiled sadly. He would turn thirty-eight next month holed up someplace alone, where no one knew his real name.