Almond-shaped gray eyes stared back at her, large and dark-lashed. Her classical features were surrounded by a thick mane of dark red-brown hair that crackled under the hairbrush. Her figure was long-legged and long-waisted, her high breasts barely contained in a pale green camisole. She made no particular claim to beauty, but at twenty-nine she would have been foolish not to admit she had the kind of looks that attracted men. Knowing that brought Lorna no special pleasure. Her looks had netted her one husband named Richard Whitaker once upon a time; indirectly, those same looks had been responsible for losing him. But she didn’t want to think about Richard; she didn’t want to think about any of the Whitaker men. The only Whitaker who concerned her was one towheaded little urchin named Johnny.

She turned away, flicking out the light. Moonlight flooded the bedroom, casting long silver waves on the pale yellow comforter. She crawled into bed and curled up, though she knew she was too restless to sleep. Her worries about Johnny refused to go away. Other single parents seemed to manage just fine. Why couldn’t she? Freda was so positive that a man’s influence was all Johnny needed. Self-discipline wasn’t exactly a characteristic of nine-year-old boys, and Lorna was definitely not famous for her iron hand. When Johnny acted up, her urge was always to give him more love instead of more discipline, if only to make up for his not having a father.

Unfortunately, Johnny inhaled that love the way a sponge soaked up water, and then exhaled trouble. He was violent in every way. Violently loving, violently protective, violently defending his point of view until he was violently convinced he was wrong. Then he would perversely, and just as violently, stick to his guns.

Lorna smiled in the darkness, closing her eyes. She adored her son. But who ever heard of a fourth-grader being kicked out of school?

You’ve got to do something, her conscience ordered. The problem was what to do. There were so few options… A Whitaker face whirled in her head. The face was that of Richard’s brother, Matthew. She sent it furiously right back down to her subconscious. It resurfaced. She buried it again.