The Line Between Here and Gone. Andrea KaneЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      To Myrna and Bob,

      who helped me bring the Hamptons to life,

      who acted as consultants extraordinaire for the year it took me

      to create this novel, and whose love

      and support mean the world to me.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      A host of people contributed to my writing this book, and I want to express my appreciation to each and every one of them for their time, their expertise, and their tolerance of a novelist who’s a relentless perfectionist.

      My thanks go out to:

      Angela Bell, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI Office of Public Affairs—and the real-life equivalent of a fairy godmother!

      Former SSA John Mandrafina, FBI Undercover Coordinator/Sensitive Operations Program

      SSA James McNamara, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit 2

      Dr. Morton Cowan, Chief, Allergy Immunology and Blood and Marrow Transplant Division, UCSF Children’s Hospital SA Laura Robinson, Senior Team Leader, Evidence Response Team, FBI Newark Field Office

      SSA Rex Stockham, Program Manager for FBI Laboratory’s Forensic Canine Program

      SA James Margolin, FBI Office of Public Affairs, New York Field Office

      SSA Gavin Shea, FBI White Collar Squad, Long Island Resident Agency

      Sharon L. Dunn, Department of Pediatrics, Hematology/Oncology, University of Chicago

      Detective Mike Oliver, retired NYPD

      Simon Jorna, owner of Simon’s Beach Bakery Café, Westhampton Beach, Long Island, New York

      Michael Greene, Simon’s Beach Bakery Café and tour guide of “Amanda’s” apartment

      And to a very special core of people:

      Adam Wilson, the best (and most deeply missed) editorial partner any author could ask for

      Valerie Gray, who stepped in at the crisis hour and finished the process with grace, enthusiasm and commitment

      Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, my incredible agents and diehard advocates

      Peggy Gordijn, the quiet force of nature who stays in the background and moves mountains

      And most of all my family, who, every day and in every way, give me the love, the incentive and the creative input to make each book the very best it can be.

      Thank you all. You’re the very best of the best.

      CHAPTER ONE

       December

       Manhattan

      Amanda Gleason gently rocked her infant son in her arms.

      A new baby was truly the reaffirmation of life. If she didn’t know that before this moment, she knew it now. He was her child, her miracle.

      Her responsibility.

      She hadn’t planned on facing motherhood alone. In fact, when Paul had disappeared from the picture, she hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Maybe if she had, maybe if she could have told him, things would have turned out differently.

      But they hadn’t.

      And now the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Decisions had to be made. Pressure she’d never even imagined. And a bittersweet pain that came every time she held Justin in her arms.

      She touched his downy head with one finger, stroked the peach fuzz of his hair. As she whispered softly to him, his eyes opened wide and he stared at her intently, visibly fascinated by the sound of her voice. She gazed into those eyes—Paul’s eyes—and her chest tightened. They were a lighter brown than Paul’s, probably because they had yet to mature to their true color. But the shape, the lids, even the thick fringe of lashes—those were all Paul’s. As was his nose, a tiny version of Paul’s bold, straight nose with the slender nostrils. He even had the dimple in his cheek that was Paul’s. Other than his golden-brown hair color and small, pursed mouth—both of which he’d inherited from her—he was very much Paul’s son. And even at three weeks old, he was developing a personality—easygoing like Paul, inquisitive like her. He spent hours staring at his fingers, opening and closing them with a fascinated expression. And he was always looking around, seemingly transfixed by the world.

      Thank God he didn’t know how much of a battlefield his world really was.

      “Ms. Gleason?” A young nurse touched her gently on the shoulder. “Why don’t you get something to eat? Maybe take a walk? You haven’t done either all day.” She reached for the baby. “Justin will be in good hands. You’ve got to take care of yourself or you won’t be able to take care of him.”

      Numbly, Amanda nodded. She held Justin for one more brief, desperate moment, then kissed his soft cheek and handed him over to the nurse.

      How many times had she done that in the past few days? How many more times would she have to do it?

      Tears dampening her lashes, she rose, retracing her steps through the reverse isolation unit and out of Sloane Kettering’s Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit. She stripped off her mask, gloves and gown, and tossed them into the discard bin, knowing she’d have to repeat the same sterilization process when she returned. She stood there for a moment, head bent, taking deep, calming breaths to bring herself under control. The nurse was right. She’d be of no use to Justin if she fell to pieces. And she’d done enough of that already.

      Walking down the corridor, stepping into the elevator, and descending to the main level, Amanda felt the physical pain tearing inside her that always accompanied a separation from Justin. She hated leaving him. She dreaded coming back.

      Outside the hospital, the world looked surreally normal. It was dark. She hadn’t checked her watch in hours, but it had to be after eight o’clock. Still, traffic sped up and down the New York City streets. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalks. Horns honked. Christmas lights blinked from green and red to a rainbow of colors, then back again.

      How could everything seem so normal when her entire world was crumbling to pieces? When everything she cared about was upstairs struggling to survive?

      Still operating on autopilot, Amanda reached for her BlackBerry and turned it on. She didn’t really care if she had any messages. But she had to check—even if it was just to seek out some pie-in-the-sky miracle that would answer her prayers.

      No miracle. Just the usual crap from the usual sources— store sales, promotions, photojournalist magazine sites. Nothing personal. Everyone knew better than to bother her with anything short of a dire emergency.

      Correction. There was one personal message. An email from a fellow photojournalist, a friend of hers who’d been traveling internationally