“Take your hand off my daughter,” said Captain Rosanne Cavanaugh.
“And take your other hand off my granddaughter.”
Dillon turned his head.
Their eyes met, and it was like watching a man look at a lighthouse that has just turned toward him.
Beside him stood a large, silent security officer named Ridley, who had not been there a moment ago.
Dillon let go.
Scarlett’s cry broke into hiccups, and I pressed my cheek to her cap.
“She’s my daughter,” Dillon said, almost to himself.
“They’re my girls.”
“Then act like it,” said my mother.
From somewhere behind the rope line, a woman’s voice rose, clear and puzzled and rapidly sharpening.
“Dillon?”
“Dillon Tennant?”
“That’s not funny.”
“You told me your wife left you.”
PART 3
A woman broke through the rope line.
She was in her early thirties, in a red wool coat, with an orange leather handbag swinging from her elbow, the kind with a two-year waiting list.
