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She accepted that in him, his justice-seeking Eve. Maybe not forgave, but accepted. Even understood, and that was one of his miracles.

But even at his worst, he’d never killed an innocent. Never ended the life of a child. Still, he could comprehend it, even as Eve could. They both knew evil not only existed, it flourished and grew fat, and it reveled in its pursuit of the weak and the innocent.

He had an abrupt and crystal-clear image of himself—filthy shirt, bloody nose, hard and defiant eyes—standing at the top of the steps in the stinking dump where he’d once lived in Dublin.

And there was his father—big, strapping Patrick Roarke—weaving a bit from too much drink.

You think you can pass off a couple of thin wallets as a day’s take? I’ll have the rest of it, you buggering little bastard.

He remembered the boot coming up—he remembered that still—and his quick dodge. Not quick enough, though, not that time. He felt now as he’d felt then, the stomach-dropping sensation of falling, of knowing it would be bad. Had he cried out? Odd that he couldn’t remember. Had he yelled in shock, cursed in fury, or just gone down those steps in a bone-banging roll?

What he could remember, and wasn’t that a bitch, was the sound of his father laughing as the boy he’d been tumbled down the stairs. What was his age then? Five? Six? No matter.

And, well, hell, he had been holding back, hadn’t he? And considered the cuts and bruises worth the ten pounds he’d stashed away.

Nixie had never been booted down the stairs by a drunken bastard who’d happened to share her blood.

And yet the child would understand about evil and cruelty, too. Poor little bit.

He glanced at his monitor, where he could see her curled under the covers of the bed they’d given her, in a room provided by strangers, with the light left dim.

She would come to understand it. Now there was only pain and confusion and grief. But she would come to, and make her choices to rebuild her life on that broken ground.

He’d made his, and didn’t regret them. He could regret nothing that brought him where he was, that brought him to Eve. But he didn’t wish the same for this small, fragile survivor.

The best that could be done was to win her some sort of justice.

He began a series of simultaneous searches. One on each of the Swisher adults, another cross-checking for duplicate names. Then one more on the Dysons. He doubted Eve would approve, but these were the people who would step in to raise the child. And the child was sleeping in his home, trusting him to keep her safe. He wanted to be sure they were clean.

At the same time, he continued the search for names of known terrorists, members of paramilitary or fringe military groups.

He intended to do one more, but would need the unregistered for that. Even with it, it would be tricky—which appealed to him. He wanted names of covert and special forces operators—military and government agencies who specialized in wet work and electronics. When he had those, he’d run another cross-reference on the Swishers.

He intended to leave his more standard work running while he took himself and his plan into his private office. But he glanced at the monitor again, and saw Nixie stirring in her bed.

He watched, hoping her subconscious wasn’t tuning her up for another nightmare. And wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake, insisting he take the night shift from Summerset. Nightmares may have become his province, but when it came to children, he was a pathetic novice.

But in another moment, she sat up in bed. She took the ’link he’d given her out from under her pillow, studied it, skimmed her fingers over it. Then she stared around the room, looking so small, so lost and sad it broke his heart.

He thought he should go in to her, try at least to soothe her back to sleep, but she climbed out of the bed. Just needs the loo or a drink of water, he decided. The sort of things a girl her age could handle on her own. He hoped.

But instead of