Читать книгу The Christmas Target - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 11
ОглавлениеShe was in the car again, the beautiful book her grandparents had given her for Christmas in her hands.
“Don’t touch it,” she snapped at Eva. Her sister was only four, and she liked to ruin things—paintings, drawings, schoolwork. Eva was always scribbling on them.
“Be kind,” her mother admonished, turning in her seat and smiling, her beautiful red hair curled, a pretty green Christmas ribbon woven through it.
Matching hairstyles. Stella and Eva had ribbons, too. Even tiny little Bailey had a bow in her fuzzy hair.
That kind of made Stella proud.
She loved her family. Even Eva.
“Okay, you can touch it,” she said, and her sister smiled with Daddy’s dark brown eyes, and then the world exploded in heat and flames and horrible screams.
She was screaming, too. Screaming and screaming, her throat raw, her head pounding. Someone calling her name over and over again.
Stella woke with a start, bathed in sweat, pain throbbing somewhere so deep inside she wasn’t sure where it came from or how to get rid of it.
“Shhhhh,” someone said, hands brushing across her cheeks, wiping away the tears that always came with the Christmas dream.
Christmas nightmare.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, realized she was hooked to something. An IV?
Was she in the hospital?
Suddenly the fog cleared, and she knew where she was, what had happened.
“Nana!” She shoved aside blankets, tried to get to her feet, but those hands—the warm, rough ones that had wiped her tears—were on her shoulders, holding her still.
“Slow down, Stella.”
Chance.
She should have known, should have recognized the hands, the deep voice.
“Where’s my grandmother?” she asked.
“In ICU. Stable.” He was leaning over her, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his tie dangling loose, his gaze steady and focused.
He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, the kindest man she’d ever known. She tried really hard not to think about that when they were working together.
Right now, they weren’t working.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, looking into each other’s eyes, everything else flying away. If she let herself, she could drift into sleep again, let herself relax knowing that Chance was there. She wouldn’t let herself. Her grandmother needed her.
Stable. That’s what Chance had said.
It was a good word, but she wanted more. Like conscious, talking. Fine.
“I need to see her.”
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere or see anyone.”
“I’m seeing you,” she retorted, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain jolted through her skull, and she would have closed her eyes if she hadn’t been afraid she’d be in the nightmare again.
“You’re funny, Stella. Even when your skull is cracked open,” he responded, his hand on her back. He smelled like pine needles and snow, and she realized that his shirt was damp, his hair mussed.
Not perfect Chance anymore.
Except that he was—the way he was supporting her weight, looking into her eyes, teasing her because he probably knew she needed the distraction. All of it was perfect, and that made it really hard to remember all the reasons why she and Chance hadn’t worked out.
All the reasons?
She could only really think of one—she’d been a coward, too afraid of being disappointed to risk her heart again.
She shoved the covers off, turned so her feet were dangling over the side of the bed. She was wearing a hospital gown. Of course. Her feet bare, her legs speckled with mud and crisscrossed with scratches. She could have died out in the woods. If Chance hadn’t shown up, she probably would have.
If she’d died, what would have happened to Beatrice? She knew the answer. Beatrice would have died, too.
It didn’t make sense.
The town she’d grown up in was quiet and cozy. Movie theaters, shopping centers, a bowling alley and an ice-skating rink. The nice-sized hospital she was in had been built in the sixties and had a level one trauma center. People hiked and biked and ran, and they generally died of old age or disease. Not murder.
She frowned.
Was that what all this had been? Attempted murder? It didn’t seem possible. Not in Boonsboro. Trouble didn’t happen there. At least, not the kind that took people’s lives. Not usually. Not often. One of the worst things that had ever happened in town was the accident that had killed Stella’s family. It had been the worst tragedy since the old Harman house had gone up in flames at the turn of the nineteenth century. Four children died in the fire. Two adults. The grave plot was still tended by someone in the family, but Stella had never paid much attention to it. She’d had her own family to mourn, her own graves to tend.
She shoved the thought and the memory away, pushed against the mattress and tried to stand. Failed.
“Need some help?” Chance slid his arm around her waist, and she was up on her feet before she realized she was moving.
The room was moving, too, spinning around her, making her sick and woozy. Maybe Chance was right. She wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere.
In for a penny. In for a pound.
That’s what her grandfather had always said.
She was already standing. She might as well try to walk.
She took a step, realized she was clutching something. Chance’s belt, her fingers digging into smooth leather, her shoulder pressing into his side. He was tall and solid, not an ounce of fat on his lean, hard body. He could hold her weight easily, but she tried to ease back, stand on her own two feet, because it’s what she’d always done. Even when she was married. Even when she should have been able to rely on someone else, she’d taken care of herself, handled her own business, stood alone more than she’d stood beside Daniel.
“There is no way you’re going to make it. You know that, right?” Chance said.
“Sure I am.” She grabbed hold of the IV pole and took a step to prove him wrong. Took another one to prove to herself that she could do it. Her legs wobbled, but she didn’t fall. She made it to the door and put her hand on the jamb for support, the hospital gown slipping from one shoulder.
Chance hitched it back into place, and she knew his fingers must be grazing the scars that stretched from her collarbone to her shoulder blade. She didn’t feel his touch. The scars were too thick for that, the skin too damaged.
His gaze dropped to the spot where his fingers had been, and she knew he wanted to ask. Not how she’d gotten them. He knew the answer to that. He did background checks on every HEART operative. No, he wouldn’t ask how she’d gotten them. He’d ask if they hurt, if there was something he could do to take the pain away, if the memories were as difficult to ignore as the thick webbed flesh.
He’d asked those things before, and he’d told her how beautiful she was. Not despite the scars. Because of them. They made her who she was, and he wanted to know more about how they defined her.
She hadn’t answered the questions, because getting close to someone meant being hurt when they left. She’d been hurt enough for one lifetime, and she didn’t want to be hurt again. If that made her a coward, so be it.
“How about I get you a wheelchair?” Chance said, his breath tickling the hair near her temple, his hands on her shoulders. Somehow, he was in front of her, blocking the doorway, and she wasn’t even sure how it had happened.
She was worse off than she’d thought.
But she still needed to see Beatrice. For both of their sakes.
“Okay,” she agreed, because she didn’t know how she’d make it to the ICU any other way.
“And how about you sit and wait while I do it? I don’t want you to fall while I’m gone.” He was moving her backward, his hands still on her shoulders.
She could have stood her ground. But her legs were shaky, and when the back of them hit the bed, she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her.
“Careful.” He helped her sit, his tie brushing her cheek as he reached for the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders. Yellow. That’s what color the tie was. With a handprint turkey right in the center of it. Only a guy like Chance could wear a tie like that and still lead the most prestigious hostage rescue team in North America.
“Nice tie,” she murmured.
He crouched so they were eye to eye, smiled the easy smile she’d noticed the first day they’d met. The one that spoke of confidence, kindness and strength.
“A gift from my niece for Thanksgiving. I promised I’d wear it to my next meeting.”
“And you always keep your promises.”
For a moment, he just stared into her eyes. She could see flecks of silver in the dark blue irises. He had the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen, and when they’d dated, she’d told him that.
“I try,” he finally said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t leave the room without me. They still haven’t found the guy who attacked you, and I don’t want to take chances. Boone is outside the ICU, making sure your grandmother is protected. You’re my assignment.”
“I’m your what?” she asked, but he’d already straightened and was heading out the door, pretending that he hadn’t heard.
If she’d had the energy, she would have followed him into the hall and told him just how likely it was that she was going to be anyone’s assignment. She’d been taking care of herself for years. Daniel had been part of an elite Special Forces unit and had been gone more than he’d been home during their marriage. When he was home, he’d been distant and unapproachable. She’d loved him, but their three-year marriage had been tough. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she wasn’t sure if it would have survived.
She’d wanted it to, but she and Daniel had both had their demons. They’d only ever fought them alone. That didn’t make for a good partnership. She knew that now. Maybe because she’d spent the last few years fighting beside and with Chance.
“Not the time,” she muttered. She had more important things to think about. Like the fact that the police hadn’t found the man who’d attacked her.
Men?
She still wasn’t certain.
If she had her cell phone, she’d call the local sheriff’s department for an update, but she’d left it at the house. There was a phone beside the bed and she picked up the receiver, tried to remember the sheriff’s number. Her mind was blank, her thoughts muddled. She dropped the phone back into the cradle and grabbed her pajamas from a chair near the window. Someone had folded them neatly. Her galoshes sat beneath the chair, side by side.
Chance?
She could picture him folding the clothes, setting the boots in place. Everything precise and meticulous.
She walked into the bathroom. It took a second to pull the IV from her arm, took a couple of minutes to wrangle herself into the pajamas. Her hands were shaky, her movements sluggish, but she didn’t want to be running from the bad guys in a too-big hospital grown.
Running?
She’d be fortunate if she could crawl.
Damp flannel clung to her legs and arms as she splashed cold water onto her face and tried to get her brain to function again. No dice. She was still woozy and off balance. A concussion? Had to be. She lifted the gauze that covered her temple, eyeing the wound in the mirror. The bump was huge and several shades of green and purple. No stitches. Just a long gash that looked like it had been glued shut.
She had a bandage on the back of her head, too. She didn’t bother trying to see. She felt sick enough from the effort she’d already put in.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door. One hard, quick rap that made her jump.
“Hold on,” she called, grabbing the handle and pulling open the door.
Chance was there.
He didn’t look happy.
As a matter of fact, he looked pretty unhappy.
“Why am I not surprised?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her pajamas and then jumping to the IV pole.
“You’d have done the same,” she responded.
“True, but that doesn’t mean I approve. You have a concussion. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ll rest better after I see my grandmother.”
“You won’t rest. You’ll be out hunting down your attacker unless someone is there to stop you.” He took her arm, the gentleness of his touch belying the irritation in his eyes.
“No one would dare try,” she responded, jabbing at him like she always did. Usually, he jabbed right back, but this time he just shook his head.
“How about we not test that theory, Stella? Because I have better things to do with my time than babysit someone who won’t follow the rules.”
“I hope you’re not talking about me.”
“I told you. You’re my assignment. Or rather, keeping you safe is.”
“Since when?”
“Since about two nanoseconds after you collapsed on your way to my car. Sit.” He gestured to the wheelchair that was near the bathroom door.
“I’m not a dog.”
“Trust me. I am very, very aware of that.”
She was suddenly self-conscious in her wet pajamas. But this was Chance. He’d seen her looking a lot better, and he’d seen her looking a whole lot worse. They’d crossed a river together once, emerging on the other side soaked to the skin and shivering with cold.
Yeah.
This was Chance. There was nothing he didn’t know about her and no situation he hadn’t seen her in.
She blushed anyway, dropping into the wheelchair so quickly that pain exploded through her head.
Her eyes teared but she didn’t close them.
If Chance realized how much pain she was in, he’d insist that she get back into bed. Truth? She didn’t think she’d have the energy to fight him. She felt so tired, she thought she could close her eyes and sleep forever.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Chance muttered, grabbing the blanket and tossing it over her legs.
“Did you ever think it was?”
“No,” he replied, pushing the chair out into the hallway.
There was too much noise there, too many lights—her head spun with all of it. She had to see Beatrice, though, and then she needed to talk to the sheriff. She didn’t have time to give in to pain or to lie in bed feeling sorry for herself.
Someone had attacked her.
She had to hold on to that, had to keep it in the front of her mind so that she stayed focused on the goal—find the guy, figure out his agenda.
Maybe he’d been a vagrant, wandering through the woods, startled by a woman suddenly appearing.
Maybe, but it didn’t feel right. The entire thing felt too coincidental.
“Have you spoken with the sheriff?” she asked as Chance wheeled her into the elevator. “I know you said that they didn’t find the perp, but I’m wondering if they found anything else.”
“They traced the guy to an old logging road that runs through the woods behind your property. They’ve cast tread marks that he probably left behind. Other than that, they’ve come up empty.”
“That’s not the news I wanted.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he was a vagrant.” She tossed the theory out, because Chance was as likely to see the strengths and weaknesses in it as she was. More likely. He wasn’t concussed, and he wasn’t sitting in a wheelchair with bandages on his head.
“Someone just moving through who was squatting out in the woods and panicked when you showed up?”
“It’s possible, right?”
“Anything is possible, Stell. That doesn’t make it likely. Right now, I don’t have enough information to speculate, but if I were going to guess, I’d guess the attack wasn’t random.” The elevator door opened, and he wheeled her out.
“You’ve got a reason for that. Care to explain?”
“You said there were two perpetrators.”
“Possibly two,” she corrected.
“I’ve never known you to make a mistake. If you say there might have been two, it’s because there probably were. If that’s the case, a squatter who panicked seems unlikely.”
“Squatters don’t always live alone.”
“It sounds like you want to believe the attack was random.”
“Don’t you?”
“I want to believe the truth. For right now, I’m keeping an open mind. Sheriff Brighton is still on the scene with half a dozen men. He said he’ll stop by the hospital when he’s finished. We’ll know more then.”
“Did they—”
“Stella, this isn’t your case. It’s not your mission. You are the victim, and you’ve got to let the local police handle the investigation.”
“I plan to, but I’d like to talk to Cooper—”
“You and the sheriff are on a first-name basis?”
“We went to school together. I want to talk to him.”
“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to do that. After you rest. The doctor said three or four days in bed.”
She snorted, then wished she hadn’t. Pain shot through her skull and her ears rang.
Up ahead, double wide doors opened into the ICU unit. Several nurses sat at a desk there.
Stella scanned their faces, trying to see if she knew any of them. She volunteered at the hospital once a week. It kept her sane, helped her focus on something besides her own problems and her own sorrow. She probably knew half the nurses who worked there, but her vision was too blurry, everything dancing and swaying as she tried to focus.
“Stella!” one of them cried, rushing around the counter and running toward her.
Not a nurse. A volunteer.
The uniform came into focus. The name tag. The pretty brunette. Karen Woods. A nursing student at the local college and the person who stayed with Beatrice when Stella had to be away from home for more than a few hours.
She should have recognized her immediately.
She probably would have if the world had been standing still.
“Are you okay?” Karen had reached her side and was leaning toward her, the smell of her perfume mixing with antiseptic and floor cleaner and making Stella’s head swim. “I was working on the pediatric floor and heard Beatrice had been admitted. What happened?”
“She—”
“Tell you what,” Chance interrupted. “How about we hash it all out after Stella sees her grandmother?”
Karen frowned. “Of course. I was just so relieved to see her, I wasn’t thinking. I was going to visit Beatrice, but there’s a guy outside the door who says she can’t have visitors. I told the nurses, but they said you want him there, Stella.”
“I do,” she responded, the words echoing hollowly in her ears. She felt light-headed and sick, and she wanted to grab Chance’s hand, hold on tight so she didn’t float away.
“Why? Are you worried that Beatrice wandered off? Do you think she’s getting worse? I heard she left the house without a coat or shoes.” Karen’s words came in quick staccato beats that slammed into Stella’s head and made her want to close her eyes.
She liked Karen.
The young woman was smart and helpful, and she’d been wonderful with Beatrice, but right at the moment, Stella wanted to tell her to go away.
She needed to think.
She couldn’t do that with someone talking nonstop, asking questions she had no answers for.
“Karen,” she began, but Chance’s hand settled on her shoulder, his thumb sliding against her neck, and she lost what she was going to say. Felt herself just give it over to him, because he was there, and he could handle it and she was more than willing to let him.
She’d think about what that meant later.
When she wasn’t so tired, so scared, so concerned.
“It seems like you’ve heard a lot of information in a very short amount of time,” he said, his tone conversational and light.
* * *
Chance waited for the young woman to respond. Karen Woods. That’s what her name tag said. He’d seen her before. Probably at the funeral. He remembered the brown hair and the big smile. If she remembered him, she didn’t let on. Just offered a quick shrug.
“The entire hospital is buzzing with the news. Beatrice and her husband helped fund the pediatric wing. They’re a big deal here.”
Stella looked like she was trying to think of a suitable response, her brow furrowed as if she couldn’t quite come up with the words.
Chance figured no response was necessary.
“Big deal or not, Beatrice isn’t to have any visitors unless they’re approved by the police or by Stella. You know that, right?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“It’s not about stupidity. It’s about knowledge. Were you informed?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll understand that Stella is going to have to say goodbye for now. She wants to see her grandmother, and—”
“I’m not invited?” Karen smiled, but there was something hard in her eyes. “No need to hit me over the head with it.”
“I’m not trying to. I just want to make certain we’re all clear on the rules.”
“Because you’re so big on them,” Stella murmured, and he smiled.
She was right.
But that was why they got along so well.
“Only when they matter. We’ll see you when we come out,” he said, pushing the chair past Karen.
He wasn’t asking permission, and he didn’t wait for a response. He wanted Stella to see her grandmother, and then he wanted her back in the hospital bed.
She was two shades too pale, red hair falling lank against her neck and cheeks. Her hand trembled as she tucked a strand behind her ear, and he wanted to turn the chair around and go straight back to her room.
He knew Stella, though.
She’d find her way back.
With or without him.
Family was everything.
She’d told him that dozens of times when they were on a mission together. She’d proven how much she meant it when she’d tried to give up her job to take care of her grandmother. Chance hadn’t been able to let her go. She was too valuable a team member. And the team was its own sort of family.
He pushed her through the hallway of the ICU, Karen following along behind despite the fact that he’d made it really clear that she wasn’t going in Beatrice’s room. She looked well-meaning enough, but there was a glimmer in her dark eyes that bothered him. A little bit of excitement that shouldn’t be there. He’d seen it before—some otherwise harmless person determined to get the juiciest bit of gossip and spread it to the four corners of the earth.
He imagined she had a nice little group of friends that she’d love to give all the details to. She’d be the star, have her five minutes of fame because she’d brushed shoulders with a couple of people who’d almost died.
She wasn’t getting any information from him, and he doubted Stella would share anything. Not if she was thinking clearly.
Several closed doors lined the hall. Boone was in front of one, sitting in a chair, his legs stretched out, the bag of cookies in his hand. He’d eaten half. Chance was surprised he hadn’t eaten them all.
“I see you finally made it up here,” he said, his gaze on Stella. “You look like death warmed over, Silverstone.”
“Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a compliment. It was a hint that you should go back to bed.” His gaze shifted to Karen, and he frowned. “Are you here to try to kick me out again, Karen?” he asked, and the young woman blushed.
“I wasn’t trying to kick you out. I just didn’t understand why you were sitting here.”
“I told you why,” he said with typical Boone patience. The guy was almost never bothered by anything or anyone. “Next thing I knew, hospital security was trying to kick me to the curb.”
“I know, but—”
“Karen,” Stella cut in. “I appreciate you wanting to visit with Beatrice. Tomorrow will probably be a better day.”
It was a dismissal, and Karen seemed to get it.
Finally.
She patted Stella’s shoulder. “Of course. If you need anything, you know how to reach me. I have classes tomorrow and Friday, but I’m free Saturday and Sunday if you want me to clean the house and do some shopping.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“I can also stay here with Beatrice, if you need me to.”
“I think we’ve got everything under control.” The words were kind and a lot more patient than was typical of Stella.
“Okay. Great. Good. Like I said, you know how to reach me.” Karen hurried off, and Stella sighed.
“She means well,” she said, and Chance wasn’t sure if the words were a reminder to herself or information for him and Boone.
“It didn’t feel like it when security was trying to strong-arm me out of here,” Boone muttered, pulling a cookie from the bag. “I nearly lost these babies fighting for my right to stay.”
“I’m sorry she called security on you, Boone.”
“Not your fault.” He stood, brushed crumbs from his lap. “If you two are going to be in there for a few minutes, I’m going to run and get coffee. Maybe see how the cafeteria food looks. You want anything?”
“Juice. Orange. And a black coffee,” Chance responded. He’d drink the coffee, and hopefully he could convince Stella to drink the juice. She still looked shaky, and that worried him. She also looked thinner than she had the last time he’d seen her. A month ago. Maybe a little longer than that. She’d come to DC to pick up a computer system that she could use for work.
She’d said she was fine, that her grandmother was fine, that things were going well. He’d heard a lot that she hadn’t said. Or maybe he’d just assumed that things weren’t as easy as she claimed, that life wasn’t quite as fine as she was making it out to be, because that’s the way Stella was.
She didn’t need help.
She didn’t want it.
Everything was always okay and fine and good.
When a guy got too close, when he asked too many questions, she backed off and walked away.
He’d watched it happen over and over again.
He’d experienced it firsthand.
She wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted more than an easy and light relationship. She didn’t want to share her soul. That’s what she’d told him on their last date when he’d asked about her family, about the accident that had taken them from her.
I don’t go out to dinner with a guy so I can share my soul with him. Sharing a meal is good enough.
He’d told her that he only ever wanted to be with someone who could share every part of herself.
That was it.
A bad ending to a story that should have had a great one. He and Stella had a lot in common. They clicked in a way he’d never clicked with any other woman. He could have made a life with her, but he wasn’t going to insist. He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t going to do anything but give her exactly what she’d said she wanted.
“You want anything, Stella?” Boone asked, calling her by her first name. Something he almost never did.
That seemed to shake her out of whatever stupor she’d fallen into.
She frowned, locking the brake on the wheelchair and getting to her feet. “Just to see my grandmother.”
“You go do that. I won’t be long,” Boone continued, meeting Chance’s eyes. “I’ll call Simon and let him know what’s going on here.”
“See if he’s got anything new from the local police.”
“And ask when the sheriff is going to get here. I want to speak with him.” Stella took a wobbly step toward the door.
“Take it easy,” Chance said, taking her arm before she could face-plant into the door.
“If I take it any easier, I’ll be prone in a bed.”
“That’s where you should be.”
“Not yet.” She opened the door and stepped into the quiet room.
A heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, and the soft hiss of an oxygen machine filled the room. From what Chance could see, Beatrice’s vitals were normal. Or close to it. Her oxygen level was low, but the mask over her face should help with that.
Stella leaned over the bed rail and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Nana?”
When Beatrice didn’t respond, Stella lifted her hand, studied the gnarled joints and short nails. “She used to love having her nails done.”
“Did she?” Chance pulled a chair over to the bed and nudged Stella into it.
“She thought it made a woman feel feminine. She always wanted me to have mine done, too, but I was never a girly girl, and I hated it. One year, we had matching nails for Christmas. Hers were green with little red Christmas trees. Mine were red with little green Christmas trees. Christmas morning, I realized she’d bought us matching outfits, too. Long red skirts and white blouses with high collars. I think she was going for a Victorian vibe.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“I guess the Victorian theme didn’t go over well with you.”
“No.” She smiled at the memory. “But I wore the outfit to church anyway. Becky Snyder never did let me live that down. I heard about it every other day for my entire high school career.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t shut Becky down.” That was another thing Chance had watched happen over and over again. Stella knew how to put people in their places and how to keep them there. She also knew how to lift them up when they needed it, offer support when no one else could. It made her fantastic at her job, and it drew people to her. No matter how many times she tried to push them away.
“Why would I? I never cared what anyone else thought. Beatrice was happy. That made me happy.”
“I’m sure your grandmother wouldn’t have been happy if she’d known you were being teased.”
“She knew. We used to laugh about how ridiculous Becky was for bringing up something so last year. And about how silly she was to think that someone who’d survived what I had would be bothered by her opinion.” She smiled at the memory.
“Your grandmother was a smart lady.”
Maybe she’d heard the past tense. Maybe she’d realized just how much of herself she’d just shared.
Whatever the case, her smile faded, her gaze shifting to Beatrice’s face. “I hope she weathers this. She’s already frail, and her memory isn’t good. Sometimes older people don’t recover from—”
A siren split the air, the sound shrieking through the silent ICU.
Stella jumped from the chair, swayed.
Chance just managed to grab her waist, holding her upright as her grandmother bolted into a sitting position.
“What’s happening?” she cried, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask.
Good question.
Chance wanted an answer as badly as she did.
“I don’t know, but I plan to find out. Stay here,” he said, looking straight into Stella’s eyes.
