New York Times bestselling author Barbara Delinsky displays her deep understanding of the desires and fears that move us all in this poignant story, first published in 1984, of danger, love, and trust. Once upon a time she was Robyn Hart, a journalist who saw too much and wasn't afraid to expose it. But that courage nearly cost Robyn her life. Under the protection of the Witness Relocation program, she now has a new identity -- Carly -- and a new job. But the terror of the past still lingers, and Carly lives in fear that her enemies will find her. Though she tries to wall herself off from the world, one determined man breaks through her defenses -- successful young attorney Ryan Cornell. And though she yearns to give him her heart, Carly doesn't know if she can. While loving him offers a happiness she thought she'd forever lost, trusting him could cost her everything.
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March 31, 1992
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Excerpt from Finger Prints by Barbara Delinsky
The November afternoon was gray, with dusk lurking just around the corner, waiting to ensnare the hapless passerby in its chilling shroud. Carly Quinn tugged the collar of her trench coat closer around her neck, then shifted the bag of books to a more comfortable spot on her shoulder without missing a step. She walked quickly. These days in particular, she didn't feel safe until she was home and the last of the three bolts on her door were securely thrown.
The tap of her slender heels on the sidewalk reminded her that she'd forgotten to change shoes before she'd left school, and she silently cursed the haste behind the lapse. But she'd worked late grading themes. And it was Friday. When she left the library her only thought had been of home.
Home. She gave a wry smile as she turned onto Brattle Street, waited for a break in the rush-hour traffic, then trotted across to resume her march among the smattering of pedestrians on the opposite side. Home. Strange how the mind could adapt, she mused. How utterly, unbelievably different her life had been a year ago. Now, Cambridge Was home and she was Carly Johnson Quinn. She looked like a Carly, dressed like a Carly, was even beginning to dream like a Carly. Perhaps they'd been right. Perhaps she would adjust after all.
Momentarily lulled into security by the humanity surrounding her, she became mesmerized by the taillights of the cars headed into Harvard Square. She wondered where their drivers were going, whether to dinner at Ahmed's or Grendel's Den, for a beer at the Wursthaus, or to a show in Boston.
A car honked in passing and, stiffening, Carly jerked her head sharply to the left. When her gaze met the grinning faces of several of her students, her relief was immediate. They had just returned from a triumphant basketball game against their arch rival. She had talked briefly with them as she'd left the school and now tipped her head up to offer a smile. Then they were gone, swallowed up in the inbound traffic, leaving her to control the runaway beat of her heart Oh, yes, she reflected, she might well adjust to a new life, a new identity. But she seriously doubted that this would ever change -- the constant nervousness, the perpetual guardedness, especially now that the days were shorter and darkness fell that much earlier.
Quickening her step, she covered two more blocks before turning right and heading toward the river. Her apartment was no more than five minutes ahead. Yet this was the strip that always bothered her most. The side street was narrower and less traveled than the main one. It was darker too, barely lit by the streetlights that seemed lost among the network of tree branches and telephone wires. And there were any number of front doors and side paths and back alleys from which an assailant might materialize. An occasional car approached from behind, headlights slinging tentative shadows across the pathways ahead. Carly swallowed hard once, anchored her lower lip beneath her teeth and pressed onward.