"I built my life on 'wanting,'" she said quietly. "I wanted power. I wanted control. I wanted people to be afraid of me."

The Alaska wind still bit hard, but Margaret Tate—now Margaret Paxton—no longer hid from it inside her designer cashmere. She stood on the porch of the old wooden house, a cup of coffee in her hands, watching Andrew chop wood.

"And now?"

But today was different. Today, a letter had arrived from New York.

She slid the paper across. We want you back. Senior Editor. Your old desk, if you want it.