"He won't," Rainie said.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because it's his MO," Rainie said flatly. "If Ronald Dawson is Tristan Shandling, he's not going to come out of the gate swinging. Oh no. Quite the opposite. He's going to sit across from me telling me how much he's always wanted a daughter. He's going to dazzle me with stories of what I could do with a ten-million-dollar inheritance. He's going to tell me that finding me is the single best thing that's ever happened to him." Her voice cracked. She caught it. "And I'm going to get to doubt every word he says. I'm going to sit there thinking this man is either the world's most perfect long-lost father, or someone who wants me dead. Hey, all in a day's work."

"Rainie – "

"I'll do it, Quincy."

"I've changed my mind. I don't want you to do it. I was wrong."

"You were right," she snapped crisply. "Don't grow soft on me now."

He fell silent. So did she. His eyes locked on hers. The moment drew out, grew long.

"This is very hard," Kimberly said at last.

Quincy nodded, his gaze not leaving Rainie's. "This is very hard."

"I mean, we don't even know who this man is, and look what he's doing to you. Mom is gone, and Mandy's gone, and now you have to fear for Rainie and me."

"I've always feared for the people I care about."

"But not like this. Not this active, immediate, horrible kind of worry."

"I always worry," Quincy said quietly. "It's the nature of my job. I know what can happen, and I do think about it late at night."

"We're going to be okay," Kimberly said fiercely. "We know what's going on now and information is power! We're going to be okay."

"We'll delve deeper into Mitchell Millos," Quincy said softly. "I'll try to come up with a list of five or ten other names. Then I'll check in with Everett, see if he has any new developments. Perhaps, my father…" His voice grew too wistful. He caught himself and said more firmly, "And we'll move on Ronald Dawson. One way or another, we're going to get a fix on him."

"We have one last ace in the hole," Rainie spoke up. "Phil de Beers in Virginia. He's still tailing Mary Olsen. Think about it. She's alone. She's betrayed her best friend, and she has no self-esteem or she never would've gotten into this mess in the first place. She's probably already reaching out to the guy. And as each day passes, she's only going to get more demanding about meeting him in person. When she does…"

"I want photos," Quincy said immediately. "Best quality Mr. de Beers can get. It's time we develop a better physical description."

"But he uses so many disguises," Kimberly protested. "The two descriptions we have don't match. How will a third help us?"

"He only seems to be good at disguise, because we're relying on accounts from laymen," Rainie pointed out. "Everyday people get bogged down with eye color, hairstyle, facial hair, clothing – alleasily altered elements. What people should look at are standard features such as the amount of space between the eyes, the location of the ears on the head, the shape of the jawline. Those features can't be changed, they're unique. If we can get a photo, then we could have it analyzed by a forensics artist for those elements and then we'd finally have something to work with."

"You'll contact de Beers?" Quincy asked. "Ill call him this minute," Rainie promised. She smiled thinly. "And then I'll call Mitz about setting up lunch with Daddy. We gotta get moving – thirty-six hours since Senor Psycho's last strike; I doubt we have much time left."

The Olsen Residence, Virginia

Curled up in the deepest corner of her walk-in closet, Mary Olsen cradled the cordless phone to her ear. Her dark hair was snarled. Mascara streaked her face. On her left shoulder was a fresh bruise she didn't want to talk about. Her icy blue silk robe hid the remains of many more. Her husband had come home this morning from an emergency surgery that had not gone well. Ten minutes after he tore back out of the driveway in his Jag convertible, she had grabbed the phone.

"I know I'm not supposed to call," she said in a rush, "but I can't take this anymore. You don't understand how bad things have been. I need to see you. Please, baby, please…"

"Shhh, take a deep breath. Everything will be all right."

"No it won't. No it won't!" Her voice rose to a frenzied pitch, then dissolved in a flood of tears. Her ribs hurt.She was going to have bruises between her thighs. Who ever would have thought that a man who looked so soft – could hit so hard? "I'm lonely," she sobbed. "It's been weeks of nonstop torment, and now I don't even have you to look forward to. I can't keep living like this!"

"I know, baby. I know it's been hard." In contrast to her high-pitched pain, he sounded calm, gentle, kind. She let the words wash over her bruised thoughts and strained emotions. She held the phone closer to her mascara-stained cheek.

She had always loved the sound of his voice. Mandy once had commented on his eyes, that it was the power of his gaze that drew her in. For Mary, however, not allowed to see him much, it had always been the sound of his voice. How he could seem to know her anguish from hundreds of miles away. How he could whisper in her ear across the telephone lines and lend her his strength in the middle of the night when her husband had finally fallen asleep but she knew it was only a matter of hours before he awoke and it would start all over again.

"He tells me what to say, what to do, what to wear," she whispered brokenly. "I didn't know it would be like this. Why did he want to marry me, if he hates me so much?"

"You're a beautiful woman, Mary. Not all men can handle that."

"But I never gave him anything to worry about!" she cried. "I mean… well, you know, not before. God, I'm tired! I miss you. I need you. I'd give anything just… just to hold your hand, see your smile. Make me feel beautiful again."

"I wish I could, honey," he said apologetically. "I really do."

"Why not? It's been days since the Conner woman showed up. Surely it's safe by now. We can meet anyplace you want. I'll take the precautions you showed me. Please, it'll be all right."

"But love, it's not all right. Don't you know? You're being watched."

"What?" She gasped, genuinely surprised.

"I tried to get a note to you two days ago," he explained. "But then I saw a small silver hatchback tucked inside the bushes with a clear view of anyone entering or exiting your property. I watched the car for hours, and it never moved. I'm sorry, baby, but I think your husband is having you followed."

"No! The goddamn jealous prick. I've never given him any reason… I mean not before. Oh, fuck him! What are we going to do?"

"What can we do? If he gets even one picture of us together… I know you don't want that to happen. Not after everything you've been through."

"I won't give him the satisfaction!" Mary vowed. "By God, when I leave the son of a bitch he's going to pay me every dime he's worth. I should leave him today, this instant. I'll just… I'll just do it!"

"The shorter the marriage, the less likely you are to receive half his assets," he said gently.

She started to cry again. "What am I going to do? I miss you. I am going insane!"

He didn't say anything right away. There probably wasn't anything to say, and she knew that even if she didn't want to admit it. She was a married woman. She did need her husband's money. Oh God, her shoulder hurt. So did her ribs. Some mornings she wasn't sure how she made it out of bed. The more her husband beat her, the angrier he seemed to be. Was it himself he hated for hitting her, or herself for never saying no?