"Esther? Miranda?" he called out.

The intruder left her side, heading for the door, and she threw herself after him, if only to catch his ankles, make him fall somehow.

Instead, she hit the floor hard and again heard the awful popping sound.

Something shattered in the hall, and her poor Bap crashed against the wall.

Sparks of white light played at the edges of Esther's vision, and the room swam even as she scrambled up onto the bed again. With both fists, she pushed and clawed through the screen mesh in the window.

It wasn't far to a patch of black sage bushes below, and she was more outside than in when strong hands latched onto her ankles and started to pull. Her body scraped hard over the wooden sill as she reversed direction.

One more time, Esther screamed, knowing that the neighbors would hear, but also that it was too late to matter.

They were going to kill everyone who knew anything.

And anyone else in the way.

DAMON HAD COME home for the weekend, which was a great thing for everybody. I'd bought him a ticket and asked him to make the trip, partly because of Nana, partly because all of this upset was making us miss him more than ever.

Anyway, I wanted the kids together in one place, even if it was only for a couple days.

We started with a welcome home dinner for Day, including a lot of his favorites: Caesar salad for everyone, with anchovies for me; Nana's sloppy joes in sourdough bowls that the younger two had hollowed out; and Jannie's monkey bread for dessert. It was the first time she'd ever made the bread by herself, without Nana's help. Everything about Day's visit was happy and sad at the same time.

It was interesting to see the changes around the house through Damon's eyes. Jannie, Ali, and I had gotten used to Bree coordinating schedules, helping with homework, and putting meals on the table. For Damon, though, it was all new. Mostly, he didn't comment other than a lot of "thank yous," which were much appreciated by Bree.

I waited until we'd heard about life at Cushing Academy and had enjoyed our meal together before I steered the conversation around to Nana Mama.

"Let's talk about it," I finally said.

Jannie gave a sigh. She was the one who kept the most informed, but emotionally, I think this was harder for her than anyone. She and Nana were incredibly close; they did everything together, and had since Jannie was a baby.

"What do you mean, Dad?" Damon asked. "We all know what's going on. Don't we?"

"Just what I said – we should talk. Nana could get better soon. That's what we're hoping for. Or she could be in a coma for a while. It's also possible… that she won't wake up again."

"She could die," Jannie said, a little rudely. "We get it, Dad. Even Ali does."

I looked over at Ali, but he seemed all right so far. In his way, he was older than his age. Both Nana and I had talked to him like an adult, respected his intelligence, since he was around four years old. One of my theories, and Nana's, about raising kids is that you cannot give them too much love, but that the environment inside your house has to bear a relationship to what they will face on the outside. So no excess coddling or making excuses for unacceptable behavior.

I nodded Janelle's way. "We all get it. We're all sad and we're angry. C'mere, everybody. Maybe I'm the only one who needs a little help right now."

We gathered close for a group hug, and it was better that way, thinking about Nana without speaking.

Bree was the first to break down, and then everybody was in tears. No shame in that, nothing but love on display. That may not work for all families, but it sure does for us.

BY MONDAY, I was ready to make my next move on the case. Her name was Wylie Rechler, although her readers knew her as simply "Jenna." She'd been helpful to the FBI and Metro before; in particular, she had aided Vice.

Wylie Rechler was DC's answer to Cindy Adams and Perez Hilton, with a hugely popular gossip blog called Jenna Knows. She'd used it to break a couple of smaller Washington stories over the years – Angelina Jolie's nomination to the Council on Foreign Relations, Barack Obama's closet cigarette habit – but most of her space was dedicated to the social and sex lives of the "people who matter most," as her home page called them.

Sampson and I caught up with the popular gossipist that afternoon at the Neiman Marcus store in Friendship Heights. Wylie was launching a new designer scent, whatever that means, also called Jenna Knows. With the smell of cheap perfume as thick in the air as it was, I kept thinking of it as "Jenna Nose" instead.

She was set up in the middle of the store, near the escalators. Pretty ladies in black smocks were spritzing passers-by, while Jenna herself autographed bottles from a big pyramid of red-and-black boxes on a C-shaped counter.

When she saw our detective badges, she put a perfectly manicured hand up to her chest. "Oh, God! I've finally gone too far, haven't I?" It got a good laugh from the crowd behind us.

"I was wondering if I could persuade you to take five," I asked her. "It's important."

""Mais oui." Wylie stood up with a little flourish. "Excuse me, ladies, but gossip awaits. The Metro Police know all. But – will they tell all?"

Some of the theatricality dropped off as soon as we were away from the crowd. "I'm not actually in any trouble here, am I?" she asked.

"Nothing like that," Sampson said, and held the door for her out to Wisconsin Avenue. "We just need some help."

We waited until we were in my car to go on. Then I just asked her point-blank. "I'm wondering if you've heard anything about a sex club for heavy hitters? Out in Virginia? Place called Blacksmith Farms. We're looking, first of all, for some verification."

She'd been rustling inside a little red clutch purse, but now she stopped cold. "You mean it's true?"

"I'm just wondering what you've heard. Names, stories, anything at all."

"Nothing in a while," she said, pulling out a lipstick. "Not enough to make a story I could go with. I figured it was – what? – a ridiculous suburban myth?"

"Aren't you in the business of publishing rumors?" Sampson asked her.

"Honey, I'm in the business of being as accurate as I can be and not getting my ass sued. I learned that the hard way blogging on Condi Rice's love life. And just for the record, there's no such thing as an old rumor in Washington."

"How do you mean that?" I asked.

"I mean you can't swing a stick around here without hitting some investigative reporter looking to make a name for themselves. Rumors either turn into headlines real quick or they're dead on arrival. When I didn't hear any more about that one, I figured it was a dead end."

She smiled happily and started reddening her lips in the rearview mirror. "Until now, anyway."

"That's another thing," I said, catching her eye. "I need you to sit on this for a while."

"Excuse me? You do know what I do for a living, don't you?"

"And I assume you know what I do," I said. "This is a murder investigation, Jenna, not a game. Do you understand what I'm saying here?"

"Okay, now you're scaring me," she said, returning the lipstick to her purse. Then she finally opened up and gave me a few names she'd heard connected to the sex club. New names, which was helpful.

"Listen." I handed her two of my business cards. "Call me if you hear anything else, and please give me your number too. As soon as this thing is ready to go, I'll bring you whatever I have. Do we have a deal?"

"That depends." She fanned herself with the cards. "How do I know you're the type to return favors?"