Ro-of. Thump! Roof! Scratch. Ro-of! Roof! Thump.

Unnerved by the ferocity, Jane decided that perhaps this was something she should put off until tomorrow. Maybe Jonathan, the private investigator who donated so much of his time to TLS, would be available then. Or David. She was about to head back to her car when a man’s voice cut through the racket.

“Shut the hell up!”

The dogs fell silent.

Hands clammy with sweat, Jane watched uncertainly as the knob turned and the door opened.

It was darker inside than out, which made it difficult to see anything except the whites of the man’s eyes. “I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said, “but you don’t belong here.”

Three pit bulls growled at his feet. They weren’t nearly as large as they sounded, but they looked as if they’d tear her limb from limb, given half a chance. Fortunately, they knew better than to attack without permission. They didn’t even push their muzzles into the opening, the way so many dogs did.

The man was definitely in charge. They weren’t about to disobey him…she hoped.

“I’m-” When her voice squeaked, Jane cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m Jane Burke with The Last Stand.”

“Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not interested,” he said and slammed the door.

The bang almost caused her to fall off the stoop. She glanced longingly at her Toyota Camry, parked at the curb, but the vision of Gloria, crying at the office, prompted her to knock again. She couldn’t fold that easily; her client was counting on her.

One dog dared to bark-but ceased abruptly with a high-pitched whine.

Certain the dog had just been kicked, Jane bolted for her car but forced herself to stop midway when the door reopened.

This time the man stepped out onto the porch, where she could see him. But seeing him didn’t make her feel any safer. At least six feet four inches tall, he weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds and had the thick neck and huge biceps of a hulking lineman.

“This better be good,” he said. Behind him, the dogs crouched, baring their teeth in a threatening snarl.

Clasping her trembling hands in front of her, Jane pulled her gaze away from them. “Are you Luther Wilson?”

“That’s none of your damn business.” His eyes narrowed. “But…suppose I was. What would you want?”

She edged a step closer. Standing in the middle of the front yard as if she was afraid to come within reach made her appear weak, and she knew it. “I’m looking for your daughter.”

“She not home.”

“I’m talking about Latisha.”

“Latisha don’t live with me. Never has.”

He pivoted, but now that she’d gotten this far Jane couldn’t leave, not without the information she needed. What kind of caseworker would that make her? A coward of a caseworker-certainly no one Skye or Sheridan could trust. Ava didn’t think she had what the job required and hadn’t agreed with hiring her in the first place. If she walked away now, she’d only prove Ava right.

She hurried to speak before Luther could close the door. “She’s gone missing, Mr. Wilson. So has Marcie. It’s been three weeks since anyone’s seen them. The police are investigating. Gloria’s frantic.”

At her rapid-fire explanation, he swung around to face her. “What’re you sayin’? Someone kidnapped Latisha? Someone kidnapped her and Marcie?”

“We don’t know. But it’s possible. It’s also possible they’ve run away, or been injured and are lost.” The pervasive chill of deepening dusk in mid-January seemed to seep into her bones. “Murder is, of course, another possibility.”

Although he didn’t actually speak, his eyes revealed plenty. He hadn’t known his daughter was gone. He wasn’t sure how to react to the information, but he wasn’t as shocked as a lot of men would be. Living in this neighborhood, he’d probably seen too much to gasp at the word murder. “Why would anyone wanna kill her?” he asked at length. “She a good kid.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. You haven’t seen or heard from her in the past three weeks, have you?” she asked.

“No. But I never hear from her. She’s a straight-A student, too damn good for her father.” His wide shoulders seemed to hunch forward. “But maybe that’s ’cause I ain’t been much of a father.”

Jane made an effort to conceal her surprise at his honesty and regret. “Do you know if she had any involvement with gangs or-”

“I told you. She a good kid. She’s no gangbanger.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “What does Gloria say?”

“That she and Marcie are gone. That’s all. Even the police can’t locate them.”

Stepping back, he looked her up and down. “If you ain’t with the police, who are you? Gloria ain’t got money for no P.I.”

TLS was well-known in some circles. Skye and the others who’d founded the charity had solved several high-profile cases. As a result, they’d been popular with the media. But there was no doubt a large segment of Sacramento ’s one million residents had never heard of them or hadn’t paid more than passing attention. “I’m a victims’ advocate. I work for a charity that’s been operating in the area for about seven years. Gloria came to ask for my help.”

He fingered his clean-shaven chin. “So you came down here out of the goodness of your heart?”

She ignored his skepticism. “I make a nominal salary, if that’s what you mean.”

“Whatever they payin’ you ain’t enough,” he said. “You have no business in this neighborhood. I suggest you don’t come back.” Eager to gain its freedom, or rip out her throat, one pit bull crawled forward. His toenails clicked on the metal weather stripping across the opening, but Luther growled a quick “Get inside,” and the dog did exactly that-with its tail between its legs.

“I’ll ask around,” he said to her, “see what I can find out about Latisha and give you a call.”

She fumbled in her purse for a card. He must’ve recognized the shape of the gun handle beneath her sweater as her coat parted because he made a tsking sound and shook his head. “Don’t ever bring a weapon to a man’s house unless you’re prepared to use it.”

He thought she was a joke, the gun some sort of accessory-like earrings or fake nails.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“You heard me. That’s askin’ for trouble. Folks ’round here got no respect for poseurs, no matter how fine they look.”

Jane locked eyes with him. Now that she’d met “Lucifer”-now that he was standing directly in front of her-she realized there wasn’t much about him that intimidated her. Not after what she’d been through. Despite his size, he wasn’t half as frightening as Oliver had been. Jane didn’t think anyone could be as frightening as her slight, soft-spoken and coldly calculating spouse.

“My husband was a serial killer, Mr. Wilson. He murdered four people by stabbing them to death and he nearly killed me in the same way.” She raised her chin to reveal the scar where he’d slit her throat. “I survived by the narrowest of margins. But I did survive. And I promise you I’m prepared to shoot anyone who tries to hurt me again.” She smiled and stuck out her card. “Please call me if you come up with anything on Latisha. I’m determined to find her and Marcie.”

The condescending air that’d bothered her so much evaporated, but it wasn’t replaced with anything more positive. “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” he said.

“Are you sure you want to get involved in this?”

Detective Willis’s voice came over the phone as Jane stood at her stove, stirring the homemade broccoli-and-cheddar-cheese soup she was making for Kate’s dinner. She’d grabbed a chicken salad as a late lunch and didn’t plan on eating much more today. Now that she was thin again, there was no way she’d let herself gain weight. She wanted nothing to do with the woman she’d been during the Oliver years. Her status as a wealthy socialite before Oliver went to prison; her subsequent fall from grace and expulsion from the tennis-club set; her downward spiral, driven by desperation and despair; her illicit affair with Oliver’s brother; even her job as a two-bit hairstylist. That wasn’t who she was anymore. Taking this case was part of her transformation. “I’m positive.”