Even so, he was quietly glad it had fallen out this way. Better him than her. If she’d been that upset to hear about it on the phone, it would have scared her out of her wits to see the condition of that house in person and alone, with no warning. And no wonder, for the love of God. After finding her mother there dead, just a week before.

Nancy’s small, battered black Volkswagen Jetta pulled in behind his truck. His heart rate kicked way up. She’d driven. Stubborn female.

She didn’t spare him so much as a glance when she got out. The wind fluttered her white blouse, but did not budge a wisp of her smooth hair. Her body was so graceful. Her profile stark and pure as she stared at the house. Her face was terribly pale. She looked like she might faint.

He got out of his truck and folded his arms over the heavy thud in his rib cage, as if she might hear it. As if the woman didn’t have more serious things to worry about than his horn-dog crush. She turned at the sound of the car door. Her chin went right up.

He went for it. “So you drove.”

“Of course,” was her cool retort. “I can’t afford a cab.”

He let his silence criticize that decision, and a flush of anger bloomed on her cheeks. “Did you call your sisters?” he demanded.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Not yet. Nell’s teaching and doesn’t have a cell anyway, and Vivi’s upstate doing a crafts fair. I’ll tell them about it later, when I know exactly what happened.”

He grunted. “Hmph. Just wondering why it always seems to be you who has to take care of the messy details.”

“It’s not their fault!” she snapped. “They’re perfectly willing to help! They’re just busy! And you had my number, not theirs.”

Her head was high, her eyes snapping. Excellent. She looked much better. Nothing like putting a man in his place to perk a woman up.

“Uh, yeah. Of course,” he murmured, suitably subdued.

She trotted up the stairs with a spring in her step that she hadn’t had before. He caught up with her, looked at the marks under her eyes that the makeup did not hide. He wanted to take her hand, offer her his arm. But her hands were clenched, knuckles white. Bracing herself.

He followed her in. She looked around. The place had been brutally trashed. Every piece of furniture had been upended, every sofa cushion and pillow slashed, every breakable thing crushed. The tiles he and Eoin had hauled in were everywhere. Lengths of lumber were scattered around like huge matchsticks. There were jagged holes in the walls. Every picture had been flung down and lay shattered on the floor. A photograph of Lucia and her three daughters smiled up from the floor, covered with shards of glass.

Nancy bent down and reached for the pieces. Her hand shook.

“Please don’t touch anything yet, ma’am,” said the evidence tech working the scene, a middle-aged woman. “It might be better if you waited outside. Until we’ve finished.”

“Oh. Um, let me just take a look,” Nancy said. “I’ll be quick.” She took a step farther into the room and let out a low cry of distress when she saw what lay at her feet. It was impossible to identify, a formless tangle of wire and chunks of broken glass and stone.

“Oh, no,” Nancy whispered. Her voice shook. “This is…this is a sculpture that Vivi did for Lucia, years ago. ‘The Three Sisters,’ she called it. It was one of Lucia’s prize possessions.” Then she turned and saw the intaglio writing table. Her hand flew up over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

The plastic cover she’d bought had been tossed aside, and the plane of the table itself smashed in. The two pieces lay collapsed in upon themselves, splintered edges ragged. The four-by-four that had been used to break it lay in the midst of the broken pieces. The jade plant was in pieces on the floor, dirt and leaves scattered everywhere.

Better judgment, common sense clamored at him, but he ignored them. He reached out and took her hand.

Nancy’s fingers curled gratefully around his. A rush of sustaining energy flooded into her body through his hand. He was so solid. An oak that would never bend or break. The romantic metaphor almost made her smile. It was lifted right out of the haunting ballad that Enid had just cut for the album, a song Nancy had finished helping mix in the studio only a few days ago. Of course, the oak in that particular folk song did break. The girl was left barefoot in the snow with an illegitimate baby in her arms. Just a little something to think about.

She stared down at the ruined table, thinking about the vast sweep of history that it had seen. Lucia’s family line and this historic table had both come to an abrupt, violent end, here in this room, within a week of each other.

As if the table could not exist without Lucia.

One thought kept coming back, circling around and around in her mind. She opened her mouth, and voiced it. “He wasn’t satisfied the first time. He’s still angry.”

Liam slanted her a cautious glance. “You think it’s the same person? From what the cop said, it’s a very different kind of crime.”

She shook her head. Anything she said was going to sound like grief-stricken rambling. She pressed her hand hard against her mouth as she stared at the ruined table, painstakingly crafted by some nameless artisan hundreds of years ago—smashed by a brain-dead hoodlum.

It felt as if someone had defaced Lucia’s grave. Ugly and vicious and very personal. She shuddered.

Liam’s hand tightened. “Want to go outside? Get some air?”

She snapped herself to attention. Shook her head.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “It really was a beautiful thing.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, exactly. A thing. On the one hand, it’s a precious heirloom. On the other, it’s just a thing. Made out of old, carved oak wood. That’s all. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“You don’t have to choose. Both things can be true at once.”

She was startled and moved by the comprehension in his eyes. She looked away quickly, but discovered that there was noplace to rest her eyes in that room that did not hurt to look upon.

“I, uh…” He stopped himself, looking doubtful.

“What?” she demanded.

“I could try to repair it,” he said slowly. “I’ve done a lot of furniture restoration. My mother was into antiques. I wouldn’t expect payment for the labor. I’d consider it a privilege to work on that thing. But even so, you might be better off contacting a specialist.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I accept,” she said.

“Not so fast,” he warned. “I couldn’t make guarantees. It’ll never be the same as before. There’s a lot of damage, and it would take a while. With something like this, I’d go one splinter at a time. You’d better talk it over with your sisters and see if you—”

“Yes,” she said, with flat finality. “I want you to do it.”

He studied her face. “Well, whatever, then. I won’t hold you to it, though. Not until you talk to your sisters.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” She glared, daring him to rescind his offer.

“Uh, okay,” he murmured. “Whatever.”

She was clutching his fingers with all her strength. Heat flooded into her face. She whipped her hand away. “Sorry.” She headed toward the kitchen. His light footfalls came after, crunching broken glass.

The kitchen was just as bad. Cupboard doors had been torn off their hinges, the cupboards’ contents hurled to the floor with a violence that had shattered the floor tiles. The table was upended, the chairs were tossed, every dish was smashed. The garbage they’d forgotten had been dragged out from under the sink, the plastic bag slashed open, its contents spread wide.

“Well. Guess I won’t have to go looking for any packing boxes,” Nancy said, her voice thin. It was such a silly thing to say. She clapped her hand over her mouth, stared down at the floor.

That was when she saw it. A crumpled piece of white bond paper, and something written on it, in Lucia’s elegant, slanted antique handwriting. She snatched it up, heart thudding. Some helpful soul had swept up the garbage for her, and thrown away this as well.