“Let me get this straight. You’re not going to check out this lead because this woman has surpassed her quota of phone calls?” O’Dell had that look in her eyes that told Nick she thought he was bordering on incompetent. He wondered whether it had anything to do with his slight distraction over Lucy’s stretched blue-and-green-knit stripes.

“Three weeks ago she called to tell us she saw Jesus in her backyard pushing a little girl on a swing set. She doesn’t even have a backyard. She lives in an apartment complex with a concrete parking lot. Lucy, are the transcripts from Jeffreys’ confession and trial here yet?”

“Max said she’d bring them over herself as soon as possible.” Lucy swayed on the spike heels, and he knew it was strictly for his benefit. “They need to make copies of everything. Max won’t let the originals out of the clerk’s office. Oh, Agent O’Dell, a Gregory Stewart called for you like three or four times. He said it was important and that you have his number.”

“Your boss checking up on you?” Nick smiled at O’Dell, who suddenly looked distraught.

“No, my husband. Is there a phone I can use?”

Nick’s smile disappeared. He glanced at her hand. No wedding ring. Yes, he was sure he had checked before, simply out of habit. She was waiting for an answer.

“You can use my office,” he said, trying to sound disinterested and shuffling through the stack of messages. “Down the hall, last door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as she disappeared around the corner, Eddie Gillick stopped beside Nick on his way to the fax machine. “Why do you look so surprised, Nick? She’s quite a catch. Why wouldn’t she be married?”

It was ridiculous. This morning at Michelle Tanner’s he had been ready to strangle her. But now he suddenly felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

The office was simple and small with a gray metal desk and matching credenza. Shelves displayed a variety of trophies-all football championships of some sort. Several pictures hung on the wall behind the desk. Maggie sank into the soft leather chair, the only extravagance in the otherwise plain office. She picked up the phone while she got a better look at the wall of honor.

There were several photos of young men clad in red and white football jerseys. One photo was obviously a young Morrelli under the sweat and dirt. He stood proudly next to an older gentleman, who, from the scratched autograph, was a Coach Osborne.

In the corner, almost hidden behind a file cabinet, hung two framed degrees collecting dust. One was from the University of Nebraska. The other was a law degree from… Maggie almost dropped the phone. The other was a law degree from Harvard University. She stood up to examine it more closely, then sat back down, embarrassed that she even, for one fleeting moment, thought it a fake, a practical joke. It was, in fact, very real.

She looked back at the football photo. Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli was certainly full of surprises. The more she learned, the more curious she became. It didn’t help matters that they seemed to spark off each other with an unhealthy amount of electricity. It was a part of Nick Morrelli’s personality. It was not, however, a part of her own, and she found it annoying.

She and Greg had always had a comfortable relationship. Even in the beginning it wasn’t so much heat or chemistry that had brought them together, but friendship and common goals. Goals that had changed over the years. And a friendship that had turned to complacency. They didn’t even extend each other the common courtesies of friendship anymore. Lately, she wondered if they had drifted apart, or if they had ever been close.

It didn’t matter. Marriage was something a person worked at, despite the changes. She believed that. She wouldn’t have made it this far if she didn’t. Now, at least, Greg had called her, made the first move toward reconciliation. That had to be a good sign.

She dialed his office and waited patiently through four, five, six rings.

“Brackman, Harvey and Lowe. How may I help you?”

“Greg Stewart, please.”

“Mr. Stewart is in a meeting, may I take a message?”

“Could you please see if you can interrupt him. This is his wife. He’s been trying to reach me all morning.”

There was a pause while the receptionist decided how unreasonable a request it was. “One moment, please.”

One moment turned into two, then three. Finally, after five minutes, Greg’s voice said, “Maggie, thank God, I got ahold of you.” His voice sounded urgent, but not remorseful. She was immediately disappointed instead of alarmed. “Why isn’t your cellular phone turned on?” Even in his urgency he had to get in a scolding.

“I forgot to recharge it. I’ll have it by this evening.”

“Well, never mind.” He sounded irritated, as if she were the one who had brought it up. “It’s your mother.” His tone automatically changed to that sympathetic one he used with clients who had just lost their case. She dug her fingernails into the leather armrest and waited for him to continue. “She’s in the hospital.”

Maggie leaned her head back, closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “What was it this time?”

“I think she might be getting serious, Maggie. She used a razor blade this time.”

Maggie hung up the phone and massaged her temples. A throbbing invaded her head, reaching down into her neck and shoulder blades. She had spent the last twenty minutes arguing with the doctor assigned to her mother’s case. He had graduated at the top of his class, the arrogant, little bastard had reassured her. Fresh out of medical school and he thought he knew it all. Well, he didn’t know her mother. He hadn’t even looked at her history yet. When Maggie recommended he call her mother’s therapist, he sounded relieved, even grateful when she gave him the name and phone number. She wondered how many people kept the name and phone number of their mother’s therapist in their memory bank.

They did agree that Maggie shouldn’t hop on the next plane to Richmond. Her mother was screaming for attention, but Maggie dropping everything and rushing to her side only seemed to reinforce the behavior. Or at least it had the last five times. Dear God, Maggie thought, one of these times her mother would succeed, if only by sheer accident. And although she agreed with Greg that razor blades were a serious advancement, the cuts- according to Dr. Boy Wonder-were horizontal, not vertical.

Maggie sank her throbbing head into the soft leather back of the chair and closed her eyes. She had been taking care of her mother since she was twelve. And what did a twelve-year-old girl, who had just lost her father, know about taking care of anyone? Sometimes she felt as though she had let her mother down, until she remembered that it was her mother who had abandoned her with her drunken stupors.

There was a soft tap on the frosted glass of the office door. Without prompting, the door eased open just enough for Morrelli to peek in.

“O’Dell, you okay in here?”

She remained paralyzed, her body scrunched down in the chair. Suddenly, legs, arms, everything seemed too heavy to move. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, but knew immediately that she didn’t sound or look very convincing.

His brow furrowed, and soft blue eyes showed concern. He hesitated, then came into the office slowly, cautiously. He set a can of Diet Pepsi in front of her. The cold condensation dripped down the side, and she wondered how long he had stood outside his own office before getting the nerve to come in.

“Thanks.” She still made no effort to move, and it obviously made Morrelli uncomfortable. He stood with arms crossed, then shoved his hands into his pockets.