“I think I washed everything out. None of that is necessary.”

“It’s either this or I take you to the hospital.”

She frowned at him.

“Humor me, okay? That wire was full of rust. When was your last tetanus shot?”

“I’m sure it’s up-to-date. The Bureau hauls us in every three years, whether we need it or not. Look, Morrelli, I appreciate the gesture, but I really am fine.”

He uncapped the alcohol and peroxide, lined up cotton balls and pointed to the ottoman in front of him. “Sit.”

He thought she would refuse again, but perhaps she was too tired to argue. She sat down, loosened the robe’s cinch, hesitated, then let the robe drop off her shoulder while she held it tightly at her breasts.

Immediately, he found himself distracted by her smooth, creamy skin, the beginning swell of her breasts, the curve of her neck, the fresh scent of her hair and skin. He felt light-headed, and already he was hard. How could he touch her and not want to do more? It was stupid. He needed to concentrate and ignore his erection for once in his life.

About a half-dozen bloody, triangular marks marred her beautiful skin, starting on top of her shoulder and trailing down her shoulder blade and arm. Several were deep and bleeding. In one place, the skin had ripped open, leaving a gash of torn skin.

He dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the first puncture, and she jerked from the sting. However, she made no sound.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

He tried to be gentle with dabs and soft wipes. Still, she winced and grimaced beneath his touch. He cleaned each wound, hoping the alcohol would sterilize as much as it stung. Then he applied gauze and tape to those that kept bleeding.

Finally finished, he ran his open palm over the top of her shoulder and continued the slow caress down her arm, letting his hand make the journey he wished his mouth could. He felt her tremble, just slightly. Her back straightened, alerting her body to danger or responding to the electricity. His hand lingered, enjoying the sensation of silky skin. Then gently, reluctantly, he lifted the robe up over her shoulder, covering the beautiful and battered skin. She hesitated, as if surprised, as if expecting something more. Then she gathered the robe together and tightened the cinch.

“Thanks,” she said without looking back at him.

“We have several hours before morning. I thought we could rest here, by the fire. Can I get you anything…hot chocolate, brandy?”

“Brandy would be nice.” She left the ottoman and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace, leaning against a pile of pillows and tucking the robe in around her shapely legs.

“Can I get you anything to eat?”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure? I could fix some soup, maybe a sandwich.”

She smiled up at him. “Why is it that you’re always trying to feed me, Morrelli?”

“Probably because I’m not allowed to do the things I’d really like to do with you.”

Her smile disappeared while he looked into her eyes and held her gaze. The color rose in her cheeks. He was bordering on totally inappropriate behavior. Yet, all he could think about was whether she felt as hot as he did. Finally, she looked away, and he retreated to the kitchen while he was still able to move.

The photo Maggie had retrieved from her jacket pocket was creased and wrinkled. The corners curled as it dried. Lint from the robe’s pocket stuck to the glossy finish. She owed Timmy a replacement, though she didn’t know how she’d accomplish that. At least the photo hadn’t disappeared into the dark water like her cell phone. She seemed destined to lose things at the bottoms of rivers and lakes.

Nick was taking a long time in the kitchen. She wondered whether he had decided on a sandwich, after all. His last remark left her with an unsettled feeling, nothing she could even describe without using an annoying reference to butterflies. He was being a perfect gentleman. She had absolutely no reason to be concerned, even though she leaned against pillows scented with just a hint of his aftershave lotion. Even though she sat in front of his fireplace wearing nothing but his robe.

The entire time he dressed her wounds, she welcomed the sting of pain. It was the only thing that kept her mind from relishing his touch. When he finished by running his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, she was shocked to find herself waiting breathlessly, hoping for the caress to continue. Now, she wondered what it would feel like to have his big, steady hands caressing her neck, sliding gently over her shoulders and slowly down to her breasts.

She heard Nick come into the room and her hand flew to her face. Her skin was flushed again, but the fire would account for that. It would not, however, account for her shortness of breath.

She steadied herself and avoided looking up at him as he approached.

He handed her a glass of brandy, then sat next to her. He pulled his long, bare feet up underneath himself, leaning so close he brushed her shoulder.

“So, that’s the photo you told me about?” He nodded in its direction as he grabbed a handmade quilt off the sofa. He began wrapping it around their legs. He did this as though it was natural for the two of them to be curling up next to each other. The intimacy of the act immediately sent the heat from her face down to other parts of her body.

Perhaps he recognized it. Maybe he felt it. Suddenly, he looked embarrassed as he explained, “The furnace isn’t working quite right. I need to have it checked. I just didn’t expect it to get this cold in October.”

She handed him the photo. With both hands now cupped around the globe of brandy, she swirled the liquid in the glass, breathed in its sweet, stout aroma, then took a sip. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back against the soft pillows and enjoyed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Several more sips would release her from that unsettled feeling. It was during these initial light-headed moments that she understood her mother’s escape. Alcohol possessed the power to level tension and dissolve unwanted feelings. There was no pain if she couldn’t feel it. Grief didn’t exist if she was too numb to recognize it.

“I agree,” Nick said, interrupting her pleasant descent into numbness. “It is too much of a coincidence. But I can’t just haul Ray Howard in for questioning, can I?”

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. “Not Howard. Father Keller.”

“What? Are you nuts? I can’t haul in a priest. You really can’t believe a Catholic priest could kill little boys.”

“He fits the profile. I need to find out more about his background, but yes, I do think a priest is capable.”

“I don’t. It’s crazy.” He avoided her eyes and gulped his brandy. “The community would hang me by my thumbs if I hauled in a priest for questioning. Especially this Father Keller. He’s like Superman with a collar. Jesus, O’Dell, you’re way off target.”

“Just listen to me for a minute. You said yourself it looked like Danny Alverez didn’t put up a fight. Keller was someone he knew and trusted. Father Francis told us it was unlikely for a layperson post-Vatican II-which would be anyone under the age of thirty-five-to know how to administer last rites, unless that person had some training.”

“But this guy is a hero with kids. How could he do something like this and not slip up?”

“People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected anything. Look, I also found a torn piece of a baseball card in Matthew’s hand. Timmy told me earlier tonight that Father Keller trades baseball cards with them.”

Nick wiped at the wet strands on his forehead, and she could smell the same shampoo she had used upstairs. He leaned back against the pillows, set his glass on his chest and watched the last bit swirl around.