How brave they’d been. Even as the defense attorney battered and chipped at their esteem, at their composure. Not one of the three cracked. Until the jury read the verdict and Ramey walked away a free man. They’d cracked then.

Kristen drew an unsteady breath. So had she. The crack had widened this morning when she looked down at the body of Anthony Ramey, his pelvis blown away.

What she’d felt had not been outrage for Ramey the victim nor a sense of loss for his family. She’d denied the feeling standing there with Mitchell and Reagan, but later, alone she could admit it to herself. It was quite simply… satisfaction. And gratitude.

Their humble servant killed a man who didn’t deserve to live, whose death she refused to mourn. It was wrong, but human. And she was still human, after all. After everything.

Mitchell’s dark sedan pulled up in front of her, parking along the curb and Kristen watched the passenger door open and Reagan step out, straighten his body, then his tie. Her throat thickened as her eyes noted his wide shoulders, trim body, the faintest shadow of a beard on his cheeks and she swallowed hard. Yes, she was still human.

Reagan glanced up the hill at the house, then without warning turned his eyes on her. Her heart stuttered and skipped a beat as the tips of his dark hair lifted and the hem of his unbuttoned overcoat tossed in the wind. He made quite a picture, she was forced to admit.

Which forced her to admit something else. Her blood really could still rush, her pulse could still pound from something other than fear. Which was ridiculous. Especially ridiculous was the way she could never seem to look away from his eyes, she thought, so she did just that, opening her door just as he arrived to open it for her. She climbed out on her own, shaking her head politely at his outstretched hand. „I’m fine,“ she said aloud. „What’s new?“

Mia waited by the sidewalk. „We’ve informed the next of kin. They’ll be coming to identify the bodies over the next few hours. King’s mother wailed loud enough to break my eardrums and Ramey’s girlfriend nearly ripped Abe’s pretty face with her finger-claws.“

Abe rolled his eyes at the reference to his pretty face. Which it was.

„And our Blade friends?“ Kristen asked.

„We found next of kin of two of the three. Nobody seems to know anything about the third.“ Mia frowned. „The girlfriend of one swears she was with him on January 12, but that he was missing the next day. The second one’s brother swears he was home January 20, but that he was missing the next day. A full week apart.“

Abe shrugged. „Hopefully the ME can give us a reasonable estimate of time of death.“ He looked up the hill. „Are we ready?“

„What are you going to ask Mrs. Whitman?“ Kristen asked. „You don’t have a time of death on any of them yet, so we’re not asking her to provide an alibi.“

„Yet,“ Reagan answered. „I’m more interested in her reaction to the news.“

„I wouldn’t expect tears,“ Kristen said flatly.

„Of sorrow?“

„Of any kind. Sylvia Whitman’s not the tears type.“ Kristen squared her shoulders. „Let’s get this over with.“ Mia and Reagan stood back, allowing Kristen to ring the bell. Sylvia Whitman opened the door, her expression one of contempt, but not of surprise.

„You don’t seem surprised to see me, Mrs. Whitman,“ Kristen said quietly.

„Because I am not.“ The older woman stepped back. „Come in, if you must.“

As welcomes went, that one left a lot to be desired, Abe thought, but at least Whitman hadn’t ordered them to go. In the car on the way over, Mia had filled him in on the aftereffects of the trial, of the scathing letters Mr. Whitman had written to Kristen’s boss demanding she be fired for incompetence.

That Kristen still felt guilty for not convicting Ramey had been clear as she’d stood on the street, her dread almost palpable as she’d stared up at the house. But once inside, she was composed, her face as still as Whitman’s, and Abe had to give her credit for that.

„Forgive me if I don’t offer you tea,“ Mrs. Whitman said, leading them into the living room, and Abe chose a chair that gave him a good view of Whitman’s face. He’d been serious last night when he’d said one of the original victims could have killed all the men. Original was how he now thought of the eleven names inscribed in marble. That the five dead men deserved their fate didn’t change the fact they’d been murdered. One of the originals could have masterminded the whole plot, taking out a few other deserving accused felons on the way. What an ironic dilemma for the prosecution.

Sitting, Kristen folded her hands together in her lap. „These are Detectives Reagan and Mitchell. Mrs. Whitman, why aren’t you surprised to see me?“ she asked levelly and Abe felt a spurt of pride on her behalf.

Pursing her lips, Mrs. Whitman rose to her feet and retrieved an envelope from a desk. More envelopes, Abe thought. Without a word she handed the envelope to Kristen, who slid the letter out and, holding it by one corner, scanned it, and sighed.

„‘My dear Mrs. Whitman,’“ she read, „‘what you have suffered defies articulation, so I will make no attempts to do so. I want you to know your tormentor has received justice at long last. He is dead. This doesn’t begin to restore what you’ve lost, but I hope you can now go on with your life.’“ She looked up. „ ‘Your Humble Servant’.“

„So it’s true?“ Whitman asked. „Ramey is dead?“

Kristen nodded. „Yes. When did you receive this letter, Mrs. Whitman? And how?“

„It was on the welcome mat under my newspaper this morning.“

After Kristen had found the offerings in her trunk, Abe thought. The timing was interesting, the method of delivery conveniently untraceable. He’d bet they’d find no prints on the letter or its envelope, but they could get delivery time from the paperboy. „Was there anything else with the letter?“ Abe asked and Whitman met his eyes unflinchingly.

„No. Just the letter and the envelope. Why?“

Kristen slid the letter in the envelope and handed it to Mia. „The detectives will need you to verify your whereabouts at the time of Ramey’s death, Mrs. Whitman.“

Mia bagged the letter. „We’d be grateful if you and your husband would come down to the station and provide us with fingerprints. Then we can separate yours from the letter writer’s.“

„I’ll save you the trouble, Detectives,“ Whitman said entirely too softly. „If Ramey was killed at night, I was here alone. I’ve no one to corroborate my alibi. I didn’t kill him, but I salute the man who did.“

„And Mr. Whitman?“ Kristen asked.

„He’s gone.“ For a moment Abe thought Whitman’s composure might crack, but with a deep breath she held it together. „He filed for divorce a year after the trial.“

„We’ll need his address, ma’am,“ he said. Whitman’s eyes flashed with pain and anger and humiliation, and Abe felt a stirring of pity. „I’m sorry.“

Thursday, February 19,

6:00 p.m.

If the interviews with Sylvia Whitman and Janet Briggs had been stiff and formal, the conversation with Eileen Dorsey and her husband had been anything but. Kristen’s ears still rang from the shouting. Her heart still raced like a wild thing in her chest.

„Well, that was pleasant,“ Mia said, rubbing her forehead wearily.

Kristen leaned back against her rental car, barely controlling her trembling.

Reagan’s voice came rumbling from just behind her. „Are you going to be all right, Kristen?“ She let the sound of his voice, his very nearness, seep in. Felt the trembling begin to subside. Didn’t let herself think about how or why he made her feel so safe. For now she’d just take what he offered and leave it at that.

She threw Reagan a weak smile. „I’ll be fine. But I’m grateful you were there. Having two armed detectives certainly helped diffuse them. At least we know they own a gun.“