His appetite disappeared. „No, she didn’t.“ In fact, she hadn’t been able to get out of the SUV fast enough. The hours after they’d driven away from the Restons’ house had been awkward, to say the least. She’d pulled back into herself, saying nothing until they reached the house of the first child killed by the gang’s gunfire. Then it was all business. And not once did she call him Abe. They talked to the families of the slain children, endured more anger and accusation, retrieved two more letters from their humble servant, then he’d driven her back to the courthouse in silence, thick and heavy.

She hadn’t called him about Richardson, hadn’t trusted him. It hurt. But it had been interest he’d seen in her eyes, sitting there in front of the Restons’ house. Interest and heat. He’d been a heartbeat away from kissing her, right there in front of the Restons’ house, which would have been completely unacceptable. Unprofessional. Probably wonderful.

But she’d pulled away. She was afraid, he knew. So am I, he thought. But Kristen’s fear ran deeper and he was afraid to contemplate its source, because he thought he knew. And if he was right, they had one hell of a long row to hoe.

I have to be insane to even consider having any rows with Kristen Mayhew, he thought. So why am I? Because she had pluck and courage. Green eyes and subtle curves. A quick mind and quiet grace. And a laugh that made him catch his breath.

Maybe it was just because she was a nice person. Maybe it didn’t have to be any more complicated than that Kristen Mayhew was a beautiful woman and a nice person.

Bullshit. It was way more complicated than that.

Mia finished her burger in thoughtful silence. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, then folded it into a tiny square. „I’ve known Kristen for a long time, probably about as well as anyone knows her,“ she finally said. He looked up and saw understanding in Mia’s blue eyes and felt his cheeks heat. „But nobody really knows her that well,“ she went on. „She’s always been a bit of a loner.“ She frowned. „They call her the Ice Queen in the locker room, which is so totally unfair.“

Abe remembered the anguish in her eyes when the mother broke down in the Restons’ living room, how Kristen had never uttered a word in her own defense when the parents’ words had been cruelly accusing. The way she’d said the victims „never, ever forget“ just before they’d gone in. No one who had seen what he’d seen could ever conceivably call her icy and cold.

„Yes, that is very unfair.“ His voice was calm. Much calmer than he felt. Kristen Mayhew brought out something in him that he hadn’t felt in years, the fierce desire to protect, to take care of anyone that hurt her.

The killer felt the same way. The realization was sudden and clear. That’s why he’d targeted her for his gifts, why he watched her in her own home.

„The killer knows her,“ he said.

Mia looked puzzled. „We know that.“

„No, he knows her. He’s seen her interact with the people, the victims.“ The compassion, the anguish. „And he doesn’t hate her.“

„What do you mean?“

Abe leaned forward, intense. „I watched her with all these victims and their families for the last two days. They’re aloof at a minimum, hostile at the most extreme.“

„Like Stan Dorsey.“

„Yeah. But no one was warm, certainly not admiring.“ Not even Les Littleton, who she’d gone out of her way to help and who still damned her in his pathetic misery.

Mia’s eyes lit up. „So either she didn’t represent them, or she didn’t lose.“

„He lost,“ Abe said, „regardless if Kristen represented him or not. Remember what Westphalen said. And my gut says he’s connected to Kristen in a real way, more than just seeing her on television. He’s met her in person, I’m certain of it. I wonder if we could find any victim who’d lost in court that didn’t blame her.“

Mia tilted her head, considering. „She gave us the list of all the cases she lost. I wonder if she noted customer satisfaction in that database of hers.“

Abe picked up the phone. „One way to find out.“

Friday, February 20,

2:00 P.M.

The man who’d originally built his house played the trumpet. The man’s wife apparently held little appreciation for her husband’s musical gifts and insisted he either give up the trumpet or soundproof the basement.

He carefully pushed the basement door closed behind him.

Luckily for him, the man had really loved his trumpet. Without the soundproofing he most certainly would have been reported by a neighbor by now.

But now, there was no sound. Skinner was dead. Rigor mortis had come and gone, leaving the body limp. He approached the body, wishing a man could be killed twice. In Skinner’s case, perhaps a hundred times. The bastard had made a career of defending scum who preyed on the innocent. Skinner’s eight-bedroom house on the North Shore, his luxury cars, the fancy private schools for his children – all were bought with blood money, all paid for by the suffering of the innocent and the vile pandering of the guilty.

He drew his pistol from the drawer, knowing it was impossible to kill a man twice, knowing he’d have to be satisfied with the symbolic gesture. With little fanfare he centered the barrel of the pistol on Skinner’s forehead.

Pulled the trigger. And nodded once. It was done. And done well.

Just a few details to wrap it up, and he’d be ready to visit Leah’s fishbowl once again. He pulled on his gloves and prepared to divest Mr. Skinner of his Armani suit After all, Skinner would find it unbearably hot when he arrived at his final destination.

Friday, February 20,

2:15 P.M.

Kristen and Jack watched Julia pull the linen string from Ross King’s torso. Her appointment completed, she’d come down to watch Julia autopsy King. Hell, if an autopsy couldn’t clear her mind, nothing could. She’d met Jack on the way in, his face grim. He’d found nothing new on the clothes or crates or dirt from the gravesites. He was there to find anything to point him toward another lab test that might turn up something.

And because he has a thing for Julia, Kristen thought. Too bad everybody knows it but Julia.

„Whoever did this sure as hell knew what they were doing,“ Julia said. „Nice, neat stitches, even placement, no tearing.“ She looked up and met Kristen’s gaze, her eyes distorted by the goggles she wore. „He’s either a doctor or queen of the quilting bee.“

„Or a hunter,“ Jack added from where he stood on Kristen’s right. He shrugged when Kristen and Julia looked at him in surprise. „I used to hunt with my uncle. Lots of deer and ducks. He could dress a duck with nicer stitches than a surgeon.“

„It explains the clean incision,“ Julia remarked, looking back down at the body.

Kristen moved closer, watching Julia’s gloved hands. „What do you mean?“

Julia pulled back a flap of King’s skin. „There aren’t any indications of hesitation.“

„No jagged edges,“ Jack said and Julia nodded.

„Exactly. The incision only goes as deep as it has to.“

She pulled both flaps back, exposing the anatomy beneath. „There’s no damage to the organs… from the knife anyway. Here’s where the bullet went in. Whoever did this was damn good with a knife. I wouldn’t have thought of a hunter, but you could be right.“

„It’s a possibility.“ The deep voice behind her set off warning bells in her head, and she had barely a moment to compose herself before turning to find Reagan standing in the doorway. Filling the doorway, Mia barely visible behind him. Awareness buzzed between them and the morning memory still burning, Kristen looked away.