Eyes rolling, her tone became long-suffering. "I'm not going anorexic, Dad."

"Good." He let out the breath he'd been holding. "I'm just saying we need to go shopping for bigger jeans." He smiled weakly. "You're growing too fast, baby. Don't you like the idea of new clothes?" The tie tack rolled in his clumsy fingers, no longer as dexterous as they once had been. "I thought all girls loved shopping."

Quickly Beth took over the task, fixing the tie tack and smoothing his tie with a practiced hand. The look he hated disappeared, replaced by a wicked grin that made her dark eyes sparkle. "I love shopping. I bet we could spend six hours in Marshall Field's alone. Sweaters and jeans and skirts. And shoes! Just think of it."

Reed shuddered, the picture abundantly clear. "Now you're just being mean."

She laughed. "Revenge for the fat comment. So you want to go shopping, Daddy?"

He shuddered again. "Frankly, a root canal without Novo-cain seems less painful. Can Aunt Lauren take you?"

"I'll ask her." Beth leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Thanks for the lunch money. Daddy. Gotta go."

Reed watched her dart away, the sloppy pup at her heels. The front door slammed as Beth headed out, the sheets on his bed still muddy from the dog she'd begged him to buy for her birthday. He knew if he wanted to sleep on clean sheets tonight, he'd best change them himself. But the smell of coffee tickled his nose. She'd remembered to flip the switch on the coffee machine, so he'd cut her slack on the puppy prints. Despite her sometimes volatile mood swings, she was a good kid.

Reed would sell his soul to make sure she stayed that way. He glanced over at the picture on his nightstand. Christine serenely stared back as she had for eleven years. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he picked up the picture and dusted the frame with the cuff of his shirt. Christine would have enjoyed Beth's coming of age, the shopping trips, the "talk." He doubted even the "look" would have phased her. Once he would have damned the world that his wife hadn't had the chance to find out. Today… he set the picture back on the nightstand so that it once again covered the dust-free strip of wood. After eleven years, the rage had become sad acceptance. What was, was. Shrugging into his suit coat, he shook himself. If he didn't hit the road soon, traffic would make him late. Coffee, Solliday, then get moving.

He was pulling out of his garage when his cell phone rang. "Solliday."

"Lieutenant Solliday?" The voice was frantic. "This is Joseph Dougherty. I just got back from a charter fishing trip and my dad said you called."

Joe Junior at last. He put the car in park and pulled out his notepad. "Mr. Dougherty. I'm sorry to have to contact you this way."

There was a heavy sigh. "Then it's true? My house is gone?"

"I'm afraid it's true. Mr. Dougherty, we found a body in the kitchen."

There was a beat of silence. "What?"

Reed wished he could have spoken to the man in person, but his shock sounded sincere. "Yes, sir. The neighbors said you had somebody watching your house."

"Y-yes. Her name is Burnette. Caitlin Burnette. She's supposed to be very responsible." Panic had taken the man's voice a little higher. "She's dead?"

Reed thought of the charred body and swallowed his sigh. Yes, she's very dead. "We're assuming the body we found was your house sitter, but we'll have to investigate before we're certain. We'd appreciate you leaving any notification of the family to us."

"Of…" He cleared his throat. "Of course."

"When will you be back in town, Mr. Dougherty?"

"We weren't supposed to come back until Friday, but we'll try to get home today. When I know our flight times, I'll call you back."

Reed tossed his phone to the passenger seat, only to have it ring again. Caller ID this time was the morgue. "Solliday."

"Reed, it's Sam Barrington." The new medical examiner. Barrington had taken over when the old ME went out on maternity leave. The old ME had been efficient, astute, and personable. Barrington… well, he was efficient and astute.

"Hey, Sam. I'm on my way into the office. What do you have?"

"Victim's a woman, early twenties. Best I can tell she was five-two, five-three."

Sam wasn't one to call with such basic information. There had to be more. "And?"

"Well, before I started to cut I did an initial X-ray of the body. I expected to see the skull in fractured fragments."

Which was the general way of things. Bodies subjected to that kind of heat… the skulls sometimes just exploded from the pressure. "But you didn't."

"No, because the bullet hole in her skull vented all the pressure."

Reed wasn't surprised. Still, now he had to share. He got the arson, the cops got the body. Too many damn cooks in the kitchen. He winced. So to speak. "Any evidence of smoke inhalation?"

"Haven't gotten that far yet," Sam said briskly. "I'm going to start the autopsy right away, so you can come by anytime this morning."

"Thanks. I will." He pulled onto his quiet tree-lined street, flipping on his wipers against the rain. It had been a while since he'd worked with Homicide, but he thought Marc Spinnelli was still the lieutenant there. Marc was a straight shooter. Reed only hoped the detective Spinnelli assigned wouldn't be a know-it-all hotshot.

Monday, November 27, 8:30 a.m.

Mia Mitchell's feet were cold. Which was really stupid, because they could be warm and toasty, propped up on her desk as she sipped her third cup of coffee. But they're not, because here I am, she thought bitterly. Standing on the sidewalk, cold rain dripping from the brim of the battered hat she wore. Staring at her own reflection in the glass doors like an idiot. She'd passed through these doors hundreds of times before but today was different. Today she was alone.

Because I froze like a damn rookie. And her partner had paid the price. Two weeks later, the moment was still enough to make her frozen. She stared at the sidewalk. Two weeks later she could still hear the crack of gunfire, see Abe crumble and fall, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading as she stood, slack-jawed and helpless.

"Excuse me."

Mia jerked her chin upward, then up again, her fist clenching against the reflex to draw her weapon, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat to focus on the reflection behind her. It was a man, at least six feet tall. His black trench coat was the same color as the neatly trimmed goatee that framed his mouth. After a beat she lifted her chin another notch to his eyes. He was staring at her from under an umbrella, dark brows furrowed.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, his voice that even, soft tone that she herself used to calm skittish suspects and witnesses. Her lips quirked up mirthlessly as his intent became clear. He thought she was some nutcase off the street. Maybe she looked that way. Either way, he'd gotten the drop on her and that was unacceptable. Pay attention for God's sake. She searched her mind for an adequate response.

"I'm fine, thanks. I'm… waiting for someone." It sounded lame, even to her own ears, but he nodded and stepped around her, pulling the door open as he closed his umbrella. Background noise filtered through the open door, and she thought that would be the end of it and him. But he didn't move. He stood, studying her face as if memorizing each detail. She considered identifying herself, but… didn't. Instead she met his scrutiny with her own, the cop part of her brain now back on full.

He was a good-looking man, darkly handsome, older than his reflection had appeared. It was his eyes, she thought.

Hard and dark. And his mouth. He looked like he never smiled. His eyes dropped to her bare hands, then lifted, his expression softer. It was compassion, she realized, and the notion had her swallowing hard.