"Well, if you need a place to warm up, there's room at the shelter on Grand. They might be able to get you some gloves. Be careful. It's cold outside." He hesitated, then held out his umbrella. "Stay dry."

Too stunned to speak, she took it. Her mouth opened to set him straight, but he was gone, hurrying across the lobby. He stopped at the desk sergeant's station and pointed at her. The desk sergeant blinked once, then nodded soberly.

Hell, Tommy Polanski was at the desk this morning. He'd known her since she was a snot-nosed kid tagging behind her dad at the firing range, begging for a turn. But Tommy didn't say a word, just let the man walk away thinking she was some street person. Rolling her eyes, she followed the path the man had taken, scowling when a broad grin took over Tommy's face.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't Detective Mia Mitchell, finally come back to do an honest day's work."

She took off her hat, shook it dry. "Got tired of the soaps. How's it going, Tommy?"

He shrugged. "Same old, same old." But his eyes twinkled.

He was going to make her ask, the old bastard. "So who was that guy?"

Tommy laughed. "He's a fire marshal. He was worried you were planning to storm the place. I told him you were a regular"-his grin went wicked-"and harmless overall."

Mia rolled her eyes again. "Gee, thanks, Tommy," she said dryly.

"Anything for Bobby's girl." His grin faded, his eyes giving her a head to toe once-over. "How's the shoulder, kid?"

She flexed it inside her leather jacket. "Just a graze. Doc says I'm good as new." Actually it hadn't been a graze and the doctor had said she needed another week on disability, but at her growl he'd shrugged and signed her release form.

"And Abe?"

"Getting better." So the night nurse said, every night when Mia called anonymously at three a.m.

Tommy's jaw stiffened. "We'll catch the punk that did this, Mia. Don't worry."

Two weeks later and the little punk bastard that shot her partner was still on the streets, no doubt boasting how he took down a cop twice his size. A wave of rage hit her hard, but she bit it back. "I know. Thanks."

"Tell Abe I said hi."

"I will," she lied smoothly. "I need to go. I don't want to be late my first day back."

"Mia." Tommy hesitated. "I'm sorry about your father. He was a good cop."

A good cop. Mia bit the inside of her cheek. Too bad Bobby Mitchell hadn't been a better man. "Thanks, Tommy. My mom appreciated the basket." Fruit baskets filled the kitchen table of her mother's small house, tokens of respect for her father's long, long career. Three weeks after her father stroked out, the fruit in the baskets was going rotten. A fitting end, many would say. No, many wouldn't. Because many didn't know.

But Mia knew. A hard knot filled her throat and she shoved her hat back on her head. "I gotta go." She passed the elevator and took the stairs two at a time, which unfortunately brought her toward the very place she'd been avoiding all the faster.

Monday, November 27, 8:40 a.m.

He worked in brisk silence, sliding the razor blade down the straight edge of the ruler, trimming the ragged edges from the article he'd pulled from the Trib. fire destroys home, kills one. It was a small article, with no photograph, but it did mention the home belonged to the Doughertys so it would be a good addition to his scrapbook. He sat back and looked at the account of Saturday night's fire and his mouth curved.

He'd achieved the effect he'd wanted. There was fear in the words of the neighbors the reporter had interviewed. Why? they'd asked. Who could do such a thing?

Me. That was the answer, all the answer he needed. I could. I would. I did.

The reporter had interviewed old lady Richter. She'd been one of the worst of the geezers, always dropping in on old lady Dougherty for tea, gossiping for hours. She was always looking down her nose at them. "I don't know what you're thinking about, Laura," she'd say with a sniff. "Taking in those kind of boys. It's a wonder you haven't been murdered in your sleep by now." Old lady Dougherty would tell her that she was making a difference in her boys' lives. She'd made a difference, all right. Her difference had sent them straight to hell. Her difference had killed Shane.

Shane had trusted her. And she'd turned on him. She was as guilty of his death as if she'd stabbed him in the back herself. He looked down at his hand. It was fisted, the X-Acto blade clutched like a knife. He carefully put it down, reined in the emotion.

Stick to the facts, the plan. He needed to find old lady Dougherty. He should have waited for her to return. To go ahead without her had been foolish. He'd been too eager to use the means. He'd forgotten about the end.

When would she return? How the hell would he find her now? His eyes settled on the article once more. Old lady Richter had been a gossip then. Some things didn't change. When the Doughertys came back, she'd know. He smiled, a plan starting to form. He was clever enough to get the information without Richter suspecting a thing.

He studied the article, pride bubbling deep within him. The fire investigators had ruled it arson. Duh. But they had no leads, no suspects. They didn't even know the identity of the girl yet. They claimed they were withholding her identity pending notification of her family, but they couldn't know who she was. She'd been burned to a crisp. He'd seen to that. No body could have survived that fire.

His hands went still. He'd said those same words the day Shane died. Nobody could have survived. And Shane had not. That the girl had not was… fair.

He gave a hard nod to the newspaper clipping he held in his hands. Nice, straight edges. Suitable for framing. Instead, he slid it between the pages of the book on his desk along with the article he'd cut just as carefully from the Springdale, Indiana, Gazette, thanksgiving night fire leaves two dead. As they should be. Again, it was fair. More than fair. Again, no suspects. No leads. As it should be.

Later, he'd put both articles with the souvenir he'd taken, Caitlin's blue denim purse. Well, it had been blue. Now it was red, splattered with her blood.

He'd been splattered, too. Luckily he'd been able to shower and change before anyone saw the blood on his clothes. Next time, he'd have to take better precautions. Next time he'd need to cover his own clothes before drawing blood.

He stood up. Because he would draw blood again, very soon. He knew exactly where to find Miss. Penny Hill. People thought their addresses were secret because their telephone number was unlisted. Not so. If a person knew how, they could find out anything about anybody. Of course the person searching had to be smart.

And I am. He was already starting to feel the excitement of the next kill. Penny Hill would not die easily. He would not be so merciful this time. Time. Damn. He'd lost track of time. He gathered his things. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late. He needed to make it through the day, then tonight… He'd walked through his plan last night, made sure it was foolproof. Tonight… he smiled.

She would suffer. And she'd know why. Then she'd count to ten, one for each miserable year of his brother's life. Then he'd send her to hell where she belonged.

Monday, November 27, 8:50 a.m.

Mia rounded the corner to the Homicide bullpen. It looked the same-pairs of desks back to back, piled with papers and coffee cups. Except for two. Hers and Abe's. She frowned. Their desks were clean, their folders in neat stacks. Everything else was arranged with an eerie symmetry-coffee cups, telephones, staplers, even their pens were placed in identical mirror-image locations.