Now they were all dead.

She managed to draw a breath.

You are normal. Nominal. Capable.

She resisted the urge to go to the sink and wash.

"Oh, G.o.d, Eleanor. How?"

"He was murdered, Sam. A carjacking, at the Navy Yard."

"But he was always so careful... ." The Donovan she knew was careful. Perhaps the latter Donovan wasn't. Maybe he was careless, and took chances he shouldn't have.

"He was careful. Susan, his wife, said he'd gotten called to work. But it was a safe area. Hasn't had a shooting in years. He was shot in the head."

Eleanor broke off with a sob.

"Eleanor..."

Sam heard a ragged breath, realized she was holding her own.

Oh, Donovan. What happened?

"I'm okay. It's been a horrible couple of days, but I'm managing. I always knew this could happen when he was overseas. I never expected it once he was home safe. But, Sam, I have a favor to ask. I will understand completely if you say no. I can't imagine it would be an easy thing."

"What do you need, Eleanor? You know I'll do anything I can."

The older woman sighed, and spoke softly, as if imparting a terrible secret.

"I need you to come up here and redo his autopsy. I don't believe the police are telling me the whole truth about what happened to my boy."

Chapter Four.

Nashville, Tennessee

Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam was surprised by how clinical her own voice sounded.

"I'm sure the medical examiner did everything right, Eleanor. The police in D.C., too-they see this all the time. I could look over the report-"

"No. Sam, listen to me. The police are saying this was a random shooting. They have no suspects. They aren't closing the investigation, but they practically told me that finding his killer is like looking for a needle in a haystack. I don't believe that, not for a second. Eddie was working on something. He was withdrawn, quiet, distracted. I don't believe he was gunned down by some random drug dealer. I think he was deliberately ambushed and murdered."

Sam sat at the kitchen table, her scotch forgotten on the counter.

"Eleanor. You have no proof. You can request a second autopsy from a private pathologist-that's your right. But think about what you're saying."

"Think about what you're saying, Sam. How could you even doubt me? That man was as edgy as a newborn foal. He was always on alert-that's what made him such a good soldier. He saved too many lives to count because of that nervous edge. I can't believe for a second that he'd let his guard down. He never has. The war changed him, Sam. He wasn't the same man you knew."

Eleanor's voice softened. "If you can't do it because of what happened, I truly understand. But something isn't right here. Eddie was so aware, so on, all the time. I can't imagine he'd allow himself to be ambushed by a thug."

She's right, Sam. You know that. Donovan was the cautious one. He was the one who held back when you were willing to plunge headlong off the cliff with him, run away and forget the world. He held back.

And now he was dead.

"I'm not an investigator, Eleanor. All I can do is look at the facts the body reveals."

The body. Jesus, Sam, he was your lover, and you're referring to him as the body.

"Call it a mother's instinct, Sam. Please."

A mother's instinct. Possibly the strongest force of nature in the known world. Sam knew what that was like, once. She shoved her emotions back into their cage, locked the door and sighed.

"All right, Eleanor. I'll be up there in the morning. Call the homicide detective a.s.signed to the case and tell him to all stop, that you're requesting a secondary protocol autopsy be performed by a private pathologist. We'll see if your hunch is correct."

"Thank you, Sam. So much. I can't begin to tell you how much."

She hated this. Hated it like h.e.l.l.

"Just be prepared for the truth, Eleanor. Sometimes it disappoints us all."

Sam hung up the phone and stared off into the distance. Memories rushed at her like starved wild animals, all competing for her attention, tearing away bits of her skin. Donovan on Key Bridge, the wind blowing his sandy-blond hair into her eyes as they kissed, the lights of D.C. spread before them. The look on his face when he came to tell her he was reenlisting. Slow dancing to Dire Straits' "Romeo and Juliet." The horror she'd felt when she realized he was ending their relationship. The pride she felt when she saw him in his uniform the first time. Their first date, at Charing Cross, the wonderful Italian food, then running down the street to Nathan's for a nightcap, a new band called Nirvana blasting from the speakers.

With the lights out, it's less dangerous... .

All that emotion, tucked away for so long. She had a moment of nausea, swirling in her stomach, overwhelming and immediate. She bolted for the bathroom. Got sick. Slid to the floor by the toilet, put her arms on her knees and buried her face in them. Stayed curled on the floor of the bathroom for an hour, fighting with her mind.

She finally rose, exhausted. She'd wrestled the demons back into their rightful place. Her eyes were dry. Tears were unfamiliar to her. She hadn't been able to cry for a very long time.

Numb.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.

She went to pack.

Donovan. You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You weren't supposed to die, too.

Chapter Five.

Washington, D.C.

Georgetown

Jennifer Jill Lyons

There was a light on in the house across the street. The top floor. A single window glowed behind the drawn blinds. Shadows-one, two-moved past the light.

Jennifer set her book in her lap and watched. She wasn't supposed to be awake. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. But she couldn't sleep. She was too excited. Tomorrow was her sixth birthday. Today, actually. She was already six, but it wouldn't count until 6:25 a.m. That's when she was actually born, took her first breath. At 6:25 on the dot there would be cake for breakfast, a family tradition, and tonight, a small party with her cousins and siblings. She'd asked for riding lessons and hoped that her mother would allow such a thing.

She wondered about the people across the street, why they were awake so late, as well. Perhaps they had a birthday tomorrow, too?

The light went out. Darkness crawled across the street, deafening and slick, and she was suddenly afraid. There was a brief spark in the window across the street, triangular, flashing out, then gone. Like a shooting star.

Moments later, she saw a shadow move around the corner of the house and walk away up the street. Something felt bad. "Mommy!"

Feet shuffled, and her mother's warm, cinnamon scent preceded her into the room.

"What's wrong, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?"

She gathered Jennifer into her arms. The tattered paperback fell to the floor. Her mother picked it up and sighed deeply.

"Jennifer Jill, how many times have I told you not to read that gruesome stuff in the middle of the night? Ghost Story? That's not a book for a girl your age, even if you can read it. Did your brother give it to you?"

"Yes, Mommy. But, Mommy-"

"No. None of that. It's just your imagination, all stirred up. Get back in bed and go to sleep."

"But, Mommy, I saw-"

"Jen, honey. Stop. It's late."

Jennifer knew that tone. It was the one that made her close her mouth and climb into bed. There would be no more comfort from her mother tonight.

"Good girl. Do you want me to leave the closet light on?"

"Yes, please. Night, Mommy."

She let her mother kiss her briefly on the cheek and watched her leave the room, flicking on the closet light as she left. Jennifer rolled over, wondering. The flash was like a shooting star, there one moment, gone the next, quick as a blink. What had made a shooting star in the room across the street? Who had made it? Maybe it was from the tip of a wand, like in Harry Potter. She wished she could have that kind of power.

A star.

Her voice was soft, a gentle singsong. She'd gotten herself to sleep this way many times before.

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."

Chapter Six.

Georgetown

Detective Darren Fletcher

Darren Fletcher hated when the schedule rotation put him on the overnight shift. He was supposed to get off at 6:00 a.m., but it never failed-nights there was a murder, and that was more often than he liked, he always got the call around 4:00 a.m. Which meant that after spending ten hours on he'd have to pull another five or six. Yes, it was overtime, but he was a creature of habit. Losing sleep made him cranky.

And he was cranky right now. It was 4:13 in the morning. He was nursing a rapidly cooling cup of coffee from the Dunkin' Donuts down the street, and staring into the empty eyes of a dead man.

A man who had three eyes, if you wanted to be specific, because he'd been shot cleanly through the forehead, with an accompanying shot to the chest.

Kill shots.

Fletcher had no idea which was the fatal injury, though he was willing to guess it was the head, because there was a tidy pool of blood under the man's chest and neck, which told him the body had been dropped with the chest shot, the bullet to the head delivered as the coup de grace. The man had crumpled into a nice heap, his right leg bent under him as if he were trying to turn and flee.