She waved. "Y'all, too."

Then they were gone.

As she moved through the balmy, blossom-scented air, she sensed that the mood of the city was in perfect harmony with her own. She savored the pleasant jolt of her rollerblades on the uneven pavement, all cracks and cobbles, and the warm glow of old-fashioned gaslight. The swoosh of crepe myrtles in the healing westerly breeze. Even the darkening alleys radiated with crystal moonlight. Everyone she met on the streets seemed content and carefree.

Cocoa pulled her along, gasping merrily. He knew their nighttime route by heart.

On King Street, they encountered a line of people in evening wear-black tuxes, pink and red silk. Ladies holding their hems high as they crossed from a black limo up a flight of marble stairs, their escorts ushering them into the regal and brightly lit house.

It was just one of the many parties the city always seemed to be hosting.

Cocoa trotted along South Battery toward the Confederate Memorial. She smiled, remembering Logan's superhuman leap onto its pedestal.

She stood under the monument and, for the first time in her life, really looked at the thing. A muscled man in nothing but a fig leaf clutched sword and shield like an ancient gladiator, while a tall Valkyrie in a winged helmet and flowing robe loomed behind him, her hand raised in greeting, or possibly protection, or even to administer a blessing.

She heard footsteps over her shoulder and turned.

A thick, bald man, his round cheek distorted by an upward twist of the lips-his best attempt at a smile. He stood close. Too close. And made no secret of scrutinizing her.

He wore a rumpled, dark linen suit, and a stubby cigar smoldered between his equally stubby fingers. The smell made her stomach churn.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

He puffed on his cigar. "Not yet you don't."

The leash stiffened as Cocoa strained forward.

A group of tourists ambled through the trees, gazing up at the monument. From their laughter and the way they wobbled, she could see they'd had plenty to drink. Cocoa let out a bark.

"Stop that," she said, then took advantage of the new arrivals to break contact with the bald man.

Skating onto Murray Boulevard, she tugged the leash and Cocoa fell into step. Glancing back, she saw the man following, so she put on speed all the way to King Street, cutting the turn sharply. Cocoa charged ahead. The man's silhouette grew smaller, but he was cutting diagonally across the park. Toward her.

Is this the man who's been stalking me? Prickly tingles raced up her spine.

In an instant, the city's vibe transformed. The moon hid behind clouds, plunging the side lanes into shadow. The partygoers were off the street, their doors firmly shut.

She glanced back again and missed seeing the fissure in the sidewalk. Her skates caught, wrenching her foot sideways. She tried to compensate but landed on knees and palms, barely managing to keep hold of the leash.

Cocoa pulled up short, torquing her foot even more.

Gasping, she rolled to a sitting position, grabbing her throbbing ankle.

The man crossed South Battery, still heading her way. As he passed under a streetlight, a cloud of smoke swirled around his head.

Ignoring her ankle and her skinned knees and palms, she scrounged in her bag for her phone.

"Are you all right?"

She glanced up, momentarily dazzled by the streetlight overhead. A pair of teenage girls decked out in party dresses and costume jewelry clip-clopped toward her. One of them hunched over Cocoa, cooing and caressing.

The other one, big-boned and orange from sunless tanner, helped Rylee to her feet. "You didn't break anything, did you?"

Rylee put some weight on the ankle. "No. It's fine."

The other girl started laughing as Cocoa licked at her face, dodging his tongue as best she could. "He's so sweet. What do you call him?"

Before Rylee could answer, the girl who'd helped her up gripped Rylee's arm, staring at something behind them. Rylee whipped around.

Cigar smoke enveloped them, filling the air with the scent of decay and dried leaves.

He stood twenty feet away, a look of satisfaction on his rounded features. "I guess this makes me the tortoise and you the hare."

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" she snapped.

The two girls glanced at each other, stiff as plastic dolls, while Cocoa moved closer to Rylee's unsteady feet.

"You got me all wrong, little lady. I'm not here to stir the pot. I just figured it was about time I got a look at you. And it was quite a look." His eyes sparked, appreciative and threatening. "Now there's a favor I want from you."

"I'm not doing anything for you."

He chuckled. "We'll see." He took a puff on his cigar, cinders glowing in response. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk in front of these ladies."

The girls backpedaled in baby steps, but Rylee stopped them with a pleading look. The orange one stood firm, her friend cowering behind her.

Rylee adjusted the leash in her hand. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He shrugged. "Last Tuesday, around two o'clock, you were in the yard at the Petries' house, and George Pendergrass was there with you. The two of you had a nice little chat."

She felt a surge of defiance welling up. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

The man turned, flicking his cigar butt into the street, where it sparked into ash and ember. "I'm telling you. You were with George Pendergrass on Tuesday at two. If anybody comes asking, you tell them so."

He disappeared down the street, leaving the three women and the Lab alone. They took a moment to catch their collective breath, nervous smiles all around.

"Thanks for staying."

The girls nodded. "Who was that guy?"

She glanced into the darkness that had swallowed him. "I have no idea. But I bet I know someone who might."

Chapter Thirteen.

After returning Cocoa to the now-empty house, Rylee pulled off her rollerblades to examine her ankle. A bit of tenderness, but it seemed okay. Her hands and knees were pretty skinned up, though. Painful to touch.

She'd been afraid at first, but now she was just angry. As soon as she got to her car, she was going to call Logan and find out just who that guy was. After all the criminals he'd told her about at lunch, she felt sure he'd be able to find out.

She locked the Bosticks' door and headed down the street. She'd parked Daisy a block away, thinking nothing of the distance until she was halfway between the house and car. The alley suddenly seemed to stretch indefinitely, the darkness full of danger.

She set a brisk pace, her keys bristling between the fingers of her balled fist, her other hand clutching her phone, ready to dial Logan's number when she reached the safety of her car.

She made it to Daisy without incident, pulling the creaky driver's door open and slinging her bag into the passenger seat. The dome light had long since burned out. When she dropped into the seat, she felt something sharp stabbing against the back of her thigh. She sprang up, brushing a shard of glass off her capris.

Squinting into the car, she saw a jagged hole where the passenger window had been. Someone had broken into Daisy.

She glanced up and down the street. Wind crept through the treetops. Otherwise everything was still. Too still. Goose bumps raised along her bare arms. She felt eyes in the darkness, watching.

A song began to silently play in her head. Her go-to song when she had no dog at her side and needed extra confidence. The same one Maria von Trapp sang when she was about to meet her seven charges.

I have confidence in sunshine. I have confidence in rain. . . .

She retrieved her messenger bag gingerly, wiping the studded glass away. The passenger seat sparkled with fragments. Digging inside the bag, she groped for her flashlight.

. . . I have confidence that spring will come again. . . .

With the flick of a button, the flashlight came to life. She pointed it into the neighboring shadows. Nothing but cobblestones and vines. No one lurking in wait. She bathed the car's interior in cold white light. The glove compartment hung open, all its contents strewn on the floor. The cds clipped to her visor were gone.

. . . Besides which you see, I have confidence in me. . . .

In the backseat, her gym bag was unzipped, its contents dumped. She moved the beam of light over them.

. . . Strength doesn't lie in numbers. Strength doesn't lie in- The song in her head came to an abrupt end. Something was missing.

She turned the bag over. It was empty. Her underthings were gone.

In spite of the warm night, she shivered on the curb, then glanced back toward the Bosticks. The distance yawned in darkness. She had no desire to plunge into it. Besides, going back would solve nothing.

Every instinct she had was screaming at her to dial 9-1-1. But the detective's words echoed in her mind.

Don't call us. We'll call you.

She thumbed through her saved numbers for Logan's. His phone rang forever before he finally picked up.

"Well, hello." His voice was low. Husky. Pleased.

She found she couldn't speak.

"Rylee?" His tone changed. "Hello? Rylee?"

"Some sick pervert broke into my car." She barely recognized her own voice.

"What? Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Meeting Street. Down the block from the Bosticks' house. Cocoa. And my car. It's . . ." Her words stacked up at the back of her throat.

"Do you have a dog with you?"

"No."

"You're alone?"

"Yes."

"Get back to the Bosticks'. Go to the house and lock yourself in. Now. And don't hang up. Stay on the line." On the other end of the phone, she heard doors slamming and footsteps pounding. His breath quickened.

"Logan, there was this guy earlier-"

"Do it! Now!"

She closed Daisy's door, even locked it, then realized the futility of the gesture. Glancing around, she saw nothing. But that didn't mean someone wasn't out there.

"Are you moving, Rylee? Tell me you're moving."

She hitched the messenger bag over her shoulder and started walking. "I'm moving."

"How much farther?"

She heard his car ding, as if he'd inserted the keys before closing his door. The engine started. A blast of guitar, a crash of drum and cymbal, and then the music switched off. "How far are you from the house?"

"Four doors down." She picked up the pace.

"Anybody behind you?"

She turned around, walked three steps back, then faced forward.

"Not that I can see."

Squealing tires on his end of the line. The throaty roar of German engineering. "How many more houses?"

"One."

"What's taking so long?"

"I twisted my ankle."

"You're hurt? You didn't say you were hurt!"

She reached the Bosticks' front door. "I'm here."

"Good. That's good. Now go inside and lock the door. As soon as we hang up, you call the police."