He shrugged. "I have no idea. I thought maybe you did."

They turned around and headed back toward the Davidsons'. Her explanation rang with honesty, a fingernail striking crystal. All of a sudden, he felt incredibly stupid. Not for giving credence to Nate's crackpot theories-he hadn't-but for letting the cop bend down and drip poison into his ear.

He slipped his arm around her. As they walked, she tucked her head against his shoulder, her body warm, touching from head to hip.

"Rylee, you need to be careful."

"Careful?"

"Of the police. Of Nate."

"He's a doofus."

"A doofus with a badge. If you give him something-anything- he's gonna use it against you. Understand what I'm saying?"

She lifted her head. "Are you serious?"

"The police seem to think you're some kind of accomplice."

She pulled Toro up short. "Did Detective Campbell say something to you?"

He shrugged. "That's the impression I got from him."

"But it's so ridiculous."

In spite of the dismissive words, her face went pale and hardened. Like a weight had just settled on her, and she had to strain to keep from crumpling. The dog, sensing her mood, gazed up at her.

His warning had hit her harder than he'd expected. "Don't worry. They're keeping tabs on George. If there's another robbery, they'll catch him in the act."

She glanced up and down the Battery. "What about me? Are they keeping tabs on me?"

"What? No. Rylee, of course not. Don't worry, all right? I didn't mean to upset you. I can't seem to say the right thing."

She looked so bereft, he had to pull her against him.

"Don't worry. Okay?"

She nodded, then buried her face against his neck, arms jutting over his shoulders. She hung there limp as a rag doll, breathing hard, her heartbeat thumping so he could feel it against his chest.

Behind them, a woman in a track suit approached, a long-nosed gray dog leashed to her wrist. She passed them, then did a double take.

"Hey, Rylee."

They parted, Rylee turning to face the woman. Toro let out a quick bark, but stayed on his side of the walkway.

"Oh, Belinda. Hey."

The woman trotted away with a salute.

When she was gone, Rylee sighed. "The competition."

He slipped his hand into hers. "Let's get going."

A few minutes later, they made it back to the Davidsons' gate.

Yawning, she ruffled the dog's head. "He did really good tonight. Let me go give him some water and put him in his crate. I'll be right back."

He checked his watch. Still time to get to Washington Park.

When she returned, he had the car door open and waiting. He hustled around to his side and started the engine. "Rylee. There's one thing."

She leaned her head against the headrest, turning toward him. "What is it?"

He glanced at the dashboard clock. She followed his gaze.

"The guy from the other night? Marcel Gibbon?"

"What about him?"

"I . . . He wants to see me."

"Why? When?"

He made a u-turn and headed toward Washington Park. "Well . . . now."

"Right now?" She frowned, then slowly lifted her head. "At, like, one in the morning?"

He looked at her. "This all came down earlier today. I'm sorry. Seriously. But he just called and sort of drew a line in the sand, and I really need to talk to him."

"Right now."

He tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. "I mean it, Rylee. I really am sorry. Tonight has been . . . incredible. I don't want it to end like this, but I think . . . It's about George."

He waited, feeling the distance between them stretch from inches to miles.

"Okay," she said with a sigh. "If we have to, let's get it over with."

"Thanks." He put his hand on her knee, an apologetic touch, and they headed toward the park in silence.

Logan came back to the car, waking her from restless sleep. She rubbed her cheek, feeling the impression left by the leather seat.

The clock on the dashboard said three.

"I don't know where he is." He flipped his cell phone shut, tucking it into his jeans pocket. "He said he'd be here."

She yawned. "I don't care where he is, Logan." Fatigue slurred her words. "I don't care about anything but sleep."

"But what?"

"Sleep!"

He closed the car door. "Okay, okay. I'll take you home. It's just weird. He made it sound like it was now or never. "

He'd left her in the car on Broad, telling her he'd ask his questions of Marcel and return to her in short order. Now he put it in gear and headed to her place.

"I'm glad he wasn't there. That guy creeps me out."

He nodded. "Yeah, but I thought he could help."

Her limbs felt too heavy to lift. She let her hand drop. Her eyelids, too. She slid sideways in her seat, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, pulling her closer, but the console thwarted his efforts.

"I just want to sleep," she said.

"Then sleep. I'll wake you up when we get there."

So she did. She slept and eventually dreamed, her unconscious mind all rolling ocean and gritty sand.

When she finally woke, it wasn't Logan that roused her, it was the warmth of an early morning sun. She opened her eyes, her whole body stiff from contortion, awake in the passenger seat as Logan slept deeply next to her, his breathing regular, the clock on the dash reading ten past seven.

They were in the parking lot of her building, Daisy beside them.

She eased back, freeing herself from his encircling arm, then watched him for a while. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt, but there was a faint smile on his lips. His eyelids were troubled, a current of dreams running underneath. Arriving a few hours before, he must have looked at her the way she looked at him now, deciding not to wake her.

She felt the same way. She slipped out of the car, careful to close the door with as little noise as possible. She tiptoed to the stairs. He'd open his eyes and she'd be gone, leaving him to wonder if any of it had really happened at all.

Chapter Seventeen.

Pausing at her apartment door, Rylee fumbled for the keys. Over her shoulder, she heard Logan's car start, then listened as he drove away. She felt a pang of separation but knew he'd not been able to see her, even if he'd looked up. Her door wasn't visible from the parking lot the way Liz's was.

She slipped her key into the lock, but the pressure of her hand pushed the door open. She frowned. When they'd left for their date, she'd made sure the door was locked. She was positive.

Prickly tingles went up her back, down her arms.

Pushing the door open slowly, she peered through the ever-widening crack. She stole forward, no sound but her breathing.

Flipping on the lights, she discovered . . . nothing. Not an object out of place.

But looking around, something didn't feel right. Crazy as it seemed, she thought the carpet looked different, pushed against the grain by an alien set of tracks. She bent low to inspect. Maybe she was wrong.

She continued toward the bedroom, pulling up short at the threshold. The bedcovers were tucked in with near-military precision, the surface of her down comforter utterly smooth. Not even the slightest sign of disturbance.

She gripped the doorframe. She'd been running late yesterday.

And as a result, she hadn't bothered to make the bed.

On shaky legs, she wobbled to the side where she slept, certain something was waiting for her under those sheets.

She reached out for the edge of the comforter, hardly able to force herself to make the contact. The fabric, soft from a multitude of washings, felt foreign to the touch.

She peeled back the layers. One after another. Her imagination ran wild. Pools of blood. A severed carcass. A smeared threat written in sanguinary finger paint.

But again, there was nothing. The message wasn't under the sheets. It was the sheets themselves. Someone had entered and left a sign that was intelligible only to her.

After making sure once again that the apartment was empty, she checked every window. All the screens were in place. All were locked from the inside.

She went to the front door, dragging a chair over to brace it.

Logan had been right. The lock was a joke. With a credit card and a flick of the wrist, she'd let herself in more than once after misplacing her key. That was going to change.

New locks, she promised herself. In the morning, first thing.

Kicking off her flats, she entered the bathroom, its tiles cooling her feet. She reached behind the curtain and turned on the water. Ordinarily, she never bothered to close the door, but now she pushed it tight and thumbed down the spring-loaded lock.

Discarding her clothes in a little pile, she stepped into the tub and let the water drizzle over her, wishing just once it would pound through the rusty nozzle in a constant stream instead of in spurts.

The shower curtain brushed against her skin. She peered around the corner to make sure the room was empty, images of Psycho slashing through her mind.

She soaped, shampooed and conditioned in record time, then wrapped her head in one towel and her body in another.

Why hadn't she thought to bring her clothes into the bathroom with her? But she knew why. Because there was never any need. Because the door was never closed.

I have confidence in sunshine. . . .

She whipped open the door, releasing a cloud of steam. Nothing. No sound but the drip, drip of the shower nozzle.

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

She padded across the room, the matted carpet coarse under her damp feet.

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

She pulled open her underwear drawer and reached inside.

. . . Besides which you see, I have con- She snatched her hand back.

They'd been returned. The things he'd taken. Laundered, positioned neatly, and left on top.