Behind a pair of thick oak doors, he found himself facing a sleek, horseshoe-shaped reception desk, a grouping of tufted leather settees in the corner and an office devoid of life. He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock.

He made his way across the marble-floored lobby and into the bowels of the office. Halfway down the hall, a door stood open, the name karl sebastian on the plate. Peering inside, Logan was pleased to observe a tiny slice of office, hardly bigger than his own cubicle.

Tapping on the door, he pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside. Nobody home.

"Sir?"

Logan whipped around.

A lanky guy in bike shorts and a canvas messenger bag handed him a brown padded mailer. "This is for you."

Logan took the package without thinking. "Thanks."

He turned it over. No addressee. No return label. No markings whatsoever. Before he could ask who the mailer was from, the courier was gone.

Logan glanced at Sebastian's desk, willed himself to deposit the package there, but his curiosity got the better of him. He worked his finger under the padded envelope's flap and tore it open. An old, dried-leather dog collar tumbled out. He picked it up off the carpet. It was well worn, studded with dainty turquoise rivets. The name on the tag read Butterscotch.

I don't get it. He looked inside for some accompanying explanation. A slip of paper rested at the bottom of the envelope. He slid it free. In block letters, the sheet held just two words.

you're mine.

His heart rate picked up. What was this? The sharp, heavy writing dug into the paper, as if the author had been angry enough to go over the words many times.

Was this some kind of threat? All he could think was that Butterscotch belonged to one of Rylee's clients-only the collar seemed so old.

"Where did you get that?"

Logan spun around to find Karl at the threshold of the opposite office, his posture rigid, a sheaf of papers under his arm.

Logan shrugged. "Some guy just handed it to me."

The lawyer snatched the collar, then took the note, too. "Well, it's mine."

Everything about Karl-the fit of his suit, his antiqued leather shoes, his too-perfect tan, and especially the fact that Rylee catered to him-irritated Logan. His rudeness was icing on the cake.

Logan smiled. "He said it was for me."

"Obviously a mistake. What are you doing here? This is a private workplace."

Logan didn't appreciate his tone, but he hadn't come here to fight. He might not like the guy, but for Rylee's sake he had to work with him. Fishing in his shirt pocket, Logan withdrew the folded check. "I was bringing you Rylee's bail."

Karl smiled thinly. "I've already posted it. And even if I hadn't, you're the last person I'd let her accept money from. Now get out of this office before I call the police."

Throwing a punch would do no good and plenty of harm. Logan was still tempted. The arrogant, entitled idiot thought he could say and do whatever he liked, and it was about time someone disabused him of the notion.

It couldn't be Logan, though, not now. The important thing was getting Rylee out of jail, and it hardly mattered how that happened. If anything, he should feel relieved, since his dad had written the check grudgingly, sure he was getting his son in deeper when he ought to be getting him out.

"I'll see myself out," Logan said.

"Do that."

"Tell Butterscotch I said hello."

He didn't turn to see the expression on the lawyer's face.

You're mine. You are mine. You belong to me. I own you.

Logan turned the words over in his mind, and no matter how they ended up, the menace remained. Someone was threatening Karl Sebastian. Maybe even blackmailing him. Only he couldn't work out why, or what a desiccated dog collar had to do with anything. Maybe Rylee would recognize the name.

He sat at his desk, staring at the legal pad in front of him, where he'd scored the two words into the paper in his best approximation of what he'd seen.

Something buzzed under his desk where he kept Rylee's messenger bag. Lifting the flap, he found her phone, the screen lit to display a new text message. There were three total, all from Liz, who'd also called twice.

He shook his head. After being arrested and plastered on all the news stations, the only person trying to call and check on Rylee was her next-door neighbor. Even her grandmother hadn't bothered. Of course, the elderly woman probably didn't even know what was going on.

Maybe he should let her know. Would Rylee want that? He thumbed through her contact list, looking for the nursing home's number. Most of the stored names belonged to pets, not clients. To call the Davidsons, Rylee would punch Toro's name. He smiled.

There was an exception, though. Grant Sebastian. His finger paused when he saw the name.

Why not?

He hit the send button.

Grant answered after the first ring, his voice paternal. "Rylee.

You've been released, then? Are you all right?"

Logan cleared his throat. "Actually, this is Logan Woods. I'm a friend of Rylee's."

A pause. "Yes. I know who you are, Mr. Woods."

"I was wondering, sir, when you were going to be back in Charleston. Rylee's in hot water, and she could use your help."

"My plane has just touched down in Charleston," Sebastian said, a hint of irritation in his voice. "We haven't even made it to the gate yet."

Logan straightened. "You're back? So I take it you'll be assuming her case?"

"I don't believe this is any of your business, Mr. Woods."

The line went dead. Sebastian had hung up. Suppressing a flare of anger, Logan scrolled through her phone book again. A name caught his eye. But instead of calling, he grabbed his car keys and headed out the door. .

In the car, he flipped on the radio. After the tail end of the latest r&b ingenue's hit debut-he'd gotten where he couldn't tell them apart anymore-an evening host started recapping the events of the day. Logan turned up the volume.

"So did you hear?" the host said.

A female radio voice replied, "Hear what?"

"They caught the Robin Hood Burglar this morning, only it turned out to be Maid Marian. The dude was a lady."

"No kidding? I guess sisters are doin' it for themselves."

"And get this, the burglar was actually, like, the neighborhood dogwalker!"

"The dogwalker?"

"You know, the person they hire to walk the dog."

"Huh," the female voice said. "I guess that's what they get for not walking the dog their own self!"

He switched it off.

The sun was on its way down as he made his second trip of the day to James Island. Taking the turn off Camp Road into Bishop Gadsden, he parked outside the Cloister, retracing his steps from the earlier visit.

He told himself Rylee would want him here. As close as her grandmother was, she'd appreciate his reassuring her that everything was fine, even if he wasn't too sure himself.

Or if she didn't know, maybe he should instruct the nurses to make sure she didn't find out. He wasn't certain. All he knew was that being with Flora Monroe would somehow combat his feeling of helplessness. If he couldn't pay Rylee's bail, if he couldn't enlist Grant, if he couldn't find the real Robin Hood, he could at least set her grandmother's mind at rest.

The nurse from last time wasn't on duty. Instead, a kind-faced woman in a floral smock presided. For all her politeness, she wasn't too keen to let Logan pass.

"If you'd like to see Mrs. Monroe, you'll need permission from her granddaughter."

"Rylee's the one who brought me the first time," he said. "I'm here on her behalf."

The woman frowned, reaching for the phone. "Why don't I just call her, then?"

"I guess you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"Early this morning, Rylee was arrested. That's why I'm here.

She wouldn't want her grandmother to hear about it accidentally and not have anyone to explain."

If he'd have told her he had come from the moon with a special message for earthlings, the nurse couldn't have looked more astonished. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"I wish it was," he said. "Look, there was another nurse here when I visited before. She'll remember me. If you call her, she can verify what I'm saying."

They spent the next five minutes wrangling, but she finally made a phone call and within another ten minutes Nurse Melanie herself appeared, her face filled with concern.

He explained what had happened and then tried to explain why he'd come, though his motives were getting muddier by the moment.

He ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe I shouldn't even be here. I don't know. I just thought . . . I mean, Mrs. Monroe is the only family Rylee has, and if she somehow got hold of this news . . ."

She made a stop sign of her hand. "Say no more and follow me."

At the door to c5, they paused. In an undertone, Nurse Melanie suggested she enter first, and she'd invite Logan inside if the moment was right. Having no choice, he agreed.

He leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back. This was definitely the wrong move, coming to see a senile old lady he'd only met once before. He'd probably do more harm than good.

Nurse Melanie peered through the door. "Okay. I think she's ready."

When he'd entered before, Mrs. Monroe was sitting upright, anticipating a visit. Now she lay buried in covers almost to the chin, her eyes like dark slits, giving only the slightest sign of following his movements.

He returned to the chair he'd occupied last time, hoping this would heighten her sense of familiarity.

"What is it?" she asked, confused, as if he'd awakened her.

He cleared his throat. "It's Logan Woods, remember? I'm Rylee's . . . friend. From the other night. We stopped by and visited."

Her head craned for a better look. When he stopped talking, she waited, as if for a translation. At the foot of the bed, Nurse Melanie encouraged him with a nod.

"Rylee sent me to tell you . . ."

The old lady blinked.

"She wants you to know . . . everything's fine."

Nurse Melanie shuffled to the door. "I'll leave you two alone a minute."

He wasn't sure that was such a good idea. He almost called after her, but that would have been even more absurd. After campaigning so hard to get into the room, there was no turning back.

Nonie stared at him a moment, then shut her eyes.

Her breathing grew deep and regular. Asleep.

On the nightstand, the stack of photo albums sang to him like a siren. Their leather covers glistened like the skin of the forbidden fruit. He stood, waited, and then moved quietly around the bed. At the far side, he leaned over her, checking to make sure she was asleep. Then he picked up the album on top, opening to the middle.

He couldn't find the photo from the other night. After flipping a few pages, his eyes alighted on a candid shot, a man in a three-piece suit seated in a leather chair, reading a small black book. It wasn't the reader who caught his attention, though.

On the side table behind the man's chair stood a familiar-looking piece of art. A bronze-cast jockey identical to the one that was plucked unnoticed from the Bostick house, later discovered on the steps of First Scots Presbyterian, where Rylee had smothered it with her hands.

Stunned, he turned the page. Nothing revelatory. He continued through the album, stopping on the second-to-last photo.

In the lower corner of the leaf, a sepia-toned boy had a violin propped beneath his chin, bow at the ready. Logan held the album closer, scrutinizing the instrument. He wondered whether the details were clear enough for Jamison Ormsby to tell whether or not this was his Prokop. And though Logan would ask him, he already knew in his heart that it was.

Did Rylee know about these? Of course. She had to. Which meant she hadn't been honest with him. She'd known all along these items were linked to her family somehow, yet she never said a word. He wanted to know why.

"Is she asleep?" Nurse Melanie stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

Logan closed the album, tucking it under his arm. "She nodded off before I could explain. So I'd appreciate it if you'd keep her away from any tv or radio." He patted the album. "I'll bring this back when I come check on her again."

Before the nurse could reply, he slipped past her into the hallway. In his hand, the album grew heavy as a stone.

Chapter Twenty-Three.