Her clients, she could somewhat understand. But Logan.

She swallowed. The thought that everything he'd done or said or shared had been motivated by a desire to write some newspaper article kicked up all the emotional dust of her past.

And though she knew the Lord was with her, wouldn't abandon her, was trustworthy, it still would have been nice if she had real live parents to go to. Much as she loved Nonie, it just wasn't the same.

Thinking of her parents drew her inevitably to Marion Square. Most of her early childhood was lost to her. She'd close her eyes and concentrate, trying to summon up images of her early days, but her memory wouldn't cooperate. Even the pictures in Nonie's photo albums didn't trigger much. Sometimes she thought the wiring in her brain was faulty, the essential coupling having fallen away.

But at Marion Square, her parents' spirits abided, prompting her to treat it a little bit like sacred ground. As an adult, she never went there for mere recreation. She only entered when loneliness overcame her, and never left still feeling alone. She couldn't venture within a block of the square without feeling her mom and dad there with her, the way they'd been at the picnic that one steamy dusk.

In time, had the relationship with Logan gone well, she would have taken him there, preparing him in advance to appreciate the significance.

But it now looked as if that would never happen.

When she reached the green, she slipped off her sandals, slowed her pace, and let the grass push through her toes.

"What kind of parents would you have been?" She let her voice carry off on the wind. As always, the square worked its calming magic. She avoided the crowd near the fountain and settled under the shade of an old oak, watching two young mothers wrestling their toddlers onto a blanket. The children squealed. They were a bit younger than Rylee had been when her parents brought her here, when the music played and her mother's skirt swished through the air.

Jon and Stella. For all practical purposes, perfect strangers.

She let the album fall open in her lap, flipping listlessly through the pages. If Logan had to go stealing a photo album, he could at least have chosen a more recent one. She wanted to see her parents, but instead she got page after page of stiff, old-time Monroes in detachable collars and starchy lace. This had gotten him all worked up? She couldn't see why.

She hesitated over the first picture he'd pointed out. Her great-grandfather reading in his library. Then her eyes widened.

There, peeking over the back of his chair, was that knowing bronze grin. The jockey with his hand on his hip.

The downy hair on her forearm stood on end. No wonder the statue had seemed so familiar to her. She'd noticed it at the Bosticks' house and assumed that was it. But maybe the reason she'd noticed it was that she'd seen it before. Here in Nonie's album, without even realizing. The image had gone straight into her subconscious mind.

But that couldn't be. She'd never taken any notice of the picture until now. Had hardly even glanced at these older albums.

Had she seen it before . . . as a child?

She turned the page, scrutinizing each picture. Stopping on yet another one. On a sideboard in the hallway, an ornate box shaped like a tomb with painted panels and Roman figure finials. Could this be Karl's jewelry casket?

She shook her head. He'd said it had been in his family for years. A few pages later, the other picture Logan had pointed out. Her little ancestor playing the violin. Mr. Ormsby's violin?

This was what Logan meant. This was the connection between the Robin Hood burglaries and her.

And if she went to Bishop Gadsden and pulled out more of the albums, she felt a growing certainty the ormolu clock, the Charles Fraser painting, and the mourning brooch would be there, too.

She looked up, squinting into the sun. No wonder he'd acted so strange. He had asked if she'd seen the albums and she'd said of course she had. So when he discovered the connection, he must have wondered if she already knew.

She snapped the album shut, rising to her feet. She'd wasted the day looking for a job. But now that was over. Now she wanted answers.

When he tried Rylee's phone this time, she answered.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Everything's fine."

"Listen, Rylee, about yesterday. I'm sorry for springing all that on you. That was the last thing you needed-"

"Logan."

"What?"

"I looked at that album."

"About that," he said. "I had a lapse of judgment. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. I'm really sorry. I know I should have asked you-"

"I looked at it."

He paused. "And?"

"I saw . . . I don't know what to say."

He shoved his chair back and stood, the phone cord keeping him tethered to his desk. "Listen, let's not talk over the phone. Where are you? Let me come and see you. I have a favor to ask anyway."

"What favor?"

"Not over the phone," he said. "Can I pick you up?"

Silence. He listened acutely for background noise, trying to place where she was. There was nothing but the hum of dead air.

"Are you still there?"

She cleared her throat. "I'm with Nonie. She's sleeping. There's a picture of her as a teenager right here on my lap. She's wearing a mourning brooch, Logan. A mourning brooch. I can't be sure, but . . ."

"Sit tight. I'm on my way."

"No."

He slowly lowered himself back into his chair. "No?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so sharp. I'm just trying to absorb it all. I spent the morning cleaning my apartment and looking for jobs, the afternoon going through these pictures. And I . . ." She took a deep breath. "I still need to return all those keys to my clients."

"Let me do that for you."

"No. I've done nothing wrong. I'm not going to cower in the corner with my tail between my legs."

He smiled. She even spoke in dog metaphors. "Then let me go with you, at least."

"No. I need to do it. I . . . I want to do it. And tonight I'm going to give Toro a nice long walk. At least I still have him to take care of."

"Okay," he said. "But I want to see you. I have something for you."

After they hung up, he stared at an e-mail from Seth asking for an update.

His phone rang. He grabbed it before the ring stopped.

"Honey, it's Mom. I'm watching the news. It looks like the girl you told your father about has been released from jail."

"Yeah." He should have thought to call them earlier. He looked at his watch. "How 'bout I come by for dinner and get ya'll caught up?"

"I'll set you a place."

After dinner, Dad pushed back from the table, leading Logan through the sliding doors out to the backyard. The cicadas outside were loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He wondered how he'd grown up without really hearing them. Maybe his brain had tuned out the familiar frequency. Now he couldn't block them out.

"That was some pretty heavy stuff you laid on us," Dad said. "I'd be lying if I said I still wasn't a little concerned about this girl."

Logan looked down into a sweating glass of iced tea.

"But if you're serious about her . . ." Dad gave him a sideways look. "You are serious, aren't you, son?"

He didn't hesitate. "I am."

Dad nodded and they wandered over to the fire pit, one of Dad's more recent improvement projects. Logan sat on the stone wall ringing the pit, while his father gazed up at the pinprick of stars overhead. For a while, the communication was nonverbal.

Logan sensed Dad's anxiety. Through the kitchen window, he could see his mother clearing the table, her movements sharp and deliberate. He couldn't tell for certain, but he imagined her lips moving. Was she talking to herself or praying?

"What about Mom?" he asked.

"She'd like to meet the girl. We both would. And she's naturally worried that you might be in over your head."

Logan studied the ice in his glass. "Is that what you think?"

"Well, the days when I could just tell you what to do are long past. But I trust you to do the right thing, son. And whatever you choose, you know we'll always support you. Just be careful, you hear?"

"I hear."

When they went back inside, they found Mom standing at the kitchen island, a dish towel in her hands. "I meant to tell you how good it was to see you at church again, Logan. And you seemed to enjoy the message and seeing all your friends afterwards."

"Yeah. Pastor Anderson's sermons always challenge me. But I wasn't visiting afterwards so much as drumming up some business for Rylee. Since the news broke, a lot of her clients bailed on her. She's got her grandmother to support, and I know things have been tight. So I was seeing if anyone was looking for a dogwalker or pet sitter or something."

Mom gave Dad a quick glance, then brushed a lock of hair from her face. "And you're, um, sure she's trustworthy?"

Leaning over, he gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'm positive. Don't worry, Mom. She really is a good girl. You're gonna love her."

He parked on South Battery and walked along to the monument where he'd first met Rylee. The time was right, more or less, assuming she hadn't deviated from her schedule due to the sudden dearth of clients. He set the white box from Ben Silver on a bench. Then waited.

A couple passed by arm in arm, oblivious to his presence. Some time later, a group of men in Hawaiian shirts and straw hats strolled past, cigars trailing smoke behind them. He checked his watch again, suspecting the errand was in vain.

But the sound of rollerblades on uneven cobbles caught his attention.

He turned as she emerged into the light, the big dog charging ahead on its leash. Her cotton dress flapped in the wind, outlining her strong thighs. Her earbuds were in, and she gave no sign of recognition. As they drew closer, he expected her to pass him by. At the last minute, she gave the leash a graceful tug, then circled to a halt just in front of him.

"I've got half a mind to sic my dog on you-for old times' sake," she said.

"I've got half a mind to let you."

She jutted out her bottom lip. He was tempted to snare it in his teeth. Not the most appropriate of icebreakers.

"You been waiting long?"

"I would've waited all night if I had to. Like I said, I have something for you." He leaned over and opened the white box, turning it so she could see.

She rolled forward, eyes wide, hands pressed together, fingertips resting against her lip. "What's that?"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like a dress. What's it for?"

"This weekend, I'm going to a reception. I have to bring a date."

She looped the leash around the bench's arm, then bent over the box to take a closer look. She ran her hand over the green dupioni silk, then drew back. "This is for me?"

"Who else?"

She gave her mouth a skeptical twist. "How would you even know my size?"

He smiled. "I thought I could just sort of describe you." He drew an hourglass in the air. "But that didn't work out so good. So I called Liz and she told me. I hope you like it."

She tucked her hands under her armpits, as if she were afraid to touch it. "No one's ever given me a dress before."

"I've never given anyone a dress before. Do you like it?"

She fixed her big eyes on him, saying nothing.

He angled the box toward her. "Have a look."

After another few seconds, she finally reached for it, shaking the fabric free and pressing it daintily against her body. She pushed it close around the hips, imagining the fit. The silk shimmered in the dim light, swishing softly in the breeze.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

She rolled toward him, a smile on her lips. "I think we're going to a party."

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Instead of the stereotypical red roses, he chose a dozen pink ones, the petals delicate as hand-painted china. The aroma filled the car, making him light-headed.

Liz opened the door when he knocked. "Look at you. So dapper. And you brought flowers-they're beautiful!"