"That's up to the district attorney's office. This was a heinous crime of particular brutality. I don't see him letting her out."

She nodded. "I could give her an alibi."

"That's perjury."

"Only if it isn't true."

"But it wouldn't be, would it?"

She sighed. "No. But have you considered that guy who showed up at the ground-breaking ceremony? He certainly seemed to have a bone to pick with Bloom."

"Kyle Stillwater? We haven't been able to find a trace of him. I suspect ..." He stopped when he realized he was about to disclose confidential information.

"What?" Rachel prompted.

"It's official. I shouldn't talk about it."

"Please, Marty. I won't tell anyone. Especially not Becky."

"All right. We found out Bloom was running a con. The whole community center project was a fraud, to get a casino here in town."

"What? How could he do that?"

"It's complicated. But it might've worked."

Rachel said nothing.

"Anyway," Marty continued, "if my instincts are right, the real killer now thinks he's gotten away with it. Maybe he'll slip up."

"And until then, Becky rots in jail?"

"She won't rot, Rachel. It's not a country club, but it's not a gulag. She'll be fine. And safe."

She stood. "Thanks, Marty. And ... you really have no idea where Kyle Stillwater is?"

"No. None at all. I'm sure it was an alias. It's almost like he doesn't exist."

"Oh, he exists," Rachel said enigmatically. Then she left.

--- AN INDIGNANT HORN interrupted Ethan's yawn to inform him the light was now green. He resisted the urge to flip off the driver behind him, a young man with a tuft of hair on his chin and a Bluetooth in his ear. The little car zoomed around Ethan's truck at the first opportunity, only to get stopped at the next red light. As he came up behind it, Ethan smiled.

If he hadn't been so tired, his own frustration might be wound as tight as Mr. Bluetooth's. There was only one way to deal with it, really, and that was to simply march into Rachel's diner and demand that the woman speak with him. The problem was, he wasn't sure he trusted himself in her presence. He didn't worry about his temper; it was all the other emotions, the ones he kept private and hidden. If they burst out, he might never get them back in their box.

At the next light, Mr. Bluetooth was in the lane beside him. He leaned forward over his steering wheel and stared at the light as if he could will it to turn green. His hands impatiently opened and closed around the steering wheel.

Ethan laughed again and turned on the radio. An army recruiting commercial was in mid-spiel, urging young men to become "an army of one." Usually this amused Ethan, but this time it was different. He felt his spine straighten, his shoulders go back, and his jaw firmly set. By God, I am an army of one, he thought. And it's okay to be scared to face the enemy, as long as you still suck it up and do it.

When the light changed, he gunned the engine and switched lanes in front of Mr. Bluetooth. Then he stayed there until he turned in to the parking lot of Rachel's diner.

IN HER CAR, Rachel turned on the air conditioner and took several deep breaths. These damned crying jags had to stop; people were depending on her, for God's sake. She looked at herself in the mirror and winced at her red, puffy eyes. She'd have a hard time blaming them on allergies, that was certain.

Worse was the rippling, tingling desire that always hovered just at the edge of her consciousness. She would have to try the lake again tonight. Maybe the spirits were just annoyed and now missed her as much as she did them. She refused to think about Betty's warning and the possibility of a lifetime of feeling this way. One problem at a time.

She took a drink of water from the bottle in the cup holder. At least now the quest wasn't just personal. If she could find Kyle Stillwater, she could help both Becky and herself. Stillwater had to be behind Bloom's murder; his ties to the Lo-Stahzi were too great to ignore. He had to be found and brought in for questioning. But how?

There was one other source of information she could try, although she'd almost rather eat her way across a table of broken glass. Yet Becky was depending on her, and it was silly to stand on pride.

Yes, that was it. It was all for Rebecca.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

ETHAN LOOKED DOWN at his feet moving along the sidewalk outside the diner. He recalled watching his boots in Iraq the same way, only then it was to check the ground for IED triggers or other booby traps buried in the sand. Here the IEDs were entirely in his heart, and he was going to trigger them deliberately.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

There were a half-dozen customers, all seated along the counter. He saw Rachel's friend Helena and another waitress he didn't recognize. In the kitchen, the scruffy cook worked intently over the griddle. The air smelled of eggs, coffee, and air-conditioning, while smooth jazz came from the radio. There was no sign of Rachel.

He took a stool at the end of the counter-the same one he'd chosen the first time he came here.

The waitress he didn't know came to greet him. Her name tag said "Clara." "Hi. Welcome to Rachel's. First time here?"

"First time in a while," he said.

"Would you like to start with some coffee?"

"Please," he said, then added before she turned away, "Is Rachel around?"

"No, she had some family emergency. Do you know her?"

"We're acquaintances."

"Well, I'll be right back with your drink. Today's specials are on the wall."

Ethan's heart sank, and he berated himself. Of course, her sister was arrested this morning; she was dealing with that. How self-centered he'd been not to think of it. He picked up the menu and stared at it until he sensed the waitress's return.

When he looked up again, it wasn't Clara. Helena stood before him, smiling crookedly. "You have great timing. Or was this on purpose?"

Ethan put down the menu. "No, I actually did hope to find her here. I just didn't think about what happened with her sister."

"Then you know? Oh, of course; Marty told you, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

She looked around to make sure no one was listening, then said quietly, "I know it's none of my business, but you've been a total wuss about this whole thing. Yeah, I know, you promised and gave your word and blah-blah-blah, but you really need to man up here, and I don't mean that macho bullshit they teach you in the army. I mean see what needs to be done and do it. If you're waiting for her to make the first move, it'll never happen."

A little offended, Ethan began, "I don't think-"

"Yes, you do. You're a man," Helena shot back. "All you do is think. But if you want Rachel, you're going to have to learn to feel. You have to feel how much she needs you."

"I'm sure she can handle-"

"Dammit!" Helena exclaimed, and a few people looked their way. She leaned over the counter. "I'm not talking about this stuff with Becky. I'm talking about when there's not a crisis or an emergency to distract her. I'm talking about the quiet times. That's when she needs you, tough guy. Good God, you could feel that she needed you when she was locked in a basement in the middle of nowhere, and you can't feel this?"

Before Ethan could answer, she turned and stormed off into the kitchen, passing Clara on her way. Clara put down the coffee and said, "Do you know Helena too?"

"Not as well as she knows me, apparently," Ethan said.

The door opened again, and an older woman with dark, curly hair entered. She looked around, then asked Clara, "Is Rachel here?"

"Everybody wants the boss today," Clara said. "No, she's not here. I don't know when she'll be back."

The woman held out an envelope. "Please make sure she gets this. Can I trust you?"

"Sure," Clara said.

Ethan glanced up and caught the woman staring at him. He smiled, but she didn't look away. That inner sense he'd developed in Iraq, where danger could be hidden in plain sight, sent warning tingles up the back of his neck. "Do we know each other?"

"No," the woman said. "We don't. I'm Betty."

"Ethan," he said but did not offer his hand.

Betty smiled. "You're here looking for Rachel too."

"I am?"

"You are. I have a sense about these things."

"Well ... she's not here, so I guess I'll be leaving." He stood, which forced Betty to step back. He tossed some bills on the counter, then turned, only to find the woman in his path.

He clenched his fists. Whoever she was, she affected him not like an attractive woman but like another man who meant him harm.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Ethan," she said without breaking his gaze. "I'm sure we'll see each other again."

"Uh-huh. Good day, ma'am." He went around her as quickly as he could without being rude.

JULIE SCHUTES'S GORGEOUS blue eyes opened wide with surprise. "Ms. Matre," she said after a moment, then stood as a man might do. As Ethan did on our first date, Rachel recalled vividly.

She wondered about Julie's first date with Ethan as she admired the woman's taut body and impeccable style. Did they have sex that night, and if so, in his house (which she still hadn't seen) or hers? Had she dressed for it, in slinky underthings that she peeled off sensually and slowly, or had the connection been a surprise to them both?

She managed a neutral smile. "Have you got a moment?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't shake.

Julie nodded. She was taller than Rachel-model tall, in fact-but that might just be the shoes. "Of course. Please sit down."

Rachel did so, keeping her back straight and her hands formally in her lap. She was about to speak when she noticed a manila folder on Julie's desk labeled "Lady of the Lakes." She hid her true reaction, nodded at the folder, and said casually, "So are you the Lady of the Lakes?"

"Hardly," Julie said as she sat and smoothed her skirt, "but I intend to find out who is. And what they're up to."

" *Up to'?"

"There has to be an agenda. And where there's an agenda, there's money. Eventually I'll find the money trail, and then I'll unmask this so-called Lady." She smiled coldly. "But that's not why you're here."

"No." Rachel looked down at her fingers. "I'm sure you know my sister's been arrested for the murder of Garrett Bloom."

"I wrote the story," Julie confirmed.

She managed to gloat in a way that Rachel could not react to without seeming paranoid. "I don't believe she's guilty, which is probably not a surprise either."

"Most families have a hard time accepting that. I once covered a trial where the mother of the suspect threw a Bible at the trial judge. Knocked a hole in the drywall right beside his head."

Rachel waited, then said, "I believe I know who did kill Garrett Bloom. I thought you might like to know as well."

"Of course. Who?"

"Kyle Stillwater."

Julie's forehead creased in surprise. "The Indi-I'm sorry, I mean the Native American activist who crashed the ground-breaking ceremony?"

"Yes. If he really is an activist. Or Native American. Have you found any trace of him?"

"I haven't really tried. The police established that he used the name of a local actor, so there's very little to go on. Besides, they seem very sure they've got their culprit."

"They could be wrong. Stillwater threatened Bloom in front of an awful lot of people."

"Even more reason to doubt he's the actual killer."

"Unless he's crazy."

"All killers are crazy. They have to be, to do what they do." She paused. "I'm sorry. That was glib and thoughtless."

"Yes, it was."

Julie tapped her pen against her lips thoughtfully. "Still ... you might be right. Even if he wasn't the killer, there's something not quite right about the whole Stillwater thing. Where did he come from that day? And where did he go? And why hasn't anyone seen him since?"

"It sounds like a story to me," Rachel said. She wished the woman would stop saying the name Stillwater, since each time she did, it sent an intimate jolt through her. My God, she thought in horror, it's only been days. How can I survive years of this if I end up like Betty McNally?

Julie's eyes narrowed, and the bitchiness returned. "Yes, it does. And one that might help get your sister off the hook, if it pans out. If it doesn't, then it's just my time wasted."

"What's your point?"

Julie sat back and crossed her arms. "I usually get paid for my time, Ms. Matre. That's what a reporter brings to the table: time, expertise, connections. If you want me to use them ..."