Theres something yucky there, Mommy! He turns and buries his head in Brynns hip, cowering.

Relieved, she strokes his head. What is it, baby?

Oh, G.o.d, I see it Garth walks gingerly toward an object on the countertop.

What is it? All Brynn can make out is a bright splash of red against the white laminate.

Its a bird.

What?

Is it dead? At his fathers grim nod, Caleb slips from Brynns grasp and backs away.

She steps closer, wondering how on earth it could have gotten into the house.

Then she sees that its lying in a pool of red bloodmuch more blood than one small birds body could possibly spilland that the pile of limp feathers and bones unmistakably belong to a cardinal.

Hearing a movement in the next room, Isaac abruptly minimizes the screen on the laptop balanced on his thighs.

None too soon.

Kylah appears in the doorway with a cla.s.sic case of bed head, stretching on her tiptoes so that her T-shirt parts with the waistband of her flannel pajama bottoms to reveal her taut stomach.

Hey, she says in her croaky morning voice. What time did you get home? I tried to wait up for you.

I told you not to. It was late.

How late?

I have no idea, but late.

What are you doing? She yawns and pads toward the couch.

Just checking my e-mail.

Arent you going in today?

To work? He realizes that by this time, hes usually out the door. Oh Yeah, Im going, but Im moving a little slower than usual.

Hungover?

No, but Should he claim to be?

What difference would that make, in the end? He doesnt have a credible alibi, when you come down to it. He cant produce a group of guys who can vouch for his whereabouts at a bachelor party last night, so So, what?

Youre being paranoid.

Just relax and stick with the story.

Balancing his open computer on his lap, he presses his forefingers into his temples and frowns as though hes got a pounding headache. I guess I did drink a few too many.

Beers?

Beers and shots Kylah sits beside him on the couch and leans toward his computer screen. You did shots?

Yes What are you doing?

She looks at him in surprise, and he realizes he sounds almost frantic.

I was going to ask you to go on weather.com to see what coat I should wear to work, she says mildly. Why?

Wear your trench. Its supposed to rain.

Really?

He cant remember. Dammit. That just popped out. He was desperate to keep her from seeing his screen.

Not that the heading on the minimized screen bar would mean anything to her at a glance:www.zetadeltakappa.com/ alumni.

Still She might ask questions.

Why dont you just watch the news? he asks Kylah, leaning forward to block the screen from her view as he reaches for the TV remote and hands it to her. You always say its a lot more reliable than the Internet.

Huh? I never say that.

Oh. Sorry. I thought you did.

Avoiding her confused expression, he snaps his laptop closed, stands, and carries it toward the next room.

Where are you going?

Ive got to take a shower and get out of here.

You make it sound like you have to escape.

He emits a short burst of sound he hopes pa.s.ses for a laugh. My office isnt exactly an escape, babe.

But thats where hes headed, regardless of how tempting it is to zoom back up the New England Thruway.

No, h.e.l.l go to work, and h.e.l.l come home, same as any other day.

And the entire time, h.e.l.l be thinking about Rachel.

Same as any other day.

Ordinarily, Fiona would be livid if she arrived at Fiona Fitzgerald Public Relations at 8:37AM and found the doors locked. Emily is supposed to be here bright and early to open up.

Of course, that hasnt been necessary any other day. Fiona usually gets here just before eight, which is when she drops Ashley at Saint Vincents School. But Emily, who is supposed to show up at 8:30 sharp, has the keysand explicit instructions for getting the office up and running first thing, should Fiona ever be delayed.

She never has been, until now.

In the alcove off the reception area, Fiona opens a packet of coffee and dumps it into a filter basket. Her hands are unsteady; a light rain of black grounds scatters over the pale blue speckled Corian.

Dammit. She grabs the sponge beside the sink and finds that its bone dry.

It shouldnt be. Emily is supposed to wipe everything down at the close of each business day; it would still be damp if shed done so last night.

Ive got to get rid of her. This is asinine.

Fiona runs the sponge under the tap, rubs the countertop clean, and runs water into the coffee carafe.

Yes, Emily has to be fired. But not today. Not until Fiona can focus on finding the right candidate to fill her place.

With the coffeemaker beginning to sputter into action, she moves toward her shadowy office, turning on copiers, computers, and lights in her path.

Its a gray, misty morning out there today, mountain fog hanging low over Main Street. Beyond the tall windows, even the legendary autumn foliage seems more brown and tan than red and gold, as muted as Fionas mood.

Reaching beneath the maroon fringed shade, she flicks on the tabletop lamp near her desk, spilling a pool of light across its surface.

Immediately, she spots something that wasnt there last night.

Something that dispatches an icy river of dread through her veins.

Between a neat pile of manilla folders and another of precisely stacked doc.u.ments, lies a single red rose in a pool of something that looks like blood.

In the end, in some ways, at least, it was easier than expected.

Burglary 101. These days, you can learn to build a nuclear bomb on the Internet. Disabling a fancy alarm system and getting into a locked house is a cakewalk compared to that.

At first, Tildy seemed far too inebriated to put up a fight. That delightfully fortuitous fact was instantly apparent in her unsteady gait and the potent liquor fumes on her breath.

How highly unusual to see the sophisticated, controlled Matilda Harrington incapacitated in any way.

That it happened last night, of all nights, is clearly a sign that it was meant to be.

True, she did eventually recover her senses enough to resist And she caught you off guard when she almost escaped, didnt she?

Yes. Live and learn.

Now you know you cant let that happen again, with the others. You have to be prepared for anything, anything at all. You cant linger, savoring the moment, no matter how much youd like to do that. The birthday girl will always have to be incapacitated as quickly as possible.

Too bad. It would be fun to see the guest of honor go from surprised to frightened to full-blown hysterical.

Of course, there will be plenty of opportunity, when laying the groundwork, to tease and taunt the others.

But when the big day arrives and you finally come face-to-face with each of them, you just cant afford to prolong the interaction. Its too risky.

Oh, well. In the end, Matilda Harrington didnt escape, did she?

No, she was meant to pay for her terrible sin with her life.

And it was meant to happen just when it did, on her milestone birthday.

The second blow to her head killed herthat much was obviousbut the party had to go on as planned. And there was supreme satisfaction in obliterating her beautiful, typically smug features until she was unrecognizable as the esteemed Matilda Harrington As a human face, even.

But that part is over, for now Until next weekend, anyway.

Next weekend, when the next birthday girl in line will find herself the guest of honor at a unique party indeed.

CHAPTER 11.

Sergeant Quincy Hiles Jr. grew up in a low-income housing complex over in Roxbury, where he witnessed more than his share of violent crime in the first two decades of his life.

That trend continued for the next three, but by then he was behind the wheel of the dark sedan with flashing red lights, rather than watching it pull up in front of the latest crime scene as he huddled with a somber, jaded cl.u.s.ter of sidewalk onlookers.

Single mother Devorah Hiles had been elated when Quincy, the oldest of her five children, got into a local community college on a baseball scholarship. An agile six-two with a mighty swing, he was destined to be the next Ted Williamsor so she bragged to everyone in the hood.

Then Quincys kid brother, DeQuann, became a neighborhood statistic, the ultimate cliche: gunned down a block from home in a drug deal gone bad.

When Quincy dropped out of college the following semester to begin law enforcement training, his mother reacted with the same wailing, inconsolable grief she had over DeQuanns death. Devorah didnt understand why her eldest son would exchange a potential ticket out of their violent h.e.l.l for a holster and, as she saw it, a target on his back.

He wasnt sure he understood it, eitheror does even now. It was just something he had to do, without ever looking over his shoulder at what might have been.

He took the same approach when his thirteen-year marriage to Bev became a casualty of his occupational hazards: long hours, rotating shifts, emotional detachmentso necessary on the job, but detrimental on the home front. Bev remarried in time for her new husband, a banker, to send both of Quincys daughters to private colleges.

Forget what might have been. Now, with his law enforcement career winding down, about to put a down payment on a Clearwater Beach condo, Sergeant Quincy Hiles doesnt look back. Ever.

Hes coasting out the remainder of his career as a detective with the Boston Police Department Homicide Unit. His work takes him all over the city, often into less-than-desirable neighborhoods.

Today, however, he finds himself in Area D, District D-4, encompa.s.sing Bostons wealthy to upper-middle-cla.s.s Back Bay and South End.

Never hereneveranywhere has the strapping detective seen anything likethis .

In the elegant dining room of the Commonwealth Avenue town house, the mistress of the house sits at the table.

Slaughtered.

Everything in the vicinity is spattered with blood. The silk wallpaper, the oriental area rug, the furniture. Even the 14-foot tray ceiling is marred with droplets, indicating a series of violent, arcing blows.

The corpse is propped in a chair at the head of the long oval cherry table, which is decorated as if for a little girls birthday party. Pink paper goods, noisemakers.

A pointy party hat is garishly tilted on the womans blood-soaked flaxen hair above a skull that was brutally bashed with a heavy object.