It was always this way. Gin came home for dinner and family affairs every two or three weeks, but each time they acted as if she'd been away for a year. She supposed an only child had to expect that.

Soon the three of them were standing around in the kitchen, sipping spumante, sneaking pieces of bread into Mama's sauce, laughing, reminiscing, talking about the future.

So good to be here. Times like this made her wish she visited more often. She loved the warmth, the security. She'd be taken care of here. She didn't have to prove anything here, she wouldn't be so tired all the time, she wouldn't have to be running in four different directions trying to do too many things, trying to learn where she fit, trying to make her life matter.

She fit here. She mattered here.

And she knew it was a velvet trap. As much as she loved her folks, she knew she'd go crazy here. Despite all the hustle and running and stress of her life now, she knew deep down she wouldn't want it anyother way.

But the main thing was that her folks still didn't quite get it. As proud as they were of her, Gin knew they wondered when she was going to have time to give them grandchildren bambinos to bounce on their knees.

She knew in the backs of their minds they felt their daughter would be better off being married to a doctor than being onea nice Italian doctor, of course.

They knew something about Peter, but had no idea that they'd been living together.

Oh, G.o.d. Peter. She should have called him and told him about her new job. She'd have to do that first thing when she got home.

Peter . . . how could she have forgotten?

Stuffed from the food, logy from the spumante and the special Chianti Papa had broken out for the occasion, Gin got back to her apartment around half past ten. She washed up, brushed her teeth, and headed straight for the bedroom. But before hitting the sack, she dialed the ICU at Lynnbrook.

"h.e.l.lo, this is Dr. Panzella. I just wanted to check on Mrs.

Thompson."

"Who? " said the ward clerk.

Gin was suddenly queasy. "Harriet Thompson. Dr. Conway's patient.

She had a hemothorax and was on a respira" "Oh, yeah. Here it is.

Sorry, Dr. Panzella. I just came on. She was p.r.o.nounced a couple of hours ago. Nine-thirty-four, to be exact. Dr. Conway was here. "

Gin felt her throat constrict. She managed a faint "Thank you" and hung up.

She pounded a fist on the mattress. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n! Harriet Thompson's death certificate probably would list her cause of death as respiratory failure due to hemothorax due to fractured ribs due to complications of accidental trauma.

But it hadn't been any of those.

What had really killed her were administrators who hadn't examined her and didn't even know her but made decisions about her medical care, who had been more concerned about the bottom line than the patient.Harriet Thompson had died of guidelines.

Gin pulled down the covers and slipped between the sheets Senator Marsden was going to get an earful this weekend.

One last thing to do before sleep, that call to Peter.

He was in, he was awakeafter all it was an hour earlier in Louisianaand he was glad to hear from her. At least he was at first.

His voice changed when she told him about getting the spot on Marsden's staff.

"Is this really what you want? " She was getting fed up with that question. The only one who seemed to be on her side completely was Gerry.

'"You know, I wish people would stop asking me that."

"If you're hearing it that often, maybe there's something to it."

"Look, Peter, I don't want to argue" "Aren't we good together, Gin?

Are there any people better together than us? Remember those nights wandering around the Quarter, drinking wine and listening to the street musicians, and then afterward going back to the apartment.

'"Please, Peter.

" Those had been good times, wonderful times. "I'm lonely enough here as it is."

"We're both lonely. Isn't that dumb? Come back, Gin.

This is where you should be. You know that." So tempting, and if she'd been turned down by Marsden's office this morning she might be pulling out her suitcases and starting to pack. But . . .

"I know that I've got an opportunity here that I can't pa.s.s up. I may never forgive myself if I do. Can you understand that, Peter? " There was a prolonged silence on the other end. Peter's voice was thick when he finally spoke.

"I guess this is it, then. I'd been hoping you'd run up against a wall with these senators and finally come to your senses and get back where you belong. Back with me. But I guess that's not going to happen now that you're on somebody's staff." ' Peter . . . " Gin found she couldn't get words past the lump swelling in her throat.

He was right. She hadn't seen that becoming part of Marsden's staffwould put a match to her last bridge back to Peter.

It was over. Whatever they'd had had been moribund for months, but tonight, without realizing it, she'd officially p.r.o.nounced it dead.

'"I'm sorry, Peter."

"Me too. Good-bye, Gin." And then he hung up.

Gin cradled the receiver, turned out the light, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

G.o.d, I hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope it's worth it.

Then the sobs and the tears started. It was Peter, but maybe it was Harriet Thompson too. She hadn't cried herself to sleep in a long, long TIME Not since her Pasta days.

'"Wha. . . ? " Gin opened her eyes. Dark. And noisy. A bell ringing. Loud. Almost in her ear.

The phone.

She picked it up and heard a familiar voice.

"Gin? It's Gerry. Sorry to call you at this hour but I'm in a jam.

" What hour is it?

She glanced at the clock, 2, 33.

"Something wrong? " she said. The urgency in Gerry's voice dispersed the fog of sleep.

'"We've had a break in a kidnapping case and I've got to go out. "

"What kidnapping? " '"I can't say. We've kept it out of the papers.

But the thing is, Mrs. Snedecker can't come over and I struck out with my backups. I was wondering, hoping . . . " "I'll be right over. "

He gave her directions to his apartment complex in Arlington. She smiled ruefully at the irony. Just four hours ago she had been only a couple of miles from him.

Gin found Gerry standing outside the front door of his duplex, keys in hand. Apparently he'd shaved, put on fresh clothes, and was alert and ready to go. Even at this unholy hour he looked good.

Better than I do, she thought. She knew she looked rumpledshe felt rumpled in her flannel shirt, jeans, and raincoatbut she'd got here as quickly as she could.

"You made great TIME" He kissed her, a friendly peck on the cheek.

His voice was a machine gun. "I can't tell you how much this means to me.

I'd never have imposed if I'd had any other place to turn."

"Don't be silly. I" "Martha's upstairs. She's a sound sleeper. You can just sack out yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can get free, but I don't know exactly when that'll be."

"Take your time, " Gin said. "I'll stay as long as you need me. I don't have surgery today." He kissed her againon the lips this TIME "You're the greatest. See you soon.

" And then he was sprinting for the parking lot. When he reached his car he turned and called to her.

"Oh, by the way. I left something for you on the kitchen table." Gin watched him drive off, then went inside and locked the door behind her.

Shucking her raincoat, she wandered through the living room of the duplex and into the adjoining dining room, wall-to-wall carpet in the former, an area rug in the latter. Danish modern furniture. Neat, clean, functional. Not much personality. No lingering telltale odors to identify the cook's favorite food. Hard to tell if anyone really lived here until she got to the kitchen. A miniature art gallery there.

Everywhere she lookedon the walls, on the cork bulletin board, on the refrigeratorthe room was festooned with a child's drawings. A riot of colors. Martha, it seemed, believed in using every crayon in her box, and it had to be quite a box. Nor was she exactly traditional in her color designations. In one drawing green people might stand on yellow lawns next to pink trees under orange skies, in the next drawing the color scheme would be completely different.

A munchkin van Gogh. With a father who obviously adored every squiggle she put to paper.

She looked in the fridge. Lots of prepackaged meals in the freezer.

Just what she'd expect with a single father on the go.

Then she remembered what Gerry had said about leaving something for her on the kitchen table. She turned and saw nothing on the table . . .

except a sheet of paper. She recognized it before she picked it up. A death certificate.

Lisa Lathram was typed on the name line. Gin noted that the certifier was Stanley Metelski, MD, Fairfax County coroner at the time of the accident. Which meant Lisa's death had been a coroner's case. Of course it would be. Any eighteen-year-old dying suddenly is an automatic coroner's case.

She scanned down to the cause-of-death section.

Immediate cause of death, Intracerebral hemorrhage.

Due to or as a consequence of, Left parietal skull fracture.

due to or as a consequence of, Intentional drug overdose.

Gin nearly dropped the sheet. A suicide?

Suddenly shaky, she lowered herself into a chair and leaned on the table.

Oh, G.o.d. Poor Duncan. No wonder no one wanted to talk about it. He must have pulled some heavy strings and called in a lot of favors to keep that last line from getting out to the public.

Was that why he ended his marriage, closed up his practice, stopped being a Virginia vascular specialist and became a Maryland cosmetic surgeon?

Or was there more?

The drug overdose . . . why? The fall . . . obviously the coroner thought it was a result of the overdose. Was it?

Gin had thought the death certificate would answer some questions, but it only raised more.

Rising, she dropped it back onto the kitchen table and wandered toward the front of the duplex. She pushed Lisa Lathram to the back of her mind and brought Martha Canney front and center. Gin had a sudden urge to look in on her.

She crept upstairs. Two bedrooms and a bath there. She peeked in the first. In The dim light seeping up from the first floor she could see Martha's little head framed by her pillow and the covers. Lots of Disney characters on the walls and shelves. Gin stepped closer and snugged the covers a little more tightly around her shoulders. As she turned away she spotted a framed photo standing on Martha's dresser.

She picked it up and angled it toward the light.

A pretty young blond. Although they'd moved in entirely different circles during their high school years, Gin recognized Karen Shannick.

The late Mrs. Gerald Canney. Martha's mother.

G.o.d, she'd been beautiful. Cla.s.sic, clean, all-American girl looks.

She married an all-American guy. And they'd had a child. A Happy Days life until . . .

She thought of Harriet Thompson, also gone, but who'd had seventy-eight years. Poor Karen had had maybe a third of that. And what a shame she couldn't see the doll she'd brought into the world.

Life telly sucked sometimes.

Gin stared down at Martha for a moment and was struck by the realization that this was Gerry's child. His alone. This little person was totally dependent on him, and he was completely responsible for her.

She wondered how that would feel.

Scary, she thought. Very scary.

She replaced the photo on the dresser but the leg that angled out of the back of the frame collapsed and it fell flat on the dresser top.

Gin winced. Not a loud noise, but it sounded like a gunshot in the little bedroom.

"Daddy? " Oh, no.

Quickly Gin turned and knelt beside the bed. Martha was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, not quite awake yet. She looked at Gin.

"Where's my daddy? " "He had to go out, " Gin whispered. "He asked me to stay with you.

Remember me? Gin? From Taco Bell? " "You're the doctor."