"You call this lucky?" With a gesture, I reminded her of my partially shaved head.

"Aren't you doing what you always wanted to do?"

I blinked in confusion. What the hell was she talking about?

"You always wanted to help people," she said. "You just never knew how."

"How will finding Sumner's killer help anyone? It doesn't even help him-he's dead."

"Maybe you'll help that little boy. The one you were worried about just now."

"I don't even like children."

She shook her head. "Everybody loves children. Even you."

I wasn't going to argue.

"What does it matter why you have it? You have it. Now you have to learn to live with it," she said.

"You sound just like my brother."

"He's a doctor-he should know."

"Now you sound like my-" Girlfriend, I'd wanted to say, but that wasn't going to happen now.

Sophie smiled. "I told you, things have a way of working out the way they were meant to." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Time for you to go."

I got up and followed her through the shop, feeling like a child who'd just been scolded. "Will you be here the next time I come by?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Here, take a placek home for Easter breakfast."

I hefted the loaf. It felt real enough. "Thank you."

She drew me into a hug, kissed my cheek, then pulled back, held my face in her warm hands. "Good things will come of this. They will," she insisted. "Now, take care walking home. Stay on the sidewalk where there's lots of light. I'm too old to have to worry about you."

She radiated a sense of peace and deep affection. I recognized it, understood it. But again I wondered: why me?

"I'll be careful," I promised, and kissed her goodbye.

The lock clicked into place and she waved before turning and heading for the back room once more. I watched as first that light went out, and a minute later the light above the shop burned.

The bakery sign over the door looked shabby, in need of repainting. Was it the same one I'd seen the other day? I couldn't be sure. Maybe I didn't want to know. Tucking the placek under my arm like a football, I turned and started for home.

I followed Sophie's instructions and stayed on the sidewalk under the intermittent flare of the street lamps. The long walk home gave me plenty of time to think. Maybe that was my problem-I was thinking too much.

A car whizzed past, splashing dirty water my way. I checked traffic before cutting across Main Street, anxious to get off the busy road and leave behind the stench of exhaust fumes. I headed down a quiet side street, pausing at the corner to pull up my jacket collar against the damp night.

Turning left, I picked up my pace, in a hurry to get back to the warmth of my room, where I could lie awake for endless hours, thanks to my jumbled nerves. Frustration nagged at me. The fact that Detective Hayden wouldn't consider my evidence against Sharon Walker reinforced the reality that I had virtually no control over any portion of my life, and probably wouldn't for weeks, possibly months.

I refused to take the thought any further. Frustration could also be a byproduct of my present physical condition. Before the mugging, impatience had never been a problem. I knew that damned feeling of impotence would eventually pass, but it couldn't come soon enough for me.

Richard's driveway was in sight when I heard the roar of an engine, saw blinding high beams as the car barreled toward me. It fishtailed on the wet pavement, jumped the curb. I leaped into the privet hedge, out of its path, an instant before it would've nailed me.

Heart pounding, I rolled onto my knees, watched the speeding car recede into the night, its taillights glowing. Some trained investigator I was-I couldn't tell the make or even the color.

I brushed uselessly at my muddy jeans. The adrenaline surge that had coursed through me seconds before was already waning. Probably a drunken teenager out joyriding, trying to scare pedestrians.

Or it could've been Rob Sumner.

Or worse, Sharon Walker.

No! They couldn't know where I lived. And how would they have known it was me on the street at eleven o'clock at night? Dressed in dark clothes, I could've been anybody out for a walk.

Okay, maybe the sling on my arm was a dead giveaway.

Maybe.

I groped in the blackness, found the placek. One end was crushed, but still salvageable. I stormed off across the lawn for the house. No point in even mentioning this little mishap to Richard and Brenda, yet I couldn't dismiss it entirely.

I hated feeling afraid.

Easter Sunday I awoke to the sound of rain pelting against my bedroom window and strained to reach my watch on the bedside table. Eight thirty, lots of time to get ready to go to the Basilica. Best of all, no headache, so despite the gray start, it looked like it might turn out to be a good day.

I showered and dressed, and smelled bacon and fresh brewed coffee as I headed for the kitchen.

"Happy Easter," Brenda called and leaned her cheek in my direction for a kiss.

"Happy Easter," I said. "Where's Rich?"

"Straggling."

"Good. I have something to give him. Just a little thank you. You think I need to wrap it?"

"A present?" she asked, her eyes widening in delight.

"It's not much."

When I didn't offer any other information, she said, "I'm sure it'll be just fine without it." I could tell she wanted to know more, but she didn't ask and I didn't volunteer.

The placek still sat on the counter and I grabbed a knife from the drawer, cut a slice from the undamaged end, and plopped it on a plate.

"Where'd that come from?" Brenda asked.

"Just something I picked up."

I sat at the table, grabbing the front section of the newspaper. No headline screamed of Sharon's arrest. Stupid, really. I'd only told Hayden about her the afternoon before. Warrants and such take time. In the unlikely event he had gone after her, it wouldn't have gotten in the paper yet anyway. Nielsen hadn't written about me either. Again, yet.

Despite Sophie's advice to trust that Sharon would be nailed by the cops, I thought about Sam Nielsen's offer. If Hayden didn't act on my evidence within a week, I'd call the newspaper and tell the reporter everything. He promised he protected his sources, and my revelations might force Detective Hayden to take Sharon Walker seriously.

That decided, I studied the national headlines. I couldn't get excited about the latest threat to peace in the Middle East and grabbed the comics instead. Richard came in about the time I finished Hagar the Horrible.

"I see you're stimulating your mind," he said in greeting, brushed past me to Brenda, giving her a perfunctory kiss, then stood back, his chest puffed out. "Coffee, woman!"

Hands on her hips, she gazed at him speculatively. "You know where the cups are."

I tried to stifle a smile-impossible-turning my attention back to the paper. In a moment, a steaming cup of coffee appeared in front of me. Richard brought out the sugar bowl and creamer.

"Thanks."

"You're looking chipper this morning," he said, doctoring his own coffee. "And dare I say it, you even look healthier?"

"It's because my heart is true." I poured milk into my cup, stirred it, and took a sip. "Good coffee. You could be in a commercial, Brenda."

"They couldn't pay me enough," she said, and started breaking eggs into a bowl. "Fried or scrambled?"

"I'm just going to have this placek," I said.

"You don't eat enough to keep a bird alive," Brenda said, but I knew she wouldn't force feed me, either.

"Scrambled, please," Richard said, grabbing a piece of the paper.

"How come we're not eating those hardboiled eggs we did Friday?" I asked.

"They're just to look at," Brenda said.

"It's a waste not to eat them. I could make deviled eggs after Mass."

"Okay, but I want to take a picture of them first. Richard, where's our camera?"

Richard's nose was buried in the newspaper. "It's around here somewhere. I'll find it later."

Brenda nodded toward Richard, her eyes nearly bulging. I frowned, not comprehending. 'The present,' she mouthed.

I nodded. "Uh, Rich. You got a minute?"

I waited for him to put the paper down-at least ten seconds. He seemed impatient.

"Now that all this stuff about the murder is more or less over, I wanted to thank you for helping me out, carting me around, being patient, and a good brother, and all that crap."

Okay, so I'm not much of a speechmaker. I took the tissue-wrapped packet from my pocket, handed it to him.

He blinked at me. "You shouldn't have," he said automatically.

"It's not much. Just something I thought you might like."

Puzzled, he studied my face for a long moment. Brenda came up behind him, watching. He fumbled with the wrapping and pulled the beaded chain from the tissue.

"Ivory's not politically correct any more, but what the hell."

"It's a rosary, isn't it?" Brenda said.

"It belonged to our mother. Your father gave it to her. It meant a lot to her."

He stared at it for a long time, his expression unreadable. He ran his thumb over the beads. "I never had anything of hers. I don't even have a photo of her."

I reached over, clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, now you've got something. I think I can dig up a picture, too."

"It's beautiful," he managed, voice husky.

"I should've given it to you years ago. I mean, it came from your father, not mine. For whatever it's worth, I know she loved him a lot. She loved you a lot, too."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat, his watery eyes still fixed on the rosary.

"Happy Easter, Rich."

We were late. The ham was in the oven and I already had my coat on, when Richard remembered the candy he'd bought Brenda two days before. I didn't mind the delay. If we missed the beginning of the Mass, it wouldn't be a tragedy.

Richard had the Lincoln waiting in the driveway when Brenda and I came out of the house. As usual, I got in the back seat. A funny feeling crept through me as I fastened my seat belt and the car started down the drive.

"Wait a minute, Rich."

He braked. "You forget something?"

"Something's not right." I looked up and down the street, but I didn't know what to look for. Tire tracks gouged the lawn in front of the hedge. Was my unease tied to the car that nearly hit me-could've killed me-the night before?

"We're already late," Brenda reminded us.

Something lurked nearby. Something. . . .

"Okay," I said. "Let's go."

He started off toward Main Street. I couldn't shake the feeling that I should be wary, but I didn't know why and tried to ignore it.

"Did you read the newspaper article on the Basilica, Jeffy?" Brenda asked.

"Nope. Don't know a thing about it."

"It's called Our Lady of Victory Basilica," Richard said. "Only a few cities in the U.S. are so graced by a basilica."

"So how did one end up in Lackawanna?" I asked.

"It was built with the pennies of Polish immigrants back in the nineteen twenties," Richard lectured, "and was the dream of Father Nelson H. Baker, who headed the Homes of Charity. An orphanage, home for unwed mothers-that kind of stuff. He wanted to build a shrine to the Blessed Virgin."

"Kinda snowballed, huh?" I said.