THEPROSECUTOR'S OFFICEwas on the fourth floor of the county courthouse. Keely felt her stomach lurch, along with the elevator, as it stopped on the way up. Her heart pounded as the light above the door indicated the fourth floor and the doors rolled apart. Standing at the open doors, pressing at the Down b.u.t.ton, was the handsome youngblack man with bronze dreadlocks that Keely had seen in Lucas's office. He stood back to let her exit the elevator, and she was struck again by the blue-green eyes, so unexpected against his broad, African features. The young man got into the elevator and pressed the b.u.t.ton without meeting Keely's gaze, a distracted frown on his face.

Keely checked the numbers on the door and then approached the prosecutor's reception desk. She stood awkwardly in front of the desk and waited for Maureen Chase's secretary to get off the phone. The secretary scratched her scalp with the eraser of her pencil as she expertly persuaded the agitated caller that her boss couldn't be disturbed and would call him back before the day was out. Keely had to admire her style. She had that combination of efficiency and decisiveness that a person needed to run interference in a place as highpitched as the prosecutor's office. It was going to be difficult to get past her. Keely tried to summon every skill she'd ever had for being persuasive as the young woman returned the phone to its cradle and gazed up at her.

Keely forced herself to smile. "My name is Keely Weaver. I'm here to see Miss Chase."

The secretary glanced at the calendar, dense with penciled notes, on her desk. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"There's a rather urgent matter I need to discuss with her," said Keely. "It just came up."

"I'm sorry. She's busy for the rest of the day. If you'd like to make an appointment . . ."

Keely nodded. "I understand. It won't take along. I a.s.sure you."

The secretary was used to lawyers' tactics and would not be moved. "I'm sure it won't," she said firmly. "She's got a half hour free in the morning, the day after tomorrow. If you can just tell me what it's in reference to . . .?"

"It's personal," said Keely.

The secretary turned back to her computer. "Call her at home."

Keely felt anxiety flooding her heart. She couldn't go home and tell Dylan that she hadn't even gotten in to see Maureen Chase. Casting about for some means of persuasion, she noticed the framed photo of ababy in a tiny Orioles baseball cap on the desk. "Is that your son?" she asked.

"Yes." Then she turned around and faced Keely. "And don't start telling me how you have a son, too, and he's in trouble, because I get mothers in here all the time with the same problem. Tell it to your lawyer, who can talk to the D.A."

Embarra.s.sed that her ploy had proved so transparent but still resolute, Keely said, "Look, I know a lot of people need to speak to Miss Chase, and it's your job to screen them. But I'm not coming back the day after tomorrow. I want to see her right now, and I want you to tell her that."

The secretary pursed her lips. "You look like a nice woman," she said. "Don't make me call the security guard."

"All I'm asking," Keely pleaded, "is that you tell her I'm here."

"What you're asking is impossible," she reiterated. "I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. If I bothered her about every . . . crank who wants to see her right away, I'd lose my job, okay?" She pointed one red fingernail at the baby picture on her desk. "He's gotta eat; I gotta work. Now, do you want to make an appointment or not?"

"She was engaged to my husband," Keely blurted out.

The secretary leaned back in her chair and regarded Keely with new interest. "Who?" she asked.

"Your boss. She was once engaged to my husband. Mark Weaver."

The young woman's eyes widened. "You're Mark's wife?" she asked.

For a moment, Keely was taken aback by the familiarity in her voice. She reminded herself that Mark was a high-profile attorney. Naturally, Maureen's secretary would know him. "Yes," said Keely.

"That was a tragedy," she said. She reached for the telephone receiver, tapping her fingernails on the desktop. Then she turned her back on Keely. Keely heard the murmur of a conversation and then the young woman hung up the phone and turned back to her. She pointed a pencil at the closed door of Maureen's office. "Go on in," she said.

Keely tried to conceal her amazement at the instantaneous effect mentioning Mark's name had had. "Thank you," she said, trying to sound calm and dignified. Conscious of being watched, Keely walkedover to Maureen's door, tapped on it, and turned the k.n.o.b at the same time as the a.s.sistant D.A. called, "Come," from inside.

Maureen was seated at her desk with her back to Keely, tapping sharply on the keyboard of her computer. Amidst precarious piles of folders, half a bagel with cream cheese lay uneaten on a sheet of foil. A Christmas cactus, which looked like it had not seen a drink of water, never mind a bloom, in many a Noel, perched between the Rolodex and the phone. On her desk was a framed photo, which looked like it had never been dusted, of two redheaded children, a girl and a boy, their arms linked. Keely stared at it while she waited. She was quite certain that Maureen had no children. It could be a niece and nephew, but the colors in the photo were faded, as if it had been taken long ago. Maureen and her brother, perhaps, when they were young, Keely thought. Other than the one photo, there were no personal items to give any indication about the nature of the woman in the olive-green suit behind the desk.

"Miss Chase?"

Maureen was staring intently at the computer screen and her gaze did not waver at the sound of Keely's voice. "Sit," she said. "I'll be done in a minute." She ran a hand through her blaze of auburn hair and sighed. Then she swiveled around in her chair and leveled her keen, gray-green gaze at Keely. "Well?" she said abruptly.

"I'm Keely Weaver."

"I know who you are," Maureen said.

Keely crossed her legs and tried not to make it apparent that she was studying the woman who was sitting across from her. She could not help picturing Mark with this woman, a woman he'd planned to marry. She was dressed in a stylish, well-tailored suit that revealed a slim figure. Her face was expertly made up, and each deft stroke of color had been used to emphasize her beautiful, even features. She wore chunky jewelry, and her fingernails were painted with a terra-cotta shade of polish. But there was something determinedly aggressive about her, as if she had steeled herself for an attack.

"I'm sorry. Am I interrupting your breakfast?" Keely asked.

"I'm done," Maureen said. She wrapped up the half-eaten bageland dropped it into the wastebasket as if to put an end to any small talk.

All right,Keely thought.I can be all business, too.She took a deep breath and tried to keep any hint of pleading from her voice. "I'm here because my son has endured enough with these two tragic . . . events in his life and he doesn't need all this badgering from your detectives and in the newspapers."

"Badgering," said Maureen flatly.

"Yes, badgering," said Keely stubbornly. "I know you cared about Mark, and for his sake, I'm asking you to leave my son alone. Mark always . . . spoke highly of you, and frankly this sort of thing seems a little bit . . . beneath you."

Maureen's lips smiled, but her eyes were cold. "That's your opinion," she said.

"What does that mean?" Keely asked.

"Tell me, Mrs. Weaver, were you surprised to learn that your son had handled the weapon in your first husband's 'accidental' death?"

Keely did not reply.

"You see, I knew about it a long time ago. Mark told me about it. Around the time he was first representing you to the insurance company."

Keely felt her face flame at the idea that Mark had told Maureen about this without telling his own wife.Forget about it,she reminded herself.The only important thing is Dylan."It doesn't mean anything," she said, "despite your innuendoes."

"That's what Mark thought at the time," said Maureen. "Poor fool. They didn't get along, did they? Mark and your son."

Keely met her gaze belligerently. "They had their problems. It was nothing serious."

"The kid sold the bike Mark gave him for a present. We have that on authority from Mrs. Ambler. Dylan rejected every overture Mark made to be friendly to him."

How do you know that?Keely wanted to say.

Maureen saw it in her eyes. "Mark told me the kid hated him. Resented him." There was triumph in her tone. She seemed to be relishingthe fact that she had this information, that she could reveal it to Mark's widow. "He confided in me."

Keely felt outraged that Mark would have told their personal business to a colleague. But she couldn't afford to be sidetracked by her emotions. "It's only natural," said Keely, "given Dylan's age and the situation. Mark understood that."

"How much did he hate Mark?" Maureen asked. "That's what I need to find out."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake," said Keely. "Dylan is a child. He didn't hurt anybody. He didn't shoot his father. He didn't 'arrange' an accident for Mark. This is just vicious speculation. He's a normal kid in tough circ.u.mstances, and you are persecuting him."

Maureen leaned forward on her desk and looked at Keely with narrowed eyes. "You really don't get it, do you? You should sit in my seat for a while."

Keely shook her head. Maureen stood up and walked a few steps to a file cabinet in the corner. She wrestled out a handful of files and threw them down on the desk. "There," she said. "You see that pile? Those are all the files of innocent kids, Dylan's age and younger. Right here in Profit County. I've got thirty more just like them . . ."

Keely turned her head away as Maureen picked up the stack and began to leaf through it. "a.s.sault with a deadly weapon, armed robbery, attempted murder, reckless disregard, attempted murder . . ." She dropped the files one by one back onto her desktop, and each one landed with a thud. She leaned over and looked at Keely.

"There is no such thing as an innocent fourteen-year-old these days. This kid of yours has a way of getting rid of people who stand in his way. I'm just trying to prevent its happening again . . ."

In spite of herself, Keely found her thoughts turning to the warnings of Dr. Donahue at Dylan's school. She thought of the boy from the cafeteria who ended up in the hospital, getting st.i.tches.It's not the same thing at all,she thought.

"Dylan is not that kind of kid," insisted Keely.

"That's what every mother I meet says. Just before her kid is hauled off to jail."

"This isn't about Dylan," said Keely angrily. "It's about you. It's a vendetta on your part because Mark . . ." She didn't finish the sentence.

Maureen came around to Keely's side of the desk, folded her arms across her chest, and rested her trim derriere against the front edge of her desk. Instead of reacting defensively, she seemed to become more relaxed and cool. "Because Mark what?" she asked.

Keely glared at her. "Because Mark broke your engagement and married me," she said.

"Really?" Maureen asked. "You think I should be jealous of you?"

Before Keely could reply, Maureen went back behind her desk and picked up the photo of the red-headed children.

"I don't deny," Maureen said, "that I have personal reasons for prosecuting these juvenile offenders so aggressively. My twin brother Sean," she said, turning the photo so that Keely could see it, "was murdered years ago by a kid like yours-a messed-up teenager."

Keely felt both chastened by Maureen's confiding such a tragedy and furious that the D.A. would link it to Dylan. "That's terrible," Keely murmured. "But I resent your comparing my son to a murderer. You have no right-"

"Somebody protected him, too," Maureen continued, drowning her out. "Just like you're trying to do. The law never got to him. It happened on mischief night, and people referred to it as a prank. A prank. My twin brother died as a result of that prank. And no one ever paid for it. But that's not going to happen in this case. Your son is not going to get away with it."

"I can't help what happened to you," Keely said. "But I'm warning you. Leave my son out of it."

Maureen snorted with laughter. "You're warningme?"

"I'm going to tell Lucas Weaver about this conversation."

"Don't count too heavily on Lucas," Maureen countered. She crossed her middle finger over her index finger. "Mark and Lucas were like that. Once he realizes what's really going on here, you may not have his support. You'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Weaver. I have work to do." She walked over to the door.

"Josie," she called out to her secretary. "Have you got those printouts I asked for?"

Josie approached the door and handed a sheaf of papers to Maureen, but her curious gaze lingered on Keely. Without another word, Maureen resumed her seat, picked up her telephone, and began to punch in a number. It was as if Keely had already left the room. Keely rose unsteadily to her feet and slipped out.

14.

Returning home, Keely expected to be greeted by an impatient Dylan with Abby clinging to the leg of his baggy jeans. Instead, the house was quiet and there was no sign of either of them. "Dylan?" she called out. There was no answer.

She went down the hall to Abby's nursery, thinking she might find the baby asleep in her crib, but the room was empty. None of the baby gates were set up on the first floor.Maybe he took her out for a walk,she thought, but she knew it was unlikely. Dylan did as little as possible when he had to baby-sit.Don't panic,she thought.Check upstairs.She ran up to the second floor and started down the hall. As she got near his door, she recognized, with a mixture of irritation and relief, the rhythmic thud and whisper of Dylan's headset.

She threw open the door without knocking. Dylan, who was sitting in his desk chair, feet up, eyes closed, and listening to a CD on his headset, jumped as the door banged open. "Hey," he complained, pulling off the earphones, "did you ever hear of knocking?"

Keely ignored his complaint. "Where is your sister?"

Dylan scowled and put the headset back into place. "Next door," he said.

"Next door?" Keely cried. She grabbed the headset and yanked it away from his ears. Dylan jumped up from his chair, in a fighting stance.

"What is she doing next door?" Keely demanded. "What happened here?"

"Nothing," he said angrily. "Ms. Connelly wanted to take her."

"So you just gave her to the neighbor? You were supposed to be watching her. What is going on, Dylan?"

"She was crying. She fell."

Keely's heart started to pound. "Abby fell? Fell where? Is she all right?"

"She's all right," said Dylan disgustedly. "That old . . . lady next door heard her crying and came b.u.t.ting in. Just because she foundhim-"

"Him?" Keely cried.

"Mark," Dylan grumbled. "Now, she thinks she can just barge in whenever she pleases-"

"G.o.ddamit, Dylan. I . . ." Keely could hardly speak. She pointed a finger at him. "Don't move from this room. I will deal with you later."

Keely raced down the stairs, out the front door, and across the adjoining lawn to the sprawling, slightly shabby Dutch colonialastyle house next door. She hammered on the front door, which set the dogs to barking loudly. After a few moments, she heard the locks turning, and then Evelyn opened the door.

"Evelyn," said Keely, fl.u.s.tered. "Dylan said you have Abby over here."

Evelyn sighed dramatically and stood back from the door. "Come on in."

The dogs continued to yelp at her as Keely sidled by them.

"They won't hurt you," said Evelyn impatiently. "Come on."

Keely had never been inside the Connelly house before. All the blinds in the house were drawn, so that it was as dark as twilight in the large, low-ceilinged rooms. The air in the house smelled stale and faintly like a kennel. The gloomy living room was filled with settees, small end tables, and chairs, although each chair had been placed at a daunting distance from the others.

"She's back here," said Evelyn. She called to her dogs, and they followed her through the house, panting, their toenails clicking against the worn hardwood floors.

They pa.s.sed a small, dark, cluttered library where old Dr. Connelly was snoring, asleep sitting up on a sofa that was covered by a red-and-green throw with a Christmas motif. The television in front of him was turned on to a talk show.

Evelyn Connelly put a finger to her lips and beckoned for Keely to follow her. Keely obediently trailed the older woman through the dimlylit house down the hall until they reached the kitchen. The kitchen had a paneled ceiling and walls, and the appliances were an avocado green color. Abby was seated on the worn linoleum beside the dog bowls, examining a nugget of dog food. There was a wide gauze bandage on Abby's chin. Keely rushed to her daughter and scooped her up, wresting the dog food from her little fingers and dropping it back in the bowl, which started the dogs barking again.

"Zeus, Dobie, hush," Evelyn commanded, as Keely kissed her baby on the head and looked her over. Evelyn helped herself to a gla.s.s of water from the faucet in the sink and then sipped it.

"I was out raking leaves," she said. "Somebody has to do it. This property won't take care of itself. Even with all I have to do looking after my father, I can't let it go or else-"