She turned, comforting, soothing herself with her own reflection in the mirror. "But you're right about one thing, Dallas. Killing is what I do. And I do it very well."

Smart, Roarke thought as he, too, watched his wife's interview. Very smart. Keep saying her name, the whole of it, so it becomes printed on the minds of everyone who hears it. And Nadine had done her part, flashing Dunne's various images on-screen.

No one who would view the four-minute interview, which was being rebroadcast every ninety minutes, would forget Julianna Dunne. And the name and image of Eve Dallas would be similarly imprinted on Julianna Dunne's mind.

She was trying to turn Dunne's focus onto her, Roarke concluded.

To save another innocent. Even if that innocent was her own, far from pure husband.

He had his own ideas about that, ideas they would undoubtedly clash over. But before it came to that, they would deal with the city of Dallas, and the memories that lived there still.

A part of him was relieved she would go, that she would face this nightmare. It might not free her, but he could hope it would at least lighten the burden she carried with her every day of her life.

But another part wanted her to turn away from it all, as she had turned away from it for so many years. Bury it deep, and look ahead.

And he of all people knew that the past was always stalking your back like a great black dog. Ready to pounce and sink fangs into your throat just when you thought you were safe.

Whatever he'd done to bury the past, it was never quite enough. It lived with him, even here in this grand house with all its treasures and comfort and beauty, the stink of Dublin's slums lived with him.

Easier perhaps, he mused, than the past lived with his wife. His before was more like a poor and somewhat regrettable family relation that sat stubbornly in a corner and would never leave.

He knew what it was like to be hungry and afraid, to feel fists pounding him. Fists from hands that should have tended him, embraced him as fathers were meant to embrace sons. But he'd escaped from that. Even as a child he'd had his means of escape. With friends, bad company, with enterprises that, while far from legal, were vastly entertaining. And profitable.

He'd stolen, he'd cheated, he'd schemed. And though he'd never taken a life without cause, he'd killed. He'd built a name, then a business, then an industry. Then a kind of world, he supposed. He'd traveled and absorbed. He'd learned. And the boy who'd lived his life by wit and guile, by nimble fingers and quick feet became a man of wealth and power. A man who owned whatever he damn well wanted to own and had danced skillfully on the dark side of the law when it suited him.

He'd had women, and some he'd cared for a great deal. But he'd been alone. He hadn't known how much alone until Eve. She'd shown him his own heart. It might have taken her longer to see it for herself, but she'd shown it to him.

And the world he'd built, the man who'd lived in it, had changed forever.

In a matter of hours, they would go back and face her past, the horrors of it. Together.

From his console came a quick beeping indicating the security gate was open. He glanced at the panel, saw the identification for Eve's police vehicle.

Then he walked to the window to watch her come home.

Eve saw the two figures beneath the arching branches of one of the weeping trees as she rounded the first curve toward the house.

Most of their bodies were sheltered by the ripe green leaves and fading blossoms.

She punched the accelerator, and her weapon was in her hand before she saw who they were, and what they were doing. Peabody's parents stood under those fragrant limbs locked in a passionate embrace.

Embarrassed amusement had her shoving her weapon back in its harness, and averting her eyes as she continued down the drive. She parked at the base of the steps because it served two purposes. It was convenient, and Summerset hated it. But her hopes that everyone would pretend that they hadn't seen everyone else were dashed as Sam and Phoebe strolled toward her, holding hands.

Eve stuck hers in her pockets. "How's it going?" "A gorgeous day."

Phoebe's lips curved, but her gaze was steady and direct and made the back of Eve's neck itch. Deliberately Eve focused on a point in the center of Phoebe's forehead.

Don't look in her eyes, she reminded herself. Don't make direct visual contact.

"Sam and I were taking advantage of it." Phoebe shook back her hair and it tinkled musically from the silver rings woven through it.

"I saw your interview with Nadine Furst of Channel 75 on the entertainment screen before I came out. You looked very strong and determined."

"I am determined."

"And strong. Roarke tells us the two of you need to go out of town tomorrow." "Yeah. It's case-related," Eve replied uneasily, avoiding looking at Sam.

"Is there anything we can do for you here while you're gone?"

"No, thanks. Not unless you run into Julianna Dunne and want to make a citizen's arrest."

"I think we'll leave that to you and Delia. I need to check on something in the greenhouse. Sam, talk Eve into finishing your walk with you." Before either of them could speak, Phoebe was gliding off with a swish of flowing, flowered skirts.

"I'm sorry," Sam said immediately. "She knows there's some kind of tension. I didn't say anything to her." "Okay."

"It's not okay." For the first time since she'd known him, Eve heard temper in his voice, saw it on his face as he turned to her. "I'm making you uncomfortable and upset in your own home. You and Roarke opened that home to us, and I abused the privilege. I was about to work up to talking Phoebe into moving to a hotel for our last few days, but you drove up..."

He trailed into silence, and like Eve, stuck his hands in his pockets as if he didn't know what else to do with them.

They stood like that a moment, staring out at the lawn, at the color and the green. She was no sensitive, but Eve thought the misery pumping off the man would have dented a steel wall.

"Look, let's just put it away. It's a couple of days, and I'm not here half the time anyway."

"I have a code," he said quietly. "Part of it's Free-Ageism, part of it's simply the way I believe a life should be led. To cherish family, to do good work. To enjoy the time we're given in this lifetime, and to try as best as we're able to cause no harm. With the gift I was given comes another responsibility, another code. To respect, always, the privacy and the well-being of others. Never to use what I've been given for my own gain, my own amusement or curiosity, or to cause harm. That's what I did." Eve let out a heavy sigh. He'd hit her exactly where she lived. "I understand codes. Living by them, living up to them. I also understand mistakes. I know you didn't do it on purpose, and you'd probably bite off your own tongue before you discussed this with anyone but me. But I barely know you, and it's hard having someone who's practically a stranger look at me and see that kind of... ugliness."

"Do you think I see ugliness when I look at you?" His hand came out of his pocket, started to reach for her, then retreated. "I don't. I saw the ugliness of a memory, the horror no child should know exists much less experience. I'm not a violent man, by nature or creed, but I wish I could..."

He trailed off, his face flushed with fury, the hand at his side balled into a fist that looked oddly capable.

"I wish I could do what any father should do." He steadied himself, opened his fist again. "But when I look at you I see strength and courage and purpose beyond anything I've ever known. I see my daughter's friend, a woman I trust with my child's life. I know you're going back there tomorrow. Roarke said you were going to Dallas.

I'll pray for you."

She stared at him. "Does anyone manage to stay pissed-off at you?"

His smile was slow, tentative. "Phoebe manages it for short spaces of time."

"Then she's tougher than she looks. We'll put it away," she said, and held out a hand.

When she walked inside, she saw Summerset polishing the newel post while the cat sat like a furry Buddha on the bottom step. They both gave her a long, gimlet stare.

"Your bag is packed for your trip. Roarke indicated a single day's supply of clothing would be sufficient.

"I've told you, I pack for myself. I don't want you poking your bony fingers through my things." She stepped over the cat, who studiously ignored her, froze. Then her hand whipped out and latched on the end of Summerset's polishing rag. "That's my shirt."

"I beg to differ." He'd counted on her making the ID. "Whi le this may, at one time very long ago, have masqueraded as an article of clothing, it is now a rag. One which had somehow found its way into your bureau and has been removed and put to its only possible use."

"Give me my goddamn shirt, you pruny, skinny-assed cockroach." She tugged. He tugged back.

"You have a number of perfectly respectable shirts." "I want this shirt."

"This is a rag." They yanked at opposite ends, and the cloth ripped handily down the middle. "Now," he said with satisfaction, "it's two rags."

Eve snarled, and balling what was left of an ancient NYPSD T-shirt in her fist, stomped up the stairs. "Stay out of my drawers, you pervert, or I'll bite your fingers off at the knuckles."

"There now," Summerset addressed to the cat. "Isn't it nice to know the Lieutenant will go off on this difficult trip in a good frame of mind?" She stormed into the bedroom, heaved the ripped cloth just as Roarke stepped out of the elevator. It hit him right on the chin.

"Well then, it's lovely to see you, too."

"Look what that son of a bitch did to my shirt."

"Mmm." Roarke examined the tattered scrap of material. "Is that what this was?" Idly, he poked a finger through an old hole. "Pity. I heard you and Summerset exchanging your usual words of affection. At the top of your lungs."