"Come on, Westbrook," the detective she didn't recognize said, giving Ian a small shove toward the door, "time to go bye-bye."

The words, their slyly amused tone, jogged her out of her daze. "Wait!" She raced to her husband's side,

threw her arms around him, clinging. She pressed her face to his chest, feeling as if a part of her was being ripped away.

"I didn't do this, Jane."

"I know." She tipped her face to his. "It's going to be all right. I'll find out who-"

The uniformed officer pried her arms free. "We've got to take him now," Mac said. "I'm sorry."

A cry spilled past her lips. She reached out, but they had already begun herding Ian down the stairs.

"Call Whitney," Ian shouted over his shoulder. "He'll know what to do."

Jane hurried after them, out to the sidewalk, tears streaming down her face. "No!" she cried as the

uniformed officer forced Ian into the back of the cruiser. She called out again, this time Ian's name.

He looked at her from the cruiser window, craning to see her as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.

Gone. Taken from her.

Her luck had run out.

When the cruiser disappeared from sight, she turned. Snake stood in the doorway of the tattoo parlor,

staring at her. She met his gaze; the hair on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kling. A smile touched his mouth. With a small salute, he ducked into his store.

TWENTY-TWO Wednesday, October 22, 2003 8:50 p.m.

It took Jane a few minutes to locate Whitney Barnes's home number, but she did, on Ian's PalmPilot. She had found the device tucked into his jacket pocket, retrieved the number, then slipped the device into her handbag, just in case she needed it later. Whitney, Whit as he was known to his friends, was Ian's corporate attorney and longtime friend.

Voice shaking, Jane explained what had happened. He ordered her to sit tight; he would be there in fifteen minutes. He also suggested she call a family member or friend for moral support.

Jane started to dial Stacy's number, then remembered that her sister was one of the bad guys. She called Dave instead.

At the sound of his voice, she burst into tears. He, too, promised to be there ASAP.

She hung up and began to pace. To the front windows to peer anxiously down at the street, then back to the kitchen. She made coffee, remembered she couldn't have caffeine and tossed it, then filled the kettle with water for herbal tea.

She wrung her hands, talked to Ranger and prayed out loud, vacillating between despair and disbelief, anger and pleading. At a sound from out front, she hurried into the foyer. She ripped open the door, jogged down to the street level entrance, only to discover that no one was there. The whistle of the kettle dragged her back to the loft.

Finally, the buzzer sounded. With a cry, she raced to answer the intercom. Not Dave or Whit. Stacy.

"I just heard," Stacy said, sounding out of breath. "I came as quickly as I could."

It took Jane a moment to find her voice. "You just heard? Please, you're one of them."

"I'm not! I was taken off the case this afternoon. For conflict of interest. Reprimanded by my captain. I didn't know this was coming, I promise you." She lowered her voice. "We're sisters, Jane. Family."

Now they were family. Twenty-four hours ago, she 'd been singing a different song.

Jane sagged against the wall, hurting. World falling apart.

"I don't want you to be alone."

"Don't worry about me. I called Dave."

"You told me to come to you when I was willing to meet you halfway. I'm here, Jane. Please let me come

up."

A cry bubbled to her lips. "Now? Why, Stacy? Because I'm beaten? Because I had everything and now it's gone?" Her voice rose. "They took my husband away in handcuffs!"

"I didn't want this to happen. I don't want you to be unhappy."

She didn't believe it. Why should she? She told her sister so.

For a long moment, Stacy didn't respond. When she did, she sounded weary. "If you need me, you

know where to find me."

For several minutes, Jane stood at the intercom, bereft. Then with a cry, she darted for the stairs, raced

down them, crossed to the door and yanked it open. "Stacy!" she called. "Wait!"

She was gone.

"Jane!"

She swung around. Dave was hurrying toward her.

She ran to him; he folded her in his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"No." Her vision blurred with tears. "They took Ian away. They think he murdered those two women!"

"It's already on the news."

"So...soon? How?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

Whitney Barnes arrived. He hurried across the sidewalk, a tall, slim and elegant man. "I came as quickly

as I could. You know Dallas traffic."

Jane introduced the men. After they shook hands, the attorney looked at Jane. "Why don't we go upstairs?"

She nodded and led the two men into the apartment, to the living room. She faced the lawyer, hands

clasped in front of her. "He didn't do this, Whit. He's innocent."

"Ian called before he left the office this evening, so I know the sequence of events thus far. Tell me exactly how it went down tonight."

"They handcuffed him. Told him he was under arrest for both murders."

"Did they read him his rights?"

"Yes."

"Here are the facts of life. You'd better sit down."

She did, on the couch. Dave stood protectively behind her, hands on her shoulders.

"Are you ready?" he asked. She nodded and he began. "Since they arrested Ian, they feel they have

enough to charge him. However, they can hold him forty-eight hours before indicting, another two days before they arraign him. The arraignment is when they officially charge a suspect. Since the clock starts ticking the minute they charge him, they'll no doubt use every minute they've got."

"What do you mean, the clock starts ticking?"

"Right to a speedy trial, Jane. A right granted by the U.S. Const.i.tution. In this state, from the time he's arraigned, the state has one hundred and eighty days until they must bring their case against him to trial." "A hundred and eighty days," she repeated weakly, doing the math. Six months. Ian, locked up in that place for six months. How would he bear it? How would she?

"This can't be happening, Whit."

"But it is. And knowing what to expect will make it a little easier."

She supposed he was right, but that wasn't the way she felt. Right now, nothing could make this easier.

Or better. Save for Ian walking through the door, a free man.

"At the arraignment, Ian will enter his plea and the judge will set bail." He held up a hand, warding off her response. "Don't get excited. In Texas, there's no bail allowed on a charge of capital murder."

"Capital murder." She looked from Whit to Dave, confused. "What does that mean?"

"Among other things, the murder of more than one person."

She felt ill. She brought a hand to her mouth. Dave squeezed her shoulder rea.s.suringly.

"They'll book him at the Frank Crowley building. I'll head down there, though I probably won't learn

much this time of night. In the morning, I'll visit the D.A.'s office, see if they'll share what they have on Ian. Some district attorneys prefer to keep their evidence as close to the vest as possible. Some prefer what they have out in the open, right up front. If a case is weak, they'd rather know it and plead down or get out. Save themselves the trouble and the state the money."

"And our D.A.?" Dave asked.