"Terry Stockton tends to be pretty open. But he can be a hard-a.s.s. Depends on which way the wind's blowing."

Whit stood. "Sit tight. As soon as Ian's booked, he'll be allowed to see counsel. I'll talk to him, tell him

you're fine, make certain his rights haven't been violated in any way. Nothing substantial will happen until tomorrow."

"I'm coming with you."

"You're not going to be allowed to see him, Jane. There's nothing you can do."

"He's my husband, I'm going."

Whit looked at Dave, as if for support. Dave shrugged. "She's made up her mind, my friend. I know from experience that when Jane makes up her mind about something, she's immovable."

"All right, then. However, a word of warning, the Frank Crow-ley Courts Building isn't exactly the center of civilization. Especially this time of night."

"I'm ready," she said, standing. "I can handle it."

TWENTY-THREE.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

11:25 p.m.

She had been wrong-she hadn't been ready, hadn't been able to handle it. The Frank Crowley Courts Building had been busy, even at such a late hour on a weeknight. Hookers, cops, gang bangers and drunks mixed with angry relatives, lawyers and sh.e.l.l-shocked victims-creating an odd, sometimes frightening, mix of humanity.

When a drunk had puked on her shoes, she had lost it herself. She, however, had made it into the John before she'd tossed her cookies. Then, alone in the privacy of the bathroom stall, she had fallen apart.

She had pulled herself together through sheer force of will. Because she had to be strong for Ian.

And because she was strong.

Just as Whit had said, he had been allowed in to see Ian, but she hadn't. Ian, he'd reported, was shaken but otherwise fine. He had been worried about her.

Whit had promised to call her in the morning with an update and to give her a list of topnotch criminal attorneys. Until that moment, she hadn't dealt with the fact that Whit practiced corporate not criminal law, and that she would have to secure another attorney ASAP.

Dave had driven her home. He pulled up in front of her building and shut off the engine. "I'll see you up."

She sent him a small smile of grat.i.tude. "You've already done too much."

"Jane, walking you to your door is not-"

"Necessary," she finished for him. She reached across the seat, caught his hand and squeezed it. "Thanks

for being here for me."

He returned the pressure of her fingers. "I'm really sorry about all this. I wish there was something I could do." "You already have." Keys in hand, she grasped the door handle. "Call me tomorrow? I may need a shoulder."

"You've got it. And Jane?" She met his eyes. "Stacy's one of the good guys. I believe that."

Sudden tears stung her eyes. She didn't reply, instead opened her door and climbed out. She crossed to

her building, then after letting herself in turned back and waved.

Dave returned the gesture, then drove off.

She stepped into the foyer. The interior was cold. Dark. She hit the light switch beside the door, flipping

it up. Nothing. She tried again, confused, certain Ian had just changed the bulb.

She owned the two-story building, had bought it with a portion of her inheritance. Their loft occupied the

second level, her studio the first. Both were accessed by this one door to the street. To her right stood the stairs to their loft, dead ahead a short hall led to her studio entrance.

Jane glanced up the steep, dark stairs. Then at the hall ahead. Moonlight streamed through the one front

window, creating a dim puddle of light at her feet, causing the shadows to appear deeper, blacker.

She turned, twisted the dead bolt, then took a step into the foyer. Paper crackled under her feet. She

glanced down and saw she'd stepped on an envelope, her name scrawled across the front. She bent to retrieve it, then froze at the creak of her studio door opening.

She straightened, took a step backward, heart hammering against the wall of her chest. "Who's there?"

"Jane? It's Ted."

"Ted?" she repeated weakly, relieved beyond words. "What are you doing here?"

He locked the studio door behind him and came down the hall toward her. "I heard about Ian. On the ten

o'clock news. I came to make certain you were okay." He caught her hands, rubbed them between his.

"You don't look so good, Jane."

"I don't feel so good, either."

"Come on, I'll make you some tea."

She nodded, then remembering the envelope, picked it up and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

Ted led her upstairs. She handed him the keys and he unlocked the door. Together they went to the kitchen.

"Sit," he said. "I'll make the tea. You look like you could use it."

She shrugged off the jacket, tossed it across the counter and sank onto one of the stools. Fatigue settled over her. She dropped her head to her hands, realizing she had nothing left-not even the ability to think clearly.

She was vaguely aware of Ted moving around the kitchen, opening cabinets, filling the kettle, lighting the burner. The kettle whistling.

"Here you go," Ted said softly, setting the cup in front of her.

She lifted her head wearily, managing the barest of smiles. She found the cup, brought it to her lips, took a sip. He'd found the chamomile; she recognized the flavor.

"What are they saying?" she asked. "In the news?"

"Breaking news," he corrected. "Plastic surgeon arrested in double homicide. They named him and flashed his picture."

He said the words as gently as possible; she cringed, anyway. The thought of it made her ill.

"He didn't do it, Ted. It's all a mistake." As the words pa.s.sed her lips, she wondered how many times

she had uttered those same words over the past hours. And how many times she would utter them in the hours-days and weeks-to come. "He couldn't," she added, feeling the need to defend her husband more. "Such a horrible act isn't in him."

"You don't have to convince me."

She pressed her lips together, looked away.

"What's that?" he asked, indicating the envelope poking out of her jacket pocket.

"I don't know. Someone must have slipped it through the mail slot. I stepped on it when I came in."

"Are you going to open it?"

"You do it," she said, plucking it from her pocket and pushing it across the counter. "I don't have the

energy."

She brought her head to her hands once more. She heard Ted rip open the envelope, heard the rustle of paper, his sharply indrawn breath.

She looked up. Her a.s.sistant's already pale face looked ashen. "What?"

He shook his head, shoved the contents back into the envelope. "Nothing. It's nothing. Just trash."

"Bulls.h.i.t." She held a hand out. It shook slightly. "Let me have it."

"Jane, please. You don't want-"

"Give it to me." He handed the envelope over reluctantly. She took it, lifted the flap, retrieved the contents.

It was a news clipping from March 13,1987, about the accident. There was a picture of her.

Written boldly across the piece was a message: I did it on purpose. To hear your screams.