She had resisted. She wouldn't give them words to twist and use against him.

Elton felt the media would ease up after the arraignment Monday morning. After that, Ian would cease to be breaking news and they would look for fresh meat.

She climbed out of bed, stepped over Ranger and padded to the bathroom. She felt crampy and queasy.

She frowned, wondering if that was normal at this stage of pregnancy. She had pur chased a book on what to expect during each month of pregnancy but hadn't begun reading it yet. In truth, the giddy excitement she had felt at the bookstore the day she'd bought it seemed a lifetime ago.

It had been less than a week.

After emptying her bladder, Jane crossed to the sink for a drink of water. She filled the gla.s.s and drank.

As she did, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Pale, sunken cheeks. Alarmingly dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

She needed rest, she acknowledged. The baby needed her to rest. How much help could she be to Ian if she was dead on her feet? Or landed herself in the hospital?

How much help was she being to him now?

She drained the gla.s.s, flipped off the light and started back to bed, stopping halfway there. The night he'd been arrested, Ian had said the police had come to his office with a search warrant. They'd taken his computers and appointment books. Some patient files, Elle Vanmeer's among them, no doubt.

What had they been looking for?

The police believed Ian had been having an affair with Elle Vanmeer. They believed him to be in financial trouble. That he had killed the woman to keep her from telling his wife about the affair-not because he feared losing Jane, but her millions. They believed he had killed Marsha to keep her from implicating him.

Jane brought the heels of her hands to her eyes, fighting to stay at least marginally objective. If she allowed herself to focus on their accusations, she would lose it. She couldn't. She had to stay sharp.

They were building their case against him. They would have taken all his financial information. All telephone and appointment records, looking for evidence of his affair.

Maybe they had missed something. Something that would point to his innocence. It made sense-after all, how could they find something they weren't looking for?

But what? And where could she look? She narrowed her eyes in thought. Everything would have been on the computers and the police had confiscated them all.

The computers, she realized. Of course.

When they'd moved to the new office, Marsha had backed everything up on CD. In case the computer hard drives were damaged in the move.

She would bet her life that those CDs were still there.

Jane threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Ranger watched her, then got to his feet and followed her out to the kitchen. She collected her purse and keys, then looked at the dog.

"Not this time, pal. Sorry."

He woofed softly, as if in argument. Jane frowned, then glanced toward the front windows and the dark, starless sky.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams.

He could be out there. Waiting. Watching.

Fear propelled her to the pantry. She retrieved the animal's leash and a flashlight. She snapped the lead onto his collar. "Good point, Ranger. You ride shotgun."

Moments later they reached the street. A music festival was in full swing two blocks over on Elm. Light spilled from the tattoo parlor down the block; a couple of teenagers lounged in front, smoking. After Ranger had taken care of his immediate needs, she packed them both into the SUV and started off.

Jane reached the clinic and parked in back, in a spot hidden by the Dumpster. She cracked the windows for Ranger, told him to stay put and climbed out. She entered through the rear door, noting with concern that the alarm hadn't been set. She wondered who had been last to leave and chastened herself for not making certain the clinic was secure in Ian's absence.

From inside came the hum of a copier left on. The exit sign above the door cast a rea.s.suring red glow in the otherwise dark hallway. Eschewing the overhead, she flipped on the flashlight and made her way toward the front of the building and Marsha's office. She felt a bit foolish at playing this so cloak-and-dagger; after all, she co-owned the business and had every right to be here. But she didn't want to draw attention to herself. Didn't want the police to know she was anything but a helpless little wife.

And if she found anything, she wanted Elton to have it first.

Ian's was a small practice and Marsha had served as both office manager and receptionist. Her office opened to the reception area so she could greet and check in patients as they arrived.

Jane reached it. She swept the flashlight beam over the desk, seeing that, as she had suspected, the police had confiscated the computer. The appointment books as well. The desktop looked naked.

She headed to Ian's office. His desktop computer was also gone.

She smiled to herself. She didn't need them, thanks to Marsha's competency.

Jane decided to locate the CDs first, then look around for something the police might have missed. Her

gut told her they had missed something, that if she looked carefully enough, she would uncover some piece of evidence that would help prove Ian innocent.

She wished her gut would give her a clue as to what that might be.

Jane moved her gaze over the s.p.a.ce, taking in the credenza, file cabinets and desk drawers. The closed door to the walk-in supply closet.

She decided on the credenza first. She squatted in front of it, and propping the flashlight so its beam illuminated the interior, she began going through the contents. Supplies, she saw. Paper for the fax and copier. Stationery. Envelopes.

A box of CD jewel cases.

Jane retrieved the box, opened it and with trembling fingers flipped through the CDs. Sure enough, the CDs were marked: NextGen medical software. Quicken 12.0. FileMaker Pro 6.

Bingo. Right out of the gate.

She carried the box to Marsha's desk. A dozen photos graced its top-of the woman's nieces and

nephews, several of Marsha and her dog. A lump formed in Jane's throat, even as anger rushed over her.

Ian hadn't done this. And she wouldn't let the monster who had get away with it.

She searched the desk drawers. Mostly supplies: paper clips, rubber bands and staples. Jane made a sound of frustration. The police, it seemed, had even taken the telephone message pads.

Looking for records of Elle Vanmeer's calls.

The realization should have made her squirm. It didn't. She was over that, focusing now not on what they had found, but what they had not.

She crossed to the bank of file cabinets. She slid open the drawer containing patients whose names

began with Vs. She thumbed through. Elle Vanmeer's file was gone. No surprise there.

On a whim, she began scanning patient names, from V through Z, then moving up to the beginning of the

alphabet. There were more names than she had expected, patients Ian had taken with him when he bought out of his partnership in the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery.

The names meant nothing to her until one jumped out. A woman prominent in the art community. Then

another from the society pages. She finished the Bs and moved on to the Cs. She thumbed through, stopping on the name Gretchen Cole.

One of her art subjects.

Jane frowned. When had she become a patient of Ian's?

After she had interviewed the woman. Because she had introduced them, Jane remembered. She worked to recall how it had happened. She had wrapped her session with Gretchen. She and Ted had been scheduling dates for her molds. Ian had stopped in to invite her to lunch. She had made the introductions.

No big deal. It had happened several times befo- Sharon Smith. Lisette Gregory. And others...a few, anyway. She struggled to recall, but her mind had gone blank. She slid Gretchen's file out of the drawer, opened it, confirmed her memory was accurate and returned it to the drawer. She then went to the Gs, thumbed through, then stopped.

Lisette Gregory.

She checked the date. Like Gretchen, Lisette had become Ian's patient after their work together. And like the other woman, she'd had breast augmentation.

It didn't mean anything, Jane told herself, even as she replaced that file and shifted her search to names beginning with the letter S.

There she was-Sharon Smith.

Jane stared at the typed name, a trembling sensation stealing over her. A feeling of hurt. Betrayal. Why hadn't Ian mentioned that several of her art subjects had become his patients? Subjects she had introduced him to? One she could shrug off, but three? What did it mean?

Business is a little slow; visit Jane's studio. The poor things are neurotically insecure. Easy pickings.

No. Ian was a plastic surgeon, a d.a.m.n good one. Many of her subjects were plastic surgery junkies. Women obsessed with youth and beauty. Women always on the lookout for the next, newest procedure to improve their looks-and the surgeon who could make it happen.

There could be more. She would have to go through every file to be certain. She began to close the drawer, then froze at the sound of a door clicking shut. Where? The rear, she realized. Had she forgotten to lock the door?

Jane switched off her flashlight. She heard what sounded like soft footfalls. Quiet breathing. She craned her neck, saw the beam from a flashlight bouncing across the back wall.

Panicked, Jane looked for a hiding place. Her gaze landed on the door to the supply closet.

Leaping to her feet, she darted for it. She ducked inside, pulling the door nearly shut behind her. She peered through the crack. She saw a figure standing just inside the doorway, dressed entirely in black. A woman, Jane decided, judging by her size and what she could make out of her silhouette. As Jane watched, the woman crossed to the patient files. She slid the drawer Jane had been going through shut, then opened another. Holding her penlight between her teeth, she began thumbing through the files.

She found what she was looking for, straightened and slid the drawer shut. As she turned, the flashlight beam pa.s.sed directly across Jane, momentarily blinding her.

She jerked backward, certain she had been caught. She brought a hand to her mouth, holding back a cry.

For the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat, the woman stared at the closet. Jane held her breath, certain she had been found out. A moment later the woman was gone. For several minutes, Jane stood frozen. She struggled to slow her runaway heart. Get a hold of her ragged breath. Who, Jane wondered, was that woman? Why had she been in Ian's office? Obviously, she'd come for a patient file. But her own? Or someone else's?

Clearly, the file contained something she hadn't wanted the police to find. But what?

Jane eased the closet door open. She poked her head out and listened. From outside came the sound of barking. Ranger, she realized. Barking at the woman.

Jane stumbled from the closet. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the box of CDs and hurried to the rear of the building. Ranger's barking ceased. His sudden silence terrified her. She battled the urge to yank the door open and race into the parking lot. Instead, she inched it open and peered out. Empty save for the back of her SUV, peeking out from the other side of the Dumpster.

She set the alarm, closed and locked the door behind her. Box of CDs tucked under her arm, she darted