Ted's face reddened. "This p.i.s.ses me off. It's not right."

She thought of the private things looked at by strangers. Touched. Snickered over.

Their things. Their privacy. Invaded.

She wished she could muster anger.

She told him so.

"Sounds like a good goal."

"Something redemptive I could work for."

"Exactly."

Her stomach growled then, loudly.

"See there, even your stomach agrees."

"No, it's p.i.s.sed off because I haven't fed it. You have any grub around here?"

"A peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich and an apple?"

Turned out Ted hadn't eaten breakfast yet, either, so they shared the juicy red apple and chunky-peanut-b.u.t.ter sandwich on home-made wheat bread.

It was delicious. She saved a piece of the crust for Ranger, then angled toward Ted. "Homemade bread?

I didn't realize you were so domestic."

He looked embarra.s.sed. "It's a health thing, I use whole grains, all organic. No sugars."

"I'm impressed. Do you grind your own organic peanuts, too?"

She offered the last as a joke, but the joke was on her when she saw by his expression that he had.

"You look so surprised, Jane. There's a lot you don't know about me."

"I know everything I need to." She tilted her head, studying him.

"I know I trust you completely. Because of the kind of man you are. Honest. Dependable. Loyal."

"That description makes me sound a bit like Ranger."

She reached across the s.p.a.ce and squeezed his hand. "And I adore Ranger."

He flushed, obviously pleased.

Feeling buoyed by the food and his friendship, Jane sent him a c.o.c.ky smile. "I believe I'm going to

change my goal. I prefer to pretend none of this is happening. Ian's at the office and three strangers aren't poking around in my unmentionables drawer."

He returned her smile. "Sounds like a plan. Since this is your fantasy, where do we start?"

"With Anne. I think I'm in the mood to play with molten metal."

Jane threw herself into her work. As she did, her mind emptied of everything but the emerging form. She found it incredibly liberating. Energizing. So much so that when Elton appeared in the studio an hour later, Jane couldn't have felt more refreshed if she had just awakened from a three-hour nap.

"They're gone," he said. He handed her a copy of the warrant; on the back was a list of the items they had taken as evidence. He smiled slightly. "I don't think they found what they were looking for. If I was reading their aura of disappointment correctly."

She scanned the list, seeing little more than the items they had collected before Elton arrived.

"They warned me they'd be back with a warrant for your studio. Personally, I don't think they're going to

be able to convince the judge. It's all about probable cause. And making the connection between Ian, the crime he's being charged with and your place of business is stretching it." "They probably think I'm hiding incriminating evidence." The sarcasm in her voice left no doubt what she thought of the police and their tactics. "To protect my murdering husband."

"That's the way they think, Jane. It's not personal."

She knew that. But it didn't feel that way. "How will we know if they've gotten what they wanted?"

"For certain? Maybe never. They're on the other side, they're not going to let us into their heads."

Jane fisted her fingers. "I hate this."

"I know." He gave her shoulder a rea.s.suring squeeze. "Call me if they do get Judge Kirby's go-ahead. I'll

tell Susan to put the call through, no matter what I'm doing."

She thanked him and turned to Ted. "I'm going to get cleaned up. I'll be back down after."

"Got the fort, Jane. Take your time."

Ranger by her side, she walked the attorney out. At the door he stopped. "The warrant's good for three days. It doesn't happen often, but if they decide they missed something they can come back. I don't believe they will, however. They did a thorough job."

She thanked him again and headed upstairs. She stepped into the foyer; Ranger slipped past her and ran through the loft, woofing softly.

She followed him more slowly, a lump in her throat. They had made a mess: drawers hung open, their contents spilling out; closet doors gaped wide, shoes tossed in a heap; clothing a jumble; shelves stripped clean.

She moved from the bedroom to the kitchen. In this room, too, drawers stood open, their contents jumbled. The pantry and her cabinets had been rummaged through, the refrigerator as well.

Jane took a deep breath. She crossed to the pantry. She began straightening, reorganizing. Once she began, she couldn't bring herself to stop.

In a sort of frenzied haze, she moved from one drawer to the next, one room then the another. This was her home. These were her things. And Ian's. With each drawer rea.s.sembled, each closet put back to order, each shelf straightened, she expunged the evidence of their presence. The sense of it. And restored her sovereignty over her own life.

She saved Ian's study for last. The police had walked around the broken cup and puddle of tea. She bent, collected the crockery shards, then wiped up the liquid with a couple of tissues from the box on the desk.

As she did, her gaze fell on her handbag, tucked under the desk, right where she had put it the night before. Obviously, the police hadn't gone through it. Either they had overlooked it or the warrant hadn't granted them access to it.

She stared at it a moment, something plucking at her memory. Something she should remember but couldn't quite grasp.

And then she did.

Ian's Palm Pilot. She had gotten Whit's number from it, the night Ian had been arrested. She'd stuck it in her handbag, in case she needed other numbers.

She grabbed the purse. Heart thundering, she fished around inside. Her hand closed over the personal data a.s.sistant and with trembling fingers, she drew it out.

Ian loved his PalmPilot. She remembered the day he had brought it home. A technological wonder, he had crooned. Every morning Marsha could simply import his schedule onto it. All his appointments. Marsha had updated three times a day: first thing in the morning, noon and at the end of the day.

Jane turned on the device and the small screen came to life. Using the stylus, she called up Ian's calendar.

It went back six months.

Jane studied the calendar entries. Marsha, she saw, had been incredibly organized-her entries minutely

detailed. Each appointment had included not just time, location and who the meeting was with, but whether it was personal or professional. Each also contained a contact number.

However, twice a month the woman had simply blocked out a two-hour lunch. Noon to two. No other

information, not even a name.

Jane frowned. She flipped forward and back. The blocked lunches typically occurred on Wednesdays and Fridays. A couple of times the days had varied, but they had never been missed.

What had Ian been doing during those blocked hours? Who had he been meeting?

She hated what she was thinking. Hated the suspicions that were making her sick to her stomach.

Her husband had been faithful to her. He wasn't a liar or a cheat.

He wasn't a murderer.

Ian would have a reasonable, logical explanation for the lunches.

But she couldn't ask him, not for another six days.

She placed the device on the desk, then brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Where had her

husband been during those long lunch hours? Who had he been with?

Check the address book on the PalmPilot, Jane.

She glanced toward the desk and the waiting PDA. If she doubted Ian now, it would tear them apart. He

would never forgive her. And without trust, what would they have?

What are you afraid of, Jane?

Of finding Elle Vanmeer's name there? Of finding Gretchen's, Sharon's or Lisette 's ?

She stiffened against her own thoughts. She wasn't afraid. Her husband had been faithful. He loved her.

She turned. Crossed to the desk. The device seemed to mock her for its secrets. Her every instinct told