Elle Vanmeer's phone had been found with her, in the Dumpster.

Jane's smile faded. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The lie slipped past her lips. She cleared her throat. "I saw several of your subjects tonight.

Was Lisette here?"

Jane thought a moment, then shook her head. "I didn't see her."

"Was she married?"

"No." Her eyebrows arched slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"Any family in town? A boyfriend?"

Jane glanced at Dave, then back at Stacy. "What aren't you telling me?"

"She looks familiar, that's all. What's her last name?"

"Gregory. But I doubt you knew her. She's from Mexia, a small town just south of Dallas, and hadn't

been here that long. She modeled."

"No wonder. She was a beautiful girl."

"Was?"

"Is," Stacy corrected. "Had she had any plastic surgery?"

"Many of my subjects have. If you listened to the tapes, a number talked about it."

Stacy nodded, returning her gaze to Lisette once more. She couldn 't tell Jane here. Not tonight.

And not until she was absolutely certain.

"Lisette was a patient of Ian's."

She turned slowly toward her sister, blood pounding in her head. "What did you say?"

"It's no big deal. She was a patient of Ian's. Several of my subjects were."

"How many-"

"Jane!" The curator scurried over, expression aglow. Stacy noted then that the crowd had thinned to a

handful, mostly friends or museum personnel. She glanced at her watch, realizing that the opening was

officially over.

"The show is an unqualified success! I spoke with every critic who attended, and they all loved the work.

One called you 'the new master of the nude' another 'an unflinching realist.' I'm so happy for you." She kissed both Jane's cheeks. "You are officially a rising star."

From the corners of her eyes, Stacy saw Ted making his way toward them. He had been stationed at the front entrance for the last several minutes, presumably thanking exiting guests. He carried a huge bouquet of flowers, encased in green florist's paper. Roses, she saw. Long-stemmed and virgin white.

Ian always sent Jane white roses. He knew she loved them. She had carried them at their wedding.

Jane caught sight of her a.s.sistant at the same moment. Stacy heard her quick intake of breath. She knew what she was thinking-the same as she was, that Ian had found a way to send the flowers from jail.

That most likely he'd had his attorney do it.

"These were just delivered," Ted said, beaming at her. He handed her the bouquet.

Jane accepted the flowers. The florist's paper crackled. She buried her face in the snowy blossoms.

"They're beautiful. Is there a card?"

"There." Ted pointed to an enclosure card, pinned to the paper.

Jane freed it, opened the envelope, slid out the card. A sound pa.s.sed her lips; the bouquet slipped from

her arms. She turned to Stacy, her face as pale as the roses. She held out the card.

Stacy took it. She read the two sentences, a sense of deja vu settling over her.

I will hear your screams again.

I'm closer than you think.

THIRTY-SIX.

Friday, October 31, 2003 11:20p.m.

Stacy drove Jane home. Her sister said little on the way and Stacy longed to comfort her. She sensed not

only her fear, but her despair and exhaustion as well.

She acknowledged her own fatigue. She had questioned Ted at length about the young man who had delivered the flowers. Ted had described him as in his early teens, wearing an oversize T-shirt, long,

baggy shorts and a baseball cap, backward on his head-like every other teenage boy out there. He'd had light skin and eyes, been tall and skinny.

Stacy had questioned several others who had remained; all had confirmed Ted's description.

Still, the whole thing felt wrong. Staged. The flowers arriving so late in the evening. The fact that Ted had

been there, conveniently waiting at the gallery entrance. That the flowers had been white roses.

The choice hadn't been an accident. Whoever had sent them knew Jane well enough to predict how receiving them would make her feel.

He had just ratcheted the terror up a notch.

I will hear your screams again.

I'm closer than you think.

It made her nervous, Stacy admitted. d.a.m.n nervous.

She took a mental inventory of the show-goers who had remained in the gallery when the flowers had

been delivered. The gallery director and her a.s.sistant. The caterers, cleaning up. She and Dave. Ted Jackman. A number of other show-goers, several of them costumed. A couple of those masked. She had taken everyone's name, though any of them could have lied.

Could Jane's tormentor have been one of those, true ident.i.ty hidden? He would have wanted to be on hand, to see her reactions. The closer to her fear, the bigger the thrill. If he had felt it safe enough.

A mighty big if.

Stacy scrolled through those in attendance once again. She settled on Ted Jackman. Would he stand up

to a little DPD scrutiny? Maybe she would type his name into the NCIC and see what popped up. The National Criminal Index Computer listed all known offenders; the information it contained could be accessed using a suspect's name, social security number, birth date, known a.s.sociates, tattos or other distinctive marks or scars.

"Thanks for bringing me home," Jane murmured, breaking the silence.

Stacy glanced at her sister. "I'm glad I was there."

"I thought the flowers were from Ian."

"I know. He meant you to think that."

"It's someone close to me, isn't it?"

Stacy glanced at her sister once more, surprised by the observant question. "He knows you well enough

to have antic.i.p.ated your reaction to the roses."

"Any ideas?"

"Nothing worth mentioning. Yet."

She looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, then back up at Stacy. "How scared should I

be? Honestly."

"Scared," Stacy answered evenly. "And believe me, I want you that way. If you are, you'll be careful."

"I feel so much better now."

Stacy reached across the seat and squeezed her clenched hands. "I'm going to take care of this, Jane. I

promise you that."