If he did, truly, love her. A big if, indeed.

Stacy shifted her thoughts from the ordeal ahead to the evening past. To Mac. She smiled spontaneously.

She felt as if she had been given a gift. A sliver of sunshine while storms raged all around her.

Who would have thought? Mac McPherson, for heaven's sake. The man she had dreamed of finding?

One who was funny and gentle and moral? One who wanted her?

Slow down, Killian. Take a deep breath, then one step at a time.

Truth was, he hadn't been her partner that long; she didn't know him that well. Certainly not well enough

to be thinking such things.

She was setting herself up for a fall. A big one.

But still...it felt right. It felt good.

The guard brought Ian in. He saw her and crossed directly to the phone. She followed his lead.

"Stacy?" he asked, alarmed. "Is Jane all right?"

She hesitated, uncertain how to tell him. She decided being direct would be best. "Jane lost the baby,"

she said. "Last night."

He stared blankly at her, as if what she said hadn't registered. She saw the moment it did. The hand gripping the receiver went white. "How...I don't...she was fine. I saw her Thursday. She was...fine." "It was serious. The placenta tore away from the uterine wall. She's out of the woods. But she-" her throat closed over the words; she cleared it"-she could have died. Could have bled to death."

"Dear G.o.d." He sank on the chair, expression strangely flat.

"She's...the doctor thought she'd be released today. Physically, you know, she's doing okay. But

emotionally... She's pretty torn up, Ian."

He dropped his head, brought his free hand to his face. She saw that it shook.

Seconds ticked past. She gave him time, s.p.a.ce. A chance to grieve. She could only imagine what he was

feeling.

Unless he was the monster they had portrayed him to be. A heartless killer who cared for no one but himself. And money. When he lifted his head, she saw that his eyes were red and wet, the expression in them filled with anguish. "She was here Thursday...I picked a fight. I was so jealous. Of Dave. You. Everyone. Because she needed me and I was locked in here. Because she was turning to others for comfort. And now- Our baby. We've lost our...my G.o.d, what have I done?"

He and Jane had fought? Jane hadn 't told her.

Stacy swallowed hard, torn. Between her feelings for the man her heart thought him to be. And the man the evidence said he was. A liar and a cheat.

A cold-blooded killer.

"Tell her," he begged. "Stacy, please. Tell her I'm sorry. That I love her. That I never strayed...that I

never would."

Stacy drew her eyebrows together. Could a man who loved his wife and unborn child as deeply as Ian

professed to, be capable of the crimes with which he had been charged? Or was Ian Westbrook a consummate actor, one deserving of an Academy Award for this performance?

"Tell her the lunches were nothing," his said suddenly, tone urgent. "You have to promise me. I was

angry, defensive...I thought her questions were a betrayal of trust. I was wrong. She had every right-"

He choked on the words. He looked away. She saw him struggle for control.

When he returned his gaze to hers, something in his expression had changed. Become clearer, more

determined.

"Marsha scheduled two-hour blocks of time twice a month for paperwork. She input the phone numbers in my PalmPilot. She did all those things for me. She-"

His voice rose, cracked. "I'm innocent, Stacy. Of it all. Tell her, please."

Stacy straightened, his words, their meaning, crystallizing in her mind. Jane had found something

incriminating in his PalmPilot. She had asked him about it and they'd fought.

She had seen the list of items confiscated from Ian's office and the loft. A PalmPilot hadn't been on that list.

They'd missed it. Because Jane had had it.

"What exactly did Jane find in your PDA, Ian?"

His expression turned wary, as if he had suddenly realized he was talking not to his sister-in-law, but to

the police.

"Just tell her, Stacy. She'll know what I'm talking about."

"Ian, I can help you. If there's something-"

"Just tell her everything, promise me. Please, it means everything to me." His voice deepened. He leaned

forward. "She means everything to me."

Stacy drew her eyebrows together. What had her sister done? What was she keeping from the police?

And how could she plead the case of a man she suspected of being a vicious killer? If he had committed these crimes, she wanted him as far away from her sister as possible.

But what if he wasn't guilty? And the real killer was laughing as he pulled all their strings?

She stood and signaled the guard that she was through. "I'll think about it, Ian. No promises."

He rose from his chair. "Please, Stacy-"

"Sorry, Ian. It's the best I can do."

As she walked away she wondered who she could believe? And what the h.e.l.l she was going to do when

she decided?

FORTY-SIX.

Friday, November 7, 2003

3:30 p.m.

Jane cautiously made her way up the flight of stairs to her loft. Stacy held her elbow to steady her, though Jane had insisted it was unnecessary.

The doctor had released her, prescribing bed rest for twenty-four hours and restricted activity for forty-eight hours afterward. Her body, he had told her, would tell her if she overdid. He had warned her to listen to it. If she started bleeding, she was to call immediately.

Physically, she felt weak. Shaky and sore.

But her heart hurt. She had been carrying a baby. Her and Ian's child.

No more. Its loss had left a gaping hole inside her. An emptiness that left her aching to hold her husband,

to cling to him. For him to cling to her.

He had been devastated, Stacy had said. He had been worried about her. He had asked Stacy to tell Jane he loved her.

Jane didn't know why, but she had expected more.

They reached the top of the stairs. Stacy glanced at her. "Okay?"

When she nodded, Stacy unlocked the door and swung it open. They stepped into the loft's foyer. From

his kennel in the kitchen, Ranger whined.

Jane made a sound of distress. "Oh, no, poor Ranger. I forgot all about-"

"He's been taken care of," Stacy said. "I came by earlier. I'll help you to bed, then take him out again."

"I can put myself to bed."

"You're weak."