Stacy looked shaken. "You went alone, late at night, to Ian's office? How could you have done something so stupid?"

"I had to try to help. I thought if I looked, I might find something the police missed. Something to help

prove his innocence."

"Something the police missed?" Stacy said, tone incredulous. "Jane, we're professional investigators.

Believe me-"

"The police were looking for proof of his guilt, Stacy. Not innocence."

Stacy opened her mouth, as if to argue, then shut it again. She seemed rattled. "You didn't tell anyone

about this?"

"Not until Ted. And now you."

"Why?"

"Because I antic.i.p.ated your negative reaction. And because I...I didn't find anything."

Something flickered across Stacy's expression, then was gone. "I don't know what to do about this."

"Did you check Marsha's keys? Was the office key on the ring?"

"What?"

"Her office key? The woman took a patient file, so the police wouldn't find it. How had she planned to

get in, if not with a-"

Stacy's cell phone rang. She held up a finger indicating Jane should hold the thought and answered.

"Okay. I'll be right down. Send up a uniform."

She stood. "I've got to go, Jane. I'll be back as soon as I can, but it may be a while. Are you going to be okay alone?"

Jane nodded, feeling numb. Wondering if she would ever truly be okay again.

"Maybe you should call Dave. See if he can come sit with you."

"Maybe."

Stacy crossed to the door, stopped and looked back. "We'll figure this out, Jane. Together. I promise."

Then she was gone.

And Jane was alone-more alone than she ever could have imagined.

FIFTY-THREE Sat.u.r.day, November 8, 2003 8:30 p.m.

Stacy let herself into Jane's loft. She paused a moment, listening to the quiet. Nothing. Not even Ranger.

She frowned, thinking it too quiet. Jane could be sleeping, but where was Dave? She had called him

herself; he had promised to stay until she returned.

She wasn 't taking any chances.

Stacy quietly set the bag of take-out food on the entry way table, slid her right hand under her jacket to

hover over her holstered weapon and moved forward.

She found Dave in the kitchen. He stood statue still, gazing out the bay window.

"Hey," she said, dropping her hand.

He jumped, then swung to face her. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Sorry. We cops are like cats. Quiet and quick. It's part of the job."

He didn't reply. She sensed he had been lost in thought when she'd interrupted him. That he was still in

that place.

"How's she doing?" Stacy asked.

He blinked; his expression cleared. "About as well as can be expected. I tried to get her to talk."

"Any luck?"

"Not much," he admitted. "You might do better."

"Maybe. Where is she?"

"Resting."

Stacy glanced toward the bedroom. The door was closed. Ranger, she realized, must be with her. "You

could stay? I brought Chinese."

"Thanks, but I think it'd be better for her if I go." He pa.s.sed a hand across his face. He looked exhausted. "Besides, I have patient calls to return."

"Are you okay?"

"Just worried about her."

"Me, too." She paused. "You're a therapist, Dave. She's suffered so many emotional blows, all at once.

What should I do? I don't know how I should talk to her. Or what I should say."

"Listen to her. That's the biggest thing." He looked in the direction of her closed bedroom door, expression naked with yearning. "She's a smart woman. She'll figure it out."

Stacy noticed his smile didn't reach his eyes. Her heart went out to him. She could only imagine how

difficult it must be to love someone who was in pain but be unable to help them.

She opened her mouth to tell him so, then decided against it. "Thanks for being here for her. For us."

"I always will be." He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on. "Call me if you need

anything."

Stacy walked him downstairs. She hugged him, watched him go and then returned to the loft. She peeked in on Jane.

And found that she was awake. She was sitting up in the bed, Ranger sprawled across her lap.

"Hi," Stacy murmured. "I have egg rolls. And sesame chicken."

Jane looked at her. Stacy was surprised by the clarity in her gaze, the determination. "Ted was attacked

from behind. His throat was slit. Isn't that right?"

Stacy hesitated, then nodded.

"It wasn't a robbery. I know it wasn't."

"Jane, don't do this."

"You don't find this all too coincidental? The same night he went searching for the woman he had brought

to the studio, he's killed."

"Maybe there was no woman here at the studio. Maybe Ted's story was a fabrication."

"A fabrication? Why would he lie?"

"To protect himself. To hide the truth."

"What truth?"

"You didn't know Ted as well as you thought. Information's come to light that suggests Ted might actually