have been the one sending you the letters."

Jane stared at her, expression registering shock, then denial. "Ted was my friend. He would never-"

"His real name was Jack Theodore Mann. He was an ex-con, Jane. He had a rap sheet and a list of

priors that went back a dozen years."

"I don't believe you."

Stacy had expected that response and pressed on. "I suspected he was lying. Hiding something. So we

ran his prints through the computer."

Jane paled. "My friend is dead and I won't let you smear his-"

"He was in love with you. We found a pack of love letters, written to you by him. They were addressed

and stamped, but never sent. He kept them in a drawer by his bed. From their dog-eared condition, he read them often."

"No."

"And photos. Of the two of you. Ones he had fabricated, probably on your computer."

She shook her head, expression stricken. "I don't want to hear this."

"Jane, you have to know-"

"Don't you get it? He was my friend. And now he's gone." Her eyes filled with tears. "Just leave me alone. Let me grieve the man I cared about."

Stacy took a step back, realizing what she was doing. Dave had said the most important thing was

listening.

She had done the opposite. What was wrong with her? Why did she always have to prove she was right?

"I'll be out front, if you need me."

Jane didn't comment. Ranger jumped off the bed and trotted to Stacy's side. She bent and patted him.

"Need to go out, boy?"

In response, he exited the bedroom, heading, no doubt, for the front door. Stacy watched him, then

turned back to her sister. She lay curled into a fetal position, facing away from Stacy.

"I'm your sister, Jane," she said softly. "I'm on your side. I'm sorry if I sometimes...if it doesn't always feel that way."

The other woman didn't respond and, aching for her, Stacy backed out of the room.

Forty minutes later, Stacy paced, restless. She had walked and fed Ranger. He lay in front of the sofa now, sleeping. She had opened the carton of the sesame chicken, then closed it without serving herself. Food, she had realized, was the last thing on her mind.

As she paced, Stacy sifted through the events of the day: the things she had discovered about Ted, then his murder. They had missed something. But what?

She crossed to the foyer, unlocked the entrance that led to Jane's studio, flipped on the light and started down the circular staircase. She noted the metallic rattle on the staircase, its slight sway.

She paused when she reached the ground level, taking stock. Silence, save for sounds from the street. The sense, perhaps one only she felt, that a violent act had occurred there. The lingering smell of death. And stronger, that of industrial-strength pine cleaner. After the criminalists and coroner had done their thing, she had cleared the scene for cleaning, then contacted a service herself.

Jane, she had been certain, would want to work again soon. She used it as a buffer for pain. She always had.

Stacy turned and started toward the street-level studio entrance. She reached the foyer, stopped and moved her gaze over the area. Windowless, with a small alcove, little more than an indention for a potted plant. She lifted her gaze. The foyer light was burned out. In here and out front.

Ted's attacker had heard him entering. He had melted into the alcove, hiding in the darkness. Stacy pictured Ted stepping through the door, arms filled. He tried the light, found it out and proceeded.

He'd never known what had happened. His killer had leapt out of the alcove and slit his throat. Goodbye, birdie.

But why? That was the question.

Stacy frowned. Nothing had been taken. The studio didn't seem to have been disturbed. Deep Ellum attracted more than its share of addicts, runaways and other unsavories. The street festivals attracted them. The alternative bars and tattoo parlors. Many existed on panhandling and larceny. The area boasted more than its per capita share of felonies.

But whoever cut Ted had known what he was doing. Pete hadn't noted any marks that indicated hesitation on the part of the killer. The blade had been sharp, double-edged and approximately four inches long.

Stacy crossed to the door, stopping on the spot where the man had fallen. She studied the door, its lock, the alarm keypad.

No sign of forced entry. How had the killer entered? Jane hadn't changed the alarm code until this morning. After Ted Jackman had been killed. The locks had been changed before.

Could Jane be right? Stacy wondered. Could Ted have stopped by the studio and been surprised by her stalker? Or could he-or she-have followed him?

Stacy frowned. Could Ted have been telling the truth about the woman?

Stacy flipped open her cell phone and dialed Mac. He answered on the second ring. "What're you

doing?" she asked.

"Thinking of you."

She felt his words to the pit of her gut. "I wish I was there."

"How's Jane?"

"Not great. I'm giving her some s.p.a.ce."

"I'm sorry."

His sincerity curled rea.s.suringly around her, giving her something-someone-to hold on to. She hadn't

realized until that moment how alone she had felt. Until now. Until Mac.

Dear G.o.d, she was treading on dangerous ground, indeed.

"You talk to her about Ted? What we found in his apartment?"

"I tried to. She got upset. Refused to discuss it."

"Understandable. She's been through a lot."

They fell silent a moment. "I've been thinking, if robbery was the motive, why wasn't something taken?"

"Scared off?"

"Ted's killer was no runaway, strung out on drugs. He knew what he was doing. Something's not adding

up, Mac. Too many pieces don't seem to fit."

"Maybe because they don't. Because they're unrelated."

"Maybe." She heard a sound from the loft, like the creep of footsteps. Upstairs, Ranger woofed softly.

"s.h.i.t. Gotta go."

"What's wrong?"

"I'll check in later." She flipped the phone shut and drew her weapon. She made her way to the second

floor as quietly as she could, cursing the creaking metal stairs.

Stacy stepped into the entryway. Light spilled into the s.p.a.ce from the kitchen. A shuffling sound with it.

Stacy glanced toward her sister's bedroom, saw the door was still shut.

Ranger was inside. He pawed at the closed door. The hair on her arms p.r.i.c.kled. She had left him in the living room not thirty minutes ago. How had he gotten locked in Jane's bedroom?

Dammit. She never should have left the loft.

Stacy inched forward, staying in the shadows, Glock out. From the kitchen, she heard a drawer slide open, the sound of someone rifling through its contents.

She took a deep breath and swung into the kitchen doorway. "Freeze!"

FIFTY-FOUR Sat.u.r.day, November 8, 2003 10:10 p.m.

Jane screamed and whirled around. The chopsticks slipped from her fingers, clattering as they hit the floor.

"Jane!"

"Stacy!"

"What are you doing up?" Stacy holstered her weapon. "You scared the h.e.l.l out of me."

"Me? I didn't sneak up on you with a gun!"

"Sorry." Her sister looked irritated. "The bedroom door was closed. I heard Ranger pawing...I

worried-"

"He wanted in earlier...I thought you were sleeping and didn't want him barreling in here, making a big

scene."