'I found a page of numbers with Graham's things. I've still got it a I was going to toss it. I mean, it's just scrap paper, but a student has been looking for it. Thing is, that student is also involved in your drug trials. And he was Graham's room-mate. Do you think the numbers could be related to the theft?'

'Numbers? Related how?' Obviously, he didn't.

'I guess I'm over-thinking.'

'Harper, look. I'm late for a meeting. Try to put all this aside until we talk later, OK? Eight thirty.'

Harper hung up, confused. She leaned on her arms, trying to piece together murders, rapes, arson, suicide and stolen pills. When she stood to go, she noticed Anna, lying on her sofa, unmoving. Damn a even if she couldn't move, Anna had heard everything Harper had just said. She tried to replay her part of the conversation, couldn't remember it exactly. But she knew she'd asked Ron about the stolen drugs. And about Graham being a suspect in the theft. And about the possible connection between the drug and the deaths. Oh Lord. This wasn't good. Anna would draw inferences and worry even more. Harper had forgotten the girl was even in the room. Like Anna had said, when cataplectic, she blended into the background, like furniture.

Harper's cell phone rang as she was watching Anna, wondering how much longer she'd lie there.

'Where have you been?' It was Vicki. 'You never return my calls.'

Harper didn't offer excuses. 'Sorry.'

'Don't apologize. It won't work. But I just had a double cancellation.' Vicki was a dentist. 'So drop what you're doing and come to lunch.'

Harper hesitated. She had nothing to do and, truth was, despite Trent's assertions, she missed Vicki.

'Good. Lost Dog. Fifteen minutes?'

Harper couldn't just leave Anna there. She turned, checking on her. Anna's eyes were open. When she saw Harper looking at her, she sat up, smoothed her hair and grabbed her book bag.

'Give me twenty.' Harper motioned Anna to wait; she was getting off the phone.

But Anna didn't wait. She mouthed, 'Thanks, Loot,' and dashed out the door.

'Anna? Just a second-' Phone in hand, Harper hurried after her. But Anna was already gone.

Ron knew she couldn't be home, but he knocked the knocker and rapped on the door repeatedly, loudly, just in case. Then he looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was around.

No one was.

Cautiously, he tried the door. Locked. So, as if looking for Harper, he strolled around to the back of the house. Casually, in case somebody passed, he stepped over knee-high weeds and unmowed grass. The place was neglected, almost dilapidated. He liked Victorian homes, appreciated the classic lines in this one. But, Christ, it was a heap. It needed a monumental amount of work. What had Harper been thinking when she'd bought it? It had to have been her husband's idea; he looked the burly construction-worker type. After all, wasn't that how he'd gotten hurt? Repairing the roof? Ron glanced up at the steep-sloped shingles from which Hank must have fallen, saw the height of the drop. Whew. It was a miracle he'd survived.

Ron kept walking, passed a gazebo, made his way to the back of the place where, surprisingly, there was a modern, newly constructed deck, complete with a hot tub. The thing was sturdy and probably useful, but bizarrely out of place on this elegant old house. Like Air Jordans on a dowager. At least it was in the back where nobody would see it. And, even better, it led to a back entrance.

Ron crossed the yard to the deck, eager to get this visit over with. He wasn't comfortable breaking into Harper's home, especially because he was certain he wouldn't find anything there. But Wyatt held the purse strings, and Wyatt had insisted. In fact, he'd threatened to search the house himself, and, given Wyatt's jitters, Ron couldn't allow that. In fact, Wyatt was too nervous. A liability to their work. When this was over, Ron would have to make some changes. But one crisis at a time. First, he'd look through Harper's house for the pills, although he couldn't imagine that she'd have them. Obviously, she wasn't a dealer or a user. But what had Wyatt said? 'Statistically, she's got to be part of it. Too many roads lead to her for it to be mere coincidence.'

Wyatt. He knew zip about women. Harper was the kind whose neck got blotchy. She blushed. Women like her couldn't hide their emotions, couldn't lie. No, the only way Harper had the drugs was if she didn't know she had them. Maybe holding boxes for a student. But deliberately stashing them? Not possible. When he'd told her about the stolen drugs, she'd had no idea. She wasn't involved. He knew women. He could tell.

He skipped up the steps to the deck, thinking about the kind of woman Harper was, her direct gaze, her lack of deception. No question, she had an allure. He hadn't expected to be attracted to her; she wasn't like other women in his life a definitely not his ex-wives. Harper was unconcerned with appearances, couldn't be bothered to fuss with her hair, wore it short. No make-up, no nail polish. She wasn't girlie. Didn't play games. Harper was a what was the word? Wholesome? No, edgier than that. Stubborn? Feisty? And her limp? Well, on her, with that taut body and defined muscles, the limp was incredibly sexy. No question, Ron was in this for more than business. He pictured her limping toward him, naked, swaying as she moved, and he was so absorbed that he didn't notice the broken glass on the wood of the deck until he was standing on it.

'Damn.' Ron looked around, saw a broken pane on the half-opened kitchen door.

Had someone broken in? Stiffening, he looked over his shoulder at the yard, saw no one.

'Harper?'

He didn't expect or get an answer. Cautiously, he swung the door open, peered inside, saw no one in the kitchen.

'Hello? Anybody here?'

He stood, listening. Cautiously, he moved through the house, forgetting, for a moment, that he was there to look for the drugs. And then it occurred to him. Maybe someone had already come looking for them. Maybe that was what the broken glass was about.

But the glass might have nothing to do with the drugs. Harper had just been mugged; her attacker might have come after her again. Damn, when he'd talked to her not half an hour ago, she'd been in her office on campus. But what if she'd come home afterwards? And someone had followed her?

Harper was a combat vet. She could protect herself, might even be armed. Ron froze at that idea, but decided that if she discovered him in the house, he'd simply explain that he'd come inside because he'd seen the broken window and been concerned about her. Which wasn't entirely false.

Then again, she might not discover him, might not be able to. Ron stood still, struck by the realization that Harper might be hurt. Might even be dead.

Above him, the ceiling creaked. Again. Then again. Footsteps? Was it Harper?

Ron dashed out of the kitchen, looking for the stairway. If Harper was up there, why hadn't she answered the door or called back when he'd yelled her name?

Probably because the person upstairs wasn't Harper. Ron stopped at the bottom of the steps. Damn. Forget Wyatt, and forget searching the house; the shadows and creaks were getting to him. But now there were more noises, this time from outside. Someone was fiddling with the front door. Christ. Someone was upstairs and someone else was downstairs. Where was Harper? Why was the world converging on her house? He looked into the foyer, saw a silhouette on a shade of a dining-room window. Someone was messing with the windows, looking for a way in.

Ron flew, took the stairs two at a time, seeking a place to hide. At the top of the steps, he saw a sunlit, unpainted room with a crib and a rocking chair. Nothing big enough to hide behind. Wait a whoa. A crib? Was Harper expecting? He blinked, considering that possibility as harsh whispers rose from downstairs. Jesus. People were in the house, walking around. Ron rushed down the hall, opened a door, found not a room but a tiny overstuffed closet bursting with khakis and grays. Harper's clothes, the colors of shadows. Not enough space for him. Looking over his shoulder, he ran on and found the bedroom, considered scooting under the bed, but stepped instead into what turned out to be a gutted bathroom. Fine. It would do. Locking the door behind him, Ron crouched where the bathtub used to be, grabbed his cell phone and called Wyatt, got his voicemail, left a whispered but spirited message. Damn, what if the intruders saw his bike outside? Would they come looking for him? No, they'd assume it belonged to Harper. Even so, he couldn't afford to be found. His back to the wall, Ron grabbed a rusted piece of a water pipe for defense and waited, listening to angry voices and unexplained thumps. And thinking of creative ways to strangle Wyatt.

Monique didn't like the idea, but Larry insisted. To tell the truth, even though he was two inches shorter than she was, he scared her a little. Ever since he'd started taking those pills, his moods had been unpredictable, all over the place. Playful one minute; brutal the next. And bossy. Lately, they argued about everything. And now, on the way to the house, he was driving too fast. Monique had to say something. He could kill them both.

'Slow down.'

Larry sped up. He ran a stop light, going sixty miles an hour up Buffalo. A twenty-five zone.

'Larry. Slow the fuck down.'

He accelerated again. Larry was scaring her. Something was definitely wrong with him. She clung to the armrests and kept her mouth shut. When had Larry gone from a Cuddly Monkey to Controlling Ape? Was it when Graham jumped? No, before that. But when didn't matter. Monique sat pinned to her seat, held her breath and braced for the impact of sudden death.

But they didn't die. They made it around town and across campus to the Loot's house and parked in some bushes. Hanshaw Street was too quiet, too creepy, closed in by overgrown shady trees.

'Sit there.' Larry pointed to a swinging bench on the front porch. 'Keep watch. If anybody comes, warn me.'

Oh, really? She was supposed to stay outside with all the spiderwebs and bugs? 'No way.'

Larry stopped and looked at her. 'What the hell, Monique?'

'I'm not staying here by myself.' Who did he think he was, ordering her around?

'Don't piss me off, Monique. I'm warning you-'

'Fuck you, Larry. You're nobody.'

As soon as she said he was nobody, Monique knew she shouldn't have. Larry seemed to inflate, Hulk-like. His eyes got weird, his gaze got dull; even though he was looking at her, it seemed like he didn't see her anymore.

Monique backed away from him and kept talking as if she'd never said it. Changing the subject. 'What if she comes home? What'll we do?' It seemed to work; Larry's eyes came back into focus. 'What if she walks in on us?'

Larry thought that if Monique asked one more question, he'd bash her skull in.

He glared, but Monique chattered on, oblivious.

'She might, you know. She might show up. How do you know she won't? What if she sees your car in the bushes? What if-'

She stopped mid-question, gasping as Larry yanked her hair, pulling tight.

'I told you to shut up.'

Monique's eyes teared with pain, but she wasn't going to let Larry push her around. She clawed her fingers, reached her unbandaged hand around and grabbed at his crotch, squeezing as hard as she could. Larry yowled, released her hair and stomped up the path, staggering just a little. Popping a pill as he went. Monique rubbed her sore scalp. She was mostly positive that Larry had been cheating on her. His touch was different a rougher, as if he was pretending she was somebody else. He even kissed different. And since Graham's jump, Larry had been a complete ass. It was as if the guy's death didn't even bother him; all he talked about were the pills and the money. He had to find the pills. He needed the money. Meantime, Larry was swallowing whatever pills he had, doing things that were risky and rash and made no sense. He pushed her into helping him, made her do things. Shit, her arm still hurt from that last thing. And now this. Suddenly, he'd decided they had to break into the Loot's house.

She reached into her pocket for a Lifesaver, sucked on one as she looked around. The place was old, rambling. Kind of crumbling, although someone was working to fix it up. The front porch and latticework were new, painted a cheerful sky-blue. Even so, the building looked unfinished and off balance. Haunted. Monique had a bad feeling about being there. She wanted to leave and hurried to catch up to Larry as he stepped on to the porch.

'How do we even know the Loot has them?'

'Graham had them with him in class. But they weren't there when I went back up to get them because she took his book bag. She must have them.'

'But how do we know they're here in the house?'

'Because they aren't anyplace else.'

'But you haven't looked everywhere else-'

'No, Monique.' Lord, she was annoying. He faced her, determined to stop her infernal blithering. 'You're correct. I personally have not looked literally everywhere else. But I checked out our apartment. I tore his room apart looking for a copy. There was nothing remotely resembling numbers. Nothing. Zip.'

'But that doesn't mean-'

'Between the three of us, we've looked all over. In her office. In Graham's book bag. Nothing. So that leaves her house. They must be here somewhere.'

'Not necessarily a not if she threw them out. I mean, she doesn't know what they are. She might have thought they were just a list of random numbers and tossed them in the trash. Or maybe she gave them to the police-'

'Shut up, Monique. I swear, I'll break your fucking neck.'

He meant it, too. He was real tired of Monique. He thought of that waitress. The fire he felt with her. The things he'd done to her. Just remembering got him pumped. The fact was that Monique was boring. Screwing her wasn't even interesting anymore, didn't do it for him. Once he got this pill thing taken care of, he'd dump her. Meantime, he had work to do. He tried the door. Locked. No big deal; he checked out the porch windows. Because of the heat, they were open, covered only with screens. One of which came loose as he jimmied it and, just like that, they were in the dining room, standing in dim light, looking around. The wallpaper had been completely peeled off; the hutch and table were covered with drop cloths. The Loot was redecorating.

'Shh-' Monique grabbed his arm. 'Listen a did you hear that?'

He listened, heard nothing. Started for the hallway, but she wouldn't let go of him.

'Wait. Larry, did you hear that? Like footsteps.'

'Get off me, Monique.' Larry shoved her, walked away. 'Go outside. Keep watch like I told you to.'

'No, I'm serious.' Monique ran after him, clinging. Whispering. 'I think somebody's here.'

Christ, he wanted to kill her right here. Strangle her and watch her fat pink tongue pop out. Damn Monique. But to shut her up, he stood still for a few seconds, listening. 'I don't hear anything.' Peeling her hand off his arm once again, he started across the room. The floor creaked under his feet, and Monique gasped, grabbing Larry yet again.

'Jesus Christ, Monique. Calm the fuck down.'

Monique was breathless. 'Where are you going?'

'Why are you fucking whispering?'

Whispering? She hadn't realized it. It was the place. Too dark. Too crooked. They shouldn't be there. 'I don't like it here, Larry. Let's just go.'

'You know what, Monique? Nobody asked you to come with me. You insisted. Or doesn't your idiot brain remember that? Whatever. Just wait right here. Just fucking let me do what I came here to do.' Larry stormed off, leaving Monique alone.

Sunlight didn't penetrate the dining room, and oddly shaped shadows lurked all around, made her skin prickle despite the heat. Wait right there? Uh uh. No way was she going to stay in that room. Instead, she climbed back out the window on to the porch where at least there was light and she could sit on the bench and wait.

The bench was one of those rocking things; she swung back and forth, wondering how long Larry would be. Man, she was sick of him, his moods, his pimples, his pills, his short height and his huge temper. The things he made her do. Her head still smarted where he'd pulled her hair. It was time to break up with him. But, for now, she waited in the heat, swaying back and forth, lulled by the motion, relaxing, closing her eyes.

She opened them as the knife penetrated her throat, and she recognized the person holding it. While her blood spurted, she tried to ask, 'What are you doing here?' and, 'Why are you cutting me?' But, with her neck so deeply sliced, Monique couldn't speak, so she died with her eyes still open, her questions unanswered. Even unasked.

Vicki's jaw dropped. 'What the hell happened to your face? Bar fight?'

'You should see the other guy.' Harper smiled. 'I like your hair.'

Vicki had dyed it again. Auburn this time. And she'd cut off about five inches; now it was short, spiky. Funky. Like Harper's.

'Do you? It's the new me.'

They hugged a greeting, Vicki, taller than Harper, slouching to embrace. Harper was surprisingly glad to see her. She'd missed Vicki, her broad grin, her painted red nails and bright red lipstick that often clashed with her clothes. Vicki, despite her new do, remained rock solid, unchanged.

'So really. What happened to your face?'

Apparently, Trent hadn't told her about the mugging. Maybe he'd been too hungover.

'Not a big deal.' Harper didn't want to go into it yet again. 'Somebody mugged me.'

'You got mugged, but it's no big deal? Oh God, that guy sure picked the wrong victim. Did you go after him? Of course you did. How bad did you hurt him?'

'Let's go inside.' Harper led the way into the Lost Dog Cafe, where a young guy in jeans seated them and recommended the special veggie chili.

Harper picked up a menu; Vicki took it from Harper's hands, dropped it on to the table. 'Uh uh. You're not looking at the menu until you tell me why you haven't returned my calls.'

Harper's neck got hot. 'Sorry. No excuses. It's just the same old, same old.' The same old suicides, muggings, murdered waitresses, stolen drugs. Oh, and husband with a damaged brain.

Vicki didn't back off. 'How's Hank?'

Vicki's eyes probed, genuinely concerned. And familiar. And comforting. It was good to see her again. Harper had missed their daily breakfasts and walks, their easy companionship. Vicki had been with her when Hank had fallen, had spent long hours with her in the emergency room, had stayed by her side as the doctors gave her the news. Vicki had been a steadfast, reassuring presence during the onset of Hank's ordeal. So what had happened? How had they lost touch, not talking for weeks?

In the back of her mind, Trent piped up, answering her questions, elaborating on Vicki's 'thing' for Hank. Harper began talking, drowning Trent out.

'He's doing OK.' She stopped herself from urging Vicki to visit him. Not that she believed Trent, but just in case. 'Little by little.'

'So back up. When were you mugged?' Vicki's voice had its usual creamy tone. 'Why didn't you call me?'

Harper hesitated. Where should she start? With the mugging? Graham's suicide? The horrid flashbacks? Chelsea's murder? Or Trent's drunken assertion that Vicki was attracted to Hank who, by the way, had recently mentioned that he was horny?

'Ready, ladies?' The waiter appeared out of nowhere. He looked exotic, multi-ethnic. His wrist bore a Chinese character tattoo.