She was getting under his skin. The look in his eyes was part annoyance, part attraction. He was probably annoyed with himself for being attracted to her, probably regretting that he'd let her make him dinner. She smiled.

"You think this is a joke?" he asked.

"Not at all."

His face was stern now. "You're being looked at for murder. You might want to remember that."

She crossed her arms. "Not the kind of thing I'd forget."

"You're not out of the woods yet."

"I'm aware of that, thanks."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here's your warrant. And I'll take that computer now."

Courtney lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Will. You're being looked at for murder. It was impossible to put the words out of her mind, and even more impossible to forget the way he'd said them.

He'd looked tense. And angry. And she couldn't shake the feeling that she was in more trouble than she'd thought.

Ackerman had told her not to worry. He'd said that if they really had the goods on her, they would have charged her soon after they'd recovered her gun. He'd seemed so confident about it, and Courtney had felt reassured. She'd felt even better after Will had come into the salon, and she'd confided in him. It had been a weight off her chest, and she'd felt as though he wanted to help her. She'd felt as though he would help her.

Now she wasn't so sure.

He was attracted to her-that much she knew. But the fact that he wouldn't act on his attraction worried her. You're not out of the woods yet. Maybe she never would be. Maybe Will knew it, too, and didn't want to get involved with a woman he'd later have to arrest. Probably not a wise career move for a rookie detective.

Courtney flopped onto her stomach and squeezed her eyes shut. She thought about prison and girl fights and orange jumpsuits. And that wasn't the worst possibility. In this state, even a woman could end up on Death Row.

She couldn't stand it. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. But then she thought of Will's face, of how serious he'd looked in that interview room with the police lieutenant and then again tonight in her kitchen, and she knew she was in deep trouble.

Maybe she should run. Maybe she should alter her appearance and change her name and- Thud.

She bolted upright. Was someone on the porch? Amy and Devon had come home earlier. Maybe Amy's boyfriend was back.

Creak.

She kicked away the covers and scrambled off the bed. She snatched up her Mace and cast a frantic look around. Should she hide? Call 911? Panic shot through her as she realized her phone was in the kitchen, plugged into the charger.

But her purse was right there on the floor. She swooped down and slung it over her shoulder. She used her free hand to dig around for her scissors and, with the other, gripped the Mace. Slowly, silently, she crept into the hallway.

Her ears strained for any sound. The scissors felt cool and smooth in her hand. She could hear her own heart thumping as she made her way down the corridor. At the doorway between the hall and the living room, she stopped and poked her head around the corner. She stared through the dimness at her front door. She held her breath.

Nothing.

A minute crawled by. Then another.

Without a sound, she eased up to the door and peered through the peephole.

No one. She moved to the living room window and peeked through the blinds. The porch was empty. As was the yard. She surveyed the block in both directions, noting the cars parked along the curb.

Her gaze skimmed over the house across the street, and she let out a breath. They had a Doberman. He barked at everything-every car, every squirrel; the slightest activity on the street set him off. She'd considered him a nuisance before, but at this moment he was her favorite animal. He wasn't making a peep.

So maybe she'd imagined it.

Courtney's stomach loosened with relief. She turned and stared at her darkened living room. The digital display on the cable box cast a greenish glow over her beige carpet. The ice maker rumbled. The smell of grilled cheese hung in the air, and she remembered Will at her table, his presence filling up her kitchen. She wished he was here now to distract her from the night that stretched out ahead.

She took a chenille throw from the armchair and wrapped it around her shoulders. She picked up the remote. Then she curled up in the corner of her sofa and settled in for another endless night.

"Nice gate," Devereaux quipped as Will pulled the Taurus up to the elaborate wrought-iron barrier.

"You should see the house." Will rolled down the window and examined the keypad beside the speaker. He pressed the green button, just like he'd done last time, and after a few moments of static and some garbled words, the gate slid open.

"Great security," Devereaux muttered.

"I know."

"Hey, you been getting any letters lately?"

Will glanced at him. "No." He drove through the gate and up the curving driveway lined with palm trees.

"I've been getting these letters," Devereaux said. "At work. And in my mailbox-"

"You mean sent to your home?"

"Some of them."

"What do they say?"

He shook his head. "Ah, they don't make much sense. They're pretty kooky, really. I just figured they were related to one of our cases. You haven't been getting anything?"

"No."

Devereaux sighed. "Maybe it's the Goodwin thing. Cernak's been taking a lot of heat for it."

The lieutenant had been taking a lot of heat for all of their cases, as far as Will could tell. In the last two weeks alone their department had caught seven homicides. Austin wasn't used to such a high murder rate, and the public seemed to be getting antsy. The insanely hot weather and the ongoing media coverage of what they'd dubbed the "killer heat wave" wasn't helping.

At the top of the drive, the palm trees gave way to flower beds filled with tropical plants. The surrounding lawn was so manicured, it could have been a golf course. An enormous fountain occupied the center of the cobblestone park ing area just in front of the Mediterranean-style mansion.

"Looks like the first Mrs. Alvin missed her shot," Devereaux said. "Bet she's a bitter woman."

Parked between the fountain and the front door was a low-slung silver Lotus. Will pulled up right behind it, and Devereaux whistled.

"So, you follow up on the ex?" Will asked, cutting the engine.

"I did a phone dump on her. Rachel Alvin's made sixteen calls to Wilkers and Riley since the day of the murder. All to the direct line of their top probate attorney. I got the guy on the phone, but he wouldn't tell me what they talked about."

"Maybe she's eager to get her hands on that trust fund," Will said.

They got out of the Taurus. Devereaux admired the Lotus while Will memorized its license plate. The detective drove a vintage black Ford Mustang, and Will figured him for a car nut.

"So, what's this one like?" Devereaux asked as they mounted the steps leading to the front door.

"Polite," Will said, and reached for the bell.

He'd been expecting a maid again, but this time Claire Alvin answered her own door. She wore a caramel-colored suit and had a leopard-print scarf tied around her neck. Will put her diamond earrings at about three carats each.

"Detective Hodges." She stepped back and motioned him into the marble foyer.

The air smelled sweet, and he noticed a crystal vase filled with white roses sitting on the grand piano in the living room.

He also noticed the gray-haired lawyer slouched casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked in his pockets.

"I don't believe we've met," Mrs. Alvin said, offering Devereaux her hand. They exchanged greetings, and then she gestured toward Alvin's law partner. "And have you met Peter Riley?"

Riley stepped forward and shook hands with Devereaux. "At my office," he said, and turned to Will. "Although I don't believe you were there."

Will shook the guy's hand, wondering what he was doing here today. The man had a wife and kids, and it seemed odd for him to be dropping in on Alvin's widow on a Monday afternoon.

"Nice seeing you guys." He nodded. "I was just leaving."

When he was gone, Mrs. Alvin led them into the living room filled with antique-looking furniture. This wasn't the Texas Bucks style, but something more feminine that reeked of money and trips to Europe. The room had an impressive view of Lake Travis, which was busy with boats and Jet Skis.

"I assume you're here to update me on the case," she said, gesturing for them to sit down. She looked at Will, and he could see that beneath the cool smile, she knew they weren't just here to "update" her. This woman was sharp enough to know she'd made the suspect list.

Will sat down on the overstuffed white couch. He scooted forward on the cushion so he wouldn't sink into the giant pillows.

"We're working lots of leads," Devereaux assured her, "and we've developed some promising information."

She sank gracefully into an armchair and crossed her legs.

Devereaux tilted his head to the side. "And how are things going for you?"

Will didn't buy the sympathetic friend routine, and he could tell the widow didn't either.

She smiled thinly. "As well as can be expected. Now, why don't you tell me when you plan to arrest the bitch who shot my husband?"

Devereaux's eyebrows arched, and she turned her chilly gaze on Will. "Detective?"

"It's not that simple," he replied.

"She was in the car, wasn't she? It was her gun."

Devereaux sent him a look. How did she know about the gun? The recovery of the weapon hadn't made the papers.

"Ma'am," Will said, "do you mind if I ask where you're getting your information?"

Instead of answering, she turned to Devereaux. "She's crazy, you know. She took a hammer to the Carrera last winter. You guys must have known about it. John spent all night down at the police station trying to hush everything up."

Devereaux glanced at Will, clearly surprised.

"What? You think I don't know about her?" she sneered. "John was a lot of things, but discreet wasn't one of them. He could never keep his mouth shut about anything. I overheard him talking to his golf buddies about her."

Will stared at her, not sure what to say to that. He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Alvin, the investigation is ongoing-"

"Don't give me that." She stood up. "I want that woman arrested. She's dangerous. Who knows how many families she's destroyed? She needs to be locked up."

Will and Devereaux both stood. This interview was deteriorating, rapidly.

"I can tell you we're working 'round the clock." Devereaux's Louisiana drawl was more pronounced now. Will wondered if he was kicking it up a notch to try to soothe her. "We have to do everything by the book so that it holds up in court."

She glared at him, then turned toward Will.

"And what's all this going on at John's office? You already know who killed him. What good does it do to go dredging up all this personal information?"

"Ma'am?" Devereaux pretended not to understand.

"You detectives, running around interviewing all John's colleagues and friends. It's invasive! You think I need you people stirring up gossip all over town about our marital problems? I've got a daughter to think about!"

Will tried to look contrite. "We apologize if our methods upset you. But we have to be thorough-"

"Is that what Riley was here about?" Devereaux cut in. "Gossip at the office?"

She looked at Devereaux. "No, as a matter of fact. He was here on a sales call."

"Excuse me?"

She glowered at Will, all traces of the genteel lady gone. "Sales. He's afraid my family's company is going to switch counsel now that John is dead. He's worried about losing his firm's biggest client. He's worried about his money." Her chin was quivering now, and her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Am I the only one who gives a damn about John? Am I the only one who wants to see someone pun ished? I don't want to hear any more about your methods. I want an arrest!"

They were out on the driveway inside of two minutes. The Lotus was gone.

"That went well," Devereaux said.

Will slid behind the wheel. "What next?"

Devereaux rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the door. "Ah, I dunno. A hundred degrees. Sunny. Seems like perfect weather for a jog in Zilker Park."

Courtney stood in tree pose on her yoga mat, trying to cleanse her body of all the tension and caffeine it had absorbed this afternoon. She'd left work early and gone to an Internet cafe to try to make some sense of everything that was happening.

Slowly, she eased into toe stand, mimicking the instructor. Rivulets of sweat slid down her neck as she strained to hold the position. Her T-shirt was soaked; her leggings were damp. Bikram yoga was relaxing and revitalizing, but the temperature was a bitch.

She took a deep breath and tried to put all things David-related out of her mind. The afternoon had been a waste. She'd spent hours poring over legal journals and newspaper articles, and she'd learned nothing useful except that she wasn't cut out for detective work. She felt a new appreciation for Will, spending his time puzzling over clues and running down leads.

Of course, his job entailed more than staring at a computer. He went to crime scenes. He carried a gun. It was all very Law & Order, very exciting. Too exciting for Courtney. After last week, she didn't want to get near a crime scene or a dead body ever again.

She stretched out on her back and breathed deeply. One by one, she moved through the floor poses. She tried to clear her mind. She tried to just be. She let her muscles go lax and felt the heat flow through her as she shifted into the final pose. This was the part she loved most-this tranquil, fluid moment in which she felt at peace.

It ended too soon.

"Namaste." Her instructor nodded serenely as Courtney trailed her classmates out of the studio.