She bit her lip, contemplating the possibility. Just be honest. Easy for him to say. He wasn't under suspicion of murder. He hadn't been targeted by a killer. He wasn't spending his nights going room to room in a tiny duplex, switching on lamps and listening for prowlers.

"So I was there. So what? It's a free country." She crossed her arms and dared him to challenge her. Going to someone's funeral wasn't a felony.

"The question is, why were you there? And why the Alias costume?"

She didn't want to look at him. "Several reasons."

He waited, and the only sound was the rumble of the old engine.

"I wanted to see his daughter," she said.

This was the truth, but she felt weird saying it. Why should she have any interest in some little girl she'd never met? A little girl whose family she'd nearly wrecked by having an affair with her self-absorbed father?

"You wanted to see Mackenzie Alvin."

"Yes."

"Why?"

This was the weird part. "I don't know." She shrugged. "I just feel, I don't know, connected with her or something."

He glanced at her. "Connected how?"

"My dad died when I was little. I guess I just empathize with her." She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "But she looked good. I watched her mom with her, and I feel better now. I think she's going to be okay."

Unlike Courtney had been. And Fiona. When their dad had died, their mom had pretty much gone to pieces. She'd jerked her kids out of school, moved off to California to "get a fresh start," and then proceeded to go from man to man, looking for the next love of her life. When she wasn't on the hunt for a guy, she was consoling herself with alcohol while Fiona tried to raise a kid sister. Fiona was only a few years older than Courtney, but she'd been a mother to her most of her life.

It had taken more than twenty years and a cross-country move for Fiona and Courtney to get away from the mess their mom had made of their lives following their father's death.

But Mackenzie's mother seemed to have her act together. And she had money, too, which would help. At least she wouldn't be desperately seeking a husband to help support her.

Courtney glanced over at Will. He was staring at the road again. Maybe he thought she was full of crap.

"Why else?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"You said 'several' reasons."

She looked out the window. Familiar houses flew by, and they were almost to her street. If she made up a lie, she could be finished with this conversation in a matter of minutes. If she made it a believable lie, he might just leave her alone for a few days.

Before he hauled her back in for more questions. She tugged at her hemline again and cleared her throat. "I thought I might see him," she said, going with the truth.

"See who?"

"The man who attacked us. I thought he might be there."

He pulled up to the curb just in front of her house. Amy's white Hyundai sat in the driveway, and Courtney realized how Will had recognized her at the funeral. It had been there Monday, too, and he was observant.

Parked behind the Hyundai was the pickup belonging to Amy's boyfriend, and Courtney guessed they'd kissed and made up after the argument she'd overheard earlier this evening. That was the thing about living in a duplex-you were in your neighbors' business whether you wanted to be or not.

"Why would he come to the funeral, Courtney?"

She brought her gaze back to Will. He seemed to be searching her face for answers. He knew she was hiding something.

"It wasn't a random robbery, was it?"

"I don't think so," she said.

It hadn't been a robbery at all. The ski-mask guy had tried to kill David and make it look like a murder-suicide. Someone wanted them both dead, and Courtney blamed for it. She'd been racking her brain for days trying to come up with a plausible reason.

"And did you see him at the funeral?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I would have recognized his body and his eyes. At least, I think I would have. No one even looked close."

Will stared out the windshield, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel. He seemed deep in thought. Abruptly, he cut the engine and got out of the truck to come around to her side.

She was home. Another night alone. She was so wide-awake, it felt as if she'd spent the evening at a coffee shop instead of a bar.

The door squealed open, and she got out.

"Thanks for the lift," she said, as he slammed the door. He stood there, staring down at her, and she got the impression he wanted to read her thoughts. Was he trying to solve his case, or was it something else? His face gave nothing away until the brief instant when his gaze dropped to her mouth.

An impulse came over her. Maybe it was the vodka. Or the summer air. Or the girl in the lavender dress who reminded her how lonely she'd been as a kid.

Maybe it was lust.

Whatever it was, she gave in to it. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. He stood there, ramrod straight, holding her waist but not kissing her back, while she moved her mouth softly against his. She was getting to him, she knew. She could feel it in his tense response, in the tightness of his stubbled jaw under her fingertips. And then it wasn't the vodka making her mind swim, but the heady realization that she had an effect on this giant man. She licked the corner of his mouth, and his control broke, like she'd known it would. And then she was up, off her feet, kissing him, and he was kissing her back, as he gripped her hips and pressed her against the truck. His mouth felt hot and powerful, and he tasted faintly of peppermint.

Suddenly he stepped back, and her feet slid to the ground. She blinked up at him. His big chest heaved up and down.

"Come inside," she whispered.

He wanted to. Desire was written all over his face.

But then he seemed to shake it off. Just like that, his eyes went cool.

"I can't," he said.

She smiled up at him, that warm, coy smile she'd known for ages but hadn't practiced lately.

He looked away. "I'll walk you to the door."

"You don't have to."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "I will." He took her elbow and propelled her up the path, like a disobedient child on her way to time out.

"You don't need to walk me," she said, feeling pissy now. It was easier than feeling hurt.

"I need to get you in safely."

They reached the door and she plucked her keys from her purse. She unlocked the door, gritting her teeth while she did it because she could feel him next to her, this massive presence that didn't need to be there. She buried her temper and turned to him with a big smile.

She reached up to wipe the lipstick off his lower lip. He flinched at her touch, and she knew he was going to have a rough night. Good. She wouldn't be the only one. "Night, Detective," she purred. "Sleep tight."

She stepped into the house and pulled the door shut behind her.

He'd kissed his suspect.

And not just kissed-he'd come about five seconds away from dragging her off to bed.

Five years he'd worked to become a homicide detective. Now here it was, the first lap out of the gate, and he'd nearly fucked it up.

She was a suspect. He knew in his gut she didn't do it, but he was definitely in the minority with that opinion. Cernak was convinced she'd pulled the trigger, and he'd made it clear he expected Will to coax a confession out of her. But Will couldn't bring himself to coax because-despite the lies-he was 99.9 percent certain she was innocent.

But maybe he was wrong. Maybe the mere thought of having sex with a woman as hot as Courtney Glass was short-circuiting his brain.

No.

He'd been there the night of the biscuit dough. He'd listened to the 911 call. He'd seen her that afternoon at the park. She'd been truly, deathly afraid. She may have lied about how it went down-actually, he knew she had-but that didn't mean she'd killed the guy. He was close to certain she'd been one of two intended victims. He just needed to gather the evidence to exonerate her and figure out who was behind it all.

Then he could kiss her all he wanted. And drag her off to bed, too.

Christ, he was screwed up. Why had he allowed himself to be alone so long? Lifting weights was great, but there was only so much frustration he could work off at a gym. At some point, soon, he needed a good, soft woman.

Not that Courtney was good. Or soft. She'd probably hand a guy his nuts on a platter if he messed with her. Will couldn't visualize her as Alvin's trophy girlfriend, but he had no trouble at all imagining her trashing his Porsche.

He pulled into a parking space at his low-rise apartment complex on the south side of town. The building was generic. His one-bedroom unit was generic. His cheap furniture was generic. And he didn't really give a damn because for the past five years even the most mediocre accommodations, by American standards, had seemed like the Ritz to him. That's what three years of sleeping on the hard ground did to a person. Three years of dust, and cold, and trekking through the mountains, hunting men and being hunted. Three years of camping out among villagers who drank from the same irrigation ditches where they bathed, and washed dishes, and butchered meat.

He parked and made his way up the metal flight of stairs to his place. On his doorstep was a package, and he stooped to pick it up, instantly suspicious.

Cookies. Chocolate chip, from what he could see through the light blue Tupperware. Another luxury not common in Afghanistan.

He let himself into the apartment and tossed his keys on the table by the door. He threw the bolt. In the kitchen he saw the flashing message light of his answering machine. He pressed the button to listen while he opened the lid to the Tupperware and read the note tucked inside.

Thanks! XOXO Lori.

Mystery solved. The woman whose new TV he'd hauled up the stairs had made him cookies.

A telemarketer droned into the phone as Will pondered this new development. Lori from next door was single. Pretty. A little short for him, but big deal. He chomped into a cookie. She was a decent cook and had a brand-new HDTV with surround sound. What was he doing messing around with his suspect? It was beyond dumb.

He deleted the second telemarketer and condemned to hell whichever utility company had given out his number, which should have been unlisted. Nathan's voice came on, and Will stopped chewing.

"Hodges. Where are you? Your cell phone keeps kicking me to voice mail. Ballistics just came back and-"

Will pressed Callback. Nathan picked up immediately.

"Shit, man. The phone stays on. How am I supposed to reach you-"

"Tell me about the ballistics."

"We got a match. The Beretta and the slug."

They had their murder weapon. This was real progress.

"That's not all," Nathan said tightly.

"What else?"

"The weapon's registered to Courtney Glass."

CHAPTER 4.

Courtney was late.

She twisted her hair into a quick bun, secured it with a pair of black chopsticks, and checked her watch: 8:31. She glanced at the laptop computer on her unmade bed. According to the bus schedule she'd looked up, she had four minutes to get to the corner before the 10/20 made its next stop. If she missed it, she'd have to wait half an hour for the next one.

Where were her shoes? She scanned the bedroom for her strappy black sandals but didn't see them. She spotted her red ones beside the closet and opted for those instead. Not the best match with a black-and-white Japanese print skirt, but maybe it would look like she was going for contrast. She threw a red lipstick into her handbag and headed for the door.

As she locked up, her gaze darted over to Amy's side of the front porch. Amy hadn't been home yesterday when Courtney returned the car, and the keys still were sitting in the flowerpot where Courtney had left them. She'd spied the keys sitting there last night, too, when she'd left to meet Jordan, but she hadn't wanted to interrupt the lovers' quarrel going on next door.

Courtney checked her watch. Three minutes. She stomped across the porch, scooped the keys out of the pot, and rang the doorbell.

Devon answered.

"What happened to you?" she asked, gaping at the bruise under his eye.

"Nothing." He glanced furtively over his shoulder. Courtney stood there, unable to move. Maybe he'd been in a fight at school. But why wouldn't he just say that?

"Is your mom home?"

"Who's there?" a male voice called from the back of the house.

Devon met her gaze, and she read the look on his face. She grabbed his hand.

"Come here," she said, pulling him onto the porch and tugging the door shut behind him. She quickly unlocked her front door and nudged him inside.

"Sit," she said, pointing to the armchair.

Courtney closed the door. Devon sat down and stared at his feet. He wore a T-shirt and sweatpants, which Courtney guessed constituted his sleepwear.