He watched the clip from beginning to end, focusing on the shooter's build, his gloved hands, the way he moved, and his eyes, his only visible feature. There was nothing recognizable, so he made himself watch it again and again, his jaw clenching tighter every time the bastard fired at Edgar.

Finally Scarlett pulled the phone from his hands. 'Enough. Your teeth are about to crack. Did you recognize anything about him?'

He clenched his fists helplessly. 'No.'

'Then I'll tell her that.' She slid her hand over his fist, holding him while she called her boss. 'It's Scarlett,' she said when Isenberg picked up. 'Yes, I got it. I showed it to him, but he doesn't recognize the shooter . . . Yes, ma'am, I turned your request around quickly.' She listened for a moment, then closed her eyes, her cheeks turning red. 'Yes, ma'am, he's with me.'

Oh fuck. His outing them to his team was one thing. Her outing herself to her boss was quite another. Part of him wondered if that wasn't the reason Isenberg had waited to send the email. She'd known Scarlett wouldn't delay her response, because a murderer was walking free. What a fucking bitch.

He wanted to grab the phone and tell the lieutenant exactly what he thought about her, but he bit his tongue. This was Scarlett's world. Her battle.

'Yes, ma'am,' she said after listening for a full minute. 'Your office, nine sharp. I'll be there.' She hung up and dropped her chin to her chest. 'Well that was fun.'

'What can she do to you?'

'Give me a lecture or put a note in my file. Worst case is I get suspended.' He tugged her to his lap, settled her between his thighs and massaged her scalp, making her sigh quietly. 'But if she really wants to get mean, she'll tell my dad.'

He blinked. 'She's going to tell your father? Why?'

'Because he works in the commissioner's office.'

'Oh. You said he was a cop. You didn't mention he was so high up.'

'You mean you didn't have Diesel check me out?'

'Not really. I did search for your address and run your Land Cruiser's plates, but everything else I wanted to find out myself.' He kissed the curve of her neck. 'I'm sorry she might make trouble for you, but I'm not sorry I'm here.'

'I'm not sorry you're here either. It'll be all right. Why don't you turn out the lights? We should get some sleep.'

He did as she suggested and then pulled her close. To his relief she came easily, resuming her place on his shoulder and her lazy petting of his chest. But she didn't sleep. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind.

'What's your brain thinking now?' he asked her.

'That I need to ask you a favor.'

He curled her still-damp hair around his fingers. 'Name it.'

'I need you to lock that gun of yours away. Isenberg knows that Deacon and I suspected you had a second gun in the alley. If she gets annoyed enough at me for sleeping with you, she might find a reason to confiscate your gun.' She hesitated. 'And I'm not sure you'd like that.'

'Why do you think that?' he asked, a little too sharply.

'Because of the way you held BB on your lap when the uniformed officer arrived at your condo tonight so that he wouldn't search you. And . . .' She was silent for a long moment, then drew a breath. 'And because the serial number's filed off.'

She'd shocked him. 'How do you know that?' he asked.

'I saw it this morning when you were loading up that shoulder holster like Rambo.'

'Why didn't you say anything then?'

'Because I wanted to find out why it was filed off and why you continued to carry it.' She lifted her head, propping her chin on his shoulder to look up at him. 'You're not the only one who wants to find things out for yourself.'

'What do you think?'

'I don't know. Maybe you got it in the Gulf, like the knife you're so attached to. Maybe you used it for some gentle coercion and things got out of hand and you don't want to risk a Ballistics match.'

'That didn't happen,' he said flatly, not sure if he was offended or not.

'Which? You didn't get it in the Gulf or you didn't use it for gentle coercion or things didn't get out of hand?'

'All of the above.' He gritted his teeth. 'If you thought I was capable of using it to hurt someone, why am I even here with you? In your bed?'

She continued to regard him calmly. 'Because I didn't really think you did, and even if you did, the other guy probably had it coming.'

He shook his head. 'You confound me, Scarlett.'

'I don't mean to.' She rested her head on his shoulder again. 'Maybe it's just that I understand more than you think. Maybe I've gently coerced once or twice myself.'

She said it so softly he almost didn't hear her. 'Did you get written up?' he asked.

'No. I've never crossed the line. Well, not with both feet. The few times I've toed over it, my partners covered for me. It hasn't happened that often. It gets harder to control it every day, though.'

He remembered what she'd said that morning, when they'd talked about his grandfather. 'Because you see things you can't unsee.'

'Every goddamn day.' She exhaled quietly. 'Tell me why you keep it. Please.'

'I'll put it away,' he promised. 'I'd already planned to.'

'You're evading the subject again.'

He stared at the ceiling, his heart beginning to pound. 'Only because it's hard to talk about. The truth is, I don't know what would happen if it went through Ballistics. Have I ever fired this gun at anyone? Yes. A few times as a warning. Have I ever fired it into anyone? No. But I can't promise that my father didn't because I simply don't know.'

'Not Jeremy,' she said softly. 'You mean your real father.'

'Jeremy is my real father as far as I'm concerned. I mean my biological father. The man with the sperm. And not much else,' he added in a disgusted mutter.

'He wasn't a good man?'

He laughed bitterly, remembering his father so very clearly. 'No.'

'Yet you carry his gun.'

'No. It's not his. It belonged to my grandfather.'

'Okay,' she said reasonably. 'You loved your grandfather, so it has sentimental value.'

He shook his head. 'No, that's not really it either.' It was hard to talk about because he didn't like to even think about it. 'My grandfather never carried the gun. He kept it in a gun safe. My father . . . took it from time to time, mostly to show off. He probably never killed anyone.'

'"Probably" is not very reassuring,' she said. 'I can test it myself, if you want. Off the books. You'll at least know for sure if it ties to any crimes.'

No way in hell. 'That's okay. I'll put it away and carry one of my other guns.'

'That's fine, but I still want to know why you're so attached to it.'

He sighed. 'I thought you wanted to get some sleep.'

She sat up abruptly, frowning at him. 'Marcus.'

He stared up at the ceiling, then met her eyes in the light of the moon coming through the window. 'Can you come back down here? It's . . . hard to talk about.'

Her frown changed from angry to concerned. 'That's the second time you've said that,' she said, but slid back down beside him, her head on his chest.

'Because it is.'

She splayed her hand over his heart. 'Your pulse just skyrocketed.'

'Yeah.' He focused on bringing it under control, then gave up when he couldn't concentrate enough to begin. 'Did you Google what I told you to?'

'Yes. I read a few of the articles that came up. I'm sorry, Marcus. You endured what no child should ever go through.'

'Stone had it worse. I only heard it. He saw it.'

'You mean your little brother being killed?'

He nodded, his throat constricting. He was having trouble breathing. Goddammit. 'Yeah.' He forced the word out. Gritted his teeth and beat back the panic. 'Afterward, even after we were safe, I couldn't sleep. Weeks and weeks went by and I still couldn't sleep. I can remember staring at the ceiling for hours on end.'

She was stroking his chest, trying to calm him. 'Understandable.'

'I . . . got my grandfather's gun and I . . . slept with it. Under my pillow.' The stutter he'd suffered for years after the attack tried to come back, shaming him.

'You were only eight years old,' she whispered, pained.

'Old enough to fire a gun if I needed to.'

'Did having the gun keep the nightmares at bay?'

'S-some. Not all.'

'So the gun is a talisman.'

'Yes,' he said, relieved. That much was true. Everything else he'd said was also true, just not complete.

'Thank you,' she murmured. 'Thank you for trusting me. I won't betray your trust.'

He winced internally every time she said 'trust', but it wasn't enough to make him say more. Not now. Not when she was in his arms. Not when she was believing him. He'd have to tell her. She deserved to know and he knew she would understand. But he wasn't going there tonight.

She leaned up and pressed kisses to his jaw, his chin, his mouth. 'Sleep now.'

If it were only that easy, he thought bitterly. He pulled her a little closer, stroking her hair, and she cuddled up to him. Within minutes she was asleep.

But he wasn't. His heart continued to race as he stared up at the ceiling, wondering how he was going to find the words to tell her the truth.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Wednesday 5 August, 2.30 A.M.

Ken could hear Burton's furious shouts the moment he opened his basement door.

'Sweeney! Goddammit, Sweeney, you little fucker! What the fuck is this? Sweeney!'

Ken strolled down the stairs, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. The nap hadn't been enough to completely recharge him, but it would be enough to get what he needed out of Burton.

His basement was tidy again, no sign of the blood that had pooled on the floor after he'd slit the throats of Chip and Marlene Anders. Stephanie Anders sat on the floor in her cage, her arms hugging the knees she'd pulled to her chest. She wore a plain black shirt now. Pity. She'd been so pretty when he'd ripped off her top. Her eyes were shrewd as she watched him approach Burton, who had been tied to a chair. Hog-tied, actually, in a way that if he struggled, the rope would tighten around his throat like a noose. His jaw was bruised, his eye already black.

The noose and the shiner were both Alice's work, Ken thought, and felt a spurt of pride. His daughter could take care of herself.

He walked up to Burton. Folded his arms across his chest. 'You bellowed, Mr Burton?'

Burton looked up at him, hate in his eyes. 'Why am I here?' he growled.

'Miriam Blackwell is alive.'

Burton blinked in shock, color flooding his face. A very good performance. 'How?'

'That's what I'd like to know. She was found unconscious in her motel room. Anonymous 911 tip. The way I figure it, the only way that would be possible is if someone helped her throw up what I'd just given her.'

'I didn't.'

'Did you care for Reuben's wife, Burton?'

'Yes,' he said levelly. 'But not like you're thinking. I loved her like a sister.'

Again, a good performance. 'What else have you lied about?'

'I haven't.'

Ken backhanded him, sending the chair flying over. The ropes around Burton's neck stopped the chair mid-fall, suspending it at an angle, tightening the noose around Burton's throat. To his credit, Burton held perfectly still. Ken let him hang like that for ten seconds, then twenty, then shoved his foot between the rungs and snapped the chair upright.

Burton drew a ragged, wheezing breath. 'You motherfucker,' he snarled. 'You're insane.'

'We're going to try this again,' Ken said calmly. 'What else have you lied about?'