He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Phillip. What a mess. Dammit.

Hunter dropped his hands, acknowledging grief. Frustration. Truth was, he longed to be there. Longed to pay his respects to a man he had always admired. One who had become his friend. And who he now missed.

Some might have considered their friendship unusual, he supposed. After all, their ages had been separated by thirty years. But they'd had loneliness in common. Feelings of alienation. And a tremendous amount of history.

History that had included Avery.

Yeah, great. Avery. Some send-off for his friend. Ringing accusations at her. Hitting her where she was most vulnerable. Where she was already hurting.

She had called him hateful. And cruel.

Maybe she was right, he thought. Most probably she was.

What was it about him? Why was everything always black or white? Why couldn't he swallow his

thoughts? Blur his personal line just a little? And who the hell was he to think he owned the high moral ground?

Everything he touched turned to shit.

Hunter glanced over his shoulder, toward the apartment. He longed for a drink. He needed one. The need clawed at him. He pictured himself walking to the kitchen, selecting the immediate poison of choice and drinking until he no longer possessed the ability to question the course of his life.

Drink to the point where he felt little but cynical amusement when someone he cared about called him

hateful and cruel.

He swallowed hard against the urge. Wallowing instead in the pain. His anger and frustration. His feelings of loss. For they were real. Authentic. As much a part of life as breathing.

Never again, he promised himself, fisting his fingers. Never again would he anesthetize himself to life's

highs and lows.

Sarah pawed at the kitchen door, then woofed softly. Hunter turned in that direction. She hadn't been out that long ago. Or had she? When he worked, he lost track of both time and the mundane details of life.

He exited the office and made his way to the kitchen. The dog whined. "Okay, girl." He grabbed the leash from the hook, snapped it to her collar and opened the door. She leaped forward, dragging him through the door and into the alley before he got a firm grip on the lead.

When he did, he yanked hard on it. Sarah heeled.

"What's up with you?" Hunter bent and scratched behind her ears. Instead of sinking on her haunches and sagging against him in grateful ecstasy, she stayed at attention, muscles taut. Quivering.

He frowned and turned his gaze in the direction of hers-the narrow, dark alley. "What is it, Sarah?

What's wrong?"

She growled, low in her throat. The fur along the ridge of her back stood up.

"Anyone there?" he called.

Silence answered. He squinted at the darkness ahead, working to make out details, differentiate shape

from shadow. Wishing for Sarah's acute sense of smell and hearing. He called out once more. Again,

without answer. Wondering at the wisdom of what he was about to do, he eased his grip slightly. The dog charged forward. Or tried to. He held her back, forcing her to proceed slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dark.

As they reached the middle point of the alley, she angled right. Her growl deepened. Hunter drew back on the leash, struggling to hold her. The dog's muscles bunched and rippled as she fought him, digging in with each step.

Produce crates, he saw. A stack of them sent askew. From the Piggly Wiggly around front. And tipped trash barrels, discarded bakery and deli items spewing out into the alleyway. Sarah began to bark. Not a high, shrill bark of excitement, but a fierce one. Deep, threatening.

"Sarah," he chided, "all this over a little spoiled chow?" He bent and thumped her side. "Or is the possum or coon that made this mess still hanging around?"

The sound of his voice did little to comfort her. As he moved to straighten, something peeking out from under the pile of crates and boxes caught his eye.

An animal's tail. No wonder Sarah was going bonkers. The creature that caused this messed had gotten itself trapped under one of the tipped crates. It could be hurt, maybe dead.

He glanced around, looking for something he could use to move the crates. No way was he about to use his hand. Cornered creatures defended themselves ferociously. Especially when hurt.

He spotted a broom propped in the opposite doorway. He retrieved it, then wedged its handle through the crate's wooden slats and tipped it up. His stomach rose to his throat. He took a step backward, Sarah's frenzied barking ringing in his ears.

Not an animal's tail. Human hair.

The woman it belonged to stared up at him, face screwed into a death howl.

CHAPTER 13.

Hunter stumbled backward, dragging Sarah with him. Bending, he propped his hands on his knees and dragged in deep breaths. Steady, Stevens. Don't throw up. Dear God, don't- The image of the woman filled his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in another lungful of oxygen. A woman...Jesus... What to do? What- Make certain she's dead. Call the cops.

Hunter expelled a long breath and straightened slowly. He turned his gaze toward the woman. She hadn't

moved. She stared fixedly at him, mouth stretched into that horrible scream.

He hadn't a doubt she was dead. And that her death had been excruciating. But still, he should check her

pulse. Shouldn't he? Wasn't that what they always did in the movies and on TV? That or fall completely apart. Not an option, Stevens. He shortened his hold on Sarah's lead and inched closer. Carefully, he moved a couple of the toppled crates, revealing the woman's arm.

Sometime before she'd died, she'd polished her fingernails a bright, bloody red. Now, the contrast between the red polish and the fish-belly white of her skin affected him like a shouted obscenity. Hunter moved closer. He circled his fingers around the woman's wrist. She was cold. Her skin spongy to the touch.

No pulse. Not even a flutter.

He yanked his hand back, instinctively wiping it against his blue jeans, and straightened.

Get the cops. His dad. Or Matt.

They were all around the corner. At Phillip's wake.

He considered his choices and decided he could notify them as quickly on foot as he could by calling the

department. Decision made, he started forward at a run. As if sensing his urgency, Sarah stayed by his

side. They cleared the alley, making the block to Gallagher's in less than three minutes.

He took the front steps two at a time, ordered Sarah to stay and burst through Gallagher's front door.

Danny Gallagher stood just inside the door. His eyes widened. "Hunter, what-"

"Where are they?"

Danny pointed. "Number one, but-"

Hunter darted forward, not waiting for him to finish. He spotted his family the moment he entered the

room. They stood in a tight clutch.

Stevens clan against the world. Minus one, of course.

He strode forward; the crowd parted silently for him. Conversations ceased. Expressions registered

surprise. Then excitement. They expected a scene. They wanted one.

He could liven things up, all right. Just not for the reason they thought.

Hunter saw the moment his family became aware of his pres-ence. They turned. Their gazes settled on

him. Matt frowned; Buddy's eyebrows shot up even as his stance altered subtly, becoming defensive.

Preparing for battle. His mother looked particularly pale, her eyes wide, alarmed. Cherry averted her

gaze when he looked at her.

As American as apple pie and Prozac.

Damn them all.

"Dad," he said, not bothering with a greeting, "we need to talk."

Matt stepped forward, fists clenched. "You picked a hell of a time for one of your confrontations. Get out of here before Avery-"

"Back off," Hunter snapped. "This is an emergency, Dad. We need to speak privately."

"It'll have to keep, son. Tonight I'm honoring my best friend."

Hunter leaned toward him. He lowered his voice. "There's been a murder. Think that'll keep?"

From behind him came the sound of a sharply drawn breath. He turned. Avery had come up behind