"I'm glad," she said. "Then I'll go get dressed."

I'm glad? What did that mean? "Could I use your shower?"

She pointed to the other end of the apartment. "There's a guest suite through that doorway."

Her guest room was stocked with toiletry essentials. Conor liberated a toothbrush from its packaging. He scratched his jaw. He should find a razor, but the small cut on his cheek was nearly gone. Shaving would just irritate it.

As he stripped down and stepped naked under the hot spray, he quelled a mental image of Louisa doing the same, but the vision of her willowy figure, slick and wet, wouldn't stay gone. He turned the spigot to cold. In his head he ticked off the reasons this undefined thing, whatever it was, between them wouldn't work. They had nothing in common. Their entire relationship was based on time shared during bizarre and terrible circumstances and his inexplicable compulsion to peel away the layers of Louisa's personal defenses. They hadn't spent a normal five minutes together. They hardly knew anything about each other, and every time he tried to get a glimpse of what lay beneath her perfect exterior, she put up a wall.

But his brain was definitely not running the show. He was operating on instinct, on a gut feeling that when he finally got to her core, what he discovered would be worth all the work.

And he didn't mean core in a sexual way. OK, he did, but it wasn't his primary motivation. He'd learned his lesson. Sex wasn't enough.

Thirty minutes later, they walked a block to the parking garage where Conor had left his car. He opened the passenger door for Louisa.

With a graceful twist, she lowered her body into the passenger seat. Conor slid behind the wheel.

"Your car looks wonderful." Louisa ran a hand across the leather dashboard. "I wouldn't know it was the same vehicle you were driving last spring."

"Thanks." He shifted the Porsche into gear and pulled out into traffic on Eighteenth Street. "It's a hobby. I buy beat-up old cars and restore them."

"Will you sell this one now that it's done?"

"Probably. I like a project." He stroked the steering wheel.

A bicyclist shot out from between two parked cars. Conor braked. Louisa gripped the armrest.

"What's wrong?" He steered around a double-parked delivery truck. The taxi driver in the next lane blew his horn and flipped them a middle finger. Conor waved him off.

Louisa gasped, her body stiffening in the seat. "I haven't adjusted to the traffic."

"It is rush hour." Conor turned onto Walnut Street and made his way to the ramp that led onto I-76 East. Less than a mile later, he exited onto University Avenue. They drove through the main campus, and Louisa directed him toward blocks of row homes that had been converted into student housing. "Where to first?"

Louisa gave him the address of the off-campus apartment Zoe and Isa shared. Conor wove through the city streets and parked at the curb near the converted row home. They rang the buzzer for Isa's apartment, but she didn't answer. They returned to the car, and Louisa left a voice message for Isa.

"I asked Zoe to call me when she got home." Conor stared down the quiet tree-lined street. "But when she did, she said, 'I'm almost at my place.' At the time I assumed she was calling from outside because her roommate was asleep inside, and Zoe didn't want to wake her up." Conor closed his eyes and tried to replay the call in his head. He'd been half-asleep. "To make a call, she had to be aboveground. It must have happened between her house and the subway station. Except the police said she never got on the subway."

"Maybe she took a bus or the camera just missed her somehow. What about campus security?"

"Timing would be key," Conor agreed. "Unless she got into a car willingly. Maybe Zoe was walking home in the dark. She was tired and upset. It's six or seven blocks from the subway station or bus stop. She calls me just to get that out of the way. She just wants to be home. It's been a crappy night, and she wants to go to bed. She hangs up the phone. A car pulls alongside her and offers her a lift."

"Heath would fit that scenario," Louisa mused. "He'd be apologizing, asking her to forgive him."

They looked at each other. The night could have played out just like that.

"Right. Let's go talk to Heath." Conor pulled out into traffic.

Louisa gave him the address.

"How did you find out where he lives?"

"I paid for an Internet search," Louisa said. "If he lived in student housing, we'd be out of luck, but he lives off campus in a private residence."

Conor found the street, circled the block until he saw a spot, and shoehorned the Porsche between a Ford Escape and a Nissan Maxima parallel parked at the curb.

Heath lived in a stately three-story town house. Though renovated, the building's age showed in the slight tilt to the stoop and the blackened patina of the bricks. In Philadelphia tradition, a waist-high black wrought-iron fence encircled the tiny front yard. The gate was propped open with a fist-size rock. They went up the wide cement steps to the covered porch, and Louisa pressed the doorbell.

Conor leaned a shoulder against the side of the building and watched Louisa slide into the mask of stiff formality she'd worn back in Maine. She'd used that attitude on him when they first met. Why had he thought it was hot? What was it about that haughty profile that sent his engine into overdrive? Most women flirted with him. Why did he want the one who required effort?

"You'd better stay out of sight. He might not open the door if he sees you." The grin and the conspiratorial tone behind it were damned sexy.

Conor stepped to the side of the door, out of the peephole's view.

The door opened.

"I'm Dr. Hancock. I'm looking for Heath Yeager."

"I'm Heath."

"Do you have time to talk?" she asked.

"I guess, but I only have a few minutes until I have to leave." Heath opened the screen door.

The door opened inward, and Louisa stepped over the threshold into a small foyer. "Thank you."

Conor followed. "Good morning, Heath." He echoed Louisa's overly cheerful inflection.

Heath took a surprised step back. The side of his jaw where Conor had popped him was puffed out and bruised. "Hey, what's he doing here?"

"Mr. Sullivan and I are trying to find Zoe." Louisa tilted her head at Heath. "Surely you'd like to do the same."

"I guess." Heath looked doubtful. "I mean, yes. I want to find Zoe. But why him?" He jerked a thumb at Conor. "I heard he's the prime suspect."

"So you remember me? I thought maybe you were too drunk." Conor kept his distance, slouching against the far wall.

Heath's face went blank, but thoughts churned in his eyes. Would he throw a fit about Conor's presence or play it cool? "I remember you."

What was the kid hiding?

Apparently choosing to be cooperative, Heath led them down a short, narrow hallway into the living room. The house was tall and narrow, with an open kitchen and living space on the first floor and probably four or five bedrooms and a couple of baths on the two upper floors. High ceilings were set off by fat architectural molding. The corner fireplace appeared original. Aged pine floor gleamed with a smooth matte finish.

Heath didn't lack for any of the amenities. A large flat-screen TV hung on the living area wall. Electronic tablets, a cell phone, a laptop, and game controllers were scattered on a round table in front of a leather sectional sofa. Stainless-steel appliances equipped the adjoined kitchen. Three pizza boxes were stacked on the black granite counter. Next to them, someone had erected an impressive four-tier beer can pyramid.

"Nice place," Conor said. "How many of you live here?"

"Four."

"The same guys you were with Monday night?"

"Yes."

"What else do you remember about that night?" Louisa asked.

Heath turned around and retreated behind the L-shaped counter. "Coffee?"

Conor shook his head.

"No, thank you," Louisa said.

Heath filled a steel travel mug. "The night is sketchy. I drank way too much, and I'm well aware that I acted like a jerk."

Conor played along. "Alcohol makes lots of guys act like assholes."

Heath nodded. "I feel terrible about what happened. I never thought . . ." He swallowed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I never thought anything would happen to her. I figured she'd take the subway or bus home."

"No one could have expected her to disappear." Louisa placated him. "We just want to find her. Did you hear from her at all after you left her at the bar?"

Heath's eyes darted sideways. With jerky movements he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon of milk. "Um. Apparently I texted her after I got back here, but I don't remember doing that. I was pretty wasted."

"What did you say to her?" Louisa asked.

He over-tilted the jug, splattering milk down the side of his mug and onto the counter. "I called her a bitch and some other names." He lifted his chin to let them see his misty eyes. "I'm not proud of it."

Though Heath gave a soap operaworthy performance, Conor wasn't buying into the sad act. This guy didn't need alcohol to be an asshole.

Louisa pressed. "Did she answer you?"

He shook his head. "No. I guess whatever happened to her had already happened." He swiped a finger under his eye.

"I have to go." Heath picked up his backpack.

"One more question," Conor said. "Who picked Sullivan's?"

Heath's brow wrinkled. "I don't remember. We'd already been to two bars. We didn't really have a plan."

Escorting them outside, Heath locked the front door and jogged down the steps.

"Thanks for talking with us," Louisa said as Heath went through the gate and turned down the sidewalk.

Conor and Louisa walked back to the car.

"He's playing us." Conor opened the door for Louisa.

"Probably." With a graceful body twist, she slid into the leather bucket seat, a feat that should have been awkward given the snugness of her skirt.

Conor watched her long legs swing under the dashboard. This morning's suit was a pale, practically colorless gray. The tailored cut showed off her slim form, and the forest-green blouse made her eyes greener. She didn't put anything on display, but her prim and proper suits made him more eager to get a glimpse of what lay beneath all that silk. He was hopeless.

He rounded the car and climbed into the driver's seat. She shifted her legs and crossed her ankles. Her skirt rode a few inches past her knees. His glance drifted sideways, and he was rewarded with a flash of pale thigh.

How could a scant two inches of skin make him drool? He saw a lot more than that every night of the week. Half the women who came into the bar wore skirts a scant inch shy of indecent, and he was hung up on Louisa's hot librarian getup.

Louisa looked at him expectantly. He ripped his gaze off her legs. What had she asked him? Oh, yeah. Heath.

"Sleep texting?" He started the engine. "That's just lame. If he was awake enough to text her, he was awake enough to snatch her."

"I'd love to get a look at the texts he sent."

Conor waited for traffic to clear. He checked his rearview mirror as he pulled into traffic. A big sedan pulled away from the curb right behind him. He went around the next block.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I think we're being followed."

Louisa turned her head to look out the back window. "The dark-blue sedan?"

"Yes." Conor made a right onto South Street. "Cops."

"How do you know?"

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The sedan dropped back, letting a couple of cars get between them. "I just do."

A few minutes later he pulled to the curb in front of the museum. "Let me know if you hear from Isa."

"I will." Louisa got out of the car and went inside.

Conor drove toward home, and his police escort stayed a few cars behind him. The bar didn't open for hours. He stopped for his gym clothes. The heavy bag was the best place to vent all his frustrations. The unmarked car crept along at the curb as Conor walked to the gym. How would the police ever find Zoe if they wasted limited manpower babysitting him instead of expanding the investigation to include someone who might actually be guilty?

14.

Louisa settled at her desk to catch up on messages, return e-mails, and check on the shipment of a sword and scabbard she'd purchased at auction the week before. She also put a call in to Zoe's mentor, Xavier English, in case he had any insight on Zoe's behavior. Professor English wasn't in, and she left a message. Then she reviewed the details for the fund-raiser scheduled for Saturday and checked on the progress of the renovations in the exhibit space. She needed to fill one of the new glass cases for the event.

When she returned to her office, April was pressing a crumpled tissue to her eye.

Louisa's heart stammered. "What happened?"

"Zoe's father called." April handed Louisa a pink message slip. "He wants you to call him back."

Louisa's vision blurred with moisture as she closed her door. She dialed Mr. Finch with shaky fingers. How could the Finches possibly cope with their daughter being missing?

"Dr. Hancock. Thank you for returning my call." Mr. Finch's voice was strained.