Margaret would not be lingering by the door. She would wait for Louisa to come to her.

Louisa circled the space, admiring the red-and-purple color scheme, strings of beaded glass, and art deco accents popped against a backdrop of gleaming white marble. She spiraled inward, spotting Margaret in a high-backed chair by the bar. A long-sleeved belted column of deep crimson hugged her aunt's thin frame to just below the knee. Her platinum-blond bob was freshly colored, and a flute of pale, sparkling liquid dangled from her bony fingers. At fifty-five, Margaret fought aging with military ruthlessness, but her obsession with maintaining the slimness of her youth had left her skin crepe-papery and her limbs skeletal.

"Louisa." She set her glass down, stood, and extended both veiny hands.

"Hello, Aunt Margaret." Louisa briefly clasped her aunt's fingers and turned her face for an air kiss. Margaret didn't come from wealth, but she'd learned to appreciate-and spend-her brother's income.

"Sit." Margaret waved to the chair next to her, then signaled the waitress. "Would you like a glass of champagne?"

"No, thank you." Perching on the edge of the chair, Louisa held her clutch on her lap and ordered a sparkling water.

Her aunt frowned but recovered quickly. "How are you, dear?"

"I'm well. Thank you."

"Your new job?" Margaret asked, but what did she really want?

"Satisfying." Louisa would rather they went to dinner without the cocktail-hour delay. Unless her aunt got to the point early, which was doubtful. "What time is dinner?"

"We have an eight-thirty reservation." Irritation thinned Margaret's gaze. "Are you in a rush?"

Louisa checked her watch. Eight ten. The Capital Grille was right across the street from the hotel. They had fifteen minutes to kill. Damn. "Of course not. I'm simply hungry. How was your charity event?"

"The usual." Margaret's eyes sparkled. "I have a surprise for you."

Louisa's spine tensed as the server set a tumbler of ice and a small bottle of Perrier on the table. "Oh?"

"Yes." Margaret drained her flute and handed it off to the waitress. She clasped her hands together. "We aren't dining alone."

There was only one person Margaret could have brought with her. Warmth flooded her. Maybe her father had changed his mind about waiting till the holidays to visit. Or maybe his news couldn't wait. "But I thought Daddy was in Stockholm."

Margaret craned her neck and waved discreetly. Louisa turned in her chair.

"Your father is still in Sweden," Margaret said. "This is even better."

"This isn't about Daddy?" Confused, Louisa scanned the lobby but saw no one she recognized. Maybe it was one of Margaret's friends. Could her aunt have a man? Why she'd never married was a mystery. Margaret was an attractive woman, if a little predatory looking.

"And here he is." Her aunt's eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Hello, Louisa," a man said from behind the high back of her chair.

No. Louisa stood and whirled.

"Did you get my gift?" Blaine stepped around the chair. He was holding two flutes of champagne. He extended a glass toward her. His gaze pleaded with hers. "Please, don't make a scene. Have a drink. Let's put our past behind us. I miss you. I'm sorry we surprised you, but I had to see you. There didn't seem to be any other way."

Louisa stepped back. Shock and anger rippled through her like an avalanche. She turned to Margaret. "How could you?"

Margaret was the only person who knew. The only one she'd trusted all those years ago.

Her aunt's eyes steeled. "Nonsense. You need to get over yourself." Her voice dropped to a reptilian hiss. "You both made a mistake. Blaine loves you."

Louisa backed away. "I'm leaving."

"Oh, enough with the drama," Margaret snapped, closing in on her. "You were both young, and young people do foolish things. I don't know why you can't see that he's the perfect man for you. It's not like you have men lined up waiting to marry you. He's the only one who's still interested. You have the personality of a textbook."

"Don't call me again. Either of you." Louisa's lungs tightened as if a heavy weight lay on top of her, crushing her chest, constricting her breathing. She turned away, barely hearing Margaret calling after her.

"Don't blame me if you spend your whole life alone."

"Louisa, wait!" Blaine called. "I love you."

Blood rushed in her ears. She rounded the corner that led to the lobby. Her heels slid on the slick marble. Catching her balance, she covered her mouth, suppressing the sob trapped in her throat.

"Are you all right, miss?" The doorman held the door for her.

She didn't answer as she escaped the building onto the sidewalk. The cool evening air rushed over her clammy skin. Swallowing the salty wedge in her throat, she walked and breathed. A block later, the sounds of traffic gradually drowned out the rush of blood in her ears. Her heart slowed. Of all the terrible things she'd expected of tonight, this hadn't made the list.

How could Margaret have invited Blaine to dinner? Even for her, that seemed excessively cruel. Granted, she didn't believe Louisa's story, but still . . .

Her toes protested her rapid pace. She slowed her strides, letting her heart rate return to normal, but the pressure beneath her sternum didn't abate. In ten minutes, Margaret had wiped out all the progress Louisa had made in the months since she'd moved to Philadelphia. Margaret was wrong about Blaine, but her assessment of Louisa was painfully accurate. She dated but never got close to anyone.

Conor's face flashed into her head. The piercing gaze that elicited emotions she didn't know she possessed. The need to see him welled inside her. But if she went to him in this state, he'd demand to know what had happened. Conor would see right through any excuse she could imagine. She'd go home. Kirra wouldn't ask for an explanation.

She stopped at the corner. She'd walked farther than she'd thought. She skirted a news crew giving a report outside the Academy of Music. A show had just let out, and people poured from the nearby Kimmel Center. She threaded through the theater crowd, working her way to the curb where pedestrians queued up for taxis.

She stepped into the line. A hand shoved in the center of her back. Her body was flung forward, and she sprawled into the street. Her knees and palms burned as bare skin skidded across asphalt. On her hands and knees, she raised her head and froze. Bearing down on her was the front end of a SEPTA bus.

Ears still ringing from the band's last set, Conor set a Guinness in front of a regular. Patrons turned back to the hockey game playing on all three TVs. The Flyers were winning, and a celebration was in full swing. Two plainclothes cops sat in a corner booth drinking Diet Coke and watching the game, forced inside because they couldn't see both exits of the bar from the street. Conor didn't mind. In case anything else happened, he couldn't get a better alibi.

Jayne swung by, a tray loaded with beer, hot wings, and nachos balanced on her hip. Her face was whiter than its usual Irish pale, setting off dark shadows under her eyes.

"You shouldn't be carrying anything that heavy. Where does this go?" Slipping out from behind the bar, he took the tray from her hands and delivered it to the table she indicated.

"I'm fine, Conor," she said without enthusiasm.

"Have you heard from Reed?"

"Yes, Scott is out of surgery, but they put him in intensive care."

"I'm sorry, honey." Conor wrapped an arm around his sister. "Why don't you go home? Or go take pictures. That always takes your mind off your troubles."

Jayne was also a freelance photographer.

"I don't want to be alone." She rested her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head. "OK. Then you can help Ernie behind the bar, and I'll take care of the tables."

At least she wouldn't have to carry trays. Conor made a mental note to hire another waitress. He turned to take an order. A buzz from the TV overhead signaled another goal. Conor glanced up. The Flyers scored again.

"Whoot!" Phil, the cable repairman, leaped from his seat and high-fived the guy next to him. He turned, tripped, and dumped his beer on Conor. The nearly full glass soaked him from neck to knees.

"Oh, man. I'm sorry, Conor." Phil grabbed a handful of napkins and pushed them at Conor.

"It's cool." He backed away. "I'll just go change."

"Be back in a few minutes," he called out to Jayne and Ernie. He hurried toward the back door, dropping the order ticket in the kitchen on his way through. He jogged up the stairs into his apartment. Coming home to his empty place last night had sucked. He'd slept better the night before on Louisa's couch, and he could get used to the whole breakfast together thing. He'd kissed her-twice. Yes, despite being a murder suspect, things were looking up, and Conor was in a pretty damned good mood. If only the cops could find Zoe alive. Then maybe he and Louisa could spend some real time together, time not overshadowed by worry and death.

He pulled out his key and moved his hand toward the lock, but his door wasn't quite closed. Scratches marred the jamb, and the frame was splintered around the deadbolt. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he gave the door a two-finger push. It swung inward with a squeak.

Trashed didn't come close to describing his apartment.

His couch was turned on its back. Slashed cushions spilled their guts across the area rug. His glass coffee table was smashed. Graffiti-and what might be feces, judging from the smell-covered the walls. Conor didn't go beyond the foyer, but he could see the kitchen drawers had been pulled out, dumped, and broken. The cabinet doors had been pulled off the frames. Splintered wood, utensils, and broken dishes were heaped on the tile.

No point looking for clean clothes. From what he could see through the open bedroom door, the contents of his closet had been shredded. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to call the police. Then he remembered there were two cops downstairs.

Shock gave way to relief that Kirra hadn't been inside the apartment when the looters had broken in.

The odor overwhelmed his nostrils. He went back outside and jogged down the stairs. The streetlight cast deep shadows over the alley.

Two forms stepped out of the darkness behind the Dumpster. Conor recognized one of them as the kid from Monday night. He scanned the alley. Of course, the cops who'd tailed him all day were nowhere in sight. Surely they'd notice when he didn't come back.

Anger simmered in Conor's belly. "Did you destroy my place?"

His answer was a whir of a revolver cylinder spinning. The metallic sound echoed between the brick buildings. "I know you got my dog."

Well, that wasn't good. One kid with a knife he'd handled. Two kids with a gun was a whole different story. The .38 in the kid's small hand looked like a cannon.

The friend stepped sideways. Conor mirrored him, keeping the wall at his back. There was no way he'd let these kids flank him.

"I'm not leaving without my property." Kid number one raised the gun, turned it on its side, and pointed the muzzle at Conor's face gangsta style.

"Really?" Conor kept one eye on the gun and the other on the buddy. Was the friend armed? His eyes adjusted to the fading light. The pair pressed closer. They sported matching tattoos on their necks, some sort of spider encircled with words in Spanish. Great. Gang tats. He'd pissed off a junior gangbanger, and the irony of all ironies had to be that this little scumbag was Conor's alibi for Zoe's disappearance.

Way. To. Go.

"I don't have your dog," Conor said.

Kirra was at Louisa's apartment, where these two scumbags wouldn't get past the lobby. Thank God. If Louisa had been here tonight, Conor had no doubt these two would have raped and killed her. The bar was noisy on Friday nights, and with the volume of the band earlier, Conor hadn't heard them busting up his furniture. Would he have heard a woman scream? Probably not.

"You're a fucking liar," the kid snapped.

Where were the cops? They should come looking for him if he was gone more than a couple of minutes.

"There are thousands of pit bulls in this city. Why don't you just go find another one?"

"It's a matter of principal. If I let one person take what's mine, word gets out." The kid's statement was 100 percent bullshit. There was something he wasn't saying. "A man has to protect what's his."

The man was about fifteen. Conor searched the kid's face. The eyes that stared back were cold, dark, and mean. Nope. No compassion there. This kid would kill him without remorse. He'd have no trouble pulling the trigger and watching the bullet rip through Conor's head. These two would go through Conor's pockets and use his cash to hit Popeye's on the way home for a chicken sandwich.

Sweat broke out between Conor's shoulder blades and dripped down his back. His alibi was the least of his worries. "There are better ways to make a buck. I could give you a job." But he knew the answer to his question before disgust uglied up the kid's already busted face.

"What, you want me to wash dishes or some shit?"

"It's honest work." Conor had washed plenty of dishes and worse.

"Fuck you. I ain't cleaning up nobody else's mess." The kid pulled back the hammer. The click was as loud as a firecracker and sent a wave of bowel-loosening fear ripping through Conor. His pulse jumped. The door behind him opened, and he caught a glimpse of the cops. The kid's eyes widened. He pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the bullet ricocheting off the steel door and hitting the back of the building. Pieces of brick scattered. The cops ducked behind the door. Conor dove to the asphalt and covered his head with his arms. He heard the slap of feet running away.

The cops came out from behind the door, guns drawn. They swept the narrow space.

Still prone, Conor pointed down the alley to the exit one block over on Johnston Street. "They went that way."

The cops ran down the alley. Conor got to his feet and brushed the dirt off his jeans. He picked a few bits of gravel out of the skin on his arm.

A black-and-white pulled in. Conor's friend since high school, Officer Terry Moran, got out. "I got a report of a shooting. What the hell is going on?"

Conor's heart recovered. "Thanks, man, but you missed all the action." He gave Terry a rundown and a description of the teenagers. "Be great if you could find him. He's my alibi."

"About that." Terry leaned closer. "Let me get this description out, call a crime scene tech to go over your apartment, and talk with those two. Then we need to talk."

The plainclothes cops returned. "They're gone."

"Meet you inside." Conor went in the back door. Customers gawked and gossiped at the police activity. Conor detoured to the bar. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottle of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich. For the first time ever, he broke his own rule about not drinking while working. Having a gun pointed in the dead center of his face justified the one-time exception.

"Oh my God. Are you all right?" Jaynie hugged him.

"You're going to spill that." Ernie took the bottle from Conor's hand and poured him a short glass. "All this over a dog? It doesn't make sense."

"No. It doesn't." Conor sipped. The single malt heated his throat and cleared his sinus passages. As a side benny, it also wiped the nasty stench from his nostrils. "I have to go talk to Terry. I'll fill you in when I'm done."

Terry was waiting for him in the office. Conor closed the door. "Where are your pals?"

"Outside. I told them I'd get your statement. Since we know each other, I'll stay away from any evidence. They're calling Detective Jackson."

"Oh goody. Hold on a second then." Conor picked up his cell and called Damian, who promised to drive over. Conor set his phone down and gestured with his glass to Terry. "OK. Go."

Terry pulled out a small notebook. "Let's get your statement for tonight out of the way."

Conor slid into his dad's chair and gave him the details.

"I'll write this up and bring a report by tomorrow for you to sign." Terry closed his notebook. "I want you to look at mug shots too. Chances are these scumbags have been arrested before."

"Great." Conor took a long pull of scotch, letting the fiery liquid numb a path through his gut.

"Now about that missing girl." Terry sat forward and leaned his forearms on his thighs.

Conor leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. "You know I didn't have anything to do with the girl's disappearance."

"Damned straight, but what I know doesn't mean squat. Detective Jackson is seriously jonesing for you on this case." Terry rubbed both hands down his face. "I wish I knew why."