"OK, then." He scanned the bar. The band was packing up. People paid their checks and drifted toward the door. "I'll go help Ernie and Jayne so we can get out of here faster."

Conor turned the deadbolt in the front door of the bar, then led her past the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign into the back hallway. His police babysitter had moved from his booth to an unmarked car at the curb out front, where he would wait to follow Conor wherever he went for the night. The constant police presence was a reminder that the body still hadn't been confirmed as Zoe. Conor still headed the short list of suspects.

On the bright side, Louisa was safer with the cop hanging around. Since her pavement dive, Conor didn't want to leave her alone. Sure, it could have been an accident, but what if it wasn't? What if the killer didn't like the questions she'd been asking? What if the murderer was someone she knew and trusted enough to let into her apartment?

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" He hoped she did, and not just because his apartment was uninhabitable.

Louisa locked eyes with him. "Yes."

Her gaze was level and . . . hungry?

"I'll be finished in a few minutes." He lifted the cash register tray in his hand.

"All right." She followed him into the office, pacing impatiently while he sorted and filed the night's paperwork.

Something was up with Louisa. On autopilot, he counted cash and tallied the total with the computer-generated numbers. Tucking the bills into a bank envelope, he closed the zipper. Nerves slid up his spine with the same deliberate zing.

"Ready?" he asked.

She pivoted and crossed the dented oak floor to stand in front of him. In slim jeans and a sweater, her legs seemed impossibly long. Her athletic shoes, worn as an accommodation to her bruised knees, made her a full head shorter than him. Despite the casual attire, she'd swept her hair into one of those fancy, uptight knots.

Her green eyes were fever-bright. "Yes."

For once, she didn't avoid his direct and searching gaze, but met him stare for stare. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. She opened with no hesitation. Her body pressed against his, making solid contact from thigh to chest. Her hands slid up his biceps, her fingers and nails digging into his flesh. A groan reverberated deep in her throat. Instead of the chaste, sweet kisses they'd shared in the past, this was tongue and teeth and heat. Need roared through him like a subway car, screeching in his bones and muscles with the harsh discord of steel wheels in an underground tunnel. He wanted more from her than this physical storm. But her need, pure and raw, rammed through his resolve and left it shattered.

He dropped the bag. It hit the desk with a soft thud. His hands cradled the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her thick mass of hair. Pins pinged to the floor as he unraveled the bun at the base of her neck. Hair tumbled over her shoulders in wild disarray.

"I need you." She tugged at the hem of his T-shirt. Her hands burrowed under the fabric. One splayed on his chest, right over his beating heart. She had the power to rip it to shreds. Her free hand slid down his belly toward the snap of his jeans.

"Easy." He lifted his head. Her eyes were dark, bright-green irises darkened by expanded pupils, emotion blurred by desire.

A finger delved into his waistband. A breath hissed out through his teeth.

His body screamed for more, while his heart insisted that a feral coupling on his desk wasn't enough.

He caught her wrists and pulled her hands to his chest. "Slow down."

"Don't want to." She pressed her hips against his. The pressure of her belly on his erection sent a wave of electric pleasure rippling from his balls to the base of his spine that nearly buckled his knees. His heart's voice telling him this wasn't enough grew dimmer, but he could still hear its whisper. Barely.

"We'll get there. I promise."

She shook her head. "Now."

A moan of frustration escaped her lips. He captured the sound with his mouth. He released her hands, bent down, and caught her by the backs of her thighs, picking her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her core creating more sweet friction. Her arms encircled his neck as he turned and set her on the desk. Brushing papers and a stapler aside, he lowered her to the wooden surface. She was pulling at his shirt. He reared up and tossed it off. Her body arched backward. Her head tilted back. The overhead light caught the bruise on her jaw as a purple shadow showing through her makeup.

Instead of allowing those busy hands to roam freely, he caught her by the wrists again. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm fine." Her lips trailed down his neck.

"You're not fine." He lifted his head, more concerned with her abrupt personality change than her physical injuries. "Look at me."

Her eyes blinked open and met his, and the gaze staring back at him shifted from raw sexual desire to more. Much more. The heat that filled his belly rose twenty degrees.

"Louisa." Yearning deepened his voice. "I don't want to do this here. It shouldn't be like this. Let's go back to your place-"

Louisa's eyes changed again. Fear clouded desire. Her body went rigid.

He released her wrists and backed off of her. Louisa didn't move for a few seconds. Conor reached a hand toward her face. He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, to help heal whatever was broken inside of her. But how?

She bolted upright. Standing next to the desk, she straightened her sweater and smoothed her hair, futilely trying to put her appearance in order when everything was in wild disarray.

"I'm sorry." She walked out of the office and went into the ladies' room. Water rushed through the pipes while he paced the worn oak floorboards just outside.

Five minutes later, she emerged. Her head was high, her face pale, her eyes wet and shining with unshed tears. "I have to go."

"Please don't." Panic filled his chest at the thought of her tossing him aside.

She snatched her purse from the floor where she'd dropped it. "It's all my fault. I should have known better. I should have known I couldn't have it all. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but what I feel for you is too much. I can't handle it."

Was she talking to him or herself? With a stiff, mechanical gait, she strode toward the door.

"Wait!" He grabbed his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head as he followed her. "Let me take you home."

"I called for a car. It should be here in a minute." She bolted through the door, her rejection leaving him stranded.

The warmth inside his gut went cold. His skin went clammy, sweating like a glass of icy liquid on a hot day.

What just happened? Conor shook off his stunned paralysis and followed her out the back door. His booted feet hit the pavement just as she disappeared out of the alley. He jogged to the corner, emerging just as the hotel's car pulled up to the curb. Louisa didn't wait for the driver to open the door. She got in, and the car sped away.

Conor ran back to the bar and snatched his cell phone from the desk. He had to see Louisa. If she wanted to end their relationship, there wasn't anything he could do to prevent it. He couldn't make her talk to him. But he wasn't going to let it end like this. After all they'd been through, she owed him an explanation.

He couldn't let her run away from what had just happened between them. If he did, he'd have to live with being tossed away like garbage one more time. Barbara had done a number on him, and what he'd felt for her seemed like nothing compared to the staggering connection he'd just shared with Louisa.

He couldn't lose her. If she rejected him, it would take his heart down like a sweep to the ankles, and discarding the precious, fragile bond they'd formed felt like a sacrilege.

He climbed into his car and started the engine. Conor stopped for a few red lights, but Broad Street was quiet on a Sunday night. Ten minutes and three turns later, he pulled up to the Rittenhouse Hotel and tossed his keys to the valet.

Fear roiled in his gut as the elevator carried him toward Louisa's floor and the coming confrontation.

24.

Double-crossing should be an Olympic sport. I'd thought murder took planning and intelligence, but turning the tables on criminals was twice the work. The guilty were naturally wary, constantly suspecting others of doing the illegal and immoral deeds blooming to life in their own minds.

Guilty is as guilty does.

I watched Isa cross the library parking lot. The bitch. She wore her backpack by one strap. The glow from her cell phone illumined her features with an odd uplight, adding sinister shadows to her pretty face. I'd parked my nondescript sedan ten feet away from her car. Just out of range of the overhead light. I adjusted my hood, got out of the car, and slumped my way toward the entrance. I tilted my chin down. The university hoodie was excellent camouflage. At least 25 percent of the male student population was wearing a logo hoodie at any given time. Not that I had to worry about being seen. Not by Isa. Her head was down, and she was so entranced by her phone screen she saw nothing of her surroundings.

I slowed my steps. The library parking lot was backed by a small stand of trees, and the air smelled of a combination of molding leaves and exhaust. Over it all, the scent of burnt grease wafted from the McDonald's across the street. I wanted to take her near my car. There was no sense creating extra work for myself, and right now the lot was empty. Who knew how long it would stay that way? Plus, if I went too much closer to the building, the security camera mounted high on the light post would catch my next move. Tonight's venture was my riskiest feat yet. If this were a chess game, I would be putting my queen in jeopardy. Timing was everything. I tuned in to the faint sound of rumbling traffic. The only close-sounding noise was the clear, incessant chirp of a cricket in a nearby shrub.

It was time.

Shoving both hands in my kangaroo pocket, I pushed the button on the disposable camera.

We passed within a few feet of one another. Whipping out the camera, I struck. The two protruding wires zapped her in the ass. She went down fast, a confused jumble of limbs flopping to the ground. Her phone skittered across the pavement. I grabbed her ankles and dragged her across the blacktop to the rear of my car. Getting her into the trunk was a bit trickier. She was skinny, but 100 percent deadweight. The alternating twitching and stiffness in her limbs didn't make the job any easier. I hoisted her shoulders up and over. The sedan's trunk had a low clearance, something I'd checked before I'd stolen it. Her legs followed. A quick glance around ensured me that I hadn't been seen. I took an extra ten seconds to zip-tie her hands and feet, and slap a piece of duct tape over her mouth. The trunk closed with a solid thud. The electrical shock should keep her quiet for the next ten minutes, but it was nice to know I didn't have to worry about releasing a banshee when I opened the trunk. I tossed her backpack in the back seat, then retrieved her phone, removed the battery, and put it in my pocket.

Isa would disappear as cleanly as the others. The police would find her car abandoned in the lot. Inside they'd find a surprise.

She hadn't been carrying a purse. Where did she keep her keys? Not in her jeans pocket, I hoped. I really didn't want to open the trunk again until we'd reached our final destination. Well, technically, it was only Isa's final destination. I reached in the backseat and rummaged in the front pouch of her backpack. With a satisfying jingle of metal, I came up with her key ring. I dug in my own pocket for the Ziploc baggie. Inside it were a few of Conor Sullivan's hairs, taken from the comb in his bathroom. I walked to Isa's Nissan and pressed the fob. The door unlocked with a faint chirp. I sprinkled half of the hairs in the driver's seat. I saved the rest for later.

The crime scene technicians had better find my little gift.

I got back in my car and drove out of the lot. A glance at the dashboard clock told me the entire feat had taken six minutes. I smiled. I'd allowed eight, but Isa had gone down with no resistance. No time to waste, though. I had a schedule to keep.

The campus disappeared in my rearview mirror. I headed for West Philadelphia and the crumbling house I'd selected for the next stage in my plan. Isa was victim number three. After I finished with her, I had one more death on my agenda. I would need to pay close attention to detail for the next phase, and its execution would require finesse.

25.

Louisa clutched her purse in both hands as she hurried for the elevator. The fake smile she'd donned for the driver and doorman felt brittle as centuries-old metal. If she touched her face, her pleasant, composed veneer would crumble to dust. The elevator dinged at the eighteenth floor. The doors parted, and the hallway stretched out. She fumbled with her key, missing the lock several times, unable to hold her hand steady. Finally, she rushed into the foyer. Kirra met her in the hall and followed her into the kitchen. Louisa dropped her purse on the counter.

She'd expected to fall apart the second she was in the privacy of her home. Instead, numbness slid over her as if she'd wrapped her body in an ice pack. She leaned on the counter, the granite under her fingertips as cold and unyielding as her fear.

Kirra bumped her leg, and Louisa crouched to stroke the dog's head. Kirra had been hurt, and yet she trusted Conor instinctively. What did the dog know that Louisa didn't?

She'd hurt him too, wounded him in a way that would leave a scar. Guilt magnified her turmoil. She hadn't meant to reject him, but she hadn't been able to speak. Reflex had taken over. Her mind had shut out what it couldn't accept.

What she'd seen in his eyes-and felt in her heart-had terrified her. Now that she'd caught her breath, she missed him with the same intensity.

Would she ever be able to trust? He had the power to hurt her more than anyone she'd let into her life. Her mother had died, her father abandoned her, and her aunt betrayed her. Could she give anyone the power to wound her again?

A knock sounded on her door, firm, demanding.

She should have known he wouldn't let her off so easily. The next knock was louder. He wasn't leaving.

She gathered the courage to face him, but she hadn't moved when she heard him in the foyer. Had she forgotten to lock the door? She heard it shut. The deadbolt clicked into place. His boot heels rang on the tile until he was standing directly behind her body. His shadow fell over her.

"Louisa," he said with gentle insistence.

Her throat couldn't form words. Her lungs tightened, inelastic and unyielding. It felt as if her rib cage had turned to steel, refusing to expand. Light-headed, Louisa suddenly remembered to breathe.

His hands closed over her biceps. Warmth seeped through the cotton knit of her light sweater. With easy pressure, he turned her around to face him. She stared at the direct center of his chest. "I'll completely respect your decision if you want this to end between us, but I think you don't. I hope you don't."

Raising her chin, she searched his eyes. There was no sign of anger, just tenderness and worry.

"Talk to me." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms.

"I can't." Her voice was barely a whisper. But she took a step forward and pressed her face to his chest, turning her head to listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat.

A relieved sigh left his chest as he closed his arms around her.

His wide palm stroked up and down her back.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No." She hesitated. Trusting him was frightening, but the thought of him leaving scared her more. Her life hadn't been great before she met him, but how could she go back to that cold, loveless existence now that she'd tasted what life could really offer? "But I need to understand why you're here. Why you came after me after I ran out on you in the middle of . . ." She waved a hand.

"Understand what? That I care about you? That I wanted to make sure you were all right?" His hand cupped the unbruised side of her jaw. He tilted her face up. A quick flash of anger blazed his eyes and heated her skin.

He cared about her enough to chase after her in the middle of the night.

"I'd hope you'd think more of me by now." His tone was annoyed. "I don't care about sex. Frankly, sex is easy to come by. You're not."

She remembered the taste of his mouth, the hardness of his body, the gentle stroking of his hands. "But I do care about sex. I wanted you. I still want you." She dropped her guard and let him see it in her eyes. "I need you." She needed the physical reassurance of his presence. The press of his body against her skin.

He hesitated.

"Please." Her hand curled in his shirt. "Unless you don't still want me."

"Oh, I want you. You have no idea how much I want to make love to you." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "But I also want you one hundred percent on board. I don't want our first time to be an impulsive, heat-of-the-moment act. Despite the way my body reacts to you, I'm no adolescent controlled by raging hormones. You mean more to me than a physical release. I could take care of that by myself. The whole point is that it's you. I can wait."

"I don't want to wait." If he rejected her now, she'd crawl in a hole and cry. She wouldn't be able to trust anyone else. No one else had ever worked this hard to connect with her. No one else had ever cared enough to persist. "Besides, I've gotten used to having you in my bed. I sleep better when you're there."

"That was my devious goal: to make you dependent on me as a sleep aid." Though his words were tinged with humor, his eyes were serious. His thumb stroked her chin. "We could just sleep."

She captured his hand in hers, turned, and led him into the bedroom. "I need you."

"You have to talk to me." His eyes were determined. "There's no getting out of it if we take this next step."

"I will. Just not now. I'm tired of overthinking everything. I need to feel you."

"That big brain of yours does get in the way." His eyes darkened. "But you have to promise you won't run away from me again. Afterward, we're going to have that long talk. I don't do just sex."