"She is pathetic." Conor sighed. "Let her smell your hand first."

The dog gave Louisa's hand a sniff, then licked her fingers.

"She likes you."

Louisa stroked the animal's neck, being careful not to touch the healing wounds. Except for the scarred areas, her fur was silky soft, like crushed velvet. Her mother had been allergic to animals. After her death, the aunt who'd raised Louisa had forbidden animals in the house. "I've never had a dog."

"Would you like this one?"

"I wouldn't know what to do with her." But the thought was strangely appealing. Louisa gave the dog one more gentle pat before straightening. How hard was it to take care of a dog? "And I work all day." Though she could easily go home at lunchtime most days, and she'd seen the Rittenhouse staff walking other residents' dogs.

"You keep thinking about it. For now, let's see if we can get her to eat." Conor headed back toward the bar. The dog practically plastered herself to his legs.

"She's very attached to you."

"I don't know how that happened."

"I imagine it's because you were kind to her." Louisa fell into step beside him, her interest in the dog a welcome distraction from her acute reaction to Conor. "What's her name?"

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it. I have a confession. I actually did take her to the pound this morning, but I couldn't leave her there. She was terrified, and the place was already full of pit bulls." Conor took her hand again. "Do you want to name her?"

This time Louisa barely hesitated before wrapping her fingers around his palm. "You'd let me name your dog?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Sure. Why not?"

"Seems like a big responsibility."

"Let me put it in perspective. We had a dog named Sneezes once because my parents let Jaynie name him. She was three, and it was her turn to name a pet. I assure you that Sneezes didn't care what we called her as long as we slipped her scraps of food under the dinner table. The dog was so fat, she waddled."

Hearty laughter bubbled out of Louisa's throat. The kind of laughter she hadn't felt in a long, long time. "All right. I'll try to do better than Sneezes."

"You're so serious most of the time. I like to hear you laugh." Conor stopped walking. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He leaned closer. Did he want to kiss her? She licked her lips. A little heat in his eyes completely disarmed her, and holding his hand short-circuited her brain. What would the taste of his mouth do?

As much as Louisa wanted him to kiss her, she couldn't stop the slight backward shift of her body weight.

He noticed. Suspicion narrowed his eyes as he straightened.

Oh no. She'd ruined it already.

"I'm sorry." She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and breathed in and out. Opening her lids again, she forced herself to make eye contact, expecting to see irritation on his face, but his eyes held only concern. How could she explain she was afraid of the way she responded to him? "I need to take things slowly."

He smiled. Was that relief in his expression?

"No worries. I'm a slow mover myself these days." Turning, he continued down the sidewalk, his pace easy and unhurried.

These days? What did that mean?

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, crossing an intersection and skirting an elderly man playing a violin on the sidewalk. A tattered coat hung to his knees. Under a fedora, long gray hair fell in a curtain over the side of his face. Conor tossed a dollar into the open instrument case at the musician's feet. When they reached the bar, he opened the door for her.

They went back to the booth. Conor brought the dog a cooked hamburger patty from the kitchen. She ate a few bites and then curled up under the table.

Conor picked up her bowl and set it aside. "So your intern was here last night, and no one has seen her since. Now what?"

"Now I grab a cab and hope I'm not late getting back to work. Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe Zoe's boyfriend's behavior upset her, and she went to see an old friend. I know her hometown isn't far from here. If she wasn't thinking clearly, she could have made a mistake with her schedule." But a twinge of doubt lingered in the pit of Louisa's belly.

"What's your number?" Conor pulled his phone from his pocket.

Louisa gave it to him, and he punched the numbers on his keypad. Her purse vibrated.

"I sent you a text. Would you let me know what happens with your intern?"

"I will."

Light spilled into the bar, its brightness reminding her it was only late afternoon. The darkness of the interior, all scuffed wooden floors and red leather, suggested nighttime.

Two figures walked into the entryway, stopped, and scanned the room with purpose. Louisa stiffened. Detectives Jackson and Ianelli. Several policemen in uniform followed them inside.

"Conor Sullivan?" the older man asked.

Conor stood. "That's me. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Detective Jackson." The African American detective gestured to his associate. "This is Detective Ianelli. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Not entirely surprised to see the police, Conor turned to Louisa. "Bye, Louisa."

"Dr. Hancock?" Jackson's eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello." Louisa shook the detectives' hands. "I was asking Conor about Zoe. I'm glad you're looking for her."

"We're just making a few inquiries." The detective sighed. "I'll probably have additional questions for you, Doctor."

"I'm already late getting back to work," Louisa said. "I'll be at the museum all day, and you have my cell number." She pivoted and strode from the bar.

Conor waved a hand toward the rear of the bar. "Please come back to my office, Detectives."

"Everything OK, Conor?" From behind the bar, Pat flicked a curious gaze at the cops.

"It's fine, Pat." Conor led the way down a short hall. Ahead was the kitchen; on the left, the restrooms. He turned right into a small office and took his place behind the scarred oak desk that had belonged to his father. The old wooden chair squeaked. The seat was hard and uncomfortable, but neither Conor nor Pat would ever replace it. Dad had been gone eighteen years, but if Conor closed his eyes, he could still smell the faint hint of cherry pipe tobacco. The detectives followed him in. Jackson took the plastic chair next to the desk. Ianelli leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his gut.

"We're looking for a young woman." Jackson pulled a photo from the chest pocket of his jacket and handed it to Conor. It was a snapshot of Zoe. "Have you seen her?"

"Yes. Her name is Zoe. She was in the bar last night. Her boyfriend got drunk and started pushing her around. I had to bounce him."

"What did Zoe do?"

"She couldn't get ahold of her roommate for a ride, so I drove her down to the subway station." Conor paused, still kicking himself for not taking her all the way home. "It was late. I didn't want her to walk alone."

Jackson took notes. "Which station did you drop her at?"

"Pattison Ave."

"She didn't indicate that she was going anywhere else?"

Conor thought back, then shook his head. "I don't think so. She said she was going home."

"I assume you have surveillance cameras in the barroom?"

"We do."

"Could we have a copy of last night's tape?"

"Of course," Conor said. "I can have that for you in about an hour."

"I'll send someone over to pick it up." Jackson stood. "Thanks for your help."

The cops left, and Conor went back to the bar.

Pat popped the tops off two bottles of Heineken and served them to a couple of guys on the other side of the bar. Turning to Conor, he wiped his hands on his black apron. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"It's a long story." Conor filled him in.

Pat frowned. "That doesn't sound good."

"No. It doesn't." The police interview had been quick and painless, but Conor had a nagging feeling in his gut that they'd be back.

"Your curator is hot, though. So the day wasn't a total loss."

"She's not my curator."

Pat shrugged. Under the concern, a spark of humor glinted in his eyes. "If you say so."

Ignoring his brother, Conor went back to the office to copy the previous night's surveillance footage. Despite his protest, seeing Louisa had revved him. But the simultaneous disappearances of the replica knife and two young women tainted his pleasure. There were too many twisted connections in the events with Louisa, her intern, and the museum for Conor's comfort. Something was brewing.

7.

Though no one had noticed her slightly extended lunch, Louisa stayed an extra half hour to make up for the lost time. Walking home on Eighteenth Street, she turned right onto Walnut into Rittenhouse Square. Her phone buzzed, and she fished it out of her purse. Her father? Though they spoke once a week, she always initiated the calls. She couldn't even remember the last time he'd phoned her. Something must be wrong.

She answered, crossing the street and entering the park. "Daddy?"

"Louisa." Her father sounded nervous-and more importantly-sober. Since her mother's death, if Wade Hancock wasn't working, he was numbing his pain with scotch.

Heart attack and accident scenarios rolled through her mind. "Is something wrong?"

"No." He hesitated. "I just wanted to talk to you and let you know I'll be coming to the States for the holidays. I'm thinking of staying for a while."

"You're going back to Maine?"

"Why would I go to Maine when you're in Philadelphia?" he asked. "Anyway, I called to see if I should arrange hotel accommodations"-he paused, nerves hitching in his breath-"or if you might have room for me there."

Shock silenced her for a minute.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes. I'm here. Is there something wrong, Daddy?" Oh my God. He must be sick. Or dying. Had his liver finally given out under the onslaught of alcohol?

"I'd rather talk in person," he said. "I haven't been to your new apartment. I didn't know how big it is."

"Of course you can stay with me. I have plenty of room." She'd chosen the larger available condo based on the premium views. That way, in case her new plan to be more social didn't work out and she was sitting home alone, at least she'd have something to look at. Thank goodness.

"Great. I'll e-mail you my itinerary." Relief edged his voice, and something else she couldn't identify over the four thousand miles, and the equally large span of grief, that separated them. "Love you."

"Love you too."

He ended the call.

A stranger's arm bumped her, and Louisa realized she'd stopped in the center of the path. Around her, the park teemed with activity. The trees and shrubs gleamed green, the setting sun catching the sporadic gold of leaves just beginning to turn. She rarely saw her father, but knowing he was out there gave her a connection to someone, no matter how thin. Despite the steady stream of pedestrians, she'd never felt more alone.

She moved to a nearby bench and dropped onto the seat. Suddenly, she had no desire to go back to her huge, empty apartment and stare out the glass at the bustle of life she never quite felt part of. Her phone vibrated in her clenched fingers. Almost afraid to see her father's number and hear the bad news she knew was coming, she read the caller ID.

Conor.

"Come see me," he said. "I'll tell you what the cops wanted."

"You could tell me now," she offered.

"I'll tell you in person."

"All right," she said with no hesitation. Despite reservations about renewing their involvement, she was curious about the policemen's visit to the bar. She hadn't heard from the detectives. Had Conor learned anything about Zoe's case? But she couldn't fool herself. Her concern for Zoe wasn't the only reason she ended the call, walked to the garage, and retrieved her car.

The sound of his voice eased her loneliness.

Sullivan's bustled at happy hour. Louisa threaded her way through the tables and clusters of patrons. Laughter and conversation buzzed around her. Pat and Conor worked the bar. Pat smiled at her and gave his brother's arm an elbow nudge. Conor's eyes brightened when he saw her walking toward him. He set a tumbler of clear liquid on a cocktail napkin, tossed in a lime wedge, and slid it across the bar to a customer. He motioned her toward a stool at the rear of the bar. A bearded man of about thirty on the next seat looked her up and down. Conor narrowed his eyes at the man until he shrugged and turned back to his buddy.

Conor leaned over the bar. "Hi there, what can I get you?"

"Club soda." She claimed the stool, the snugness of her skirt making the effort more of an undignified hop than the smooth slide she'd intended.

"Are you sure? We have a decent wine list and a few really good craft beers."

"Club soda is fine."