"Sharp as serpent's teeth," Lang said.

"Huh?"

"Shakespeare. How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child.' "

Clausen looked at him as if he'd sprouted alien antennae. "Sure," he said but obviously didn't get it.

"Learned that one from my mother," Lang said lamely. "I think I was a bit of a thankless child."

Clausen did not know what to do with that. "Kids, huh," he said and brushed past Lang as he headed toward the restroom.

Lang half smiled to himself and circled back to the front of the building and his own Jeep in search of Deputy Delaney and the dead body found outside Garibaldi.

Harrison checked the time on his cell phone as he returned to the Breeze with his follow-up article. Three thirty p.m. He hoped he could catch up with Vic this time, and was about to ask about the paper's publisher when Buddy pointed at the phone on Harrison's desk and said, "Channel Seven on one."

"What?"

"That's what they said." He shrugged. "Look, I don't have time to screen your calls, okay? I've got a story to write. The Tyler Mill fire. No one knows for sure, but it could be arson." He appeared thrilled at the thought as he turned to his computer.

Punching line one, Harrison picked up the receiver. "Frost."

"Mr. Frost," a smooth, young female voice said. "Channel Seven is following up on the Deadly Sinners story. Are you available to answer a few questions?"

Harrison realized Pauline Kirby's production team had found the story and was running with it. He wondered if she had any boundaries whatsoever. He was both flattered that it had caught their eye and irked because Pauline would usurp the whole damn thing if she could and take all the credit. "I'm around."

"Is there a better number to reach you?"

"Nah. Call here. The paper'll find me."

He hung up and Buddy grinned at him. "Putting yourself on the map again with this story, aren't you?"

Harrison said dryly, "Rich kids burglarizing other rich kids' homes. Pauline Kirby loves that stuff."

"And so do our readers and her viewers." He watched as Harrison, who'd been shrugging out of his jacket, thrust his arms back inside the sleeves. "Leaving so soon?"

"Tell Vic I want to talk to him, when you see him. I just want to check in."

"Sure. You following up on these kids some more?"

Thinking of Justice, he said, "That and other things."

"If the entourage shows up from Channel Seven . . . ?"

"You've got my cell number. Call me. Just don't give them the number. I'll call 'em back later."

"You're a little nuts about giving out your cell number," Buddy pointed out. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

It came from being hounded after his brother-in-law's death and the debacle that followed. Giving Buddy a short wave good-bye, Harrison stepped back outside and into the fingers of fog that hadn't quite dissipated from yesterday's deep shroud.

CHAPTER 23.

The dry toast Laura consumed in the late morning had carried her through lunchtime, but she still felt distinctly off and ended up taking an early dinner break, where she was able to handle a bowl of chicken soup, French bread, and a small green salad from the cafeteria. Still, she felt a little dizzy with the thoughts that plagued her throughout her rounds. She was pregnant and Byron suspected the truth. She'd thrown out a challenge to Justice Turnbull, and the psychotic killer was planning to attack her. She was feeling her way through a new and unexpected acquaintanceship with Harrison Frost that felt like it could turn into something more.

Where did that ridiculous thought spring from? A single kiss-two, counting the buzz she'd brushed across his cheek-did not a relationship make! She barely knew the guy, had met him just the other day, at the start of all this madness.

Oh, Lord, then why did it seem like an eternity?

Her world had been turned upside down since Justice's escape on Friday night, and it was only Sunday.

Conversation buzzed, the ice dispenser clunked, and bored-looking cafeteria people waited while the staff and visitors hemmed and hawed over their choices. The smells of garlic and marinara sauce and day-old clam chowder reached her nostrils. Conversation flowed around her, but she barely noticed. She was stacking her lunch tray and turning to leave when Carlita Solano entered with one of the orderlies and headed toward the soda stand. As she passed, Laura heard Carlita say, "I'm not making this up! I know one of the nurses at Seagull Pointe. The police are trying to keep it under wraps, like they always do until every last living relative is contacted, but Jessica said they think that psycho killed his equally psycho mother! It'll be on the news soon enough!"

The psycho could be only one person. Laura's heart began beating a wild, adrenaline-fueled tattoo. She had to force her hands to remain steady as she set her tray down.

"Seriously?" the orderly said. "Wow." He added dryly, "Great care over there, huh?"

Laura couldn't stand it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't help but overhear. Are you talking about Justice Turnbull? And his mother?" In her mind's eye she caught a quick image of Madeline as a younger woman . . . pretty and unsure, in a floral dress, standing near a shabby row of rooms in an old motel, her hair windblown, the hem of the dress floating around her calves as the sea, far below the motel perched on the cliff, roared and crashed on the rocky shore. She had sad eyes, Laura remembered, eyes that were dark with secrets. . . .

"That's right." Carlita turned in Laura's direction. She looked happy that someone was finally listening to her with the right amount of interest. "And there's some other woman, too," she said eagerly. "He smothered them both. Or strangled them. Anyway, they're both dead now."

"They'd better beef up security over there. It just doesn't look good when patients are murdered." The orderly's attempt at humor fell flat as he finished at the soda machine and the cola hissed and foamed over the ice in his cup.

"Who's the other woman?" Laura asked through a dry throat. Oh, God, not one of her sisters! Surely Catherine wouldn't let any of them out of the gates. . . . But there are ways to escape the walls of Siren Song. You know this. So do the others. Her sisters' faces came to mind: Isadora or Cassandra or Lillibeth or- "Probably some relative," Carlita said with a dismissive "who cares?" shrug. "Isn't that who he tried to kill before? I think I saw that on the news when he went nuts before and targeted those women at Siren Song."

Because you called him. That's why he went on his rampage! You should never have listened to Harrison. . . .

She caught herself up short. She couldn't blame Harrison. She was the one who had mentally challenged Justice, dared him, sent him into a rage. If there was anyone to blame, it was she.

Her insides turned to water.

Had she made a mistake?

One that had cost two women their lives?

Hadn't Harrison told her to go to the police?

But with what? A telepathic message?

She imagined how the detectives would have shared a look when she'd tried to explain about her connection, her mental conversation with the escaped mental patient.

"You okay?" Carlita asked and Laura snapped out of it.

"Yeah," she said, trying not to sound uncertain, even though "okay" was far from how she was feeling.

Carlita's friend had grabbed a lid and straw and had moved farther into the cafeteria, so Carlita hurried to catch up to him. Laura's heart twisted. Guilt burrowed deep into her soul, and she gently touched her abdomen, reminding herself of the baby growing within her.

Oh, Lord, what a mess.

She left the cafeteria on leaden feet as she walked back toward the first floor nurses' station. Who was the unknown woman? Someone she knew? Again, she thought of her sisters; they were the most likely victims. Hadn't he said he would kill them all?

She paused in the hallway and concentrated.

No, she told herself. It wasn't someone from Siren Song. She would know. If not from instinct, then someone from the Colony would have tracked her down and delivered the news. Catherine would know if any of her charges had gone missing.

Still, two people were dead. At Justice's hand.

Maddie and someone else . . . an unknown victim.

"Bastard," she growled under her breath as she thought of him. "Murdering, soulless bastard."

"Hey? You talkin' to me?" a patient pushing an IV stand demanded. Balding, his hospital gown draping off one shoulder, he glared at her as he passed.

"Sorry. No." Her head began to pound. She was still on break, so she turned toward the staff room and, once inside, blindly navigated to an isolated table at the back of the room. Lost in thought, she barely noticed two nurses huddled together over a crossword puzzle, and another watching the news while dunking her tea bag into a steaming cup. Laura stared at the screen as the facade of Seagull Pointe came into view and a reporter gave a few more details than Carlita had of the tragedy.

Did Harrison know what had happened at the nursing home . . . ? Surely he did. He worked at a newspaper, for crying out loud. Funny how her thoughts kept running to him.

When the story on the television flipped to a fire at an old sawmill, she'd had enough. Pushing back her chair, she walked out of the room and hurried to the bank of lockers where the staff kept their personal belongings. Twisting open her combination lock, she grabbed her cell and dialed Harrison's number, without hesitation this time, aware how much she'd come to depend on him in such a short period of time.

He didn't answer and she was instantly deflated. She planned to just hang up, but then changed her mind and left a message. "Hey, it's me. You probably heard what happened at Seagull Pointe. I think Justice may have killed Madeline. Maybe another woman, too." She paused, filled with emotion suddenly. Fear. Need. Anger. "Call me," she said, hoping she didn't sound as desperate as she felt.

The Sands of Thyme Bakery wasn't doing much of a business in the late afternoon, though the smells of cinnamon and coffee lingered and the glass cases held a few loaves of bread and overlooked muffins, left after the morning and noon rush. Only a few customers were scattered amongst the small tables, each nursing a cup and picking at the crumbs on their plates.

Harrison found his sister leaning on her elbows at the counter and reading the morning paper.

"You've been busy," she said, looking up from his article in the Breeze.

"The Breeze isn't the Ledger."

"Yeah, well, it's not really about the paper. It's about the story," she said, quoting him. "This Deadly Sinners story is the kind of thing that gets picked up. A bunch of privileged teens burglarizing their friends' homes." When he didn't immediately respond, she gave him a long look. "Aha. I get it. Someone's already trying to yank this story from you, maybe steal a little of your thunder."

She was needling him, one eyebrow lifting. "Who? Not that jerk who was always breathing down your neck."

"That guy was at the Ledger. No, it's Channel Seven."

"Pauline Kirby?" Kirstin guessed, sounding appalled. "Lord, she's a witch with a capital B."

"Down, tiger," Harrison warned, though he knew how she felt. Channel Seven's reporting on Manny's death had not been a warm and fuzzy experience for any of them. In fact Pauline's team had shone their camera lights directly on Kirsten's face and captured the glittering track of her tears for all to see. The other stations weren't much better, but Kirsten had a real thing against Pauline, which Harrison appreciated.

"She's not my favorite, either," he said now.

His sister's eyes slit, and he guessed she was remembering how callously she was treated by the press. "They're all the same."

"Reporters?"

"Yes," she shot back. Then, after a moment, her lips twisted wryly. "You're just as bad as the rest of them."

He smiled back, fleetingly; then his tone changed. "I should've been there more for you after it happened. I was too . . . single-minded."

She waved that aside with a brisk snap of her hand. "You wanted to prove Manny had been murdered. I wanted you to, too. But it's all water under the bridge now."

She sounded so final, it surprised him a bit. "You think it was just a case of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time now?"

"Oh, I don't know." Kirstin glanced toward the door as two of the patrons left their table and made their way outside, the bell over the door tinkling. "I don't know if I'll ever know. What I do know is it's over and I have to move on." She touched the back of Harrison's hand. "Sad, I know, but true." Then she let out a long sigh and retrieved her fingers while a customer ordered a coffee to go. With a smile, Kirsten took his money, gave him a smile and a cup, and pointed him in the direction of the freestanding thermoses.

Harrison gazed at his sister, realizing for the first time how he was the only one still hanging on to Manny's death, the only one who couldn't let go.

As if reading his mind, she said, "I've got Didi to think about. All this dwelling on the past isn't good for her. I don't want this dark cloud of suspicion hanging around us all the time. I've got a new life with my daughter and our dog. And we're happy to have you in it, too, of course," she added, again reaching a hand across the counter to catch his. "It's just . . . every time you and I are together, one way or another, we're either talking about or thinking about Manny's death. I'm not saying I want to forget him. Lord, no. I want to remember him. Like he was. Like it was between us before all the really bad stuff started."

"You want me to give up the investigation completely?" he asked, surprised.

"That's not what I'm saying. Do what you have to do. Just . . . let's . . . not make it all that you and I are about anymore, okay?"

"I didn't know I was doing that."

"We were doing that. Both of us. Even when it seemed like we weren't." She stared at him with eyes far older than her age.

Harrison took it in, realized she was right. He'd been too immersed in his own need for revenge to really pay attention to what Kirsten was thinking. But then, he still believed in Koontz's duplicity. "I'm not going to give up unless you tell me to."

"I wouldn't want you to. Let's just not have a postmortem on everything, okay?"

"Okay."

"That said, I think this story could launch you back into the bigger pond again." She retrieved her hand and, with one finger, tapped on the paper with his article.

"You think the Ledger will have me back?" he asked dryly as one of the customers placed his empty cup and plate in a tub before flipping up the hood of his jacket and stepping outside.

She cocked her head. "I'm pretty sure you're done with them. But yeah. They'll want you back. Especially if you follow up the Deadly Sinners with the Justice Turnbull story."

"Did I say I was on that story?"

"Oh, please. Of course you are."

The bell over the door jingled again as a new customer entered the shop. Harrison held up a hand in good-bye to his sister and headed out. His cell phone beeped at him as he was crossing to his car, and he realized he'd missed a call somehow. Before he could ring back his voice mail, however, the phone buzzed in his hand. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw it was the Breeze. Buddy. "Yeah?" he growled as soon as he'd snapped it on.

"I didn't give them the number," Buddy stated before Harrison could say anything else. "I promise. But they're right here. And they're planning to film in front of West Coast High and they'd like to see you."

"They're right there in front of you, at the paper?"

"You got it."

"Is Pauline there, or is it just production?"