o one knew her stomach was alive with manic butterflies wielding tiny scythes. Her hands were cool and steady, her smile easy. Inside her mind she could see herself jittering with every step, stuttering through every conversation. But the shield was up, the unflappable Dr. Jones firmly in place.

She'd chosen to wear a long column of midnight blue with a high banded collar and sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs. She was grateful for the amount of flesh it covered, because she felt cold, so cold. She hadn't been warm since Ryan had given her the book.

She watched her mother, elegant as an empress in a gown of petal pink, working the crowd—a touch on the arm there, an offered hand or cheek. Always the right thing to say at the right time to the right person.

Her husband was beside her, of course, dashing in his tuxedo, the well-traveled adventurer with the interesting air of a scholar. How handsome they looked together, how perfect the Joneses of Jones Point appeared on the surface. Not a flaw to mar the polish. And no substance beneath the gloss.

How smoothly they worked as a team when they chose, she thought. They would choose for the Institute, for art, for the Jones reputation as they had never chosen for family.

She wanted to hate them for it, but she thought of the book and all she felt was fear.

She turned away from them and moved through the archway.

"You belong in one of those paintings behind you." Ryan took her hand, shifting her around moments before she approached another small group. "You look magnificent."

"I'm absolutely terrified." Then she laughed a little, realizing that only a few months ago she wouldn't have been able to tell anyone what was inside her. "I always seem to be in crowds."

"So we'll pretend it's just you, and just me. But one thing's missing. You need champagne."

"I'm sticking with water tonight."

"One glass, one toast." He handed her one of the flutes he'd taken from a roaming waiter. "To the very successful results of your work, Dr. Jones."

"It's difficult to enjoy it."

"Fall into the moment," he reminded her. "This is a good moment." He touched his lips lightly to hers. "I find your shyness endearing." He murmured it against her ear, causing more than one eyebrow to rise. "And your skill in masking it admirable."

The clouds in her eyes lifted. "Were you born with that talent or did you develop it?"

"Which? I have so many."

"The talent of knowing exactly the right thing to say at precisely the right time."

"Maybe I just know what you need to hear. There's dancing in the Center Hall. You've never danced with me."

"I'm a terrible dancer."

"Maybe you've never been properly led." It made her eyebrows lift in mild disdain, just as he'd hoped. "Let's find out."

He kept a hand at the small of her back as they maneuvered through the groups. He knew how to work a crowd as well, she noticed. How to charm with a few words, and keep moving. She could hear the faint strains of a waltz—piano and violin—the murmur of conversation, the occasional trill or rumble of laughter.

She'd had the Center Hall decorated with trailing vines and potted palms, all glittering with the tiny white Italian lights that reminded her of stars. Fragrant white lilies and bloodred roses speared out of crystal vases draped in gold ribbon. Every individual drop of the antique chandelier had been hand-washed in vinegar water for a brilliant waterfall sparkle.

Couples circled, pretty pictures in their formal dress, or stood sipping wine. Others gathered on the staircase, or sat in the chairs she'd had dressed in rose damask.

At least a dozen times she was stopped, congratulated. If there were occasional murmurs about the Fiesole Bronze, most people were discreet enough to wait until she was out of earshot.

"There's Mrs. Collingsforth." Miranda nodded to a woman with an amazing stack of white hair in a gown of maroon velvet.

"Of the Portland Collingsforths?"

"Yes. I want to make sure she has everything she needs—and to introduce you. She's very fond of attractive young men."

Miranda wound her way through to where the widow was sitting, keeping time to the music with her foot. "Mrs. Collingsforth, I hope you're enjoying yourself."

"Lovely music," she said in a voice like the caw of a crow. "Pretty lights. It's about time you put some punch into this place. Places that house art shouldn't be stuffy. Art's alive. Shouldn't be stored like corpses. And who might this be?"

"Ryan Boldari." He bent down to take her hand and kiss the gnarled knuckles. "I asked Miranda to introduce us, Mrs. Collingsforth. I wanted to thank you, personally, for your generosity in lending the Institute so many wonderful pieces from your collection. You've made the exhibit."

"If the girl threw more parties instead of burying herself in a laboratory, I'd have lent them to her sooner."

"I couldn't agree more." He beamed at Mrs. Collingsforth, making Miranda feel superfluous. "Art needs to be celebrated, not simply studied."

"Keeps herself glued to a microscope."

"Where one often misses the big picture."

Mrs. Collingsforth narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips. "I like you."

"Thank you. I wonder, madam, if I could impose on you for a dance."

"Well." Her eyes twinkled. "I'd enjoy that, Mr. Boldari."

"Please, call me Ryan," he requested as he helped her to her feet. He tossed Miranda one wolfish grin over his shoulder as he led Mrs. Collingsforth into the music.

"That was smooth," Andrew murmured at Miranda's shoulder.

"As grease on a tree limb. It's a wonder he doesn't slide off and break his neck." Because the champagne was still in her hand, she sipped. "Did you meet his family?"

"Are you kidding? I think every other person here is related to him. His mother collared me, wanting to know if we'd ever considered holding art classes for children here, and why not, didn't I like children? And before I knew it she was introducing me to this child psychologist—single, female," Andrew added. "She's great."

"The psychologist?"

"No—Well, she seemed very nice and nearly as confused as I was. Ryan's mother. She's great." His hands were in his pockets, then out, wrapped around the carved newel post, fiddling with his tie.

Miranda took one of them and squeezed. "I know this is hard for you. All these people—Elise."

"Sort of a minor trial by fire. Elise, the parents, me, and cases of free booze everywhere." He glanced toward the entrance again. Annie hadn't come.

"You need to keep busy. Do you want to dance?"

"You and me?" He shot her a stunned look, then dissolved in easy and genuine laughter. "We'd both end up in the ER with broken toes."

"I'll risk it if you will."

His smile went tender. "Miranda, you've always been a high point in my life. I'm okay. Let's just watch people who know what they're doing."

Then his smile stiffened. Miranda didn't have to shift her gaze to know he'd seen Elise.

She came up to them, a sleek fairy in filmy white. Even as Miranda wanted to resent, she saw the nervousness in Elise's eyes.

"I just wanted to congratulate you, both of you, on a wonderful and successful exhibit. Everyone's raving about it. You've done a fabulous job for the Institute, and the organization."

"We had a lot of help," Miranda said. "The staff put in long, hard hours to make this happen."

"It couldn't be more perfect. Andrew." She seemed to take a deep gulp of air. "I want to apologize for making things difficult. I know my being here is awkward for you. I won't be staying much longer tonight, and I've decided to go back to Florence tomorrow."

"You don't have to change your plans for my benefit."

"It's for mine too." She looked at Miranda then, struggled with a smile. "I didn't want to leave without taking a minute to tell you how much I admire what you accomplished here. Your parents are very proud."

Miranda goggled before she could control it. "My parents?"

"Yes, Elizabeth was just saying—"

"Annie." Andrew said the name, almost like a prayer, and Elise broke off to stare up at him. "Excuse me."

He moved away, making his way toward her. She looked lost, he thought, in a sea of people. And so lovely with her shining hair. Her red dress glowed like a flame, throwing off heat and life among all the sober and conservative black.

"I'm so glad you came." He caught her hands like lifelines.

"I don't know why I did. I already feel ridiculous." The dress was too short, she thought. It was too red. It was too everything. Her department store earrings looked like cheap chandeliers—and what had possessed her to buy shoes with rhinestone buckles? She must look like a slutty Pilgrim.

"I'm so glad you're here," he said again, and ignoring the raised eyebrows, kissed her.

"Why don't I just grab a tray, pass drinks? I'd fit in better that way."

"You fit in fine. Come over and talk to Miranda." But when he turned, his eyes locked with Elise's. She stood exactly where he'd left her. He saw Miranda touch her arm, murmur something, but Elise only shook her head, then hurried away.

"Your wife looked upset," Annie commented as acid churned in her stomach.

"Ex-wife," Andrew reminded her, grateful to see Miranda making her way toward them.

"Annie, it's so good to see you. Now I know who Andrew's been looking for all evening."

"I wasn't going to come."

"I'm glad you changed your mind." It was rare for Miranda to follow impulse, but she did so now, bending down to press her cheek to Annie's. "He needs you," she whispered, then straightened with a smile. "I see some people I think you'd enjoy meeting. Andrew, why don't you introduce Annie to Mr. and Mrs. Boldari."

He followed the direction of her nod and grinned. "Yeah, thanks. Come on, Annie, you're going to love these people."

It lifted Miranda's heart, that warm glow she'd seen in Andrew's eyes. Her spirits rose, so much so that she allowed Ryan to pull her into a dance.

When she caught a glimpse of Richard, his nose all but pressed to a painting of the Holy Family, his eyes intent behind his glasses, she simply turned away.

She'd take Ryan's advice—this time—and live in the moment.

She was considering another glass of champagne and another dance, when Elizabeth found her. "Miranda, you're neglecting your duties. I've spoken with several people who said they've yet to have a word with you. The exhibition isn't enough, you have to follow through."

"Of course, you're right." She handed the champagne she hadn't yet sipped to her mother and their gazes held for one long moment. "I'll do my duty. I'll do what has to be done, for the Institute." She stepped back.

No, she realized, she was also going to do what needed to be done, for herself. "You might have said—just once tonight you might have said to me that I'd done a good job. But I suppose it would have stuck in your throat."

She turned, walked up the stairs to mingle with the guests on the second level.

"Is there a problem, Elizabeth?"

She flicked a glance over at her husband as he came to her side, then looked back up at Miranda. "I don't know. I suppose I'll have to find out."

"Senator Lamb would like to see you. He's a big supporter of the NEA."

"Yes, I know who he is." Her voice was a shade too sharp. Deliberately she smoothed it out. "I'll be happy to speak with him."

And then, she thought, she was going to deal with Miranda.

She lost track of Ryan, assumed that Andrew was making Annie comfortable with the Boldaris. For an hour, Miranda concentrated on her role as hostess. When she finally slipped off into the ladies' room, she was desperately relieved to find it empty.

Too many people, she thought, leaning against the counter a moment. She just wasn't good with so many people. Conversations, small talk, weak jokes. Her face was stiff from holding a smile in place.

Then she shook herself. She had nothing to whine about.

Everything was perfect. The exhibit, the gala, the press, the response. It would all go a long way to repairing the recent chinks in her reputation.

She should be grateful for it. She would be grateful for it if she knew what to do next.

Decisions were for tomorrow, she reminded herself. Tomorrow, after she'd confronted her mother. That was the only answer, she decided. The only logical step. It was time the two of them faced off.

And if her mother was guilty? Part of a conspiracy of theft and murder?

She shook her head. Tomorrow, she thought again, and reached in her bag for her lipstick.

The explosion of sound had her hand jerking. The slim gold tube clattered onto the counter. Her eyes, locked on their twins in the mirror, went wide with shock.

Gunshots? Impossible.

Even as the denial raced through her, she heard the high, horrified sound of a woman's scream.

She rushed to the door, knocking her bag off the counter and scattering its contents behind her.

Outside people were shouting, some were running. She shoved through, using hands and elbows. She broke free and ran for the steps just as Ryan rounded the lower landing.

"It—From upstairs. It came from upstairs."

"Stay here."

He might have saved his breath. She hiked up her skirt and was pounding up behind him. He knocked aside the velvet rope that blocked the third-floor office level from the party area.

"You check that way," she began. "I'll look down—"

"The hell you will. If you won't stay put, then you'll come with me." He took a firm hold of her hand, doing his best to block her body with his as he started down the hall.

More footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them. Andrew leaped the last three. "That was a gun. Miranda, go downstairs. Annie, go down with her."

"No."

Since neither woman was going to listen, Ryan gestured to the left. "You check that way. We'll go down here. Whoever fired the gun is probably long gone," he said as he cautiously nudged open a door. "But you stay behind me."

"What are you? Bulletproof?" She reached in under his arm and flicked on the light. He simply shoved her back and stepped into the room himself to do a quick sweep. Satisfied it was empty, he pulled her in.

"Use this office. Lock the door and call the police."

"I'll call them when I know what to tell them." She elbowed him aside and strode down the hall to the next room.

He all but wrenched her arm out of its socket. "Try to be a little less of a target, Dr. Jones."

They worked their way down until he spotted a faint light pooling under the door leading to her office. "You changed for the party here. Did you leave your light on?"

"No. And the door should be locked. It's not quite closed."

"Take off your shoes."

"Excuse me?"

"Take off your shoes," he repeated. "I want you to be able to run if you have to, not break an ankle in those heels."

Saying nothing, she leaned against him long enough to remove them. It should have been funny, she thought, the way he took one, holding it spike out like a weapon as they approached the door.

But her hand was going damp in his, and she couldn't find the humor.

He eased to the side of the door, nudged it. It opened another two inches, then bumped into an obstruction. Once again, Miranda reached under his arm to turn on the overheads.

"Oh my God."

She recognized the lower half of the filmy white gown, the soft glitter of silver shoes. Dropping to her knees, she pushed at the door with her shoulder until she could squeeze inside.

Elise lay crumpled, facedown. Blood trickled from a wound at the back of her head and slipped over her pale cheek. "She's alive," Miranda said quickly, when she pressed her fingers to Elise's throat and found a fluttery pulse. "She's alive. Call an ambulance. Hurry."

"Here." He shoved a handkerchief into her hand. "Press that against it. See if you can stop the bleeding."

"Just hurry." She folded it into a pad, wanting the thickness, and applied pressure. Her gaze skimmed over, rested on the bronze Venus she kept in her office. A copy of the Donatello Ryan coveted.

Another bronze, she thought dully. Another copy. Another victim.

"Miranda, what—" Andrew pushed in the door, then jerked to a stop. "Jesus. Oh Jesus, Elise." He was on his knees, fumbling at the wound, at her face. "Is she dead? Oh sweet God."

"No, she's alive. Ryan's calling for an ambulance. Give me your handkerchief. I don't think it's deep, but I need to stop the bleeding."

"She needs to be covered. Do you have a blanket, some towels?" Annie demanded. "You need to keep her warm in case she's in shock."

"In my office. There's a throw. Just through there."

Annie stepped quickly over Andrew.

"I think we need to turn her over." Miranda pressed the fresh cloth firmly. "To make sure there's no other injury. Can you do it, Andrew?"

"Yeah." His mind had gone stone cold. He reached out carefully, supporting Elise's neck as he rolled her. Her eyelids fluttered. "I think she's coming around. I don't see any blood except for the head wound." He touched a finger gently to a bruise forming on her temple. "She must have hit her head there when she fell."

"Miranda." Annie stepped back into the room. Her eyes were dark, her voice dull. "Ryan wants you. Andrew and I will take care of her."

"All right. Try to keep her calm if she comes around." She got to her feet, stopping only when Annie squeezed her arm.

"Brace yourself," she murmured, then moved over to cover Elise with the throw. "She'll be all right, Andrew. The ambulance is on its way."

Miranda stepped into her office. One ambulance wasn't going to be enough, she thought dizzily. A couple of handkerchiefs weren't going to mop up all this blood.

It was pooling on her desk, dripping down to soak into her carpet. Splatters of it were on the window behind her desk like sticky red rain.

On her desk, flung onto his back with red spreading over his frilled white shirt, was Richard Hawthorne.

Security kept the press and the curious away from the third floor. By the time the homicide team arrived, the scene had been secured, and Elise was on her way to the hospital.

Miranda gave her statement again and again, going back over every step. And lying. Lying, she thought dully, was becoming second nature.

No, she had no idea why either Richard or Elise would have been in her office. No, she didn't know why anyone would have killed him. When they finally told her she was free to leave, she walked downstairs on legs that felt as fragile as glass.

Annie sat on the bottom step, hugging her elbows.

"Won't they let you leave, Annie?"

"Yeah, they said they were finished with me for now."

Miranda glanced toward the guards flanking the archways, the scatter of police roaming the hall. And sat beside Annie. "I don't know what to do with myself either. I think they're still talking to Ryan. I didn't see Andrew."

"They let him go with Elise, to the hospital."

"Oh. He would have thought that was the right thing to do."

"He still loves her."

"I don't think so."

"He's still hung up on her, Miranda. Why wouldn't he be?" Then she pressed her hands to the sides of her head. "And I'm insane, ashamed, pitiful to be worrying about that when a man's been shot, and Elise is hurt."

"You can't always control your feelings. I didn't used to believe that, but now I know."

"And I used to have a good handle on mine. Well." She sniffled, rubbed her hands over her face, then rose. "I'd better go home."

"Wait for Ryan, Annie. We'll drive you."

"It's okay. I've got my heap out there. I'll be fine. You tell Andrew I hope Elise is okay, and… I'll see him around."

"Annie, I meant what I said earlier. He needs you."

Annie dragged off her party earrings, rubbed the blood back into her earlobes. "He needs to count on himself. He needs to know who he is and what he wants. I can't help him with that, Miranda, and neither can you."

She couldn't seem to help anyone, Miranda thought when she was alone and staring down at her hands. Nothing she'd touched, nothing she'd done over the last months had resulted in anything other than disaster.

She looked over her shoulder as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Ryan came down, skirted around her, then saying nothing, brought her to her feet and into his arms.

"Oh God, oh God, Ryan. How many more?"

"Ssh." He stroked her back. "It was his own gun," he murmured in her ear. "The same one I found in his room. Someone shot the poor bastard with his own gun. There was nothing you could have done."

"Nothing I could have done." She said it wearily, but pulled back to stand on her own. "I want to go to the hospital, check on Elise. Andrew's there. He shouldn't be alone."

He wasn't. It surprised Miranda to see her mother in the waiting lounge, staring out the window, a paper cup of coffee in her hand.

Andrew stopped pacing when she came in, then shook his head and began again.

"Is there any word?" Miranda asked him.

"They stabilized her down in emergency. X rays, tests—they haven't come in to tell us the results. The resident on duty downstairs thought concussion, but they want to do a CAT scan to rule out any brain damage. She was out a long time. She lost a lot of blood."

And some of it, he noted, stained the hem of Miranda's dress.

"You should go home," Andrew said. "Ryan, take her home."

"I'm going to stay with you, just the way you'd stay with me."

"Okay. Okay." He rested his brow against hers. They stood linked while Elizabeth turned from the window and studied them. When she caught Ryan watching her, her cheeks pinkened slightly.

"There's coffee. It's neither fresh nor palatable, but it's very strong and hot."

"No." Miranda moved away from Andrew, stepped forward. "Where's Father?"

"I—don't know. I believe he was going back to the hotel. There was nothing for him to do here."

"But you're here. We need to talk."

"Excuse me, Dr. Jones."

All three of them turned, made Cook's mouth twitch. "Guess that's pretty confusing."

"Detective Cook." Miranda's stomach was quickly sheathed in ice. "I hope you're not ill."

"Ill? Oh, oh, hospital, sick. No. I came down to talk to Dr. Warfield once the doctors clear it."

"To Elise?" Baffled, Andrew shook his head. "I thought you were with robbery. Nobody was robbed."

"Sometimes these things are connected. The homicide boys will talk to her. Going to be a long night. Maybe you can tell me what you know, give me a clearer picture before I talk to Dr. Warfield."

"Detective… Cook, is it?" Elizabeth moved forward. "Is it really necessary to hold an interrogation in a hospital waiting room while we're waiting with some degree of distress for test results?"

"I'm sorry for your distress, ma'am. Dr. Jones."

"Standford-Jones."

"Yes, Elizabeth Standford-Jones. You're the victims' employer."

"That's correct. Both Richard and Elise work for me in Florence. Worked for me," she amended with a faint change in color. "Richard worked for me."

"What did he do for you?"

"Research, primarily. Richard was a brilliant art historian. He was a fount of facts and data, but more, he understood the spirit of the work he researched. He was invaluable."

"And Dr. Warfield?"

"She is my lab director in Florence. She's a capable, efficient, and trustworthy scientist."

"She used to be your daughter-in-law."

Elizabeth's gaze didn't waver, nor did it flick toward her son. "Yes. We've retained a good relationship."

"That's good. Most times ex-mothers-in-law tend to blame their sons' wives for the trouble. You don't see many who can work together and… retain a good relationship."

"We're both professional women, Detective. And I don't allow family difficulties to interfere with work, or with my opinion of an individual. I'm quite fond of Elise."

"Anything going on between her and Hawthorne?"

"Going on?" It was said with such frigid disgust the temperature seemed to plummet. "What you're suggesting is insulting, demeaning, and inappropriate."

"My information is that they were both single adults. I don't mean any insult by asking if they were involved. They were in a third-floor office together. The party was downstairs."

"I have no idea why either of them was in Miranda's office, but obviously they weren't alone." She moved past him when a doctor in green scrubs came to the doorway. "Elise?"

"She's doing well," he told them. "She has a fairly serious concussion, some disorientation, but the CAT scan was clear and she's in stable condition."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, and the breath she released was shaky. "I'd like to see her."

"I cleared the police in. They wanted to question her as soon as possible, and she agreed. She became agitated when I suggested she wait until tomorrow. It seemed to ease her mind to talk to them tonight."

"I'm going to want some time with her." Cook took out his badge, then nodded toward Elizabeth and Andrew. "I'll wait. I've got plenty of time."

He waited over an hour, and wouldn't have gotten in to see her then if once again she hadn't insisted on making her statement.

Cook saw a fragile woman with a livid bruise on her right temple that spread purple toward her eyes. The eyes themselves were exhausted and rimmed with red.

But the flaws only added to her beauty. Her dark hair was swathed in white bandages. He knew the blow had been to the back of her head, and had bled profusely. He imagined they'd shaved some of that glossy hair to sew her up. Seemed a shame.

"You're Detective… I'm sorry, I can't remember the name they gave me."

"Cook, ma'am. I appreciate you talking to me."

"I want to help." She winced as she shifted and the pain radiated through her head. "They're going to give me drugs in a little while. I won't be able to think clearly once they do."

"I'll try to make this fast. Mind if I sit here?"

"No, please." She looked up at the ceiling as if focusing on moving beyond the pain. "Every time I begin, I think it's a bad dream. It didn't really happen."

"Can you tell me what did happen? Everything you remember."

"Richard. He shot Richard."

"He?"

"I don't even know that, not for sure. I didn't see. I saw Richard." Her eyes filled, spilled over, trailed tears down her cheeks. "He's dead. They told me he was dead. I thought maybe… I don't know—but they said he's dead. Poor Richard."

"What were you doing upstairs with him?"

"I wasn't with him—I was looking for him." She lifted her free hand to brush at the tears. "He said he'd go back to the hotel whenever I wanted to leave. Richard's not much on parties. We were going to share a cab. I wanted to leave."

"Dull party?"

"No." She smiled a little. "It was a wonderful exhibit, beautifully presented. But I… I'm sure you know the background by now. Andrew and I used to be married, and it was awkward. He had a date there."

"Excuse me, Dr. Warfield, but my information was that you divorced him."

"Yes, I did, and it was final over a year ago, but that doesn't stop you from feeling… from feeling," she ended. "It was awkward and depressing for me. I felt obliged to stay for at least two hours. Elizabeth's been very good to me, and this was important to her. Miranda and I have remained somewhat cautious friends, and I didn't want to leave the impression that her work didn't matter. But I wanted to go and I didn't think anyone would notice by that time."

"So you went looking for Hawthorne."

"Yes. He only knew a handful of people there, and he's not a very social man. We'd agreed to leave around ten-thirty, so I tried to find him. I expected to find him huddled in a corner, or with his nose up against some map. Then I thought he might have gone upstairs, to the library. He wasn't there. Ah… I'm sorry, I keep losing my train of thought."

"That's okay. You take your time."

She closed her eyes. "I wandered around for a while, and I saw the light in Miranda's office. I started to go back down, but then I heard his voice. I heard him shout something, something like, 'I've had enough.' "

Her fingers began to tug at the sheet in agitated little plucks. "I walked over. There were voices. But I couldn't hear what they were saying."

"Was it a man's voice, or a woman's?"

"I don't know." Wearily, she rubbed at the center of her forehead. "I just don't know. It was very low, only a murmur really. I stood there a minute, not quite sure what to do. I suppose I thought he and Miranda might have come up to discuss something, and I didn't want to interrupt."

"Miranda?"

"It was her office, so I just assumed. I thought maybe I'd just go back alone, and then… I heard the shots. They were so loud, so sudden. I was so shocked I didn't think. I ran inside. I think I called out. I—It's just not clear."

"That's all right. Just tell me what you remember."

"I saw Richard, lying over the desk. The blood everywhere. The smell of it and what must have been gunpowder. Like a burn on the air. I think I screamed. I must have screamed, then I turned. I was going to run. I'm so ashamed, I was going to run and leave him there. Someone—something hit me."

Gingerly, she reached around to press at the bandage on the back of her head. "I just remember this flash of light inside my head, then nothing at all. Nothing until I woke up in the ambulance."

She was crying openly now and tried to reach the box of tissues on the table next to the bed. Cook handed it to her, waited until she'd wiped her face.

"Do you remember how long you looked for him?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don't really know."

"When you went into the office, you didn't see anyone?"

"Only Richard—" She closed her eyes so that tears squeezed through her lashes. "Only Richard, and now he's dead."