a dangerous and full of predators. No one knows what’s coming, one minute to the next. That’s exactly why we all need somebody we can trust, depend on, and cuddle up with at night. People aren’t meant to be all alone, Zoe.”

What could I say? Susan cared. I was touched. Meantime, while we were talking, Stiles had probably frozen to death. “Thanks, Susan. I mean it. I hear you. But I gotta go.”

Molly floated zombie-like and semiconscious down the hall. I guided her to the front door, where Susan waited, three spare socks hanging over her shoulder.

“Call me,” she commanded.

“Yes, Mom.” I brushed cheeks with her, smelled magnolia.

Susan tousled Molly’s hair and gave her a hug. Molly returned the hug and mumbled, “Thank you for having me,” like a polite sleepwalker. Frigid winds burst through the open door. The night howled, holding a murderer.

I lifted Molly and carried her to the car, waving good-bye as Susan closed her door. Molly snuggled, dazed, against me as Stiles, half-smiling at her, pulled away and headed into darkness.

NINETEEN

OF COURSE, I COULDN’T SLEEP. I LAY IN BED, TOSSING, FRAGmented thoughts popping in my mind. The missing nannies’ faces, old Charlie’s hacking cough, the serial killer’s patterns. Snippets of conversations replayed themselves. Nick, saying the killer was local. Charlie, saying evil was close by. Susan, saying people weren’t meant to be alone, that I should “nab” Stiles.

My head was overloaded; images splashed around in a pool of whatever liquor Manhattans are made of. Bourbon? Sweet vermouth? I didn’t know, didn’t care. If the killer was local, did I know him? Did he know me? Who could he be? Faces paraded by, too many too fast, making me dizzy. Stop it, I told myself. Calm down. The scent of Nick’s aftershave drifted in, drenching the parade.

I closed my eyes, trying to let go and sink into sleep. Sleep, I told myself. Think tomorrow. But as I lay back, the room began to swim again, and I sat up waiting for the night to fade.

I thought about Nick. As he’d walked Molly and me to our door, he’d squeezed my hand good night. His touch had been warm, gentle. Warmer and gentler, I thought, than necessary. Certainly more than a compulsory thanks-for-agreeing-to-work-on-the-case squeeze.

This was crazy. What was I thinking about? This was a murder investigation, not a courtship. I wasn’t even his type. Was I? What was his type? I imagined a deranged woman holding a gun. What had she looked like, his wife? I cleared my throat, thinking about a dead wife, a man’s scar. And jealousy.

Not the dead wife’s. Mine. I was, I admit it, suddenly very jealous. It was irrational, but I was jealous anyway. A woman had loved Nick Stiles desperately enough to kill him, enough to die rather than lose him. I was jealous of that kind of all-consuming, desperate, soul-searing love.

By comparison, when my own marriage had fallen apart, I hadn’t felt anything. I hadn’t wanted to kill Michael. I’d simply wanted him to go away. Now, of course, when he’d told me he was remarrying, I’d been stunned. But that was because some woman would put up with him, not because I was jealous.

But Nick Stiles’s wife had loved him enough to kill him and herself. She’d failed, but she’d marked him for life. He’d think of her every time he looked in the mirror. Every time someone noticed his scar. He’d never be free of her or her love. Not ever.

And I’d managed to raise the topic of that love in our very first conversation. I’d asked him about his scar and brought his wife to mind. Hell, I’d invited her to our table.

Hold it, I told myself—the shooting was eight years ago. He must have learned to live with it by now. Must have dated women. Might even have a girlfriend. I wondered what type she was. Great, I sounded like Tim. Which was worse, judging men by their cars or their women? My mind teased me, showing me Nick with various women, searching. And there she was: a self-possessed, leggy brunette, about thirty-five years old, intense, focused. Draped on Nick’s arm, as if she belonged there, balancing his rugged, damaged features with her confident charisma. Yup, she was his type. And she did not in the slightest resemble me. Actually, she was a dead ringer for Beverly Gardener.

Ridiculous, I told myself. I was letting Susan’s comments get to me. Not all men would swoon over Beverly Gardener.