If she let herself think about Marc’s intentions for too long, Dinah could feel panic rising inside her. She’d forced herself to hold the subject at bay but now, driving to police headquarters the next day, she took a cautious look.

      How could Marc possibly expect to learn anything new after ten years? Did he really think he could find the solution that had eluded the police?

      Obviously, he did. In a sense, she could understand his determination. He saw a possible harm to Court in the unanswered questions, and he’d do anything for his son.

      Ten years ago he’d loved his son, of course, but he’d been so preoccupied with his work that he hadn’t been as available to Court as he should have been. Apparently, after he left Charleston, he’d turned his priorities around completely. She had to admire that.

      But she wasn’t so sure he was right about Court. Knowing more about his mother’s life was admirable, but knowing more about his mother’s death could only cause pain. She should know. She’d lived with that pain for too long.

      What if Marc imagined she knew something about the night Annabel died that she’d never told? Everyone else had long since accepted the fact that she hadn’t seen or heard anything. The dream was just that, a dream.

      But Marc tended not to accept something just because everyone else did. She remembered that about him clearly. It had made him a good prosecutor. She wasn’t sure it made him a safe friend.

      She pulled into a parking place near the headquarters building on Lockwood Boulevard. Across the street, the black rectangular monument to fallen officers gleamed in the winter sunshine, making her heart clench. She pushed Marc into the back closet of her mind. She’d go inside, find Tracey, and concentrate on some complicated police case instead.

      She hurried inside, clipping her identification to the pocket of the blazer she wore with tan slacks. She still smiled at the memory of Detective Tracey Elliott taking one look at her the first time they’d met and telling her not to come to headquarters again looking like a debutante.

      At the time, Tracey had resented having a civilian artist foisted off on her by the chief of detectives, who’d been influenced in turn by an old friend of Aunt Kate’s on the city council. Dinah had never regretted using influence to get in the door. She could prove her abilities only if they gave her a chance to try.

      Nodding to several detectives who’d eventually accepted her, she wove through the maze of desks and file cabinets to where Tracey sat slumped over a thick sheaf of papers.

      “Good morning.”

      Tracey shoved one hand through disheveled red curls, her green eyes warming with welcome. “Don’t tell me it’s good unless you’ve got some decent coffee stashed in that bag of yours.”

      It was a long-standing joke between them. Dinah set her tote bag on the desk and lifted out two foam cups, handing one to Tracey. She sat in the chair at the side of the gray metal desk and opened hers.

      Tracey inhaled, seeming to gain energy just from the fragrant aroma. “You’re my hero.”

      “Not quite. Just a hardworking forensic artist. Do you have something for me?”

      She hoped. It had been a longer than usual time between assignments, and even though she didn’t have to depend on her income from her work, that occasional paycheck gave her a sense of accomplishment, validating her professional status.

      Her relationship with the department was still prickly. Some officers viewed any civilian on their turf with suspicion. The fact that she produced good results with difficult witnesses didn’t necessarily change that.

      “I’m not sure.” Tracey frowned, shoving a manila folder over to her. “We have a witness to a knifing, but she’s all over the place. We know she has to have seen something, but she’s not admitting it.”

      Dinah scanned through the file, relieved to have something to think about besides Marc. “Is it gang-related?”

      “Could be, but there’s something about it that doesn’t fit. The victim was a sixteen-year-old—parochial schoolkid, no gang involvement. The witness is her best friend. They were on their way home from a movie and took one shortcut too many.”

      She nodded, registering the site of the crime. It wasn’t an area where she’d walk at night, alone or with a friend.

      “Will the witness talk to me?”

      “That’s the problem.” Tracey’s expression spoke of her frustration. “Yesterday she would. That’s why I called you. Today she says no. She knows nothing, saw nothing. And her friend won’t be going to any more movies.”

      The words might have sounded flippant, but Dinah knew they weren’t. She and the rough-edged detective had developed a friendship that probably surprised Tracey as much as it did her, and she knew the depth of pain that any death brought Tracey.

      “I’m sorry.” She wanted to say more, but knew she shouldn’t cross that line. “Maybe she’ll change her mind. Call me anytime.”

      Tracey