The lift wedding talk brought plummeted.

“They’re wet,” Dillon called out as he gave Cate’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“That doesn’t bother us, does it?” After giving a couple more rubs, Michaela straightened. “I’m sorry to cut in on your evening.”

“Don’t be.” Cate stiffened her spine so she could mean it. “We were just about to sit out here and have some wine. Can you join us?”

“For the sit, not the wine.”

“I’ll get the wine. Coke?” Dillon asked Michaela.

“That’d be great, thanks.” She took a seat. “How about showing off the ring?”

Obliging, Cate held out her hand. “It was Dillon’s mother’s engagement ring.”

“I know—word gets around. That makes a nice circle. The ring, and you and Dillon. It’s a nice bright ending.”

“Is it ending?”

Letting out a sigh, Michaela sat back. “I wish I could tell you it was, and I am sorry to bring this in. But I feel I should keep you informed.”

“I want you to. I appreciate that you do.”

Dillon brought out the drinks, then pulled a couple of dog biscuits out of his pocket, doled them out. “That’ll keep them busy.”

“First, congratulations, best wishes, and all of that. Meant very sincerely.” Michaela made a quick toast, then set down her glass. “So far, the investigation hasn’t turned up any solid or substantial evidence against Charlotte Dupont. They’re still looking, but the fact is, the motive’s dicey there. She’d waited this long, and the man was ninety, his health deteriorating. There’s no evidence—at all—she had affairs, money issues, no evidence they argued. Why kill him—and take that kind of public risk—when she could just keep riding the train, and wait him out?”

“Someone did,” Dillon pointed out.

“Yes, someone did. At this point, they haven’t been able to tie the other murders or attacks to this one, or Dupont to any of them. They’re looking, believe me. You’ve got L.A. cops, San Francisco cops, our own department looking into all of it.”

Michaela hesitated. “I want to say I don’t think she’s very smart. Cagey, yeah, but smart?”

“You don’t think she could have pulled all this off?”

Michaela shook her head at Cate. “The more I look, the less I see her holding all these threads together. Because I do believe it’s all connected. There are a couple other angles. They’ve questioned this guy who bullshitted his way into the gala. He’s got a record—fraud, investment scams—but nothing violent. Do you know anyone named William Brocker?”

“No.”

“It’s not panning out, so far. The other is Millicent Rosebury. A ticket was bought in that name, on a credit card that turned out to be bogus. The address doesn’t match. Same with the driver’s license. They’re running facial recognition there, but haven’t hit. The server remembers—vaguely—a woman near the table asking for directions—she thinks to another table, but maybe to the restroom.

“They were busy,” Michaela added. “The server hasn’t been able to describe her more than middle-aged, blond, glasses, white. The security cameras caught a woman with that basic description walking out with another woman. She had cigarettes and a lighter in her hand. What they don’t have is any view of her coming back.”

Michaela sighed again. “It’s thin. You should know Dupont’s making a lot of noise about hiring her own investigators. I wish I had something more solid for you.”

“First, I think you’re right. She’s not smart enough. And more, this isn’t the kind of key light she’d want. She was having a big moment—why step on it? She’ll play it up now, but she’d have ridden that big moment.

“Tell me honestly. Do you think it’s Sparks?”

“I absolutely do. One hundred percent. But thinking it and proving it? Whole different thing. What I will say, and I hope this helps, is every death and attack links to Dupont. If we look at pattern, that’s what this says. It’s about Dupont, not you. Even the calls you’ve gotten for years now. Every one of them has your mother’s voice on them at least once in the recording. It’s about payback, about making us shine that—was it key light?—on her.”

“It does make me feel better.”

“If I get more, hear more, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’ll get out of your hair.” She rose. “I’m really happy for both of you.”

As the dogs escorted her back to her car, Cate took Dillon’s hand. “She’s on the real friends list.”

“Definitely.”

At her weekly meeting with Sparks, Jessica dealt with the war of feelings churning inside her. As always, she knew the thrill of seeing him, hearing his voice, touching his hand. But gone was the excitement and anticipation of planning to do something vital and important to help him.

In its place lived fury and frustration.

“It’s been over three weeks.” Her hand balled into a fist, unballed, balled again. “She’s making fools out of the cops, Grant. She’s doing interviews, planning a big, elaborate memorial, making noise about hiring private investigators.”

“Let her.” Sparks shrugged it off.

“She’s going to get away with it! They can’t put two and two together and arrest her. Who else would want him dead, for God’s sake? They need to arrest her.”

He resisted reminding her he himself had wanted the old man dead, and that Jessica had killed him. The best cons, he knew, played out when you believed them.

“It’s all that money, Jess. The fame. You did the best you could to make her pay. And she did pay. A little.”

“Not enough, Grant. Not enough after what she did to you. I know I was close to getting you early release. I know it. And now they’re questioning you. I know that’s why you won’t walk out with me today. It’s not right.”

“It won’t be much longer.” If he could stand the sight of her for that long. “The best we can do now is just wait it out. You did your best. Now we wait it out.”

“You must be so disappointed in me.”

“Oh, no, darling.” She really was making him sick, but he took her hands. “What you’ve done for me, I can never repay.”

His faith in her, his abiding love for her all but destroyed her. And obsessed her. She had to give him more. Had to show him there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

Nothing she wouldn’t do to see that Charlotte Dupont paid.

She thought of killing the bitch. Dreamed of it. She could get a job as a maid, gain access. Or impersonate a reporter.

There had to be a way to get close enough. A knife through the heart, a bullet in the brain.

But no, as much as the idea excited her, wouldn’t the police continue to dig at Grant?

She needed to find a way to point the idiot police right at Dupont. And to keep Grant out of it entirely.

The way to do that? Go back to the beginning. Go back to Caitlyn Sullivan.

It took her weeks to work out all the logistics, and only great love kept her from telling Grant. She’d surprise him.