She crossed Wisconsin and began walking quickly down O Street NW, thinking about dinner. Dillon had made an eggplant Parmesan the night before, so all she had to do was warm it up along with a baguette, throw some tomatoes in lettuce, and not forget the croutons. Sean loved croutons and lots of ranch dressing. No problem, thirty minutes, tops.

One block away from Wisconsin Avenue, the crowds began to thin out. Sherlock walked faster. She was cold, walking into the wind, but the lovely leather gloves Sean and Dillon had gotten her for Christmas were warm enough.

She felt a single set of eyes staring at her, as she had two days ago at Chad’s Market in Georgetown and again yesterday afternoon when she was out buying a baby gift for Dillon’s sister Lily’s new little boy, Ethan. Sherlock felt the same thing again, a sense of knowing that someone was staring at her fixedly, and only her. She whipped around, bumping into a young mother with a toddler in her arms, and apologized. She stood perfectly still and slowly looked at the circle around her. A college student from Georgetown University, a ratty backpack hooked over his shoulder, several couples laughing and talking, an older man walking a teacup poodle. No one watched her, no one stared at her, no one wanted anything. Everything was perfectly normal. Are you on edge or what? Stop it, get yourself home where it’s safe—no, don’t think that, either.

As she was crossing 33rd Street, she heard the roar of a motorcycle and whipped around to see a Kawasaki coming directly at her. The rider was all bundled up, a dark wool scarf covering his mouth, and wearing, of all things, sunglasses. He held a gun in his hand, aimed at her.

A woman behind her screamed. Sherlock shoved her to the ground and fell on top of her as the man fired, the bullet chipping a shard of concrete from the sidewalk. The man was only twenty feet away, but thankfully he had to handle the moving motorcycle. Sherlock pulled her Glock and fired off her magazine at him as he fired off five shots at her. A revolver, she thought, when he fired again, but nothing happened. He stuffed the gun back in his coat, swerved away from her, and accelerated. With her final shot, Sherlock got the front tire and the motorcycle weaved and lurched out of control, threading through honking horns and yelling people to the far side of the street, and hit a fire hydrant, luckily enough for an old couple standing a few feet behind it. The shooter managed to jump off before the motorcycle slammed against the hydrant and the guy jumped, fell, landing hard, then managed to get himself together and run.

The crying woman was on her feet, yelling as she grabbed Sherlock’s arm, “That idiot! He was going to shoot me! You stopped him. That was a great shot. Are you a cop?”

“Yes. FBI. Stay!” Sherlock managed to break free and took off after the man. After running full-out for a half-block, she slowed and leaned down, her hands on her knees. Then she straightened and slowly looked around. No sight of him. The woman had cost her valuable seconds. He hadn’t seemed very agile or fast, so she imagined he’d hidden himself behind one of the bushes that surrounded many of the houses that lined the block. He could have gone anywhere from there. She jogged back and nodded to the old couple standing by the wrecked motorcycle, called out for them to please stay. She ran back to the woman, who was hugging herself, shaking. She was on the small side, in her thirties, all bundled up and shivering, not with cold, Sherlock knew, but from fear. As for herself, after all the running, she was toasty warm, her adrenaline level now starting its way back down. She knew exhaustion would follow later.

It would be full-on dark in maybe fifteen minutes.

“You’re okay,” she said, and because the woman looked to be on the bitter edge, Sherlock pulled her against her, rubbed her hands down her back, smoothed out her voice. “It’s all right now. He’s gone.”

Between bursts of sobs and moans, she said, “He was going to shoot me, kill me.” She shook. “I know who it was—” Her voice firmed up, became fierce. “It was that bastard husband of mine, Lou. He told me he would kill me if I left him, but I didn’t think he meant it. I mean, he hit me once and I punched him back hard in the face. Boy, did that feel good. I left him last week, and would you look, he did mean it, he tried to kill me.” Her voice was rising—not good. Sherlock rubbed her arms, said over and over, “No, Lou didn’t do this. Lou didn’t try to kill you. The man on the motorcycle, he was shooting at me.”

“If you weren’t here right at this minute, right at this spot—” Her breath hitched and she grew perfectly still.

Sherlock tried again. “Listen to me now, Mrs.—”