She sighed. “I wish I knew, Day, but I don’t.”

“Say the word and I’ll move in with you, protect you.”

She had to smile at that. “No, no, I’ve got an FBI agent sticking to me like a second skin, so don’t worry. What are you doing at your mom’s house?”

“Lunch with her and Brooxey. I’m also trying to talk her out of my grandmother’s engagement ring for you. I told her it was your size. It’s even nicer than the one I got you. I think you’d really like it, Perry.”

“Day, really, I—”

“I know, I know, lips are zipped until this mess is cleared up. You’re sure you don’t want me to come back, take care of you?”

“No, but thank you. Give my best to your mom and Brooxey.”

Day laughed. “He wants me here to play billiards—not pool with actual pockets, mind you, too plebian. Nope, gotta be billiards.” He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, “I love you, Perry, and I’m worried sick. Please, keep safe.”

“I will, Day, I promise. Thanks again for the beautiful roses,” and she punched off her cell.

His grandmother’s engagement ring? She felt disoriented for a moment, and sad. She loved Day. But how would she be able to tell him it could never be in that way?

She checked the roses for water, futzed around in her desk and opened her computer. All of a sudden Special Agent Davis Sullivan appeared in her mind’s eye, sprawled on her sofa on his back at 6:00 a.m., his big feet wrapped in a pale blue throw. Another throw her mother had knitted for her last year covered him to his neck, except for one bare arm that flopped over the side of the sofa, his open hand resting on the small Persian carpet her father had long ago brought her back from Istanbul. She’d said his name as she stood over him, a cup of black coffee in her hand, and watched him come instantly awake, focus his high beams on her face, and relax. He breathed in the coffee, sat up, the afghan falling to his waist, and smiled at her. “Good morning, princess. How’s tricks?” And he’d scratched his bare chest.

Natalie Black’s house

Thursday morning

Natalie Black held her favorite balancing-stick pose, one beautiful straight line from her pointed toes to her pointing fingers. Her hair was fastened with a rubber band, a red poof on the top of her head.

Perry watched her for a moment, unable not to smile. Her mom’s breathing was slow and easy, her form right on—one perfectly straight leg holding her steady.

Hooley wasn’t watching her. He showed Perry in, told her her mother didn’t have much extra breath to speak to her since she’d been hunching and twisting and bowing and folding herself in two in those yoga positions of hers. Now he was standing by the big bay window on the south side of her workout room. The view was of the deep, beautifully landscaped backyard, elms and oaks surrounding the high stone fence. He seemed to be looking for any movement.

Connie Mendez, Natalie’s young female bodyguard, was sitting on the small leather sofa, her eyes on Perry.

“Hi, Perry, I’ll be done in a moment,” Natalie said, not looking at her, holding her pose, her face down between her arms. In the next moment, Natalie slipped to her knees and went gracefully into the rabbit pose, all balled up, Hooley thought, glancing back at her—forehead on the floor, arms back to lie on top of her calves. Then she came to her feet, bent side to side a couple times, picked up a towel and wiped off her face.

“I thought you’d be hard at work, Perry. What’s up? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

Her mom didn’t know about her Harley, thank heavens. If Hooley or Connie had read about it in The Baltimore Sun, they hadn’t said anything yet. She knew she’d have to tell her soon, since it was only a matter of time before someone dropped that bomb on her or she noticed on her own that Perry was driving a rental car. But not now; her mother didn’t need any more bad stuff piling on her.

She’d start with the graffiti. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Natalie paused in downing a huge glass of water. “You mean you finally want to tell me about the graffiti in the men’s room at the Post? When Angela called, she naturally assumed I already knew. Of course, I called Davis right away, and naturally he, too, knew all about it. Evidently, everyone knew except me. So the guilt got to you? You finally realized keeping Mom in the dark wasn’t going to work?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to burden you. The FBI has a photograph of the guy who wrote that graffiti in the men’s room. It’s Carlos Acosta, Mom.”