Actually, Simon was turning slowly over in the too-short cot, not wanting to roll himself accidentally off onto the floor. He had managed to get the blanket carefully wrapped around his feet, no easy thing, since his feet were off the cot and on the big side. He’d taken up temporary residence in Sean’s room, just down the hall from Lily, since the baby was still with Mrs. Savich. A precaution, Dillon had said as he’d helped Dane Carver, a new special agent in his unit, carry in the narrow army cot that would be Simon’s bed. He’d announced to both men that he didn’t care if he had to fit himself into Sean’s crib, if that’s what it took to get to sleep.

He knew she was okay, just down the hall. Not near enough to him for the time being, but Simon had plans to change that. He could easily picture her in his brownstone, could picture how he’d redo one of those large upstairs bedrooms to make it her work room. Great light in that room, just exactly right for her.

Simon was smiling as he breathed in the scent of Sean. Nice scent, but he would have preferred to be in the guest room with Lily, in her bed. He’d always been a patient man, which, he supposed, was a good thing, since he’d only known Lily for a little more than two weeks.

As for Lily, she didn’t know why she couldn’t sleep. It was after midnight in Washington, morning in Sweden. But she and Simon had been in Sweden such a short time, her body had no clue what time of day it was. She was beyond exhaustion, yet she couldn’t sleep.

She was still very worried about her brother. Tammy Tuttle hadn’t shown up, hadn’t come after Dillon, and both her brother and Sherlock were frustrated and on edge, at their wits’ end.

On Friday afternoon, as announced, Dillon had taken a taxi to the airport and checked in for a flight to Texas. Then, at the last minute, he’d deplaned and slipped back into the house in Georgetown.

Now it was Saturday night, well beyond the deadline, and Lily knew there were still agents covering the house. Jimmy Maitland wasn’t taking any chances, and the very sophisticated house alarm was set.

Lily hoped that Dillon and Sherlock were sleeping better than she was. She knew they missed Sean. When they’d all come up to bed, they’d automatically turned to go to Sean’s room.

She rolled onto her side and sucked in her breath at a sudden jab of pain. She didn’t want to take any more pain pills. She closed her eyes and saw that huge room again, its walls covered with her grandmother’s paintings. So many to be returned to museums all over the world. Olaf Jorgenson and his son would not be able to stop it. Ian would be in jail for a very long time. Olaf was in the hospital, in very bad shape.

After a good deal of time, she was finally floating toward sleep, when her brain clicked on full alert and her eyes flew open. She’d heard something. Not Simon or Dillon or Sherlock moving around, something that wasn’t right.

Maybe it was nothing at all, just a phantom whisper from her exhausted brain or only a puff of wind that had sent a branch sweeping against the bedroom window. Yes, the sound was outside, not in her bedroom. Maybe it was in Simon’s bedroom, just down the hall. Had he awakened?

Lily continued to wait, gritty eyes staring around the dark room, listening.

She started to relax again when she heard a creak. Just a slight pressure on the oak floor could cause a creak, but it was there and it was close. In the air, no longer heard, but she still felt it. Lily waited, straining to hear, her heart pounding now.

The scattered carpets covering the oak floors would mask any creaks, make someone walking hard to hear.

Lily lurched upright, straining to see. Too late, she saw a shadow, moving fast, and something coming down at her. She felt a deadening pain like a sharp knife driving into her skull.

She fell back onto the pillow. Just before she passed out, she saw a face over her, a woman’s face, and she knew whose face it was. The mouth whispered, “Hi, little sister.”

• Sherlock couldn’t sleep. Dillon’s arm was heavy over her chest, and he was close and warm, his familiar scent in the air she breathed, but it didn’t help. Her brain wouldn’t turn off; it just kept moving, going over and over what they knew about Tammy, what they imagined but didn’t know.

When she couldn’t stand it anymore, Sherlock eased away from Savich, got out of bed, and pulled on her old blue wool robe. She wore socks to keep her feet warm against the oak floor.

She had to check the house again, just had to, though she’d already checked it three times, and Dillon had checked probably another three. She had to be sure. It was early Sunday morning, it was snowing, and Sean was at his grandmother’s, safe. When would she feel secure enough to bring him home? Ever? It had to end. Tammy had to do something; it had to end, sometime.