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  Megan opened her eyes slowly. Dave sat at the end of the bed, his head lowered into his hand. He, too, looked in pain, albeit not the throbbing kind. His hair stuck up in all different directions. He had, she surmised, stayed by her side all night.

  She tried to remember what time she had finished talking--Dave had barely spoken--but couldn't. She had talked past exhaustion, not so much falling asleep as passing out from the combination of weariness, pain, and morphine. If Dave had commented on her confession, she didn't remember it.

  Megan had never been so thirsty. When she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand, her entire body screamed in protest. She let out a small cry. Dave snapped his head up and said, "Let me get that for you."

  He moved to the nightstand and carefully lifted the glass toward her, easing the straw between her lips. She sipped greedily. The water was pure ambrosia. When she finished, Dave put the water back on the nightstand and sat next to her.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  "Like I kissed a bus."

  He smiled and stroked her forehead. "Let me get the doctor."

  "Not yet." His hand felt cool against her skin. She closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch. A tear ran down her cheek. She wasn't sure why.

  "I've been running through everything you told me," Dave said. "I'm still trying to process."

  "I know. But talk to me, okay?"

  "Okay."

  She opened her eyes and looked at him.

  "It's hard," Dave said. "I mean, on the one hand, it doesn't really matter, I guess, what you were in the past. Do you love me?"

  "Yes."

  "Are your feelings for me a lie?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then what else matters? We all have pasts. We all have secrets. Or something." He shifted in his seat. "That's the one hand. That's the part I get."

  "And the other hand?"

  Dave shook his head. "I'm still processing."

  "Processing," she said, "or judging?"

  He looked confused. "I'm not sure I get what you mean."

  "If my secret past was that I'd been, I don't know, a rich princess and a virgin before we met, do you think you'd have as much trouble processing?"

  "You think I'm that shallow?"

  "I'm just asking," she said. "It's a fair question."

  "And if I said, yes, that scenario would be easier to process?"

  "I'd understand, I guess."

  Dave considered that. "Do you want to hear an odd truth?"

  She waited.

  "I never fully trusted you, Megan. No, wait, that's not really true. What I mean is, I never really believed you. I trusted you. Implicitly. I made you my wife and I loved you and I know you loved me. We shared a life and a bed and had children together." Dave swallowed hard, looked away, turned back to her. "I would trust you with my life. You know that."

  "I do."

  "And yet I didn't always believe you. You can trust someone and know there is something else there. Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Was it hard lying to me all those years?"

  "Not just you. Everyone."

  "But mostly me."

  She didn't argue.

  "Was that hard?"

  Megan considered that. "Not really, no."

  He sat back. "Wow, that's honest."

  "The truth wasn't really an option. I didn't see any point in telling you about my past. The truth could only make things worse."

  "Had to be hard though, right? On some level."

  "I guess I got used to it."

  He nodded. "Part of me wants to know details because otherwise my imagination won't let it go, you know what I mean?"

  She nodded.

  "But most of me knows it's better to just let it go."

  "It was a long time ago, Dave."

  "But it's part of you."

  "Yes. Just as your past is part of you."

  "Do you miss it?"

  "I won't apologize for it."

  "That's not what I asked. I asked if you miss it."

  More tears came to her eyes. She was not going to lie again, not after she had gone through so much to tell the truth. "When you were in high school, you were into that theater group, right?"

  "So?"

  "You guys hung out and hooked up and smoked dope together. That's what you told me."

  "I'm not sure I see the point," Dave said.

  "You miss that, don't you? You wouldn't go back. It's a time that's over and gone. Do I have to hate my past in order for you to accept me?"

  Dave sat back as though startled. "You really think it's the same thing?"

  "How is it different?"

  He rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know. That's what I need to process." Dave tried to smile. "I think the lies were harder on us than you know. They gave us distance on some level. They had to. So it will be different now. But maybe it will be better."

  The phone on the nightstand jangled.

  Dave frowned. "You weren't supposed to be disturbed."

  Megan reached for the phone with her good arm. "Hello?"

  "I heard you had a rough night."

  It was Detective Broome.

  "I'll be fine."

  "Have you turned on the television yet this morning?"

  "No, why?"

  "Carlton Flynn is dead. So are a bunch of other men. We found their bodies in a well near the old furnace."

  "What?" Megan managed to sit up this time. "I don't understand. Stewart Green too?"

  "Probably. They're still going through the bodies."

  Talk about trying to process. "Wait, so someone murdered them all?"

  "I'll give you the details later, but right now I need your help."

  "How?"

  "I know you're in a lot of pain so if you can't handle it--"

  "What do you need, Detective?"

  "Last night, we arrested Ray Levine for the murders."

  She opened her mouth, but for a moment no words could come out. Her world flipped upside down all over again. "Is this some kind of joke?"

  "No--"

  "What's wrong with you? Are you out of your mind?"

  Dave looked at her quizzically. She ignored him.

  "Broome," she shouted.

  "I'm here," Broome said.

  Megan started to shake her head, ready to tell him that it simply wasn't possible, but then she thought back to last night, to the last thing Ray had said to her: "I didn't tell you the truth."

  "No, no, it's a mistake," she said, feeling a tear slip down her cheek. "Do you hear me? What evidence do you have?"

  "I don't want to get into that right now, but I need your help."

  "How?"

  "We have Ray in custody," he said. "He won't talk to any of us. He'll only talk to you face-to-face. I know it's a lot to ask, in your current condition, and it can certainly wait a few days until you're up for it--"

  "What's the address?" she asked.

  Dave just stared at her.

  Megan listened closely. Then she hung up the phone and turned to her husband. "I need you to drive me to a prison."

  AFTER BROOME HUNG UP WITH MEGAN, he headed back into the holding area. Ray Levine was dressed in prison-garb orange. His hands and legs were both shackled. They were in an interrogation room at the Atlantic County jail. Ray had called his one friend in the area, his boss, Fester, and Fester arranged for an attorney named Flair Hickory to represent Ray. Hickory was known for being very good and very flamboyant.

  When Broome entered the room, Flair Hickory, whose lavender suit was a bit much at eight in the morning, said, "Well?"

  "She's on her way."

  "Wonderful."

  "I'd still like to ask your client a few questions."

  "And I'd like to take a bubble bath with Hugh Jackman," Flair countered with a double hand wave. "But alas, we can dream, can't we? My client made it clear. Before he says a word to you, he wants a private powwow with Megan Pierce. Now, shoo."


  Broome left the room. Special Agent Angiuoni shrugged and said, "It was worth a shot."

  "I guess."

  "Even with the police escort, it will take at least an hour for her to get down here. Why don't you get some air or something?"

  "I have to go back to La Creme."

  "The nightclub? Why?"

  Broome didn't bother explaining. He headed outside to his car. There were still loose ends to tie up. It had indeed been a long night. The feds were still tearing apart Ray Levine's residence, searching for other trophies. Twelve bodies had so far been taken out of the well, though, as they got deeper into the hole, it became harder to immediately classify whose bones belonged to whom. The bodies had been broken down into a heap over the years, the well becoming the ultimate boneyard.

  After Broome arrested Ray Levine last night, he headed to that doomed house that had once been the family home of Stewart and Sarah Green. He told Sarah what he knew, that all evidence pointed to the fact that Stewart was in the bottom of the well, the victim of a serial killer. Sarah had listened intently as always. When he finished, she said, "I thought you said someone saw Stewart recently."

  So that was where Broome was headed now--to La Creme's Saturday Brunch 'n' Munch. They opened for breakfast just about now and shockingly did a pretty brisk business. He didn't think that this particular trip would produce anything tangible. Lorraine, Broome was certain, would shrug her shoulders and say, "I told you I wasn't sure. You just wouldn't listen."

  But the truth was--a truth he could maybe start admitting to himself--he wanted to see Lorraine. It had been a horrible night, filled with too much blood and too many dead bodies. Sure, he had a professional excuse for visiting her, but maybe he just wanted to be with her, to see a familiar, pretty face looking back at him, one that wasn't married to another man. She had that way about her, Lorraine, another wounded veteran of this city, and it felt good to be around her. Maybe that was all he wanted. Maybe he wanted to disappear into that comforting, crooked smile and throaty laugh for a little while. And maybe the fact that she was dying, that maybe in a few months she wouldn't be here at all... maybe that made him realize how badly he didn't want to miss out yet again in his life.

  Was that so wrong?

  The bouncers at La Creme were just opening the doors when he arrived. Some patrons had actually lined up early, probably coming straight from the casinos or whatever nighttime activity had kept them out. That was the breakfast clientele--not people who had just woken up for a morning meal but those who had stayed up all night and needed to start the next morning with a strip show. You could spin that any way you want, but it was hard not to conclude that they were, at best, pretty freaking desperate.

  Broome nodded at the black-clad bouncers as he entered. He headed inside the dark confines, making a beeline for Lorraine's bar. But she wasn't there. He was about to turn around and ask where she was when someone shoved him from behind, sending him flying.

  It was a red-faced Rudy.

  "What the hell, Rudy?"

  Rudy pointed a beefy finger at him. "I warned you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "First you talk to Tawny. Okay, no big deal. A dime a dozen. Fine." He shoved Broome again. "But I warned you, right?"

  "Warned me about what?"

  "I told you Lorraine was different. That she was special. I told you what I'd do if something happened to her."

  Broome froze. The music seemed suddenly louder. The room began to spin. "Where is she?"

  "Don't give me that where-is-she crap. You know very well--"

  Broome grabbed him by the lapels and threw him against the wall. "Where is she, Rudy?"

  "That's what I'm asking you, asswipe. She never showed up for work this morning."

  37

  IN SOME KIND OF NONDESCRIPT yet surreal interrogation room, Megan sat across from Ray.

  The car ride down had been subdued. A federal agent named Guy Angiuoni called and gave her details on the murders and the arrest. It was beyond comprehension. When she hung up, Dave tried small talk. She didn't respond. Dave knew now about her past relationship with Ray--not the details, of course, but enough. She, in turn, knew that this couldn't be easy on him. She wanted to comfort and assure him. Dave deserved that and more. But she was too stunned.

  It would have to wait.

  Megan had gone through a metal detector and thorough body search before being allowed to enter the holding room. There were five men inside: Special Agent Guy Angiuoni; two police guards; Ray's attorney, Flair Hickory, who greeted her with a warm smile; and of course, Ray.

  Flair Hickory held up a small stack of papers. "These are sworn affidavits that state that your conversation with my client will not be eavesdropped upon or recorded or used in any way," he said. "Everyone in this room has signed one."

  "Okay."

  "I'd be oh so grateful if you could sign one promising not to divulge anything that my client tells you during this conversation."

  "That's not necessary," Ray said.

  "It is for her benefit as well," Flair explained. "Even if you trust her, Ray, I'm trying to make it more difficult for them to compel her to speak."

  "It's okay," Megan said.

  The fingers on her bad arm still functioned enough for her to hold the pen and scrawl a signature.

  Flair Hickory collected the papers. "Okay, everyone, time to leave."

  Special Agent Angiuoni started for the door. "Someone will be watching, Mrs. Pierce. If you're in any danger, just raise your good arm over your head if you need us."

  "My client is trussed up like an S-and-M prop," Flair countered. "She's in no danger."

  "Still."

  Flair rolled his eyes. Guy Angiuoni was first to leave, followed by the two guards. Flair was last. The door closed behind him. Megan took the seat across the table from him. Ray's ankles were shackled to the chair, his arms to the table.

  "Are you okay?" Ray asked her.

  "I was attacked last night."

  "Who?"

  She shook her head. "We're not here about me."

  "Is that why you weren't able to show at Lucy last night?"

  Megan wasn't sure how to answer that. "I wouldn't have shown up anyway."

  He nodded as if he understood.

  "Did you kill all those men, Ray?"

  "No."

  "Did you kill Stewart Green?"

  He didn't reply.

  "You found out he was hurting me, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You cared about me. You even..." She stopped, started again. "You even loved me."

  "Yes."

  "Ray, I need you to tell me the truth now."

  "I will," he said. "But you first."

  "What?"

  When Ray met her eyes, she felt it everywhere.

  "Cassie," he said. "Did you kill Stewart Green?"

  BROOME DIDN'T BOTHER TO ASK Rudy follow-up questions.

  He tried not to panic, but it wasn't working. He told Rudy to stay at the club and call if Lorraine arrived. Without another word Broome ran back to his car, grabbed his gun, and hurried toward Lorraine's house.

  Please no, please no, please no...

  He called his dispatcher for backup, but there was no way he'd wait. He sprinted all out now. His lungs burned. His breath reverberated in his own ears. His eyes grew wet in the morning air.

  None of that mattered. Only one thing mattered.

  Lorraine.

  If something happened to her, if someone hurt her...

  There were people out on the streets, all stumbling in the sun after a night basking in artificial light. Broome didn't even glance at them.

  Not Lorraine. Please, not Lorraine...

  Broome veered to the right at the corner. Up ahead, he saw Lorraine's house. He remembered the other time he'd been there, when he stayed for the night. Funny, how you miss the obvious. It had meant little to him, probably less to her, and now he cursed his stupidity.

  Wi
th a surge of adrenaline, Broome picked up his pace, hopping the steps on the front stoop two at a time. He almost crashed into her door, ready to take it down with his shoulder, but he pulled up.

  You don't just crash in. He knew better than that. But he wasn't about to wait either. He calmed himself and tried the front doorknob.

  It was unlocked.

  His heart skipped a beat. Would Lorraine be stupid enough to leave her front door unlocked in this neighborhood?