Maggie wanted to tell Nick it was over. That no more little boys would disappear. But even as they went over the case against Eddie Gillick, she couldn’t dislodge that gnawing doubt. Was it possible she was just being stubborn, refusing to believe that she could be so wrong?

She wished the hospital volunteer would be as punctual as she had been perky. How could anyone carry on a serious conversation in these paper-thin gowns? And would it be so much trouble to provide a robe, a sash, anything to prevent a full view of her unprotected backside?

She could see Nick’s eyes exercising extreme caution, but all it took was a few unintentional slips to remind her of how naked she was under the loose garment. Worse yet was that damn tingle that spread over her skin every time his eyes were on her. And that stupid fluttering sensation that teased between her thighs. It was like radar. Her entire body reacted beyond her control to its own nakedness and Nick’s presence.

“Okay, so it does look as though Eddie Gillick could be guilty,” she admitted, trying to keep her mind off her reactions to him. She crossed her arms over her chest and found her way back to the window, carefully keeping her back against the wall.

Today the sky was so blue and large it looked artificial, not even a hint of a cloud. Most of the snow had melted off the sidewalks and lawns. Soon only the piles of black ice chunks along the streets would be left. Trees that hadn’t lost their leaves now shimmered with wet glossy gold, red and orange. It was as if a spell had been broken, a curse lifted, and everything was back to normal. Everything except the slight tug in Maggie’s gut, not from the stitches, but from her own nagging doubt.

“What was Christine doing with Eddie last night?”

“I haven’t talked to her about it this morning. Last night she said Eddie was supposed to take her home, but he took a detour. He told her if she had sex with him, he’d tell her where Timmy was.”

“He said he knew where Timmy was?”

“That’s what Christine said. Of course, I think she was delusional. She also told me President Nixon carried her to the side of the road.”

“The mask, of course. He carried Christine out of the car then stuffed his disguise into the trunk.”

“Then hurried along to chase Timmy through the woods,” Nick added. “This, of course, is after he tried to rape Christine, then attack you in the graveyard cellar. Busy guy.”

They stared at each other. The obvious left unsaid, settling between them and stirring up the same disappointment and panic that had driven them to this point.

“Did he try anything with you?” Nick finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know… Did he…”

“No,” she said, cutting him off, rescuing him. “No, he didn’t.”

Maggie remembered the killer fishing her gun out from inside her coat, accidentally grazing her breast. He had snapped his hand back instead of letting it linger. When he whispered into her ear, he never once touched her skin. He wasn’t interested in sex, not with men and certainly not with women. His mother was a saint, after all. She remembered the images of tortured saints on Father Keller’s bedroom wall. The priesthood and its vow of celibacy would have been an excellent escape, an excellent hiding place.

“We need to question Keller one last time,” she said.

“We have absolutely nothing on him, Maggie.”

“So humor me.”

“Ms. O’Dell?” A nurse peeked around the door. “You have a visitor.”

“It’s about time,” Maggie said, expecting the perky, blond volunteer.

The nurse held open the door and smiled flirtatiously at the handsome, golden-haired man in the black Armani suit. He carried a cheap overnight case, and a matching garment bag was slung over his arm.

“Hi, Maggie,” he said, walking into the room as if he owned it, throwing a look at Nick before smiling his expensive-lawyer smile at Maggie.

“Greg? What in the world are you doing here?”