SWALLOWING DOWN A gulp of coffee, Trista went to get her appointment book from her briefcase. Flipping back the pages, she came to Monday. “I had a client session from twelve-thirty to one-thirty. Then a thirty-minute break, followed by another hour-long session. Will that do?”

He jotted down the information in his notepad, then flipped to a clean page and tore it out.

“Here.” He set it on the counter between them and drew a quick matrix, with Brenda’s name in the first of the top columns. “We know she took a long lunch on both Monday and Wednesday, so she had opportunity to commit both murders.”

“Theoretically.”

Next he wrote Nan Walker’s name. “She was working at the time of her husband’s death, but was out for lunch when Daniel was killed. Her son was in Kingston when Walker died, but was back home when Daniel was killed. Lorne Thackray had no alibi for either.”

Trista looked down at the chart. Nan Walker—cross, checkmark. Jason Walker—cross, checkmark. Lorne Thackray—checkmark, checkmark.

“What about Sylvia?” She got up to refill their coffee then sat down again.

“Sylvia.” Morgan made a checkmark, then a cross. “She told me she was shopping Monday, but I haven’t found anyone who remembers seeing her. Wednesday, however, she was at your office.”

“Why are Lorne Thackray and Jason Walker on your list? I thought you were pretty sure Jerry and Daniel were killed by their lover?”

“Their lover, or someone impersonating their lover. The descriptions we got from both clerks were of a woman wearing a hat and a large trench coat. Don’t you think it might be possible for a man—if he wasn’t too large—to impersonate a woman in that getup? Jason is a slender young man, and Lorne Thackray has a high-pitched voice.” Morgan ran his hands through his hair, a sure sign that he was tired. Trista picked up on it right away.

“You need to go home and get a decent night’s sleep.”

“Yeah. But first I need to eat. How about you? Have you had dinner?”

“No. But I have some steaks on hand. And I could make a salad.”

In the back of her mind she’d hoped he would stay. Now she took the New York strips out of the fridge and set them on the counter.

Morgan pulled the plate closer to himself. “You’d better leave the cooking of these to me. In fact, why don’t you sit back and relax.”

When she tried to ignore him, he pushed her into a chair. “Remember, doctor’s orders…”

Trista bit back a smile, and decided to give in. This time. Despite the unfamiliar kitchen, Morgan took charge easily, putting potatoes in the oven to bake and preparing vegetables for a salad.

The evening passed simply, and for once they managed to avoid talking about either the case or their past history. But tension was still in the air. It was in the way they carefully avoided touching each other, and in the overpolite way they worded their comments and requests.

On the sofa after dinner, over brandies, they finally began to feel more comfortable. Morgan slouched down, relaxing his head against the back of the sofa and putting his sock feet up on the coffee table.

“Do you get the feeling we’re walking on eggs around here? I’ve never heard so many thank-yous.”

“We’ve been through a lot. The murders. That scene in the hospital…” Trista stared at the contents of her glass, sloshing the liquid along the sides, almost, but not quite, up to the rim. She played with her drink because it gave her something to do. And something to look at besides Morgan.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Morgan said slowly, giving the impression that each word was gingerly selected. “Trying to figure out how two normally intelligent people managed to screw things up so badly.”

“Don’t feel bad. At least you weren’t the psychologist.”

“A psychologist who is human.” Morgan’s gaze was gentle. “I don’t know if anything could have prepared us for losing Andrew.”

“No.” She took another swallow of brandy. The warmth was comforting. Being with Morgan was comforting. “What did you do after I left?”

She’d always wondered, but never felt she had the right to ask.

“I stayed in the house, hoping you’d come back.”

His voice, raw with emotion, rasped her conscience, and she tightened her hold on her glass.

“Once the divorce was finalized, I went through what I call my bar phase. I sold the house and moved to a rental. And spent whatever time I wasn’t working, drinking. That lasted a few months before I realized it would be more productive to spend those spare hours in the gym so that I could fall into bed exhausted every night.”

Trista swallowed, then glanced down into her drink. “And women? Has there been someone new?”

She didn’t know what answer she’d expected, but she could tell from Morgan’s pause that he had something to tell.

“About a year ago, I had a relationship…”

Her gaze swung toward him. He was sitting upright now, feet planted firmly on either side of him, leaning over the glass he was cupping in his hands. She waited for him to continue.

“Remember that crown attorney you always said had a thing for me?”

Trista felt as if he’d punched her in the stomach. “Sydney Jordan?”

He nodded. “We saw each other for a few months. Maybe six.”

“What happened?” She leaned forward, waiting for the answer. She’d known she’d been right about that woman. And Morgan had said she was imagining things…

“She asked me to move in with her. I admit a part of me was tempted. I didn’t like being on my own, and being with her deadened a lot of my pain. But I knew that wasn’t fair to her. She kept saying things would change, that I’d get over…everything…and come to love her, eventually. But it just didn’t feel right that way.”

Trista blinked to hold back her tears. “What a terrible mess I’ve made of both our lives.”

In a flash he was beside her, his arm over her shoulder. “Don’t start blaming yourself again, Trista. It isn’t that simple and you know it.”

“Maybe not. But other couples manage to survive the death of a child. Why couldn’t we?”

“I don’t think—” Morgan’s next words were cut off by the sound of the phone. They stared at each other for a few seconds. At the second ring Morgan stood and walked toward the window. “Go ahead and get it.”

What had he been about to say? Could he really not blame her for the breakup of their marriage?

“Hello?” She picked up the portable phone in the kitchen and sank onto a stool. With the open layout of the apartment, she could see Morgan pace the length of the living room.

The voice at the other end of the line identified herself as one of Trista’s patients. Turning her attention from Morgan, Trista forced herself to listen carefully as the woman told her about a recent crisis in her professional life. The problem was complicated and Trista wasn’t aware of how much time had gone by before she finally hung up. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to see that a full thirty minutes had passed.

She found Morgan horizontal on the couch, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a slow and easy rhythm. He was sound asleep.

Knowing how little rest he’d had this past week, she didn’t rouse him. Carefully, she covered him with the afghan, then turned out the light and went to bed herself.

MORGAN AWOKE the next morning, clueing in on his unusual surroundings slowly. He wasn’t in his bed, or sitting in his car, or at his desk, or in any of the usual places he slept. He was on a sofa. Trista’s sofa. He rubbed his eyes and then sat up, remembering that she’d gone to answer the phone. He’d obviously fallen asleep shortly after that.

Looking down at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was already seven. He hadn’t had so many hours of uninterrupted sleep since this case had begun. He stood up and neatly folded the blanket that had covered him before going to the windows and pulling open the curtains. Brilliant sunshine greeted him.

He was tempted to go to work without waking Trista, but he didn’t want to leave her without the dead bolt fastened, and there was no way he could do that from outside the door without a key. Tentatively he walked down the short hall to her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He gave it a gentle push and it slid wide open. Trista was still asleep, half under the covers and half out of them, the way he remembered.

She was sleeping on her stomach, her pillow a mass of auburn curls. A bare shoulder, its whiteness emphasized by the contrast with a thin black spaghetti strap, was visible below the curls, but her arm was tucked out of sight beneath the pillow. One long, shapely leg had worked its way out of the covers, baring a black silk-covered hipbone, and a glimpse of skin-white midriff.

Swallowing hard, Morgan took a step backward, about to beat a hasty retreat from the temptation in front of him. Trista had changed many things, like the way she decorated and the way she wore her hair, but she obviously had the same tastes in lingerie. He put his hand on the door, about to pull it closed behind him, when a hand withdrew from under the pillow, tunneled into the mop of unruly hair, and revealed one hazel eye, the straight line of her nose and the softness of her lips. Her cheek—the one he could see—was a sleep-flushed, peachy-gold color.

“Good morning,” she said in a voice one octave lower than her normal speaking voice.

Morgan cleared his throat, aware of his heart hammering in his chest, of other parts of his body responding to the arousing image she presented.

“Sorry about falling asleep on you,” he apologized. “But thanks for the use of the sofa.” Even while his mind was urging him to say goodbye and to remind her to close the dead bolt behind him, he heard himself say, “French toast still your favorite?”

Trista’s leg beat a hasty retreat under the covers as she rolled into a half-reclined position, covers clutched protectively to her chest. “You don’t need to make me breakfast.”

“No. But I’m hungry,” he lied. He didn’t know why, but he liked the thought of cooking for her. She’d become too thin…

“In that case, go ahead. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Back in the kitchen, he looked inside the cupboard where he’d seen Trista keep her coffee. It felt nice to be putting two scoops of coffee into the pot instead of one.

He’d just flipped the brew switch when a sound from behind made him turn. Trista was standing at the kitchen counter, wearing an incredibly ugly pink fuzzy housecoat that looked big enough for two of her. Her hair was still a tangle of curls around her head, and she was yawning. It was all he could do not to draw her into his arms and kiss her.

“Sorry!” She laughed as another yawn overtook her. “I wanted to check that you were finding everything.”

“I’m doing fine,” he assured her. “Why don’t you go ahead and have a shower and get dressed while I shake up some food here.”

Nodding, she turned and left the room, and Morgan returned his attention to the kitchen. As he puttered about the unfamiliar room, trying to locate the frying pan, a bowl, the vanilla, he listened to the sounds coming from down the hall. They were wonderfully familiar and comforting. The drumming of water in the shower, followed by the blast of a hair dryer. Then a door opened and he could hear a closet door running along its track, the sound of metal hangers scraping against each other.

For a moment there was silence, and he imagined the pink robe falling to Trista’s feet. First she would slip into a pair of delicate silk panties, then she would put on a little lacy bra, hardly more than a strip of sheer fabric…

Morgan whipped the eggs furiously. After all that had happened these past few days, he had no idea where things stood between the two of them. There was only one thing he knew for sure, and that was that he was still attracted to her. He couldn’t look at her without wanting her.

Now wasn’t the time to do anything about it, though. He wasn’t sure if there’d ever be a time. They’d started to talk, that was good. But did Trista still love him the way he loved her? Somehow he doubted it.

Ten minutes later Trista was ready, dressed casually in jeans and a matching denim shirt. The clothes hugged her long, lean body, and Morgan thought keeping his distance was going to be easier said than done.

“Delicious as always,” Trista said after her first mouthful of the toasted, egg-dipped bread.

“Good. Eat up.” Morgan kept an eye on her as he ate his own breakfast. Every time she finished a slice, he gave her another. After her third helping, he finally felt satisfied. “Well, you must be feeling better. That’s the most food I’ve seen you eat all week.”

Trista pushed her plate aside and reached for her coffee with a sigh of satisfaction. “I told you I was fully recovered.”

“If you feel this great now, just think how wonderful you’re going to feel after another day of rest and relaxation,” Morgan said as he cleared the table.

Trista brought her coffee mug down on the table with a definitive thud. “Who said anything about another day of rest and relaxation?”

“I believe it was that guy in the white coat—” Morgan snapped his fingers “—ah, yes, the doctor, wasn’t he?”

Trista shook her head. “He was just trying to avoid a malpractice suit. I’m fine. I don’t need any more rest. In fact, if I have to spend another day alone in this apartment you’ll have to cart me off to an entirely different sort of hospital in the morning.”

“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Morgan cajoled. “What if I was to come over later and make you a killer dinner?”

She only hesitated a second before saying, “That would be good. But at least let me look over the files you brought with you. It should be safe for you to leave them here now that you’ve changed the locks.”

MORGAN HAD RELUCTANTLY agreed to leave the files, but in the end, he might as well not have bothered. Trista couldn’t find anything more relevant to the homicide case in the Hawthornes’ file than she had in the Walkers’. It was so frustrating. If someone was willing to break and enter to get them, there had to be something there.

By midmorning Trista was ready to go for a stroll in High Park, but Sylvia called just as she was about to walk out the door.

“My in-laws are driving me crazy,” she said. “Especially my mother-in-law. All she can do is whine and complain about all she’s lost. What about me? They’ve been here since Friday morning, and I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Maybe you should try and get away for a while. Do you have a friend’s house you could spend a few quiet hours at?”

“Actually I called your office yesterday hoping I could get in to see you. But you’re closed. Is this because of Daniel’s death?”

Trust Sylvia to be perfectly blunt. “In part,” Trista hedged.

“According to this morning’s paper, the police think Daniel’s murder might be connected to Jerry Walker’s. Which is so strange, because I’m sure my husband didn’t know Jerry. Although we did meet the Walkers, briefly once, at a fundraiser for Suni Choopra. Of course you know, because you were there. That’s how we met you.”

Trista’s heart pounded. Suni Choopra. The politician, her friend, was another link between the two men. She should have thought of it herself, since she had met both the Walkers and the Hawthornes through her. Of course, she met a lot of her clients that way.

“Sylvia, if you need to talk to me, I could meet you at a restaurant for an hour or so.”

“Really? I’d appreciate that. But how about my house? The in-laws have gone out to visit Daniel’s godparents. Could you be here in half-an-hour?”

Trista agreed and hung up, feeling she’d been manipulated somehow.

MORGAN LEFT Walker’s Hardware, amazed that the store was as profitable as it was. Located just west of Bathurst Avenue, it was definitely not in the trendy area of Queen Street. While the store itself was relatively neat, with a tidy exterior, across the street garbage was piled up in front of a secondhand appliance store, and colored neon lights blazed in the window of a decrepit-looking tattoo studio.

Morgan got into his car and thought of the interesting meetings he’d just had with Thackray, Jason and Nan. His timing had been perfect, interrupting a territorial battle between Jason and Thackray, proving that both men wanted control of the stores much more desperately than either one of them, or Nan, had let on. Jason’s emotional words about carrying on for his father’s sake hadn’t fooled Morgan for one minute.

As for Thackray, he’d noticed Nan seemed almost as protective of him as she did of her son. Was it possible that Jerry hadn’t been the only one cheating in that marriage? Boy, wouldn’t that make things interesting. He made a note to get some follow-up work done in that direction.

One disappointment was that he hadn’t found any connection to Daniel Hawthorne. Thackray swore he’d never heard of the man, and Morgan was tempted to believe him.

Morgan turned left onto Spadina Avenue, tires bumping as they passed over the streetcar tracks. Crowds of shoppers, determined not to pay retail, were thrumming along the sidewalks, moving from one discount outlet to the next. He remembered weekends when he and Trista had been among them. They’d shop for an hour, which was usually all he could stand, before going to one of the trendy bistros further east on Queen Street.

He drove past the gray stone towers of Casa Loma, leaving the buzzing downtown, and his memories, behind him. He headed for Forest Hill, and the Hawthorne address. A message from Sylvia had come while he was at the hardware store. It had been vague, mentioning that she’d found something and he’d better come over as soon as possible. He turned onto the broad, tree-lined street where she lived and pulled up in front of the house. Sylvia answered the door before he had time to knock.

“Good morning, Detective.” She sounded slightly out of breath, as if she’d raced to the door.

Morgan nodded, stepping forward. “I got your message. I understand you found something?”

“Yes.” Sylvia stepped aside to allow him to enter. “My counselor, Trista Emerson, is here, as well.”

Trista? Morgan paused, then frowned when he noticed Sylvia watching him curiously. What the hell was Trista doing here? Once inside, he saw her standing by the window. Her cheeks flushed as she saw him. Obviously Sylvia hadn’t mentioned she was expecting him.

“Hello, Trista.” He hated how formal the words sounded in this elegant, yet uninviting room.

“You two know each other?”

“Yes.” Trista spoke quietly. “Actually, we used to be married.”

“Really?” Sylvia crossed her arms over her barrel chest and glanced back and forth between them.

“Did you have something to show me?” Morgan repeated impatiently.

“Yes. It was a note, included in Daniel’s personal papers.” Sylvia pulled a folded sheet of paper out from a side pocket in her black sheath dress.

Morgan unfolded the paper, not surprised to see the same rose border that had graced Jerry Walker’s note. Typed below—by the same manual typewriter that Walker’s note had been typed on, he was willing to bet—was a brief message. I need to see you this week. Same place, same time. xoxo.

He felt the familiar quickening of his pulse at finding another piece of the puzzle. These notes had to prove, beyond a doubt, that the two men were killed by the same woman.

He looked up to find Sylvia’s eyes, dark and intense, focused on him.

“Find her, Detective. Find her and make her pay.”

Morgan glanced over at Trista. Her face was unnaturally white, and she was propping herself against the wall. Was her head bothering her? Or was it something else? She was staring at the paper in his hand with the oddest expression.