Taylor didn’t expect a hero’s welcome. She didn’t want one. She just wanted to slip into the CJC and bust open the Wolff murder. And she wanted Aiden to disappear from their lives.

Instead, news vans lined the streets. Reporters jostled with cameramen looking for the best angle. The national news trucks were parked nose to tail along 2nd Avenue, their remote satellites like a string of herons, balanced on one leg and pushing their crests into the noonday sky.

“Well, at least we know you’ve got the sympathy of the people,” Baldwin said.

“Yeah, that’s great. I want the media on my side. This is just going to piss Delores off more. And when the Oompa gets mad, she gets even. I’m sure she’s in there plotting all the ways she can make my life miserable. I think we’re going to have to circle around, sneak in through the parking lot next door.”

“No. I think you should walk the gauntlet.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Walk through there like a queen, smile, wave, and say ‘no comment’ in your most gracious Southern style. It’s a nice PR move on your part.”

“I don’t particularly want to be on the air anymore. And it will give Aiden a target. Surely you don’t want that.”

“You’ve been maligned, and they want to make it right for you. Let them. He’s not going to do anything in the middle of this crowd. Trust me.”

“The media wants to make it right for me? Are you high? They’d just as soon cut off my leg as paint me in a favorable light.”

But she parked in the gravel by the back door. The scrum grew, microphones growing out of the crowd like black mushrooms. They stepped from the car and she was blinded by the flashbulbs. For one insane moment, she thought of what a celebrity’s life must be like, and decided that all this constant attention would suck.

She waved, smiled, ignored the shouted questions, and Baldwin held the door for her. The inside was pleasantly quiet. They followed the green arrows in the linoleum floor to the homicide office. Fitz, Marcus and Lincoln were all there. Hugs and claps on the back were exchanged, then Fitz pointed toward her office.

“The Oompa was here a few minutes ago. She wants you. Hurry up, wouldja? We’ve got loads to go over with you. Lincoln’s about to blow this wide open.”

“Okay, okay.” With a smile, she ducked into her office. On her desk was a handwritten note on a Post-it, the writing surprisingly crabbed.

Please see me immediately. Captain Norris.

Taylor raised an eyebrow at Baldwin. “Let’s go see what the wicked witch wants.”

Delores seemed taller in her chair and Taylor wondered if she was sitting on a phone book. She’d been talking for the past five minutes, but after she said they were discounting the allegations of witness intimidation, Taylor had tuned her out. There was nothing she could do to her now—Taylor had been cleared of the charge of murder publicly, privately and everywhere in between—but she was still droning on about professional responsibility and taking precautions in life, blah, blah, blah.

Taylor didn’t start listening in earnest until she heard the word shield, then focused on the Oompa’s ridiculously tiny hand. She took the gold with grace, but didn’t feel complete until Norris had returned her Glock as well. Not that she’d been cruising around unarmed, but having that particular gun on her hip meant something to her.

She turned to go, but the Oompa cleared her throat viciously. Taylor looked down at her expectant face.

“Yes?”

“Don’t you want to say something?”

Taylor was thrust back in time. Her mother had said that to her when she was a child, the tone readily recognized as a mild scold when she hadn’t said thank you to a stranger showing a kindness. She would be damned first.

Taylor stared Norris down for a moment. Carelessly, she replied, “No,” and walked out of the office.

Baldwin was waiting in the hall, his face a question mark. She just tapped her waist, where she’d already secured her weapon and her shield. She didn’t speak, just kept walking down to the stairwell. Once they were inside, Taylor started to laugh.

“Dear God, that woman’s patronizing looks just get me every time. She really thinks she’s the bee’s knee.”

“You should still be careful around her. She’s got a stinger.”

“Well, she can take that stinger and shove it up her ass. I know she’s got it in for me, but I can’t change who I am or how I work just to stay on her good side. I’ve dealt with women like her before. They are so all-fired busy trying to prove themselves that they lose the respect of everyone around them. She’ll screw up. I’m just going to stay out of her way from now on.”

They had settled in to work, comfortable and secure, when the call came.

Taylor was in her office, the door open, getting briefed by Marcus on what he and Lincoln had uncovered about the Wolffs thus far. The films, the money, the double life. When she looked past Marcus, she could see Lincoln’s leg jumping with nervous energy. He had Corinne Wolff’s computer on his desk, Todd Wolff’s laptop on the desk next to him. He was flying through the files, nodding, saying yes, yes aloud every couple of moments.

Fitz had been called out on a murder, but promised to get back as soon as possible to help. Marcus had just started going over the gas receipts that Wolff had been so shocked to hear they could easily trace when her outside line rang. Taylor answered the phone, was surprised to hear Fitz calling. He’d only been gone twenty minutes, couldn’t have had time to do much at the crime scene.

“Hey, what’s up?”

His voice was as grave as she’d ever heard it. “I need you.”

She didn’t question why, just asked where he was.

“The Parthenon. Bring Baldwin. I’ve got something you both have to see. Someone’s sending you a message.”