ROBYN

Portia wasn’t in the washroom. Robyn even peeked under the stalls for her Jimmy Choos, ignoring the outraged chirps of the chorus line reapplying lipstick at the mirrors. That row of young women, shoulder to shoulder, gave Robyn a good idea where Portia was.

While her client didn’t mind having her drug problems splashed across the tabloids, she wasn’t nearly as open about letting people actually see her using. If the washroom was busy, she’d go in search of a more private place.

Robyn could just head back to the club and wait, but walking—and thinking—was clearing her head.

The first two doors she reached were labeled Private, which to Portia would scream privacy. But both were locked. Robyn continued on. As she neared the end, something clattered around the corner.

She froze, listening.

A low moan. She envisioned rounding the corner to see a couple. She cleared her throat—loudly—and listened for muttered oaths or exclamations. A moment of silence, then running footsteps. She rounded the corner to see the exit door fly open, a woman’s figure disappearing through it.

She started going after her, then replayed the pounding footsteps and knew they hadn’t come from Portia’s four-inch heels. She looked down the hall. There was only one door—half open, dark inside. She guessed that’s where the woman—or couple—had fled from, but she should check it for Portia, just to be thorough.

Stepping through the darkened doorway, her foot knocked something. She bent, fingers closing around metal.

A gun.

Her startled brain gave the command to drop it, but she stopped herself. With her luck, someone would find it and use it in a crime . . . with her prints all over it. Better to find a staff member and hand it in.

As she turned to go, a moan sounded behind her. The hairs on her neck rose. She squinted into the dark room. A pale figure lay crumpled on the floor.

“R-Rob?” Portia’s voice was a papery whisper.

Robyn raced forward and dropped beside her, letting the gun clatter to the floor. Her gaze snagged on the dark stain spreading over Portia’s blouse.

“Cell . . .” Portia whispered. “Cell phone . . .”

“Right.” Robyn fumbled for her purse, digging out a handful of crap and dumping it before finding her cell. “I’m calling 911.”

“No, my . . .”

Portia’s voice trailed off in a rattle. Then she went still. Robyn shook Portia’s shoulder. She didn’t blink, just stared. Sightless. Lifeless.

Robyn lifted her phone, fingers trembling as she dialed 911. Then she remembered the figure running out the back door. Portia’s killer had just left. Robyn might still be able to catch her, or at least get a better look at her.

The 911 dispatcher answered. As Robyn ran from the room, she quickly explained what had happened—that Portia Kane was shot, wasn’t breathing and needed an ambulance. She gave the location as she raced out the exit door. It was shutting behind her when she heard a scream.

Outside the room where Portia lay, a server was looking straight at Robyn. Their eyes met. The girl screamed again, backpedaling, her hands flying up.

“No!” Robyn called. “I—”

She lunged to catch the door. It shut with a clang. She grabbed for the handle. There wasn’t one—it was solid metal. She banged a couple of times, but she knew it was useless—that girl wasn’t about to open the door to a presumed killer.

Robyn remembered her call. The dispatcher was gone. She started redialing, then stopped. She’d given everything they needed. The best thing she could do right now was keep going and try to catch a glimpse of Portia’s killer. She could explain the misunderstanding later.

She took off down the alley.

WELL, THAT HADN’T WORKED out quite as she envisioned . . .

Robyn stood at the end of an alley, looking up and down a road packed bumper to bumper with taxis and limos, all jockeying for curb space to disgorge their celebrity passengers. The sidewalks were just as full with people jockeying for a look at those passengers. A hundred feet away, a flashing sign announced the opening of Silhouette, the newest “see-and-be-seen scene” in L.A.

She scanned the crowd. Not a single bloodstained psycho killer in sight.

She shook her head, stifling a laugh. Ridiculous to think she actually could have caught Portia’s murderer. The woman had a good five-minute head start. Robyn wasn’t even sure it had been a woman. Maybe a slender young man?

Still, she kept looking down the street. The killer had to have come out here. Robyn had followed the first alley to a second, which led to a service lane blocked by a truck. The only other route had been a third alley . . . the one that ended here, at this road.

She started stepping out, then stopped herself. Speaking of bloodstained potential killers . . . Robyn’s knees were red from kneeling beside Portia’s body.

Portia’s body.

Robyn took a deep breath. She hadn’t always liked Portia, but there’d been something there, some spark of potential. If only she’d nurtured it, pushed for Portia to go to that charity event tonight instead.

If only she’d told Damon to stay the night in Pittsburgh instead of coming back so late . . .

Robyn took another deep breath. This wasn’t about Damon. It was about Portia, and the best way she could help her was to get back to Bane and tell the police what she’d seen.

ROBYN TOOK HER TIME going back. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining why she’d left the scene. She imagined the officers rolling their eyes at the dumb blonde who’d raced off, trying to catch a killer. She’d had no intention of catching her—just catching a better look. But it still sounded a little foolish. Okay, a lot foolish. File under “seemed like a good idea at the time.”

As she rounded the corner, she caught a flash of motion. A black-clad figure darted behind a Dumpster. Robyn froze and replayed her memory of the fleeing killer. A slender, light-haired figure in black pants and a dark shirt.

Robyn took a slow step backward. Then she stopped.

Just a look, that was all she needed. Better yet, a picture. She pulled out her cell phone and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under her shoes. She reached down and tugged them off. Then she crept along the Dumpster until she heard the quick shallow breaths of someone trying to control panic.

Robyn turned her cell phone around, camera lens pointing out. Then, finger on the button, she reached around the corner of the bin . . .

Snap!

A choked gasp. As Robyn wheeled to run, she saw a shadow lunge at her.

Thwack.

Something hit the back of Robyn’s head. She spun as a shadowy figure raised a chunk of concrete. It caught Robyn on the cheek. She stumbled back, tripped and went down. As she fell, the cell phone started to slip. She grasped it tighter, pulling her arm under her and landing facedown on it.

“Did you hear that?” said a distant voice. “Call for backup.”

A radio squawked. Footfalls sounded in the next alley. Robyn’s assailant let her go and ran.

Robyn scrambled to her feet. She slipped and recovered, but when she looked up, her attacker was gone. She heard an officer radioing for backup, saying that they might have found the suspect. Robyn almost called out, saying that their suspect was getting away. Then she remembered who those officers were looking for: her.

She looked down at herself, bloodied and battered. A bump on the head, a scrape on the cheek—proof she’d been in a fight, maybe with Portia. If those officers found her, they wouldn’t keep looking for the fleeing killer; they’d presume they already had her.

Robyn took off.