shielded where she'd tucked the folder under her jacket.

If Chandler noticed, she gave no sign. "Something I forgot to ask you. We have a sketch artist on the way in for another case. If there's anything else you can remember, anyone who might stand out as a possible suspect, I was hoping you might—"

"There's not." Georgia forced her voice to remain even. "I mean, like I said, the last time I was at the house was a couple weeks ago, and I don't remember much about that night. There's nobody who—" She stopped. Her throat suddenly felt parched. "Sorry. That's all I know."

Inspector Chandler's face softened a fraction. "We're exploring other avenues as well, obviously. The list of names you gave us should prove helpful. At the verythink about it.

He slunk across the room to his desk. He'd no sooner sunk into his chair than the phone rang. Darius muffled a groan and picked it up. "MacMillian and deCompostela, deCompostela speaking."

He barely registered the voice on the other end. Exhaustion dulled his senses, clouded his thoughts. The stack of papers in front of him blurred. A woman's voice droned over the speaker. His eyelids started to drift. Maybe he should put his head down. Just for a moment. Just for a quick—

The door to his office banged open. Darius' eyes shot wide. Georgia stood in the doorway, hair wild, as if a strong wind had blown her in. The leather was back. So was the denim. She leaned against the door frame.

Darius blinked away the