As usual, I owe many thanks to many people.

Major Donald F. Burbrink II of the Louisville Metro Police Department patiently answered endless questions. Tom Schneider was my go-to expert on everything Chicago.

My sincere thanks to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph-Walsh, and to my meticulous and skillful editors, Jennifer Hershey and Susan Sandon.

I also want to acknowledge all those in the industry who work so hard on my behalf. At Random House in the United States: Gina Centrello, Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Scott Shannon, Susan Corcoran, Cindy Murray, Debbie Aroff, Cynthia Lasky, Beth Pearson, and Anne Speyer. Across the pond: Aslan Byrne, Glenn O’Neill, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, and Sonny Marr. At Simon and Schuster, north of the forty-ninth: Kevin Hanson. At William Morris Endeavor Entertainment: Sabrina Giglio, Erika Niven, Tracy Fisher, and Raffaella De Angelis.

I appreciate the support of my tireless assistant, Melissa Fish.

Any errors in the book are all my fault.

To my readers, I hope you enjoy reading about Sunday Night as much as I enjoyed creating her. Thanks for making the effort to find me at my signings and appearances, to visit my website (kathyreichs.com), to share your thoughts on Facebook (kathyreichsbooks), to follow me on Twitter (@KathyReichs) and Pinterest (kathyreichs), and to tag me in your photos on Instagram (kathyreichs). The stories I write are all for you. Thanks so much for allowing me to do what I love.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781448185009

Version 1.0

Published by William Heinemann 2017

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © Temperance Brennan, L.P. 2017
Cover image © Getty Images

Kathy Reichs has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published in Great Britain by William Heinemann in 2017

William Heinemann
The Penguin Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

www.penguin.co.uk

William Heinemann is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780434021116

Contents

ALSO BY KATHY REICHS

Two Nights

The Bone Collection (novellas)

Speaking in Bones

Bones Never Lie

Bones of the Lost

Bones Are Forever

Flash and Bones

Spider Bones (first published as Mortal Remains in UK)

206 Bones

Devil Bones

Bones to Ashes

Break No Bones

Cross Bones

Monday Mourning

Bare Bones

Grave Secrets

Fatal Voyage

Deadly Décisions

Death du Jour

Déjà Dead

YOUNG ADULT FICTION (WITH BRENDAN REICHS)

Trace Evidence

Terminal

Exposure

Code

Seizure

Virals

MY RIGHT-HAND NEIGHBOR thinks I’m crazy, so she brings me cheese.

I heard the one-two crunch of her boots on the path. A pause, then the oyster shells crunched again.

I lifted a corner of the towel covering my kitchen window. She was already five yards off, a shadow-laced smudge among the live oaks.

Six years, and I still didn’t know her name. Didn’t want to. Had no desire to exchange recipes or comments on the tides.

I cracked the door, snagged the plastic-wrapped package, and shoved it into the fridge.

Truth is, I don’t mind the cheese. What I hate are the sharp little eyes plumbing my soul. That and the pity.

And the goats. When the wind is right, the bleating bullies into my dreams and I’m back in Helmand with the blood and the dust.

Or maybe I’m reading the old gal wrong. Maybe the cheese is a bribe so I don’t murder Billie or Nanny.

My left-hand neighbor hanged himself from the end of his pier. His dog curled up and died by his head. Double suicide. Maggot jamboree by the time the bodies were found.

Arthur was a wood-carver, Prince a collie. I prefer their silent company. Fits my two-pronged plan for life. Need no one. Feel nothing.

I ran six miles and put in time with my free weights. A beer and a sandwich for lunch, then I spent the afternoon shooting Cheer-wine cans off a dune at Gray Bay. The beach was deserted and not far away. Nothing is.

Goat Island is a skinny strip of sand just a monkey’s spit wide, uninhabited until Henry and Blanche Holloway rowed over to escape the stresses of 1930s Charleston. Legend has it they spent decades in a hole covered with driftwood and palm fronds.

Now that sounds warp-speed psycho to me.

But Henry and Blanche had one thing right. For solitude, Goat Island is the cat’s meow. Even today there’s no ferry, no paved road, ergo no cars or trucks. No access except by private boat. Outsiders rarely find reason to come.

The few scrappy residents live in cottages cobbled together from wreckage ignored or tossed ashore by Hurricane Hugo. My porch roof is the ass end of a disemboweled rowboat. Goat Lady’s shed started life as Arthur’s latrine.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t live hole-in-the-ground au naturel batty. I’ve got electricity, a septic tank. All the advantages.

The downside to Goat is the spring mosquitoes, some large enough to carry off St. Bernards. By six the bloodsuckers were organizing into squadrons, preparing to strike. Over and out for moi.

I was home rubbing aloe on bites when the bell above the stove jangled its jerry-rigged warning.

The moths did their frenzied dance in my chest.

I dug the shotgun from my duffel, thumbed shells into the chamber, and crept to a window. The sun was low, flaming the waterway orange and making me squint.

Far below, a figure crouched on my dock, securing lines. Both human and boat were featureless black cutouts against the tangerine glow.

My grip tightened on the stock, ready to pump.

The figure straightened and headed my way. Male. Barrel-chested. Not big, but muscular in a scrawny-arms-and-legs way.

I recognized the confident drill-sergeant stride. The contour of the ragged Tilley hat. Not vintage, just old.

Shit!

I snapped into action. Ammo out and into the duffel, guns into the closet. Liquor bottles, glasses, and dirty dishes under the sink. Yesterday’s clothes and flip-flops heave-ho into the bedroom.

His knock was hard enough to rattle the screen in its jamb. One last look around, then I hurried to undo the inner door locks. Two, then the deadbolt.

He stood with hands on hips, looking left toward the marsh. His eyes were blue, his face weathered as the month of March.

“What’s wrong?” Mouth dry. No one ever came uninvited. No one ever came.

“Something’s gotta be wrong for me to drop by?” Gravelly. Gruff.

“Of course not.” Plastic smile molding my face. “You usually give a heads-up.”

“How? Send a pigeon?”

I said nothing.

“You gonna leave me out here till I need a transfusion?”

I lifted the hook and stepped back. Beau entered, gaze skimming. A cop gaze. One spin around the cottage, then it settled on me, running the same critique I resent in my neighbor.

The scar burned an itchy path below my right eye.

“I didn’t recognize the boat.” Concentrating on normal.

“Getting the gel coat repaired. But what? You were maybe expecting Bowie?”

“He died.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna offer a man a beer?”

I got two Palmetto Ambers from the fridge and we moved to the living room, a small hexagon accessed through a wood-trimmed arch. Ceiling fan, sofa, two threadbare chairs, three beat-to-hell tables. No need for décor. Only Beau and one other were allowed in my home.

Beau dropped onto the sofa, sloughed off the hat, and took a long pull of his beer. His hair was gray and buzzed to the scalp. Had been since I’d known him. Probably since his mama first shaved it with clippers at a kitchen chair.

I sat opposite, knees jutting, feet under my bum. The five-window view wrapped us like an IMAX featuring the Atlantic seaboard.

A picture formed in my head. Beau with a younger man’s face. Hiding his frustration, his pride. Not pleading, but close. Asking a fellow cop to give his foster kid yet another break. Red-blue pulsing his badge and the honky-tonk shack at his back.

Beau raised his right ankle to his left knee. Cleared his throat. Levered the foot up and down several times.

“Had an interesting call today.” Eyes on a Top-Sider as old as the hat. “Lady name of Opaline Drucker.”

That triggered a ping in some remote brain chip.

“Who is she?”

“I’ll leave the telling of that for after.”

“After what?”

“Hearing me out.” Tone a million miles from drop-by casual. “Mrs. Drucker has a problem. I think you can help her.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Beau took another swig, then set the bottle on the floor. Un-crossing his legs, he leaned forward and looked me full in the eye. “You’re in a bad place, Sunnie.”

“I’m happy as a clam out here.” Arms uplifted to emphasize the level of my joy.

“We both know that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I get it. You overreacted, you killed the bastard.”

“PSO ruled it a justified shoot.” Curt. The incident was the final straw for the Professional Standards Office, Charleston PD’s version of internal affairs. The end of my career in law enforcement. And ancient history.

“Damn straight it was.” Beau flicked dirt from jeans too faded to qualify as blue. Maybe a bug. “The scumbag nearly took out your eye.”

“No way I’d ride a desk.” Cheeks burning.

“Hell no. I’d have quit, too.”

“You here to remind me what a loser I am? First the Corps, then the job? News flash. I already know.” Meaner than I intended. Or not.

“Knock it off.”

“Get to the point.”

“It’s been six years.”

“Ah. You’ve come to enforce some kind of self-pity statute.” Arm-wrapping my chest and tucking my hands into my pits. “Oh, wait. You’re off the force, too.”

Beau breathed deeply. Exhaled through his nose. Chose his words.

“You can’t hide on this island, talking to no one, doing God knows what to yourself.”

“Yes. I can.”

“You’ve withdrawn from the whole goddamned human race.”

“I have a bestie that lives in my bedside table. Want to meet him?”

“See. There you go. The least little pressure and out come the jokes.”

“I have you.”

“I’m about all you have.”

“And you think I’m nuts.” God knows I did.

“Of course you’re not nuts.” Frustrated, trying for patient. “But you can’t just sit out here doing nothing.”

“I run, I shoot, I fish, I read.” Gut rolled tight as an armadillo under threat.

“It’s not normal.”

“I’ve tried normal. Too many rules. Too much constraint.” Too much rage? I’m a big girl. I can own it now.

“Why are you so goddamned stubborn?”

“It’s a gift.”

I detest explaining myself. To Beau. To the therapists with their gentle eyes and nonprobing questions that probe. To anyone. I changed the subject.

“What’s this got to do with Orphaline Drucker?”

“Opaline. I think helping her could benefit you.”

“Wow. I’m your new project.”

Beau ignored that. “Drucker’s granddaughter’s been missing for over a year.”

“Kids run off. They’re famous for it.” I knocked back some beer.

“She was only fifteen.” A beat, then, “Opaline thinks she’s been grabbed by a cult.”

Unbidden, another cerebral barrage. I sent the images to the place where I keep them all buried.

A full minute. Then I said, “Let me get this straight. I’m to be this kid’s savior because I need saving?”

“Something like that.”

Beau’s eyes were now blue-laser-focused on mine. I stared back, every neuron in my brain ordering retreat.

Still, I bit. “Where’s she being held?”

“No one knows.”

Silence on our side of the window screens. On the other, animated gull conversation about crabs or fish. Maybe trash.

“I don’t know shit about finding MPs,” I said.

“You were SERE.” Beau used the military acronym for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape.

“That’s different.” It was. But I got his point.

“And how was it you were chosen to teach those courses?”

“Lottery?”

“Right. And the other intel ‘duties’ we don’t talk about?” Air-hooking quotes around the purposely vague noun.

I took another swallow.

The curtains lifted on a breeze smelling of salt and pluff mud.

The room crept a few nanometers from orange toward amber.

Other memories bubbled up. Uneaten bologna sandwiches, blown-off guitar lessons, a lipstick-ravaged wall, once painted pink to please a teenage girl.

Beau tried hard the three short years that he had me. Never got a thank-you from his surly, copper-haired ward.

“Talk about the kid.” I broke the silence.

“Better you get the facts direct from Opaline.”

“A face-to-face meet?” Blood pulsing in the little shallow beside my collarbone.

“You can use my car.”

Taking my silence as consent, Beau pushed to his feet and handed me a blue-lined page ripped from a spiral notebook. Eyes pointed elsewhere, I flipped it onto the table beside me.

When Beau was gone, I tossed the paper into the wastebasket by my bathroom sink. An icy shower, then I armed the security system, checked for creatures outside my windows, and hit the rack.

Sleep was evasive, which is normal for me. But this was different. I’ve spent so long trying not to think about the past, about those two nights, that my insomniac mind tends to focus on the present. Buy butter. Clean the guns. Change the porch bulb.

That night I was visited by a million ghosts.

Experts say it’s healing to contemplate loss. To talk about it. Bullshit. Revisiting the past makes me nauseous and costs me rest.

After hours of futile twisting in sweat-damp sheets, I got up, padded to the bathroom, and dug Beau’s paper from among the jumble of tissues, Q-tips, and wadded-up hair. A glance at the scrawled address, then I crumpled and returned the page to the discards of my daily toilette.

The living room was dancing with shadows and still as a tomb. I settled on the couch and lowered my lids. Like five black eyes, the hexagon windows watched me force my mind blank.

OPALINE DRUCKER’S HOME occupied one side of a small spur shooting east from Legare Street. The stolid two-story brick Georgian faced off across the cobbles with the only other occupant of Poesie Court, another stolid two-story brick Georgian. Both addresses were South of Broad, a location befitting Opaline’s social status. Which I’d discovered via a quick Internet search.

Neither house gave a rat’s ass about curb appeal. Two windows up, two down, each with shutters to the sides and a flower box below. Both ran narrow and deep, away from the street, and both had double-decker terraces spanning one side. Though mirror-image walls hid what lay behind, I knew each upper terrace overlooked a garden.

I parked and got out of Beau’s Audi. At the thunk of the door, a squirrel hotfooted up the trunk of a magnolia. A tail-twitching pause, then it shot to the ground, cut right, and disappeared into a bed of peonies the size of Rhode Island.

The day was humid and far too warm for April. The air smelled of sun on moss-covered earth and stone. Of grass cut by workers speaking languages other than English.

Somewhere out of sight, a sprinkler spit out a rhythmic tic-tictic. A church bell rang. No other sound broke the stillness. Poesie Court dozed as though traffic and tourists hadn’t yet been invented.

But it went beyond quiet. The little enclave felt like a time warp. Like a place whose inhabitants had for centuries shunned the scrutiny of strangers.

A quick scan of number five, then I headed up the flagstones toward number seven. I could picture the grande dame’s interior, all wainscoting and cornices and carved balustrades. Not my style. But what the hell. I never hold a good balustrade against anyone.

A thumb to the bell triggered a trill worthy of a Vatican chapel. I wondered about the nature of the minion who would answer the door.

The woman who greeted me was black and probably in her sixties. She wore a short-sleeved gray dress with white collar and apron, all starched stiffer than a British upper lip. I gave her my name. She listened, expressionless, eyes never meeting mine.

“Mrs. Drucker is expecting you. Please follow me.”

I did. Across gleaming marble, beneath a convoluted crystal chandelier, past an elaborately designed staircase swirling with great drama toward a second story. Beyond the foyer, we continued down a wood-paneled hall to a set of glass doors at the back of the house.

“Please wait here.” The maid disappeared to announce my presence.

I looked around. More polished marble underfoot. More twisting crystal overhead. Through a partially open door to my right I could see a sliver of grand piano, above it the top half of an oil portrait, a man posing with one hand on his chest. Not a smiley guy.

I checked my image in a full-length mirror to my left. Jeans slim enough to fit my ass with legs long enough to reach my feet. With my height and lack of poundage, finding pants that fit takes serious searching. Not that I care much. White blouse roomy enough to hide the bulge at the small of my back. Hair doing unruly.

I was adjusting my ponytail clip when the maid returned and held the door wide with one fleshy arm. I followed her through to the outside.

A woman sat on a dark wicker sofa at the far end of the terrace, hair a wavery white beacon in shadows cast by flora hanging above her and potted palms flanking her sides. Despite the sticky weather, a patchwork quilt covered the woman’s lap and legs. A small dog, maybe a Pomeranian, slept curled on the quilt. The woman was stroking its back.

The maid crossed to the woman and said, “She here, ma’am.”

The woman showed no indication of having heard. The maid gestured me forward and spoke more loudly. “Mrs. Drucker?”

“There is no need to shout.” Without raising her eyes from the dog.

“Yes, ma’am. Ms. Night—”

“I heard you, Miranda. Lord in heaven, I think my dear dead mama heard you.” The vowels were broad, the voice cool as honey on ice.

“Yes, ma’am. Will y’all be needing something?”

“Have you asked our guest what refreshment she wishes?”

Miranda reoriented one shoulder toward me.

“Water, please,” I said.

Drucker flapped a blue-veined hand, as though swatting a fly. “Bring sweet tea.”

Miranda withdrew, eyes still on her shoes.

“Sit.” The hand indicated a chair, then resumed stroking the Pomeranian. Which, like the maid, didn’t grace me with a glance.

I sat. Seconds passed. A full minute. The dog was a snorer.

“Mrs. Drucker?”

Nothing but stroking and snoring.

“You contacted Beau Beaumonde about a problem you have.”

A tiny breeze toyed with the overhead baskets, tickling the petunia tendrils curling over their rims. I waited what seemed a very long time.

Silence.

“Mrs. Drucker?”

More silence.

I didn’t need this. I stood.

Drucker dragged her gaze from the dog to look up at me. I braced for the predictable. Some were shocked by the scar. Some repulsed. Most, uncomfortable, pretended it wasn’t there. A few stared, kids mostly.

Drucker’s face remained placid. It was what I expected, the flesh pooling below the orbits and sagging along the jawline, the wrinkles far too gentle to fit with the rings on her neck. A plastic surgeon had clearly been working the scene.

It was Drucker’s eyes that startled—red-rimmed near the ducts and lids, with irises so faintly tinted they appeared almost transparent. But it wasn’t the absence of color that chilled me. It was the absence of reaction. Or emotion. Or something I couldn’t identify then. Something I would later come to understand.

“I know who you are,” she said.

Finding the statement odd, I waited.

“Making contact does require diligence. No email. No phone. Really, sweetheart. It is the age of instant communication.”

“You managed.”

“I am a woman not easily deterred.”

“Congratulations.”

“Please sit.”

I did. Immediately regretted it.

“Sunday Night. Such an odd name.”

I felt a prick of annoyance. Not because the comment was untrue. Because I’d heard it so often. I said nothing. The dog slept.

The rheumy eyes looked me over. “I don’t understand your appearance. No makeup, black nails. Is that what’s meant by Goth?”

“OPI Black Onyx.” Knowing that wasn’t her question.

“You’re very tall, young lady. Bless your heart, in today’s world you are considered young. In my day, an unmarried woman of your age was called a spinster.”

“You wished to discuss a problem?”

“I know its origin. Your name, that is. It must have been difficult growing up in such circumstances. No forenames or surnames? Born on a Sunday so that’s what you’re called?” Drucker sniffed in disdain. “Truly inexplicable.”

The annoyance edged up. I drew the prescribed breath. Let it out slowly. Drucker rolled on.

“So very sad. I fear it is the children who suffer most.”

The gnarled hand continued caressing. The dog continued snoring. I continued saying nothing.

“How unbearable to have everyone you know die all in one swoop. To be left alone at a most delicate point in your life.”

“This is clearly a mistake.” I reached for my purse.

“Please, Miss Night. Spare me the drama. Given sufficient resources, anyone’s past is knowable.”

“Then use those resources to find someone else.” I started to rise. Which this time woke the dog. Drucker shushed it. The dog resettled, chin on its paws, sleepy eyes on me.

“Given your history, I believe you are most suitable for my purposes. But I’ve heard that you have a temper. That you are impetuous, impatient, and very poor at taking direction.”

“Is that so?” It was.

“My dear Miss Night. I’ve known Perry Beaumonde a very long time. Beau.” Drucker’s forehead creased. It was the first I’d noticed her eyebrows, which were scraggly white and now tight with disapproval. “I don’t like nicknames, but the world is what it is. Perry’s a fine man, was a fine officer. It’s not surprising he took you to raise.”

“For high school.”

“Which didn’t go well. Dropout. GED diploma. Arrest at age eighteen, record expunged. Administrative discharge from the military. Although, frankly, I’m not certain what that means. And, of course, there is the matter of not killing yourself on command.”

I stared, face a mask, heat prickling the back of my sternum. No way I’d do any favors for this bitch.

“How good are you at discretion?” Drucker asked.

“I’d give myself five stars out of five.” Terse.

“At survival?”

“Ten out of five.”

“If I hire you, will you see the job through to completion?”

“Hire me?”

“I wouldn’t ask anyone to work without pay.”

“I don’t think I want to work for you.”

“I’m offering one hundred forty thousand dollars plus expenses.”

“What is it you want done?” Not querying the large and somewhat odd figure.

“Twenty thousand dollars up front.”

“To do what?”

“The rest as the job is completed.”

“I find it tiresome to have to repeat my question.”

“Some people will do anything for that sum.”

“I’m not one of them.”

“You don’t care about money?”

“Not much.”

“Yes.” Drucker nodded once, as though mentally correcting herself. “I’ve heard that, too.”

Again, I fought the desire to get up and walk out. Wasn’t sure why I stayed.

“Should you not wish to sully your hands, the money can go to a charity of your choosing.” Thick with genteel sarcasm. “Anonymously, should your morals demand.”

Behind me a door opened, then footsteps crossed the terrace. Miranda placed two glasses on a low table between us, withdrew. Neither Drucker nor I went for the tea.

Instead she reached for an envelope to her right. Displeased with the jostling, the dog hopped from her lap, padded a few feet, and curled up on the far end of the sofa.

Drucker held the envelope out to me. I leaned forward and took it. She circled one gnarled finger, indicating that I should examine the contents.

Inside was a single photograph. Good-looking woman, maybe mid-forties, two kids, one of each gender. The boy was all sunshine blond, smiling, unashamed of a mouth full of metal. His turquoise eyes gazed confidently into the lens. The girl had copper hair and freckled skin, and carried more weight than she probably liked. Her chin was up, her arms crossed defiantly on her chest.

The boy wore a pink designer polo and tan chinos. Mother and daughter wore pink linen sundresses and gardenia blossoms behind their left ears. The three were standing on a boardwalk, a beach at their backs.

I looked at Drucker, brows lifted in question.

“My daughter, Mary Gray Bright, and her children, Stella and Bowen. The picture is several years old.” Again the scornful sniff. “Taken long after her loser husband was finally gone. Alex. No loss.”

“You must be very proud of your family.”

“I was. Until a pack of vermin wiped them off the map.” Like the window-glass eyes, Drucker’s voice was devoid of emotion.

“Excuse me?” Shocked reflex.

“Mary Gray and Bowen were slaughtered in cold blood. God knows what they did with poor Stella.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Lame. But all I could manage.

“I was able to hold a funeral at First Baptist. Closed casket, of course. Mary Gray had only half of her face. Bowen had no head at all. I bought them new outfits. Waste of money. No one could see.”

“When did this happen?”

“One year ago last week. No arrests were ever made.”

“The task you want done has to do with their deaths?”

“I want those responsible found.”

“I’m not a PI.”

“You were a cop. In the military you did investigative work.” Drucker handed me a second envelope. “You saw my grandson.” Another finger. “Now look at him.”

I lifted the flap. The envelope held six three-by-five color prints. I slid them out, winged the stack like a deck of cards. Included in each photo was an identifier. Slightly different from the format I knew, but familiar. I skimmed the data. The photos were part of a series taken by a Chicago PD crime scene unit.

Knowing the images would be grim, I braced myself. Tipped my head to accommodate my good eye. Looked at the first shot.

Grim. But dear God.

I drew a breath to fight slippage from the vault in my brain. Not quick enough. A montage detonated, headlight bright, cruel. A white disk moon. Blackened bodies arranged like radiating spokes. Talons of red on clapboard siding.

I swallowed against the curdling in my belly. Clamped my teeth. Continued my walk through the photos.

The images captured the remains of the horror that had taken Drucker’s family. A headless torso, the child shoulders a starburst of shredded flesh. A severed foot, sneaker still laced tight. A small, pale hand beside a boulder spray-painted with names. A woman faceup on grass, one eye wide and fixed, the other a raw crater, foamy red spittle flowing upward from what had once been her mouth. Tissue blasted onto a stone façade, dark and white and shiny and red.

I stared at the carnage. At the graffiti-covered rock. Something was wrong. What?

I glanced at Drucker. She was watching me, eyes silent crystals of ice.

“What did you mean about Stella?”

“She vanished in the melee.”

“You think she’s being held by those who did this?” A little memory bell was pinging. A bombing. A missing kid. Out on the island, I don’t follow news. But I’d caught snippets during supply trips to town.

“I do.”

“Her body wasn’t recovered at the scene?” Nervous, a dumb question.

“Would I be asking you to search for Stella if I had her remains?”

“Tell me about her,” I said.

“Ah, dear Stella. Always the sarcasm, the wisecrack, the witty retort.”

“A happy kid?”

“Far from it. Resentful, rebellious. I believe my granddaughter was deeply troubled. That there was a darkness inside her she worked hard to keep hidden. I’m not putting this well. Do you gather my meaning?”

Drucker’s description had cut right to my soul. I nodded.

“You’ve heard the saying ‘sad clown’? Well, that was my Stella.”

Sad clown. Mad clown. Bluster and sarcasm to hide the fear.

The bright ginger hair.

The pull to this kid felt visceral.

Placing the images facedown, I pushed myself up from the table and crossed the terrace. Back to Drucker, I spread my fingers and leaned into the house. The brick felt warm on my palms. It was red-brown and chipped, the mortar mushroom and flecked with black.

My vision blurred. I blinked it clear and returned to my chair.

“Do you know the names of the people who did this?”

“I do not.”

“Do you know why your family was targeted?”

“I’m not certain they were. Others died in the incident. My poor lambs may have been collateral damage. Such an inadequate term for human death, don’t you agree?”

“Please explain.”

“These butchers had their agenda. They cared not a toot for the people I loved.”

“Surely there was an investigation.”

She nodded, tight. “The police thought the bombers were terrorists targeting Jews.”

“Are you Jewish?” First Baptist?

“Good lord, no. The attack happened at some sort of Hebrew school.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know there were four of them, three men and a woman. Surveillance footage survived. The faces are unclear, but enhancements were done.”

Drucker handed me a third envelope, this one brown and larger than the ones lying on the table between us. In it was another series of prints, each a blowup of a frame taken at some distance from the subject. I flipped through them.

The images were grainy, the features barely recognizable. The four were in a vehicle, the woman riding shotgun. She was caught turning to her left, hair winging, mouth a dark circle in her face. One arm was outstretched. Reaching toward the driver? The others were looking straight ahead.

I returned the photos to their envelope, lifted the other two from the table, and started to hand all three back. Drucker stopped me with a raised palm.

“You keep them. They are not the originals.”

“You want me to find Stella. You think finding the bombers will lead me to her.”

Again the quick nod. “I’ll pay twenty-five thousand a head, an additional forty thousand to learn the fate of my granddaughter.”

“I’m to do what if I locate these people?”

“Such evil doesn’t deserve to suck air from the planet.”

“I won’t execute them.”

“You’ve never taken a life, Ms. Night?”

“Bunnies and kittens. But I eat what I kill.”

“Yes. I’ve heard you find yourself droll.” The folds under Drucker’s eyes twitched twice. “Your choice. Either way you get paid.”

“After so much time, there may be insufficient evidence to prosecute.”

“I know that. I want them caught. I would do this myself, but I am too old.”

“Your granddaughter may be dead.”

“I know that, too.” The scraggly brows dipped low over the crystalline eyes. Drucker studied me from below them, perhaps undecided. Then, “Two days ago an attempt was made to access funds at the Bank of South Carolina, a small account I established to teach Stella responsible finance. Besides myself and my accountant, the only persons with knowledge of the money were Mary Gray and Stella.”

“A withdrawal was made?”

“Do I look like a fool? Following the bombing, all log-in information was changed.”

“But you left the account in place.”

“Frankly, I forgot all about it. Until notified of the recent activity.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“The police did nothing but waste my time.”

“You think Stella tried to access the money?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

“The bombing took place in Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“Is that where you’d like me to start?”

“Really, Miss Night. Would Shanghai seem more logical?”

I slid free the family photo and studied the faces. Stella looked awkward, angry. Myself at her age. A fellow member of the tiny human tribe with fiery hair.

Was she alive? Being held captive?

I picked out the crime scene photo that had troubled me. Studied it a very long time.

Drucker must have seen something in my eyes, read it her way.

“Do we have a deal, Miss Night?”

I’d considered PI work after leaving the force. Private security. Running skip traces and spying on cheating spouses held no appeal. Ditto babysitting millionaire tycoons and their cronies.

But Beau was right. I had the skills. I could find these bastards. If they had Stella, I could bring her home.

Did I want to do it? Mixed feelings.

I had no desire to leave my solitude and rejoin the world. Still, I could nail those responsible. Maybe free a kid who was living in hell.

Decision. I didn’t like Drucker. But I’d do it for her daughter and grandson. For Stella.

For the thrill of the hunt? Hell no.

The buzzing adrenaline told me otherwise.

“I’ll need expense money up front,” I said.

“Have you something with which to make notes?”

I took a pen and small tablet from my purse.

“Peter Crage.” Drucker provided a phone number and address. “Mr. Crage is my financial adviser. He will give you the twenty thousand plus whatever you require.”

“For now, just expenses.” Not wanting to be obligated.

“Go to him. Provide a figure. He will be expecting you.”

“Talk about your granddaughter.”

Heart pounding, I thumbed to a clean page.

“MS. NIGHT, SUCH a pleasure.” The sapphire on Crage’s finger must have weighed five pounds. “Mrs. Drucker advised me you’d be stopping by. Might I offer you something? Iced tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.” I’d hit a Starbucks on the way. More caffeine and sugar and I’d be photo-bombing the Hubble.

“Please.” Arcing the hefty sapphire toward a grouping of love seat, armchairs, and marble-topped coffee and end tables. “We’ll be more comfortable by the window.”

The love seat positioned me with my back to a wall. I chose it and placed my purse by my side. Crage sat opposite and crossed his legs. He was elderly, but trim and tanned. His double-breasted blazer was blue, his bow tie fuchsia, his trousers cream.

I could see Broad Street through the glass behind his head, some of Meeting. The sidewalks along each were filled with tourists moving in both directions.

“Perhaps a drink?” Crage winked, as though suggesting something terribly naughty. “The sun is nicely over the yardarm somewhere in the world.”

“Why not,” I said.

“Cognac?”

“Bien sur.”

Crage crossed to a wet bar and poured from a decanter that looked like a chem lab beaker. Except for the gold stopper.

“Frapin Cuvee 1888.” Handing me a crystal snifter. “It’s French.”

“Beats my usual Copper and Kings. It’s American.” Unexpected humor wasn’t Crage’s strong suit. “Would you prefer something else?”

“Not a chance.”

I raised my glass in salute, then took a mouthful. Smoke and flowers exploded on my tongue.

“Yours is such a lovely name, Ms. Night. May I call you Sunnie?” Vowels thicker than caramel on a Granny Smith.

“Ms. Night works for me.”

“As you wish.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Please.” Crage spread his hands. “From your perspective.”

“Opaline Drucker wants me to find the people who killed her daughter and grandson. And to determine what happened to her granddaughter. She says online access was recently attempted for a bank account known only to Stella and her mother.”

“And to me.”

“Mrs. Drucker believes that attempt might have been made by Stella herself.”

“Or by error, by hackers, by delinquents phishing from Beijing.”

I couldn’t disagree. “Our arrangement includes payment of a fee and expenses.”

“You will be going to Chicago.”

“For starters.”

“How much do you need?”

I quoted a figure.

“Would you prefer that in cash or wire transfer?”

“I’ll take five thousand in cash now. Direct deposit will work for the rest. Later.” I handed him a paper with the account number and routing information.

Crage’s lips and brows displayed something I couldn’t interpret, then he placed the paper on the table. “If you require additional monies, simply let me know.”

We each took a hit of cognac. The stuff could have made Bonaparte wet his breeches.

“Tell me about Opaline Drucker.” I set down my glass.

“Are you a newcomer to Charleston?”

“Not exactly.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“All my life.” All that I’ll talk about.

“You’ve not heard of the Drucker family? Drucker Park? Drucker Boulevard? Drucker Pavilion?”

“I’ve Googled the name. I want to know about the lady.”

“Opaline’s assets are such that she will never want for anything. The money is inherited, of course. Mostly from land, some from phosphate mining and other interests.”

“I’m not concerned she’ll stiff me on the bill.”

Crage missed the sarcasm. Or chose to ignore it. “Far from it. I’ve managed Opaline’s portfolio for years. She remains one of the richest women in South Carolina.” Sincerely grieved shake of the head. “Her entire fortune would have gone to Mary Gray and the children.”

More about wealth. I wanted to know about character.

“But what is Opaline like?” I pressed.

Crage swirled his cognac. His nails were manicured, his cuticles trimmed with the same surgical precision as his hair. When he answered, his words were carefully chosen. Breeding? Professional ethics? Or something else?

“Opaline is the last living member of an old Charleston family. She is eighty-two and was brought up in a different time.”

“Meaning?”

“She is a very strong-willed woman. And smart as a whippet. But ladies of her station were not educated as girls are today. Opaline was sent to finishing schools in Europe. She learned to embroider, play piano, speak Italian and French.”

Outside the window framing Crage’s head, an enterprising pigeon was grazing the sill. Below, on Meeting Street, a horse-drawn carriage was blocking a Budweiser delivery truck. A line of stalled traffic was building. Through the glass I could hear muted honking.

“That being said,” Crage continued, “Opaline has outlived two husbands. And the terrible tragedy that brings us together.”

Crage drew a breath as though to go on, let it out without speaking.

“What aren’t you saying?”

“Don’t let appearances fool you, Ms. Night. Opaline Drucker is cunning, resourceful, and tough as nails. When she wants something, there is no stopping her.”

“Is that ‘something’ revenge?”

“I am not a psychologist. I cannot evaluate Opaline’s motives.”

“Say I find the people who killed her family. Say there’s no way to bring charges. What would she do?”

“I cannot answer that.”

“Besides wiring money, what can you do?”

“I can put you in touch with Opaline’s people in Chicago.”

“She has people in Chicago?”

“Her financial interests are complex.”

“I thought you handled all her affairs.”

“Opaline is not what I would label a hands-off client.”

Not certain the meaning of his response. “You implied she’s not worldly.”

“I meant she is not formally schooled in areas such as law and economics. She is, however, self-educated. On many topics.”

“Assassination?”

“I beg your pardon?” Affronted.

“A link to your colleague in Chicago would be helpful.”

Crage pulled an iPhone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. “Layton Furr.” He read off a phone number and address. I wrote them in my tablet.

“While I’m at it, may I have your information?” Crage raised his thumbs, ready to input data.

“No,” I said.

Looking startled and less than pleased, Crage pocketed his phone.

“Have Furr book a hotel for me,” I said. “I’ll go early tomorrow.”

“We favor the Ritz.”

“That should do.” We?

“Do you mind terribly flying commercial?”

“Hardship builds character.”

“Shall I have my secretary arrange for a flight?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Have you a preference concerning seating?”

“Indoor.”

A slight dip of the brows, then Crage walked to his desk, dialed an extension, and relayed the info. “Mr. Furr will meet you at O’Hare.” When he’d returned to his chair, placed the handset on the table, and recrossed his legs: “He can provide background on the whole ugly affair.”

“I’ll need to meet with the cops who worked the case.”

“Mr. Furr will arrange an introduction.”

“And visit the school where the attack took place.”

“Of course. He’ll be happy to organize anything you might require during your stay.”

“Maybe some of that deep-dish pizza.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s mentioned in all the travel magazines.”

The phone rang. Crage answered, listened, pressed the handset to his chest.

“United has a mid-morning flight. It’s a regional jet, I’m afraid, so there is no first class.” Looking truly pained at the thought.

“I’ll manage,” I said.

“That will be fine, Mary.” Crage disconnected.

“Tell me what you know about Stella,” I said.

Crage looked at me for so long I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard. I was about to repeat my request when he finally spoke.

“What I am going to say does not leave this office.”

“Mr. Crage, I—”

“I will make reference to nothing illegal.”

I didn’t reply.

“Four bodies were found at the scene of the bombing. Fortunately, most of the students had already departed for the day. All were”—slight pause—“disfigured.” Crage hesitated, considering whether to elaborate, left it at that. “The victims were identified by the medical examiner. Mary Gray, Bowen, and two members of the group with whom they were touring. Stella was not among the dead.”

“Mrs. Drucker told me as much. Surely the police searched. The FBI.”

“Extensively, and I believe quite competently. The problem was they had nothing to work with. Save for one woman who thought she might have seen a suspicious van, there were no eyewitnesses. No vehicle. No manifesto sent to the media. An MO that matched naught elsewhere. No clues whatsoever other than a poor-quality surveillance video shot from across the street. The group struck and vanished. In the chaos, Stella vanished, too.”

I waited out another searching pause.

“What Opaline probably did not tell you is that she received a phone call at her home three weeks after the incident. A man claimed to have her granddaughter and demanded fifty thousand dollars. He threatened to kill Stella instantly and painfully should the authorities be contacted.”

“Did Opaline ask for proof?”

“The man read a quote he claimed Stella had given to him. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.”

“Alfred, Lord Tennyson.” How the hell did I know that?

“Impressive, Ms. Night. The saying was one of Stella’s favorites.”

“Opaline paid the ransom,” I guessed.

“Against my advice.”

“And never saw her granddaughter.”

“No.”

“And the police have never been told.”

“Opaline is a very proud woman. Proud and stubborn.”

And rich and gullible. I didn’t say it.

Crage glanced at his watch, a blue and gold Rolex Yacht-Master that reported the state of every wind and tide on the globe.

“My goodness me. How has it grown so late? You must have a million chores to complete before setting off.”

With regret, I downed the remaining molecules of my cognac. Crage stood. I stood.

“Ms. Night, might I make a personal observation?”

I cocked a brow.

“I notice you are wearing a firearm.”

“I’m not flying to Chicago just for the pizza.”

“I understand. And I am not judging you. Quite the contrary. I find the presence of the gun strangely reassuring. I mention it only because I am certain the airlines have rules concerning that sort of thing. Perhaps the city of Chicago has laws pertaining to citizens carrying concealed weapons. Do you need help along those lines?”

“No, thank you.”

“I assume you have the proper permit?”

“I’m good.”

“Let’s hope so.” Crage’s lips flicked a vanishing smile. “Should anything unfortunate occur, I further assume that the Drucker name will not be associated.”

“Opaline and I chatted about discretion.”

“It is essential.”

“I never asked the dog’s name.”

“Yes.”

Crage crossed to a framed landscape on the wall to the right of the door. Lots of trees, a pond, a couple of swans. After swinging the painting forward, he rotated a knob, then leaned in. A few seconds, then he closed the safe and repositioned the artwork. Returning to me, he held out a stack of bills. A thick one.

I took the money and placed it in my purse.

“Are you not nervous carrying so much cash?”

“I find the gun strangely reassuring.”