“Stay calm,” he told her. “Trust me. This is the only way to handle this. They don’t have anything on us. The whole thing will blow over in a few days.” He gripped her shoulders more firmly and looked steadily into her eyes. “We stick to the script,” he said. “Ormsby came downstairs and confronted an intruder. One shot, and it was over. You slept through the whole thing. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t hear anything. You stayed in your room. End of story.” He probed her eyes for any hint of what she might be thinking. “You have to be strong,” he told her. “If you crack, you take me down with you.”

Eve’s gaze finally focused on him. She looked from one of his eyes to the other. No, Keegan thought, her eyes weren’t just focused—they were hard. Again, she looked beyond him at Ormsby’s garden. Her garden soon, Keegan thought. Her breathing slowed.

“You needn’t worry,” she said. She seemed to grow taller while he still held her by the shoulders. “You’re safe.” She injected the word with venom. “I’m not going to crack.” She looked in his eyes again, and her gaze was steely. She shrugged his hands from her shoulders. “Now, please just leave me alone for a while.”

Keegan stepped back from her, surprised. What inside her had turned her voice to ice and set the jut of her chin? Who was this woman? And how had he let himself get this deep in the shit with a woman he barely knew?

Eve turned from him and opened the door. She stepped through and shut it solidly—but quietly—behind her. Through the panes of glass, he watched her march away from him without looking back and disappear into the big house.

Keegan stood a few stunned seconds, regarding his own reflection in the door’s glass panes. He knew Eve was telling the truth: she wouldn’t crack. But he was damned if that made him feel safe.

THE GRAY SEDAN parked in front of his mother’s front gate was sleek and glossy, with chrome fins that jutted owlishly above the round brake lights. Keegan didn’t see it until he’d left Ormsby’s gravel back drive and started up the asphalt road. There might have been a catch in his stride, but it was too late for him to turn back, so he tried to cover it. He had no idea who owned the car, but, whoever they were, there was a good chance they were watching him.

A lone tall figure stepped down from the cottage’s front porch and crossed to the gate. It was Louis Moore, still in his white Panama hat. There was no mistaking the upright posture, the smooth, decisive strides. Moore carried something in one hand, but Keegan wasn’t close enough to make out what it was. The lieutenant let himself out through the gate in the picket fence and went around the car to the driver’s side, jingling in his trouser pocket for his keys.