It was a long watch. His shoulders grew tired, and his eyes burned from staring into the darkness. His clothes began to dry from the warmth of his body. His ears, picking up the creaks and moans of an old building, tried to place each one. Later, moving quietly to the window, he looked out into the street. But there was no one about. The rain, heavy and growing chilly as the wind picked up, had kept most people at home. There was only one umbrella moving down the street, shining in the light spilled out from windows.

If Holden had come here and found the christening gown with the telltale initials—if he had come again to take away the brooch—surely he would come now—

There was a chink! from somewhere in the house. The cat?

Rutledge was very still now, no longer waiting, feeling instead the adrenaline surge of danger. His breathing grew deeper, steadying him.

Rutledge had no illusions about Holden. He would kill . . . given the need.

Nothing. No one stirred in the bar below. No one came up the stairs.

Another quarter of an hour passed.

Suddenly he could feel the cool rush of air and smell the dampness of the rain. Someone had opened a door. Then it was closed again.

He waited, drifting silently behind the curtain surrounding Fiona’s clothes. The faint scent of her perfume reached him, evoking her image.

But no one came up the stairs.

He waited, and in the end decided to go closer to the stairway, where sounds from below would be magnified.

Moving to the top of them, he listened again. And then in the silence a soft footfall reached his ear.

It was too late to go back to where he’d been.

He moved back a very little, opening the stairs to whoever was climbing them with such stealth. After a few seconds he could—he thought—make out the dark shape coming toward him. The stairwell, like a pit, yawned into stygian darkness. But the shape moved . . . breathed. He could hear the quick, shallow breaths, the carefully placed feet on the steps. . . .

Rutledge stood where he was, letting it reach him. Go past him—

It went into the child’s room, out of his line of vision, and was there for some minutes. Rutledge could hear the clothes chest open and after a time close. And then it was coming toward him again, something white grasped in front of it. Without seeing Rutledge in the deep shadows, it made for the head of the stairs.

And then Rutledge acted, moving from the balls of his feet, taking full advantage of the element of surprise, catching his quarry from behind, pinning the arms hard to the sides before he realized that it wasn’t a man he held in his grip but a woman.

Dear God!