“Better get used to it. They’re going to be watching you.”

Outside, Conor let the city air waft over him. A SEPTA bus chugged past. Diesel exhaust never smelled so sweet.

Damian nodded toward the parking lot. “I’ll give you a ride home. I’m sure you want fresh clothes and a shower.”

“Yeah. I want to bleach everything, including my skin.”

They settled in Damian’s Lexus sedan.

Conor leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes. “So what happens next? Be honest.”

“They have all the circumstantial evidence we discussed, and don’t discount that. Enough of it can get a conviction, depending on the DA. But my thoughts are that they have the trace evidence from your apartment: the hair, the blood. They will send those for expedited DNA testing, which will take anywhere from three days to a week. In the meantime, they will be watching you.”

“Too bad they don’t seem interested in finding the truth, the girl, or the real criminal.”

“That’s the thing, Conor. They think you are the real criminal.”

They turned down Oregon Avenue. Damian found a parking spot at the curb half a block from the bar. Only four hours had passed since Conor was taken to the police station, but he felt like weeks had gone by when they walked inside. The bar was quiet. The sound of a hockey game, voices, and the clink of glasses on tables welcomed him home.

Pat was behind the bar, and Jaynie was waiting tables. Her face was pale, her eyes worried. Spotting him, she tossed her empty tray on the bar and rushed to him. She threw her arms around his neck. “Conor, we were so worried. They showed an awful picture of you on the news from when you used to box, and they said you’d been in two fights last night.”

Exactly as Damian had predicted.

Her curly, red hair smelled like strawberries, and he was reminded that he was filthy. “Jaynie, honey.” He gently pushed her away. “Don’t touch me. I’m disgusting. I’m going upstairs to decontaminate. I’ll be right back. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

Well, maybe not everything. He’d give her the PG version. His sister had been through enough. “Where’s Reed? I want to thank him for sending Damian to my rescue.” Jayne’s fiancé, now a wealthy artist, had once been a homicide detective.

Tears glittered in her eyes. “Reed didn’t send anyone. He isn’t even in town. He got a call yesterday morning that Scott got sick at school. He jumped on the first flight to Denver.” Reed’s son had started at the University of Denver in the middle of August.

“Is Scott OK?”

“His appendix burst.” Jayne sniffed. “I’m waiting for Reed to call when he’s out of surgery.”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you want to go home?”