There was a bus stop at the corner. Conor ducked into the clear three-sided shelter. He sat down on the bench and pulled out his cell phone. Pretending to text, he kept one eye on the door to Heath’s building.

Isa wasn’t long. In barely ten minutes, she retraced her steps.

Conor texted Louisa: WATCH FOR ISA.

A few minutes later, she texted back: SHE’S HERE.

He watched Heath’s apartment another half hour, but the door didn’t open. He returned to the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

“She’s still inside,” Louisa said.

Conor brushed the hood off his head. His shirt was damp. “Heath hasn’t gone anywhere either.”

“What now?”

“I’ll take you back to work.” Conor started the car and pulled away from the curb. “At least we know they’re both lying. They know each other much better than they’ll admit.”

“What could they be lying about?”

“They’re up to something.” Conor turned back toward Center City. “I’d love to get inside Heath’s apartment.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Yes, it is. And I have to work tonight anyway.”

Louisa chewed on her lip. “I’d hate for you to get into more trouble with the police.”

“OK. We’ll shelve that idea for now.” But eventually he might need to get into Heath’s apartment and find out why he and Isa were lying. He glanced in the rearview mirror and picked out a dark-blue American sedan four cars back. He was probably already in more trouble with the police. But what choice did he have? Even when the DNA results came back on the blood and confirmed it wasn’t Zoe’s, Damian had flat-out told him he could still be arrested and convicted. The hair was hers, and Conor had admitted she’d been in his apartment. Either he solved his own case, or he went on trial for murder.

CHAPTER 18

18

“Have a nice evening, Dr. Hancock.”

“Thank you, Gerome.” Friday evening, Louisa walked through the open door to meet her aunt. She hadn’t seen Conor since lunchtime the day before, but he’d texted her a few times. They’d both been busy with work. She’d spent the day moving artifacts into the Celtic Warrior exhibit cases. The exhibit wasn’t finished, but guests at tomorrow night’s fund-raiser would get a sense of how the display would come together. Conor had been tied up at the bar handling deliveries.

Neither of them had any ideas on how to look for Zoe. The Finches had done several heart-wrenching interviews begging for their daughter’s return. The DNA tests had not come in. Did the labs work on the weekend, or would Conor be safe until Monday?

“You’ll call if you need the car later?” the doorman asked with a polite smile.

“I will. Thank you.”