His thoughts turned to Sara Morgan as he turned down another street, scanning for Gina Kemmer’s blue Honda Accord. He had been surprised to hear her say her marriage to Steve Morgan was over. Not because he thought she should have stayed with the bastard, but because it seemed out of character for her to be so candid about something so private.

She looked so wrung out, so fragile, like she was hanging on by a thread.

Her husband was nowhere to be found. Mendez and Hicks had cruised past Morgan’s office where he was allegedly working late. No sign of him. They knew him to frequent O’Brien’s Pub, but he wasn’t there either. Nor had there been any sighting of his black Trans Am in any hotel parking lot. Just like there was no sign of Gina Kemmer’s car anywhere.

He would bag it for the night, but not before swinging past the Morgan house to see if Steve Morgan had ever gone home.

There was still no Trans Am in the driveway, but a light burned bright in the garage. It was 1:41 A.M. The house was dark.

He didn’t like that. Sara Morgan was depressed, her marriage was failing, she’d just lost a friend to a violent death.... It wasn’t beyond reason that she could be in that garage with the minivan running, putting an end to her pain.

He parked at the curb, got out and drew his weapon. This was a nice neighborhood—all the more reason for a thief to come calling. Quietly he made his way around the side of the garage where the windows were full-size. Without revealing himself, he peeked inside.

Sara Morgan sat on a tall stool in front of what was apparently the sculpture she had been working on—a tall contraption made of iron and wire and steel mesh. But Mendez didn’t think she was even seeing it. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, and a thousand-yard stare haunting her eyes.

He could have just left. It was none of his business why Sara Morgan was sitting in her garage at one forty-five in the morning. But if she was sitting there contemplating turning that minivan on and sucking down some carbon monoxide ...

Instead of walking away, he went around to the front of the garage and knocked on the service door.

“Mrs. Morgan? It’s Detective Mendez. Are you all right in there?”

It took a moment, but she opened the door and stood back.

“Still looking for my husband?” she asked wearily.

“I was driving by and saw the light,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She smiled to herself, a small, slightly bitter smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “I would say I’m fine, but I think you probably won’t buy that.”

“No, ma’am,” Mendez admitted, following her back into the garage.