“B-But she thinks you murdered those people,” she stammered, sniffing as she pulled her hands from her face and smeared her mascara into a brown blur under her eye.

Edden shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The radio chatter from the FIB vehicles rose over the crickets. I refused to feel sorry that I had made Sara Jane cry. Her boss was dirt, and the sooner she realized that, the better off she would be. Trent hadn’t killed those people with his hands, but he had arranged it, making him as guilty as if he had carved them up himself. My thoughts went to the picture of the woman on the gunnery, and I steeled myself.

Trent pulled Sara Jane’s gaze up with a gentle encouragement. I wondered at his compassion. I wondered how it would feel to have his beautiful voice soothing me, telling me that everything was all right. Then I wondered if there was a chance in hell of Sara Jane getting away from him with her life intact.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Trent said, handing her a linen handkerchief embroidered with his initials. “No one has been accused of anything. And there’s no need for you to stay here. Why don’t you go back home? This ugly business will be done as soon as we find the stray dog that Ms. Morgan’s charm has fixed on.”

Sara Jane shot me a poisonous look. “Yes sir,” she said, her voice harsh.

Stray dog? I thought, torn between my desire to take her out to lunch for a heart-to-heart and my need to slap some sense into the woman.

Edden cleared his throat. “I’d ask Ms. Gradenko and yourself to stay here until we know more, sir.”

Trent’s professional smile faltered. “Are we being detained?”

“No sir,” he said respectfully. “Merely a request.”

“Captain!” a dog handler shouted from the second floor landing. My heart pounded at the excitement in the man’s voice. “Socks didn’t point, but we have a locked door.”

Adrenaline zinged through me. I looked at Trent. His face showed nothing.

Quen and a small man started forward, accompanied by an FIB officer. The short man was obviously a past jockey now turned manager. His face was leathered and wrinkled, and he had a wad of keys with him. They jingled as he pulled one off and handed it to Quen. Body tense with that unnerving liquid menace, Quen handed it in turn to Edden.

“Thank you,” the FIB captain said. “Now go stand with the officers.” He hesitated, smiling. “If you would, please.” He crooked his finger at a pair of FIB officers who had just arrived, pointing at Quen. They jogged over.