I wasn't about to rise to that. "They'll want to see her," I said.

"They already asked. Unfortunately, due to security concerns, we are unable to disclose her location at this time."

He was enjoying this. "How'd they take it?" I asked.

Frank thought about that for a while, head leaned back on the sofa, smoking slowly. "Shaken up," he said at last, "naturally enough. But there's no way of knowing whether they're all four shaky because she got stabbed, or whether one of them's shaky because she might come round and tell us what happened. They're very helpful, answer all our questions, no reluctance, nothing like that; it's only afterwards that you realize they haven't actually told you very much at all. They're an odd bunch, Cass; hard to read. I'd love to see what you make of them."

I swept the photos into a pile and passed them back to Frank. "OK," I said. "Why did you need to come over and show me these, again?"

He shrugged, all wide innocent blue eyes. "To see if you recognized any of them. That could give a whole different angle--"

"I don't. Come clean, Frankie. What do you want?"

Frank sighed. He tapped the photos methodically on the table, aligning the edges, and tucked them back into his jacket pocket.

"I want to know," he said quietly, "if I'm wasting my time here. I need to know if you're one hundred percent sure that what you want is to go back into work on Monday morning, to DV, and forget this ever happened."

All the laughter and facade had gone out of his voice, and I knew Frank well enough to know that this was when he was most dangerous. "I'm not sure I have the option of forgetting about it," I said, carefully. "This thing's thrown me for a loop. I don't like it, and I don't want to get involved."

"You're sure about that? Because I've been working my arse off these last two days, pumping everyone in sight for every detail of Lexie Madison's life--"

"Which would've needed doing anyway. Quit guilt-tripping me."

"--and if you're absolutely positive, then there's no point in you wasting any more of your time and mine by humoring me."

"You wanted me to humor you," I pointed out. "Just for three days, no commitment, blah blah blah."

He nodded, thoughtfully. "And that's all you've been doing here: humoring me. You're happy in DV. You're sure."

The truth is that Frank had--it's a talent--hit a nerve. Maybe it was seeing him again, his grin and the fast rhythms of his voice snapping me straight back to when this job looked so shiny and fine I just wanted to take a running leap and dive in. Maybe it was the fizz of spring in the air, tugging at me; maybe it was just that I've never been any good at staying miserable for any length of time. But whatever the reason, I felt like I was awake for the first time in months, and suddenly the thought of going into DV on Monday--though I had no intention of telling Frank this--made me itch all over. I was working with this Kerryman called Maher who wore golf sweaters and thought any non-Irish accent was a source of endless amusement and breathed through his mouth when he typed, and all of a sudden I wasn't sure I could make it through another hour of his company without throwing my stapler at his head.