She hardly answered before he was gone. She was left feeling slightly unnerved, and she checked the time. Nearly one-thirty. She made tea, walked once around the house. Everything was blissful. It smelled of the fire, and flowers, and comfort. There was nothing to disturb her, and she hoped Alex was overreacting. So she shut herself back in Will’s tranquil world and picked up where she’d left off.

Her eyes returned to the pictured tile. Will had switched the keys, then. The Ducati duplicate had been exchanged for the other. Was it now with Roland? Lucy raked through every picture again for clues, and the time slipped away. She’d made a second set of some of the prints when she noticed it was after four o’clock, and, feeling guilty and worried about Alex, she’d ring.

Lucy Locket lost her pocket… she thought, while she waited for the phone to answer. His number was being redirected…. and Kitty Fisher found it. But where is Kitty Fisher?

Emma’s voice was unexpectedly agitated. “Hello, Lucy. He asked me to find him if you called, but he left the hospital urgently about ten minutes ago. Try his cell phone, but I’m not sure he’ll pick up. His little boy’s been in some kind of accident.”

LUCY SLIPPED FROM THE TAXI AND ROSE UP ON TIPTOES. THE LIGHTS WERE on, the curtains open; she could make out the top of Alex’s head through the raised ground-floor windows. Climbing a few steps and leaning out over the basement areaway for a better view, she saw he was resting on the sofa with eyes closed, his head tilted uncomfortably. She considered ringing the bell, hesitated to wake him, then drew the keys that Henry had given her from her coat. She was through the main house door and the second private door, heard the soft strains of a Mozart symphony, quietly placed her bag in the hallway with the cat brushing her ankles—all before he realized he had company. Exhaustion showed when he smiled at her over his shoulder.

He spoke gently, without apparent alarm, which she decided was a good sign. “I hoped you’d come.”

Her volume mirrored his. “I rang, but your phone was off—and then I thought I’d better not intrude.” She moved through to the living room, and was spell-stopped. Alex sat with his sleeping son stretched partly on the sofa, partly curled in his arms. Lucy’s emotions were caught off guard, eddying between tenderness and distress. A small gash on the child’s forehead was stitched, his nose grazed, but he was otherwise angelic and peaceful.

She whispered: “Good God, Alex. Is it serious?”

“No. He’s fine. I wrestled him away from Anna to watch over him, but more about my guilt than any real danger. He’s worn out, but his pupils and pulse are normal and he never lost consciousness. I’m being preemptive.”