Panic attack, she realized after a moment, trying to regain her breath. In the beginning, she'd had them all the time. It had been a bit since the last one, but then again, today had been a bad day. First Sylvia Blaire. Then Carol.

Oh God, Carol…

Jillian rested her head against the steering wheel, and suddenly started to cry. Second time for her in one day. Had to be a new record. She couldn't stop, though. The sobs came up from the dark pit of her, angry and hard and desolate, until her stomach hurt and her shoulders ached and still she choked out rough, bitter tears. This is why she didn't cry. Because there was nothing dainty or tragic about her grief. She cried like a trucker, and afterward she looked like a disaster, with red, blotchy cheeks and mascara-smeared eyes.

What if Sergeant Griffin saw her now? The thought made her want to weep again, though she didn't know why.

She could call him. He would probably take her call, even though it was after midnight. He'd probably even let her go on and on about her sister and the ache that wouldn't ease and the grief that knew no end. He would listen to those things. He seemed to be that kind of guy.

She didn't pick up her cell phone, though. Maybe she wasn't that kind of woman, the kind who still believed in Prince Charming. Or maybe she was, but Meg was right and she wasn't ready to stop punishing herself for her sister's death.

Or maybe it was all a bunch of psychobabble bullshit, and the bottom line was that she just wasn't ready. She did still miss her sister. She did still ache. And she did hold too much in and she did suffer too much guilt. And now she was worried about Carol, and as always she was worried about her mother, and then there was this thing with another poor dead college student and who knew what was really going on out there in that pitch-black night?

Shit. Jillian put her car back in drive. She got out of the dark parking lot.

At home, outside lights fired up her home like a suburban landing strip. She'd had three new spotlights added first thing this morning and God knows her neighbors had probably put on sunglasses just to go to bed. Good for them. May that be the worst tragedy they ever had to face.

Jillian drove by the patrol car parked down the street. The two officers sitting inside nodded at her. She waved back. So Griffin had kept his word as well.

She pulled into her garage with the normal drill. Car doors still locked. Gazing out the rearview mirror and watching the opening until the garage door had closed all the way. Checking out the shadowy depths of the garage for other signs of intruders. The coast appeared clear. She finally unlocked her car door, and entered her home.

Toppi had left her a plate covered with plastic wrap on the kitchen counter. A chicken sandwich in case she was hungry. Jillian put the plate in the refrigerator, poured a glass of water and made the rounds. Doors still locked. Windows secure. Nothing out of place.

The house was quiet this time of night. Just the ticking of the hallway clock, and the occasional fluttery snore from behind Toppi's bedroom door.

One A.M. now. Jillian should go to sleep. She kept prowling the house, driven by a compulsion she couldn't name.

Had she failed Carol? In the past, Carol and Meg had accused her of carrying too much guilt. Then, just this afternoon, Griffin had implied she took too much responsibility for things. No one could keep everyone safe.

It was her job, though. For as long as she could remember. Libby had led the wild life. Jillian held things together. Baby Trish required stability. Jillian made them a home. Her mother's health declined. Jillian took her in as well. They were her family, she loved them and with love came responsibility. So she did everything she could for them. She just never let them get too close.

Just as she had done with Carol and Meg.

For the first time, it occurred to her-was she feeling guilty that Trisha was dead, or was she feeling guilty that she had not loved her more when she was still alive? All those summers with Trisha racing along the beach and Jillian alone beneath an umbrella. Why hadn't she run out into the sand? Why hadn't she splashed through the waves with her sister? What had she been so afraid of?

Strong, responsible Jillian who had never had a serious relationship. Independent, serious Jillian who focused on work work work, all of the time. Proud, lonely Jillian who marched through life as if it were a battlefield and she didn't want anyone taking her prisoner. Not her mother. Not her sister. Not Eddie Como and not the Survivors Club.

Poor, stupid Jillian who, at the age of thirty-six, still knew so little about what was important in life. Griffin had been right before. Trisha had loved her. And it shouldn't have taken Jillian nearly a year to remember that.

Jillian moved into the hallway. She thought of Trisha again, and the days that would never be. And then she thought of her mother, and all the years still to come. Proud, fierce Libby tapping, tapping, tapping. Sad, silent Libby who so longed to visit her daughter's grave. Jillian walked down to her mother's bedroom. She pushed in the door. She spotted Libby, lying upon her bed, bathed in the icy blue glow of a night-light. Libby's eyes were wide open. She'd been watching the door and now she stared straight at Jillian.

“You've been waiting for me to come home,” Jillian said softly, with genuine surprise, genuine wonder.

Her mother's finger tapped the bedspread.

“You wanted to make sure that I got home safe.”

Her mother's finger, rising and falling on the bedspread.

Jillian went farther into the room. “You can rest now. I'm home, Mom. I'm… safe.” And then, a heartbeat later, “And I love you, too, Mama.”

Her mother smiled. She held out her arms. And for the first time since she was a little girl, Jillian went into her mother's embrace. And it didn't hurt so much after all. All of these years, all of these miles later, it finally felt right.

While the clock ticked down the hall. And the spotlights lit up the house. And the uniformed officers sat in their patrol car, waiting to see what would happen next.

Chapter 30

FOUR A.M., WEDNESDAY MORNING, DETECTIVE SERGEANT Roan Griffin drove to state police headquarters in North Scituate. He was early. Very early. Good thing, too. He had contact interviews to review, witness statements to consider and detective activity reports to analyze. Then he needed to prepare a time line of events. Oh, and he wanted to produce a chart, filling in the recent findings on their key suspects. That ought to make Lieutenant Morelli happy.

Yep, Griffin had gotten a whole five hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. No new rapes, no new shootings, no new lawsuits. Now he was feeling downright chipper. He should've known better.

Walking into the Investigative Support Service building, he was immediately greeted by the uniform on duty. Griffin nodded back, then proceeded down the narrow, yellow-lit hallway to Major Crimes. The ISSB, a flat, dull-brown 1960s building that could've passed as any government office, was divided into a series of wings. The Criminal Identification Unit took up the back right corner of the building, with one large office space for the five CIU detectives to share and a series of smaller rooms to house their toys-the lie detector room, the two Automatic Fingerprint Information System (AFIS) rooms, the significantly sized evidence-processing room, the photo lab.

In contrast to the CIU suite, the Major Crimes detectives were granted a small corner in the front of the building, where they had five gray cubicles crammed into one blue-carpeted space. Of course, they considered themselves to have the nicer room. The ten-foot-high drop ceiling only had a fraction of the yellow water stains found in the rest of the building. Plus, the detectives kept their tidy desks free of paperwork and openly displayed nicely framed family photos. A few detectives had brought in plants over the years, and now massive green vines draped cheerfully down the cubicle walls. All in all, the place could've been an accountant's office-if accountants had a back wall covered with “Most Wanted” photos and a front wall bearing a white board with homicide notes.