“Miss Alex Fallon?”

“Yes,” she said warily. “Who is this?”

“My name is Officer Morse. I’m with the Cincinnati police.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Your apartment was broken into last night. Your building manager noticed the door was open this morning when she came to bring in your mail.”

“No, I called my friend yesterday to ask her to check my mail. She must have forgotten to pull the door shut.”

“Your apartment was ransacked, Miss Fallon. Pillows and mattresses are slashed, contents of your pantry are all dumped on the floor, and-”

Alex’s heart had started to race at ransacked. “And my clothing’s been slashed.”

There was a hesitant pause. “How did you know?”

Trust no one, Wade had said in his letter to Bailey. “Officer, could you give me your badge number and a phone number where I can call you back after I check you out?”

“Not a problem.” He gave her the information and she promised to call him back.

“Leigh, can you please check this officer’s ID? He says my apartment was trashed.”

“Oh my God.” Wide-eyed, Leigh took the information. “I’ll do it right now.”

“Thanks. I need to make a few calls before I call him back.” Alex called the hospital and was relieved to hear Letta answer. She told her to be careful, then asked her to give the same message to Richard, who was on shift.

Leigh was hanging up her phone. “The Cincinnati cop’s legit, Alex.”

“Good.” She called Morse back. “Thanks for waiting.”

“You were prudent to check. Do you know who could have broken into your place?”

“Yes, kind of. Probably the same ones who ransacked my rental house down here. Can I refer you to Agent Daniel Vartanian? He’ll know what information to give you.”

“I’ll call him. Do you know what they were looking for?”

“Yes, because I got to it first. It was at my ex-husband’s house. If whoever did this realizes that, they might go there next.”

“Give me his address. We’ll send someone out to make sure they’re okay.”

“Thank you,” Alex said, touched and surprised.

“We have been watching the news, Miss Fallon. Sounds like Agent Vartanian has his hands full.”

Alex blew out a breath. “That he does.”

Dutton, Friday, February 2, 12:30 p.m.

Daniel looked down at the heavy volume of poetry in his hands. He’d stopped by a bookstore on his way from the Arcadia’s sheriff’s office. Chloe Hathaway was still working on his warrant, so he had some time to kill. He was now parked across the street from the bench in front of the Dutton barbershop. He wanted to talk to his old English teacher, Mr. Grant, who sat on the barbershop bench watching with a sharp eye.

Daniel got out of his car. “Mr. Grant,” he called.

“Daniel Vartanian,” Grant called back while the other men looked on.

Daniel motioned Grant to come to him and waited as he shuffled his way to Daniel’s car. “I have something for you,” he said when Grant reached him. He handed the man the collection of poems. “I’ve been thinking of your English class,” he said in a normal voice, then whispered, “I need to talk to you, but I needed to be discreet.”

Grant smoothed the volume with a reverent gesture. “It’s a beautiful book,” he said, then whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to me. What do you want to know?”

Daniel blinked. “What do you know?”

“Probably more than would fill this book, but not much of it pertinent. Ask your questions. If I can answer, I will.” He opened the book and leafed until he found the John Donne poem that had been Daniel’s favorite. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“I need to know about Mack O’Brien.”

“Quick mind, but a hot temper.”

“Who did he lose his temper with?”

“Damn near everybody, especially after they lost everything. While he was at Bryson, he fancied himself a real ladies’ man. Like his big brother.” Grant tilted his head as if he were contemplating the poem. “Mack was bad news. He vandalized school property, drove that Corvette of his like he was some hotshot NASCAR racer, got into some major fights.”

“You said he was a ladies’ man.”

“No, I said he fancied himself to be a ladies’ man. It’s different.” Grant turned pages until he came to another poem. “I remember overhearing conversations some of the female students had after Mack changed schools. They’d chatter, thinking I was busy grading papers. They were laughing that Mack had expected to come to Prom-he no longer went to the school and they scorned him. They said he’d only been tolerable because of his car. Without that, they didn’t want to give him the time of day. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as his big brother. Mack had terrible acne, and it left him pockmarked. The girls treated him pretty badly.”

“Which girls, Mr. Grant?”

“The dead ones. Janet was the worst, as I recall. Gemma laughed that she’d gotten drunk and ‘done him’ in his ’Vette. She said she would have had to have been drunk.”

“And Claudia?”

“Claudia usually went along with the others. Kate Davis was the one who usually told them to stop.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Grant made a show of examining the book before flipping to another passage. “Because Mack wasn’t anything special. They were cruel to a lot of the boys. I wouldn’t have even thought about it if you hadn’t mentioned his name. Besides, he’s in prison.”

“No he’s not,” Daniel said quietly. “Not anymore.”

The old man’s back tensed, then he relaxed. “Good to know.”

“What about Lisa Woolf?”

Grant frowned. “I remember Mack missing about two weeks of school before he transferred in his junior year. When I asked what was wrong with him, the girls giggled. They said he’d gotten bitten by a dog. I found out Mack was home recuperating from a fight. Apparently he’d tried to put the moves on Lisa and her brothers beat the snot out of him. He was pretty embarrassed. When he came back, he’d walk down the halls and kids would howl behind him, you know, like they were wolves howling at the moon. He’d turn and glare, but he never knew who was making fun.”

Daniel’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was SA Chloe Hathaway. “Excuse me.” He turned slightly. “Vartanian.”

“It’s Chloe. You are the proud owner of one warrant for a safe- deposit box in the name of Charles Wayne Bundy. Hope this is what you were looking for.”

“Me, too. Thanks.” He closed his phone. “I have to go.”

Grant closed the book and extended it. “I’ve enjoyed reminiscing with you, Daniel Vartanian. It’s nice to see a former student turn out well.”

Daniel lightly pushed the book back. “Keep the book, Mr. Grant. I bought it for you.”

Grant hugged the book to his chest. “Thank you, Daniel. Take care.”

Daniel watched the old man shuffle back across the street and hoped he’d been discreet. Too many innocent people had paid for the sins of a handful of spoiled, willful young men. Some rich, some poor, but all with a flagrant disregard for decency, humanity. The law. If tradition held, the men vacated the barbershop bench for the night right at five o’clock. He’d make sure someone was watching Grant’s house. He didn’t want to live with more blood on his hands.

He’d pulled away from the curb when his cell phone buzzed again. This time it was the office, and immediately his thoughts went to Hatton. He’d been in surgery when Daniel had called the last time. “Vartanian.”

“Daniel, it’s Alex. Somebody trashed my apartment in Cincinnati yesterday.”

“Hell.” He blew out a breath. “They were looking for the key.”

“How would they know I had the letter up there?”

“Could Bailey’s friend have told them, too?”

“I had Chase check. Nobody’s visited her and nobody’s called her.”

“There are a lot of ways she could have communicated it if she wanted to.”

“I know, but, Daniel, I was thinking… The only other person who knew was Bailey.”