He wasn't about to give up, either. There were other ways to proceed. He had a few ideas and had already mentioned them to Brandon. Including gathering files from previous conventions, seeing if they could find the same man, identified for the recording this time.

That, however, would take a while. It would be easier if he could question anyone who had actually been in the room during the workshop in Richmond, when they knew the unsub had been present. Had, he wondered, Dr. Underwood's father been there? Her stepbrother?

Her angry husband, who might not have been as ill as she claimed?

A simple thing to ask, yet Dr. Kean didn't seem to want any other members of her family questioned. She didn't even seem to want Wyatt to meet them face-to-face.

Could it be because she didn't want him learning the identity of the man on the tape?

The idea might immediately have left the mind of someone like Anspaugh, who was easily cowed by the trappings of wealth and couldn't picture the dark, seedy side of the lifestyle. Wyatt, however, didn't discount any possibility, however violent, however bloody. He knew rage and bloodthirstiness were in no way limited to the average person.

He suddenly wanted to dig around. More so than before he'd come here. Because if these women weren't hiding something, then he had no business calling himself an FBI agent.

"Thank you both, very much, for your time," he murmured, rising to say good-bye to the two doctors. He wanted out of here, away from the ornate office and the aura of privilege and wealth. He would happily leave them to their tension and their family drama, to their rich patients and their soap opera lifestyle.

He didn't envy them one bit. And the idea that he might have been raised much the same way, if not for a twist of fate and a single night of bloody rage, served as a reminder that he was on the right path. He'd gone in the right direction with his life, and wouldn't trade places with the golf-playing surgeon or the angry husband controlled by his wife's family for anything in the world.

He headed through the building, hesitating near the front desk. The receptionist wasn't there. For a moment, he considered tracking her down to ask her to listen to the recording, but since she'd admitted she was new here, he didn't think it was worth it. Doing so would be an obvious sign that he didn't trust Drs. Kean and Underwood. And while that was true, he didn't see the need to put their guards up so quickly on a long shot with a temporary employee.

Wyatt proceeded to the front door. Opening it, he stepped back, out of the way, to allow yet another patient to enter, this one already attractive, though her severe hairstyle hardened her features. Her eyes widened behind her trendy glasses and she gave him a quick once-over, then quickly averted her gaze. She didn't even thank him for the courtesy, probably wanting to keep a low profile for this, a visit to a plastic surgeon who would remove a chin or fill a wrinkle or smooth some age spots. Holding on to youth and physical beauty had never been more important, or so it seemed in this little microcosm of society.

Funny. Even with her shaved head, her scars, her bandages, stitches, and bruises, Lily Fletcher was more beautiful than any woman in the building.

Outside, he walked toward the car, already planning his next move. He had come here looking for a witness. He wondered, though, with all the little details he'd heard from Judith Underwood and Angela Kean, if he might have stumbled upon a clue that could lead him to a suspect.

The family certainly bore more investigation.

Getting in his car, Wyatt couldn't deny his disappointment that he still didn't know whose voice was on that tape. He dreaded calling Lily and telling her. But he'd also make it clear that he wasn't about to give up. There had been hundreds of people at that convention, dozens in that workshop. Someone, somewhere, would recognize that voice. He had to believe that.

For Lily's sake. For all their sakes.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, she and her sister-in-law watched the handsome FBI agent exit the building.

They had been completely silent, just staring at each other for a long moment after he'd departed, before they moved, almost in unison, to the large tinted window overlooking the parking lot. And it wasn't until he was in his car, driving away-hopefully never to return-that she finally broke the silence. "You lied."

A shrug. "So did you."

Well, of course. There'd been no other choice. Not lying would have brought a damned murder investigation down on them. Reputations could be destroyed, all they'd worked for torn apart, the family crucified in the press.

And what happened to the family happened to the practice.

"Do you think he believed either one of us?"

"Probably not. But let's not panic just yet."

"Why now?" she murmured, torn between fear and resentment. "Why, after all this time, and why that one recording? What can it possibly prove?"

With a frown, the other woman replied, "I have no idea. But one thing is sure: We can't let this go any further. Do we have anyone in the family with FBI contacts? Somebody who can nip this thing in the bud, get rid of that tape?"

Good point; she should have thought of it herself "I'll work on that." Lowering her voice to a thick whisper, she added, "Do you believe it? That he was involved, somehow, with stealing the car? Stalking those children?"

A bitter laugh was her only response.

Yes. Her sister-in-law believed. God help them, they both did. Because there had been other signs, other children. And they were all damned for having known about it and yet doing nothing.

"We have got to get this under control. To make sure that agent never gets near Father."

She shuddered at the very thought, rubbing a shaking hand over her eyes. "This could destroy us all. Child molestation. Murder/' Then, not sure she even wanted the answer, she asked flat out. "I thought it was under control. That he'd been scared off after whatever happened last summer with that Web site he was so obsessed with."

The other surgeon, so brilliant, so charmed, sneered in response. "Only a fool would think he could resist those baser urges for long."

She shuddered, hating to even imagine it. Had he always been that way? Had the rest of them just been too blind to see? Was she herself one of the fools?

"If he did it, he certainly timed it well, knowing how busy the rest of us would be with the conference, while he would be assumed to be there, as well. Though we both know he made himself scarce that weekend and was hardly around."

"Almost as if he had planned it that way," her hated sister-in-law replied.

Perhaps he had. It hurt to think about someone she had once so loved. But perhaps he had.

They each turned from the window, walking toward the office door, saying nothing else. They were allies now, though neither of them liked it-or each other. But they had no choice. The family had to be protected; Dr. Alfred Underwood's legacy and the practice's reputation could not be tarnished by any hint of a scandal.

And a pedophilia/murder investigation would make for quite a scandal. It could bring down every single one of them. So for now, the two of them were trapped, helpless, and forced to shield each other. She and her sister-in-law would remain silent conspirators.

Together, they would have to make sure that the entire family wasn't headed for total destruction because of the actions of one sick, unbalanced member of it.