She stopped abruptly, hearing flies. Placing a hand on the car’s hood, cool in the shade, she leaned forward and saw a man was on the ground, slumped against the fence.

Even from a distance of a few yards, Lizzie could see he was dead.

Fiona, off the phone now, started into the alley. Lizzie shook her head at her. “Don’t, Fiona. You don’t need to see this.”

But Fiona covered her mouth with her wrist and kept coming. Mindful that she was in what was now a crime scene, Lizzie edged closer to the dead man. She had to be sure she hadn’t made a mistake and he was alive.

No mistake. He’d been shot-obviously-in the left temple. He was middle-aged and slightly overweight, dressed in dark chinos and a dark polo shirt, with a gash on his right forearm, as if someone had fingernail-clawed him.

Fiona gasped, “Is he-”

“He’s dead, Fiona.”

She dropped her wrist from her mouth. She’d stopped shaking, but her face was ashen. Her blue eyes were fixed on the dead man.

Lizzie felt her heart jump. “Fiona, do you know who this is?”

“No-I mean, I don’t know his name. We never…” She motioned back toward Beacon Street. “I saw him on the street when I arrived at the Garrison house yesterday morning. He was walking across from the Common. I didn’t talk to him.”

“Was he alone?”

She nodded. “He said hi to me. He-” She squinted, as if digging deep to remember more. “He had a messenger bag with him. I remember thinking it looked heavy. It…he…”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” Lizzie said quietly.

“He must have had the bomb in the bag. I could have stopped him. If Owen hadn’t been warned, he’d have-the bomb would have gone off.” Fiona stopped suddenly, focusing on Lizzie. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. About the bomb.”

“It’s okay,” Lizzie said. “I already figured it out.”

“The man…the Brit…he…”

Fiona broke off, turned and fled, tripping, gagging, back out to the street. Lizzie ran after her, slowing when she saw that Will Davenport had intercepted Fiona. He had an arm wrapped around her waist as she covered her mouth with both hands and cried.

“It’s all right.” He spoke firmly, but his tone was reassuring. “You’re safe.”

Fiona took a step back, and Will let her go. “The man who…” She was hyperventilating again. “He had an English accent. I think it was English. He said I…” She gulped in a breath and mumbled, “My dad will be here any second.”

Lizzie understood Fiona’s fear and tried to reassure her. “This is Will Davenport. He and Simon Cahill are friends.”

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Will said gently.

“There’s a man dead in the alley,” Lizzie told him. She heard sirens. The police would be there soon. “The Brit I ran into in Las Vegas and Eddie O’Shea ran into at his pub is in Boston. He told Fiona to come here. He knew I was headed back from Ireland.” Lizzie gave Will a hard look. “Did you tell him?”

“No, Lizzie.” He didn’t look tired or even rumpled after his long flight, but his expression had taken on a studied control, a certain distance. “I told you this morning. For the past two years, I’ve believed Myles to be dead.”

“Then you haven’t been lying to me?”

“I have not.”

“Who is he? Who is this Myles?”

“You’ve just seen for yourself.” Will’s eyes were flinty. “Myles Fletcher is a killer.”

Fiona, listening to every word, cried out in shock but didn’t move.

Lizzie glanced back toward the alley. “Yes. I did just see for myself. Are you going after him?”

Fiona gasped and grabbed Will’s wrist. “No! You can’t! He said-he said not to follow him. He said he’s Abigail’s only hope.” She was close to hysteria. “Please.”

“All right, then.” Will gently extricated himself from her hold. “I won’t go after him.”

Lizzie’s head was spinning, and she felt ragged from jetlag, adrenaline, fear, being cooped up on a plane for hours with nothing to do but play cards and think. She turned to Will. “Now that Myles Fletcher has surfaced, I imagine you and your MI6 and SAS friends will want to figure out what he’s up to.”

Will ignored her and addressed Fiona. “How long ago did you see this man?”

“A few minutes. Ten, fifteen. Please, you can’t…”

“I’ll do as you ask and not go after him. We’ll wait here together for your father.”

“He called me ‘love,’” Fiona whispered.

Will’s eyes shut briefly, but Lizzie saw the pain in them. She was touched by his gentleness with Fiona but knew what she had to do. “I haven’t witnessed anything.” She looked once again down the alley, as if part of her expected the dead man to walk out and say it was all a joke, a bit of makeup and sheer nerve. But she knew it wasn’t. “I’m no good to anyone if I’m stuck here explaining myself to the police.”

Will didn’t respond immediately. Lizzie gave him a moment. Finally he said, “You work for John March.”

She skimmed the back of her hand along his jaw, rough with stubble. Sexy. A reminder he wasn’t a Prince Charming out of a fairy tale. “Find me,” she said, her voice hoarse, then shifted her attention to Fiona. “I have to go. You’re safe with Will.”

The sirens blared closer now. Lizzie bolted up the side street. Will didn’t follow her. She cut down pretty residential Chestnut Street, running past classic Beacon Hill homes with their black iron fences, brass-fitted doors and wreaths of summer flowers. She came to Charles Street at the bottom of Chestnut, and fighting tears of her own, ducked into the Whitcomb. Without saying a word, she headed straight through the lobby past Jeremiah and down a half-dozen steps to the rear exit.

Her cousin reached her before she could get the back door open. With Whit and Harlan Rush as older brothers, Jeremiah had learned to stay cool in a crisis. “Lizzie, what’s going on?”

She knew she had to give him the basic facts. She owed him that much. “Fiona and I just found a man shot to death up by the Garrison house. The Brit who was with her earlier told her where to find him.”

“What can I do?”

“The police will be here any minute. I have to go, Jeremiah. I can’t stay.” She raked a hand through her hair as she considered her options. “You can find me a car. I can’t take mine-or yours. The police…” She didn’t finish.

“Take Martha’s. Martha Prescott. She’s Mum’s new assistant.” He unlocked a drawer to a small cupboard, pulled a set of keys from a series of hooks and handed them to Lizzie without hesitation. “Gray Honda on Mount Vernon. The only free space will be the driver’s seat.” He smiled through his obvious worry. “Martha’s a slob.”

Lizzie started to thank him, but he just shoved her out the door into the narrow alley behind the hotel. The Rushes might not get everything right, she thought, but they could be counted on in a pinch.

She ran between parked cars and a Dumpster out to Mount Vernon Street, finding the gray Honda halfway up to Louisburg Square. It had a Beacon Hill resident’s sticker in the back wind-shield, and every available space beyond the driver’s seat was loaded with fabric samples, empty soda cans, CDs, paperbacks, magazines, torn envelopes. Martha Prescott, indeed, was a slob, but apparently also incredibly creative and good at her job. Anyone who worked for Henrietta Rush would have to be.

The car had a full tank of gas, and Lizzie was quickly on her way.

As she pulled onto Storrow Drive, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen, recognized her father’s Las Vegas number and almost didn’t answer. “Don’t distract me,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage. “I’m in traffic.”

“Dublin?”

“Boston. Storrow Drive.”

Her father sighed. “I just got off the phone with a Boston detective named Yarborough. A real s.o.b. He’s threatening to fly out here. Lizzie, tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So? I’m playing solitaire. Clock. Ever play clock? My eyes are bleeding it’s so boring. I’ve got time. Take me through it. Start to finish.”