"I don't believe for one moment that Dom's suicide will stop her from trying again. Ellen doesn't know how much we know, so as far as she's concerned, if she silences you, she removes the threat to her way of life and preserves her father's legacy."

Erika gazed out into the garden, and the slight movement of air from the open window moved a feather of white hair against her cheek. She sighed. "Gemma, I'm not disagreeing with any of that. No one wants to see this woman caught more than I. But I want to do it myself. I don't believe that a decoy will convince her, and it's my right to take the risk. If I hadn't kept silent all these years-"

"Her father would have killed you the way he killed David," Gemma said brutally. "Joss Miller must have been sure David hadn't told you what he'd learned, and decided that killing you after he'd murdered David might cause unnecessary interest. But now you have a chance to close the books, and you need to let us do our job. And our job is to protect you as much as it is to catch a killer."

There was a long moment, in which Gemma heard the neighbors who rented the flat upstairs from Erika scraping furniture across the floor. And then, in the following silence, a faint thread of music, the theme of an afternoon show on the telly.

"All right," Erika agreed at last. "But I don't like it. And I still don't believe anyone can play me convincingly."

Gemma smiled, her relief making her flippant. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were a bit full of yourself. Give us a bit of cred-"

The door buzzer sounded, making them both start. When Erika started to rise, Gemma motioned her back with a hand. "No," she said softly. "Let me get it." She grabbed her phone, her heart thumping, and went quietly towards the front of the flat. They had assumed Ellen Miller-Scott would stick with the tried and true, keeping her hands clean, but assumptions were just that. They had no assurance that she wouldn't try to attack Erika in her flat in broad daylight.

But before she could peek out the bedroom window, she heard Melody's voice calling out, "Boss, are you okay in there?"

"Melody!" Gemma unlatched the door and urged Melody inside. "What are you doing here?"

"Your mobile's not picking up. I was worried about you."

"Damn," said Gemma, wondering if she'd missed other calls. Her signal had been patchy when she talked to Duncan.

"And I had something to show you," Melody went on. She pulled a sheet of paper from her bag, and Gemma recognized it as another copy made from the Guardian archives.

Gemma took the page and moved farther into the hall, where she could hold the picture under the wall sconce, and stared at it, trying to take in what she saw.

"Ellen Miller-Scott and Harry Pevensey knew each other? She said she'd never heard of him."

"I'd guess it was more a case of knowing in the biblical sense than a casual acquaintance," said Melody. "I did some more research. Six months after this photo was taken, Ellen Miller married Stephen Scott, who was tall, blond, and blue eyed. It was a society wedding, and they made a very handsome couple. The next year, Ellen and Stephen's son, Dominic, was born a bit prematurely.

"I looked up some background on Harry Pevensey as well. His mother was Indian, from Calcutta. Even though she apparently came from a well-connected family, I doubt that would have cut any ice with Ellen Miller's father."

"So when Ellen got pregnant, he found a more suitable candidate?" Gemma looked back at the photo, saw in the young man's smiling face the dark good looks of Dom Scott. She handed the pages back to Melody and wiped her fingers against her trousers, as if she could erase the imprint of Dom's face from her mind. There was no way Ellen Miller-Scott could not have known whose child she had borne.

"Boss-"

"That was the one connection we couldn't make, between Harry and Dom." Gemma swallowed. "Ellen Miller-Scott killed her son's father."

CHAPTER 22

The decoy arrived well before dark. Her name was Wendy Chen, and she was a detective sergeant with whom Gemma had worked when at the Yard. Not only was she as slight in stature as Erika, but Gemma had remembered that she had a flair for amateur dramatics.

Now, with a white wig and some of Erika's clothes, they would have to hope that in the dark she would pass for Erika.

Melody had left to liaise with Kincaid and Cullen, and Gemma couldn't blame her for wanting to be in on the action. But even though there was now another police officer in the flat, Gemma had no intention of leaving Erika alone until this was over.

She had rung Wesley Howard and asked him to take the boys to his mum's for the evening-Kit would object to being assigned a minder, but she didn't feel comfortable leaving them on their own. She had no way of knowing if Ellen Miller-Scott had realized she had a personal connection with Erika, but she was taking no more chances with her family's safety.

And she had rung the hospital and spoken to the charge nurse, who told her that her mum was resting comfortably and had started instructing the aides in how to care for the patient in the next bed-a sign, Gemma thought, that her mum was feeling at least a bit perkier.

When she tried to check in with Cyn, her sister's phone went straight to voice mail, and her dad answered neither flat nor bakery. Like Harry Pevensey, her father refused to carry a mobile phone, and his stubbornness irritated Gemma no end. Hanging up, she came in from the garden feeling worried and aggravated in equal parts.

As Gemma didn't want anyone to go out, just in case Ellen was watching the flat, they made do with a supper of salads and meats that Erika had on hand from the deli. Neither Gemma nor Erika, however, had much appetite.

As dusk fell, Wendy put on a pair of Erika's trousers and one of the long, colorful jackets Erika favored, then fitted the wig and pulled the thick white hair up into a twist.

At Gemma's insistence, Erika had drunk her usual before-dinner glass of dry sherry, and now her cheeks were flushed pink against her pale skin. "That's not right," she said, and made Wendy sit at her dressing table while she redid the wig, but after two attempts she dropped the brush in frustration. "It's like a man trying to tie a necktie on someone else. My muscle memory isn't cooperating. And that awful wig doesn't look a thing like my hair," she added, her nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Let's try movement, then," suggested Wendy, leading her into the sitting room. "That's the most important thing. Walk across the room for me."

When Erika complied, Gemma saw that she was holding her spine stiffly upright, and moving more slowly than usual. "No, just relax," said Gemma. "Talk to me while you walk. Pretend you're going to the shops."

"That woman will never fall for this," Erika muttered as she took another few turns around the room. "She doesn't make mistakes."

"Let me try." Wendy demonstrated, holding her shoulders forward just a bit, changing the angle of her head, and adding a very slight halt to her step. The transformation was amazing.

"I don't look like that," protested Erika, incensed.

"Oh, but you do," said Gemma, laughing. "That's very good. It would fool me, at least from a distance."

"The eye sees what it expects to see," explained Wendy. "Miller-Scott had a chance to watch you last night, Erika, and maybe other times as well, so she'll have a visual imprint. That's all it takes for most people to make a quick identification if you give them the right cues."