He tried a smile and failed, but she saw he was awake.

“How…how do you feel?”

“Worse than I look.”

From her guarded response he suspected he looked pretty damned bad. His mouth tasted foul and as he shifted on the hospital bed his entire body screamed in pain. He winced, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“They’re going to arrest me,” she said, and swallowed hard. Fear gripped her, casting dark rings around her brown eyes. “The police have been following me, but…but I was able to lose them and sneak in here.”

“How?” he asked, before he thought twice. Resa was nothing if not quick. And clever.

She ignored the question. “The police, they think I tried to kill you. They’ve been putting together a case. A few people claim that they saw me in the belfry right before the shots were fired.”

He tried to lift his head but the ache sucked his strength. Hadn’t he seen her there, in the bell tower?

“And there’s more. They think I killed Aunt Lorna that night, too, but…but I think they’re having more trouble proving that.”

“Aunt Lorna?” he repeated. “Alberto’s wife?”

The cobwebs in his mind stretched thin, fading.

“They…they found her in her house. I heard on the news that she fell…off her scooter and down the stairs. But the police think she might have been pushed. Oh, God, Lucas, I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.” Resa’s face was drained of color and a small tic had developed at her temple.

“Slow down. Start over.”

“I don’t have an alibi. I was home alone about the time Aunt Lorna died. I was getting ready for the party. I knew you’d be there and I was…I was excited. Anyway, I went to the party, hung out for while, then I saw you. Do you remember our conversation in the library?”

“I remember.” That much was clear.

“You went up, I went down to the wine cellar, thinking you’d follow, then I heard gunshots and ran up the stairs but you were already…already…” She looked at him and shook her head.

“Jesus.”

She stepped forward, touched his hand and all the warmth and passion that they’d once shared came back to him. It clouded his mind like a drug. No…he couldn’t go there now.

He reminded himself of the many times Resa had deceived him, the way she’d masked the truth to protect her family, to cover up the transgressions committed behind those sacred walls.

Gritting his teeth, he drew his hand away.

“You have to help me, Lucas,” she said, pleading. “I can’t be put away for a murder I didn’t commit.”

And there it was between them.

The lie.

The one they both knew existed.

From the hallway came the sounds of the hospital: whispers, softly rattling carts and gurneys, the ding of a bell announcing that an elevator car was about to arrive.

“Do they have any other evidence?” he asked.

“The gun, the one they found in the belfry. It was mine, Lucas. It was the .22 you gave me.”

He hardly dared breathe. “Your pistol.”

“It must have been stolen,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I didn’t shoot you, I swear it.”

“I know.” His voice was faint, but the image was solidifying in his head. Mad, dark eyes in the moonlight. A square jaw braced in fury. And a complexion nubby from the scrape of a razor.

The face of a man.

“It wasn’t you,” he said, weak with relief. “I know it wasn’t.”

“Tell the police that, will you, please?”

“It’s going to be okay, Resa. Please, I’ll take care of you. I can protect you.”

“No.” She stepped back as if stung by his suggestion. “There is no protection in this world. I learned that with Ian. You can’t protect me, Lucas, and you can’t change what’s happened. No one can escape the past.” Fighting tears, she backed toward the door.

“Resa, wait…”

He shifted in bed and, fighting the pain, levered himself up onto his elbows, but she was already gone.

“You look like hell,” Noah Kent said cordially.

“Don’t try to cheer me up.”

It had been less than three hours since Resa had left. Parker had tried and failed to get Dr. Woods to release him from the hospital. Still, Kent was a welcome sight, dressed in pressed slacks, a blazer and shirt and tie, as if he were on his way to court.

“They letting you out of this place?”

“Nah, but I’m going anyway.”

“Not a smart move.”

“One of many,” Parker said, wincing against the pain in his belly.

Kent cut to the chase. “She came to see you, didn’t she? She was here, earlier.”

“Who?”

“Don’t mess with me, okay? Theresa D’Amato was caught on camera in the parking lot. Hospital security has been on alert for her since you checked in.” When Parker didn’t respond, Kent went on. “Okay, two guns, both registered to you were found at the scene. One, the Glock, has your prints on it, the other, a.22, has Theresa’s.”

“I gave it to her years ago, but she wasn’t in the belfry that night,” Parker said.

“Who was?”

He frowned. “I—I’m not sure.”

“Think real hard.”

He’d been picturing that face all morning. He could see the shooter turning to him, a face so like Resa’s, but so different. “It’s a little blurry.”

Kent eyed him critically. “No more bullshit, Parker. I know you lied when the kid died. And I know you’re lying now. So stop yanking my chain and give it to me straight. Was Theresa D’Amato in the bell tower?”

“Not in the belfry, no.”

“Then who? Who shot you?”

“I…I think it was someone who was trying to look like her. I only saw the face for an instant and it was dark, but…” He swiped a hand over his forehead, a bead of sweat there. “I think it was Frankie D’Amato.”

“Her cousin.”

Parker knew it sounded nuts. “But he’s in a mental hospital.”

“Not anymore.” Something shifted in the hospital room—the tiniest drop in temperature. In that heartbeat, with his partner hesitating, Parker sensed what was coming and it scared the hell out of him. “I tried to call you about that,” Kent said.

“It was him?” Parker gaped. “Frankie D’Amato.”

Kent leaned forward in his chair. “Frankie D’Amato walked away from the hospital Friday sometime. No one knows exactly how it happened, but they think he slipped into scrubs, then pilfered some poor nurse’s locker. Probably walked out of there decked to the nines.”

Parker felt his entire life beginning to unravel. Frankie D’Amato, Theresa’s cousin, had been institutionalized in a mental facility for five years…ever since Ian’s death.

“And on the day of the escape, what happens? Frankie’s mother, Lorna, is found dead at the base of the stairs, a convenient accident, if you ask me. Then you’re shot in the belfry of the D’Amato Monastery Estates at a gala hosted by Frankie’s uncle. Coincidence?” Kent shook his head, clasped a hand over one knee. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead.” And he was. Gone was any twinkle in his eyes. “Someone worked real hard to make it look like Theresa was in the tower. Octavia and a few other guests swear they saw Resa in the belfry. Then there’s a pistol registered to you that was found on the floor, as if someone had dropped it.”

“Not Resa.”

“Well, her prints are on it.”

“I gave her that gun a long time ago.”

Kent nodded. “I knew you’d defend her. Lucky for you, we’ve got some evidence that leads in another direction. We found hairs at the scene—synthetic.”

“A wig.”

“And pieces of leather in the bell rope, the escape route the attacker used.”

“Gloves,” Parker whispered, remembering his assailant sliding past him on the ropes.

“That’s right. So if the assailant was wearing gloves, there’d be no new prints on the gun.”

“It was Frankie,” Parker said.

“I think so. Shoe prints are larger than Theresa’s, and a silver Mercedes registered to Lorna D’Amato was left with the valet, who remembers the woman who dropped it off. Someone who looked a lot like Resa, but, the valet thought, a little larger. Even though Frankie’s small for a man—five-six—it would be tough to look as petite as Theresa.”