"A.J., don't-"

"And I don't know what he's got that I don't. But I love you, Annie. And I'm not gonna just walk away from this, from us. I love you."

His admission stunned her silent. They hadn't been that close lately. There had been a time when she had expected him to say it, and he never had. Now he wanted her to say it and she couldn't-not with the meaning he wanted. The story of their lives. They were never quite in the same place at the same time. He wanted something from her she couldn't give, and she wanted a man she might just send on the road to prison in a week's time.

"I know you better than anyone, Annie," he murmured. "I won't give you up without a fight."

He lowered his head and kissed her, slowly, sweetly, deeply. He pulled her against him, heedless of her beer-soaked shirt, and pressed her to him-breast to chest, belly to groin. Longing to regret.

"God, you think you mean it, don't you?" he whispered as he raised his head. "That it's over."

The hurt in his eyes brought tears to Annie's. "I'm sorry, A.J."

He shook his head. "It's not over," he pledged quietly. "I won't let it be."

Just like Donnie Bichon, Annie thought. Determined to hold on to Pam even after she'd served him with papers. Like Renard-seeing what he wanted to see, bending reality to open possibilities for the outcome he wanted. The difference was that she felt only frustration with A.J.'s bullheadedness, not fear. He hadn't crossed the line from tenacity to terror.

"Fair warning," he said. Stepping back from her, he picked up his fried oysters and his beer. "I'll see you around."

Annie sat back against the car as he walked away. "I need this like I need a hole in my head."

She gave herself a moment to try to clear away the thought that she had somehow managed to become part of a romantic triangle, an idea that was too absurd for words. Instead, she tried to focus once again on the world around her: the noise of the band, the intermittent bang of firecrackers, the warm moist air, the silver light from the streetlamp, and the darkness beyond its reach.

The sensation of being watched crawled over her. The feeling that she suddenly wasn't alone on the deserted side street. She straightened slowly away from the car and strained to see into the shadows at the back of the paint store she had parked beside. At the mouth of the dark alley a white face seemed to float in the air.

"Marcus?" Annie said, straightening away from the cruiser, moving cautiously toward the building.

"You kissed him," he said. "That filthy lawyer. You kissed him!"

Anger vibrated in his voice. He took a step toward her.

"Yes, he kissed me," Annie said. Pulse racing, she tried to settle her hands casually on her hips-the right one within reach of her baton, a can of Mace, the butt of her Sig. The tip of her middle finger pressed against the stem of the rose Renard had given her and a thorn bit deep into her skin, the pain sharp and surprising.

"Does that upset you, Marcus? That I let him kiss me?"

"He's-he's one of Them!" he stammered, the words slurring as he forced them through his teeth. "He's against me. Like Pritchett. Like Fourcade. How could you do this, Annie?"

"I'm one of 'them' too, Marcus," she said simply. "I've told you that all along."

He shook his head in denial, the grinning mask a macabre contrast to the shock and fury vibrating from him in waves. "No. You're trying to help me. The work you've done. The way you've come to my aid. You saved my life- twice!"

"And I keep telling you, Marcus, I'm only doing my job."

"I'm not your job," he said. "You came to help me time and again when you didn't have to. You didn't want anyone to know. I thought…"

He trailed oft, unable to bring himself to say the words. Annie waited, marveling at the ease with which he had turned everything in his mind to fit his own wishes. It was crazy, and yet he sounded perfectly rational, as if any man would have made the same assumptions, as if he had every right to be angry with her for leading him on.

"You thought what?" she prodded.

"I thought you were special."

"Like you thought Pam was special?"

"You're just like her after all," he muttered, reaching into the deep pocket of his baggy black trousers.

Annie's hand moved to the butt of the Sig and slipped the lock strap free. A thousand people were having a party two hundred feet away, and she was standing alone with a probable murderer. The noise of the band seemed to fade to nothing.

"How do you mean?" she asked while her mind raced forward. Would he pull a knife? Would she have to take him down right here, right now? That wasn't how she thought it would go down. She didn't know what she had expected. A taped confession? The murder weapon surrendered without a fight?

"She took my friendship," he said. "She took my heart. And then she turned on me. And you're doing the same."

"She was afraid of you, Marcus. That was you calling her, prowling around her house, slashing her tires-wasn't it?"

"I would never have hurt her," he said, and Annie wondered if the answer was denial or guilt. "She took my gifts. I thought she enjoyed my company."

"And when she told you to get lost, you thought what -that maybe you could scare her anonymously and offer her comfort in person?"

"No. They turned her against me. She couldn't see how much I really cared. I tried to show her."

"Who turned her against you?"

"Her sorry excuse for a husband. And Stokes. They both wanted her and they turned her against me. What's your excuse, Annie?" he asked, bitterly. "You want that lawyer? He's using you to do his dirty work for him. Can't you see that?"

"He's got nothing to do with this, Marcus. I want to solve Pam's murder. I told you that from the first."

"You'll be sorry," he said quietly. "In the end, you'll be sorry."

He started to pull his hand from his pocket. Heart pounding, Annie pulled the Sig and pointed it at his chest.

"Slowly, Marcus," she ordered.

Slowly he drew his hand free, balled into a fist, and held it out to the side.

"Whatever it is, drop it."

He opened his fingers, letting fall something small that hit the sidewalk with a soft rattle. With her left hand, Annie pulled her flashlight from her belt and took a step closer, the Sig still raised. Renard moved back toward the alley.

"Stand right there."

She swept the beam of the flashlight down on the concrete and it reflected back off a strand of gold chain, a necklace lying like a length of discarded string with a heart-shaped locket attached.

"I thought you were special," he said again.

Annie holstered the Sig and picked the necklace up.

"Is this the necklace you tried to give Pam?"

He stared at her through the empty eyes of the smiling mask and took another step back from her. "I don't have to answer your questions, Deputy Broussard," he said coldly. "And I believe I'm free to go."

With that, he turned and went back down the alley.

"Great," Annie said under her breath, closing her fist on the locket.

Her edge with him had been her similarity to Pam, the woman he had fallen in love with. She had gained his trust, his respect, his attraction. In a heartbeat that was gone. Now she was more like Pam, the woman he may have butchered.

The two-way crackled against her hip and she jumped half a foot. "Broussard? Where the fuck are you? Are you back on or what?"

Annie plucked at her wet shirt and bit back a groan. "On my way, Sarge. Out."

Sucking on the fingertip the thorn had lacerated, she wove her way through the crowd across France to the old Canal gas station. The place had been closed since the oil bust, and the old pumps had been taken out long ago, leaving weeds to sprout where they had once stood. The BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY FOR SALE sign had been propped in the front window so long it had turned yellow. A herd of teenage boys in baggy clothes and backward baseball caps milled around on the cracked concrete, drinking Mountain Dew and smoking cigarettes. Eyeing Annie with suspicion, they scattered like a pack of scruffy young dogs as she passed through their midst.