"Why not? People always think I'm younger than I am. A little change in wardrobe, hair, and makeup, and I could pass for seventeen."

Mary's heart pounded in alarm at the thought of her sister exposing herself to the Lucia Killer. Gillian was a master at getting her way, and Mary hadn't missed the father-daughter relationship between her sister and Wakefield. In one more minute he would be agreeing to the scheme. "A visiting relative might raise the killer's suspicion," Mary said, hoping to effectively halt the direction of the conversation before it began.

"Possible benefits could certainly outweigh the risks of a blown cover," Anthony interjected. "The idea is sound."

Why was he siding with Gillian? Mary wondered. "Even if we consider it, I don't think the visiting teenybopper should be Gillian."

Had Anthony forgotten about Gavin? If the kidnapper was Gavin Hitchcock, what good would Gillian's presence do? And if he wasn't Gavin-well, she didn't think her sister had worked in the field long enough to carry out such a deceptive and dangerous operation.

She got to her feet and grabbed Gillian by the arm. "Can I speak with you in the hallway?"

Once out of earshot of Anthony and Wakefield, Mary said what she had to say. "It's a bad idea. Period."

"I knew you'd be against it," Gillian said, clearly annoyed. "You know what your problem is? You'll never think of me as an adult. No matter how old I get, I will always be your silly little sister. When I'm ninety and you're ninety-three, you'll think of me as the kid who used to follow you around, who used to do everything you said. Well, I no longer operate on blind faith."

"I'd say that's all you operate on. At the moment you're working under the assumption that the killer isn't Gavin Hitchcock."

Gillian gave her a surprised look. "You're working under the assumption that it is."

"You won't be exactly undercover if it is Gavin."

"It's not Gavin. Get him out of your head."

This was how all of their arguments used to start, with Gillian jumping on whatever Mary said as soon as she said it. Until today, Mary had been impressed with Gillian's work. Now she could see she was showing a grave lack of experience.

"How in the hell did you get a job with the BCA?" Mary asked, fighting a rising tide of panic. What her sister was proposing was dangerous. She wasn't going to stand by and let Gillian get herself killed.

"You're too jaded," Gillian retorted. "I have an idea. Why don't we go back in there and you pretend you don't even know me? Then maybe you might treat me with some respect."

"Gillian, it's dangerous," Mary said, her every nerve screaming.

"And your job isn't?"

"You fit the victimology."

"Are you pretending to be worried about me?" Gillian asked in sarcastic disbelief. "Give me a break! I'm not that naive."

"This isn't a game!" Mary said. "Young women are being murdered."

"Stop treating me like a child! I know women are being murdered. Why do you think I want to be a part of this?"

"Maybe because you have some misplaced notion that it's romantic? So you can be a hero? Or does it have some deeper meaning? Is it possible you're subconsciously trying to right something that happened years ago? Subconsciously trying to save another girl,, a different girl?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Fiona's dead. Nothing you do now can ever change that."

"I think you've got the Cantrell sisters mixed up. Mary's the one suffering from post-traumatic stress, not me."

Why had she ever thought Gillian would feel bad about Fiona's death? Mary wondered bleakly.

"I'm perfect for the job," Gillian said. "Why can't you admit it?"

"I want you to know that I completely disapprove of your idea."

"I'm not asking for your approval."

There had been a time when Mary's approval had meant everything to Gillian, but that had been years ago.

Gillian lifted her chin, her nose high.

"The princess is in a snit," their grandfather would have said.

Mary stared, suddenly having trouble separating the old Gillian from the new. But then, maybe the two weren't so different. "If Wakefield gives you the go-ahead," Mary said, knowing fighting was useless, "I don't think you'll have any trouble passing for seventeen."

"Does that nasty comment mean I have your reluctant vote?"

"You won't get even that much from me."

It was happening again.

The sensation came over Gavin like a tidal wave, knocking him to the floor, kneecaps meeting solid wood, jarring him all the way to his fillings.

Talk yourself out of it. You can talk yourself out of it.

Crippling poison rushed through his artedes, pushing out to his extremities, curling his fingers and toes, locking them.

Don't let it get you. Don't let it control you.

He was weak, so weak, and it was so strong. Getting stronger every day.

I'm scared.

Don't be scared, sweetie. It won't hurt you. If you can't beat it, then relax and let it take you. Let it take you away. Grandma will hold you. Grandma will be here for you.

Grandma, grandma. Grand mal, grand mal.

He couldn't win.

It overtook him, tightening his muscles until it seemed like his bones would snap.

Somehow he managed to twist his head enough to look at the clock above the sink. 6:45 p.m.

When he was little, the seizures never lasted over thirty seconds. Now they went on for much longer. Writhing, he managed to grab the dish towel from the refrigerator handle. He jammed it in his mouth before losing control…

The return to consciousness was slow and seductive. Bones and muscles that had been stretched to the limit were now weak and limp as a newborn's. The feeling wasn't unpleasant-druggy, like a heroin high. He drifted, enjoying the sensation, the lack of pain. He finally managed to open his eyes long enough to read the clock. 7:05.

What time had it been before he blacked out? 6:45? Could that be right? That meant he'd lost… He tried to figure it out, but he'd always been bad at math. Arid his head was so fucked up and fuzzy.

Almost twenty minutes. He'd lost almost twenty minutes.

His attacks were getting more frequent, and he was noticing that afterward it was getting harder and harder to remember what he'd been doing when they started.

He heard a sound and held his breath. Lying on his back on the floor, he listened.

Knocking.

Nobody ever knocked on his door, not even people trying to sell things.

He pulled the towel from his mouth and rolled to his knees. With trembling muscles, he shoved himself to his feet. He looked down to see if he was dressed. Jeans. No shirt. Barefoot. He ran a hand over his face. His fingers came away stained with blood.

Bloody nose.

Knock, knock, knock.

Whoever was out there was persistent. Why did people always knock three times? He never knocked three times.

At the sink, he washed his face, then dried it with the kitchen towel he'd dropped on the floor. On weak legs, he went to the door.

It was Gillian.

He was suddenly aware of how shitty he looked. He needed to shave, and he wished he'd put on a shirt before answering. But how could he have known Gillian would be there? She'd come to his house only once, right after he got out of prison. She'd brought him a basket of fruit and cheese-along with some white flowers, because she knew he liked flowers. He and his grandmother used to plant them together.

"Hi, Gavin." She was looking as sweet as ever. "Can I come in?"

"Oh. Yeah." He opened the door wide and stepped back. After she was inside and the door was closed, he started moving around the living room, picking up dirty clothes and empty food wrappers. "I wish I'd known you were coming," he said, unable to make eye contact, ashamed of the way his house looked, the way he looked.