Anthony bent and looked through the lens.

"Unique? How?" Mary asked.

"The coloring. The veining. The ruffled edge. It's a hybrid that I've never seen before, and I thought I was familiar with all the work being done by hybridizers in the Midwest."

"Are you saying it can't be purchased at a floral shop?"

"I'm not sure it can be purchased anywhere, period."

"Would you care to speculate as to where this may have come from?" Anthony asked.

"A private collection, perhaps. But even at that, I've seen most of the roses in private collections. People who are grafting on their own aren't usually doing it for their exclusive enjoyment. They do it for competition. They love the challenge, and they want people to know when they've developed something earth shattering. That's what it's all about. One-upmanship, not to mention money and fame."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Delighted."

Once they were outside, Elliot called the research department. "I need you to get the names of anybody and everybody in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa, who grows-that's not the right word-produces roses. I don't know. They graft them or something. They create completely new varieties. They're horticulturists, but the technique they use has some certain name. Propagating. Yeah, that's it. And the people who do it are called hybridizers. Yeah, that's a real word. The guy we're looking for might not belong to any organizations, but he'd be buying supplies and whatever it takes to do that kind of thing. He'd have a greenhouse and all that rose kind of stuff. This is connected to the Gillian Cantrell case, so put a priority on it." He ended the call and looked from Anthony to Mary, his hands on his hips. "So we got a guy who grows roses and owns a navy blue blanket."

"There aren't that many people who would fall into the rose-growing category, plus fit our profile," Anthony said. "I suggest we get this information to the media with a tip line people can call."

"Done." Elliot was pulling out his phone when it rang. "Senatra." He listened intently. "Send it to the crime lab. We'll be there in half an hour." He disconnected and looked from Anthony to Mary. "A manila envelope just arrived at the FBI office addressed to Special Agent Mary Cantrell. No return address."

The crime lab technician balanced the manila envelope between a gloved forefinger and thumb.

"Get any prints?" Anthony asked.

"We managed to lift a couple of blurry whorls, but nothing good enough to try to match." The technician was a perky middle-aged woman with straight dark hair and a knee-length lab coat. She ran her fingers along the edges. "I don't feel anything that makes me concerned about a detonation device." She took several flash photos of the envelope. "Now we'll open it."

She put on goggles. Everybody else stepped back several feet. Using a small, scalpel-like tool, she carefully sliced open one end. Then, very slowly, she slid out the protective cardboard, lifting the top piece away to reveal an eight-by-ten black-and-white of a woman in an old-fashioned dress and apron.

Gillian.

Her eyes were half-closed, the pupils large and glassy.

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything. Mary forced herself to say the words no one else would voice. "Is she alive?"

Her question was followed by a long silence. Finally Anthony said, "It's impossible to say." He looked at her, and she could read the compassion in his eyes. "Let's get a copy and take it to a medical examiner," he said.

"Do you know her?" the technician asked.

Mary pulled her gaze away from Anthony. "She's my sister."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

The technician made a copy; then all three of them piled into Elliot's car and headed for the ME's office.

Elliot had called ahead, and their buddy Dr. Phillips was waiting when they arrived at the morgue.

"Can't say," he announced after he'd examined the picture. If he recognized Gillian from the Charlotte Henning autopsy, he didn't mention it.

"Care to make a guess?"

"Everything about the body looks alive."

With a magnifying glass, he went over the photo as he talked. "No lividity, no discoloration. Eyes look wet. Not a gnat, not a fly. Not a single sign of an insect. No outward signs of postmortem. But that's speculation. I deal in absolutes. I can't responsibly tell you the subject in the photo is alive. She may have been killed seconds before this picture was taken."

"What about the body itself?" Mary asked. "Can you determine anything from the way she's posed?"

"I've seen people as limp as rags that I thought were dead but weren't. And I once saw a dead guy who seemed so animated I would have sworn he was alive. You can't always be sure. Especially from a photo. Bring me the body-then I'll let you know." He handed the photo back to Anthony.

"Dipshit," Elliot said as they stepped from the building into the weak sunlight.

Chapter 29

Mason hummed to himself as he packed his lunch to take with him to the commercial greenhouse where he worked. He hadn't felt this good since… since, well, since his sister had been home. But his life was turning around. Jo was coming to visit soon, and he had a girl, just like she'd always wanted. A girl who read Proust.

"I worry about you," Jo had told him once. "I'd feel better leaving here if you had somebody. What about that nice Lauren who works at Dr. DeLong's office?"

"She isn't my type," he'd said, closing the book he'd been reading. Dostoyevsky's The Idiot.

"What kind of girl is your type?"

"I don't know." He'd looked at her light hair, her blue eyes, her sweet face. "Maybe somebody kinda like you."

She'd laughed. "Oh, Mason. You're so sweet, but you don't want a girlfriend like me."

"Why not?"

"You shouldn't limit yourself in that way. There are so many different kinds of people in the world."

In the dark of the kitchen, he replaced the lid on the mayonnaise jar and put the container back in the refrigerator. A minute ago, he'd been blissfully happy. Now a deep, unreasoning sorrow pressed down on him, coming out of nowhere. A moment ago, the world had seemed a promising place. Now bleakness stretched out before him as far as he could see.

The girl, he thought despairingly, exhaustion washing over him. Did he have enough energy to deal with her today? Earlier, he'd been so happy knowing she was in the house. Now taking care of her seemed more than he could cope with. Before, everything had been sharp and well defined. Now his thoughts were fuzzy, with sloppy, disturbing edges that couldn't be repaired.

This life is an illusion, he thought, mentally quoting Graham Morris. The words often gave him comfort in times like these.

The girl. He had to deal with the girl. He had to do something with her while he went to work. Normally, spending the day among acres of roses brought him comfort. How could it today if he spent all the time worrying about her?

Last night he'd left her tied to the bed, her mouth covered with tape in case she woke up and decided to start screaming. He could leave her there. Not even look in the room. He could leave for work and forget about her for eight hours.

It all seemed so hard. It all suddenly seemed stupid. That was perhaps his biggest fault-allowing an idea to carry him away so that he jumped into new situations without giving them enough thought.

Wearily, he made his way to the bedroom.

She was awake. Her eyes were open, and she was watching him. Even though she was wearing his sister's clothes, she was just a girl.

There was nothing special about her.

She reads Proust. How many people do you know who read Proust?

None.

True, but that didn't mean she understood it. Lots of people read books and listened to music they didn't understand or care to understand. It didn't mean she could spend hours discussing Proust.