This neighborhood boasted several Boo Radley houses. The ones on either side of her were dark, nothing to indicate that she was being watched from behind shuttered windows. But just when she thought she would get past undetected, a cat jumped out from a scrawny hedge, causing her heart to leap. The cat hissed and bowed his back, then darted back into the shrubbery.

Her car was parked halfway down the block. She was relieved to see that none of the windows had been smashed and that the hubcaps were still there. Having her car vandalized would have been tough to explain to Cato.

Passing under a streetlight, she checked her wristwatch again, and when she saw the time, she almost stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. She’d been asleep for hours!

Frantic with anxiety, she dug into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. If it had rung, it hadn’t awakened her. She looked at the readout. Good! No missed calls had been logged.

When Cato had announced his plan to go to the country club, she had told him she was going to take a sleep medication and hopefully get some rest in preparation for the interrogation in the morning. At the risk of disturbing her much-needed sleep, he had said he wouldn’t call.

Well, at least he hadn’t called her cell phone. But he might have called the house.

She considered calling his cell phone to see where he was. If she caught him still at the club, she could say she was just checking on him. But if he was at home, he would demand to know why she wasn’t there, tucked in safe and sound. He would want to know what she was doing out at this hour when she was supposed to be enjoying a medicated sleep. Then what? What would she tell him?

No, better not to call than to risk being put on the spot like that. Her best chance of not being found out was to get home ahead of him. Toward that end, she jogged the remaining distance to her car.

She unlocked it with the remote. It chirped and her headlights flashed once, momentarily relieving the darkness along the deserted street, and reminding her of the strobe lights that had been pulsing during her most recent meeting with Savich.

She opened the car door, tossed her handbag into the passenger seat, and slid in behind the wheel. She hit the automatic lock button as soon as she had closed the door, then quickly started the car and drove away.

Best-case scenario: Cato was still at the club and had done as he said he would and left her to sleep undisturbed. He had played cards into the wee hours last Saturday. Perhaps he had again tonight. Hopefully he had.

A slightly more bothersome scenario: He was still at the club, but had been calling the house to check on her. If that was the case, she could explain that she’d taken two tablets of over-the-counter medication. Stronger than she thought, the sleep aid had knocked her out and she’d slept through his calls.

Worst-case scenario: Cato was at home angrily awaiting her return.

To explain her absence, she could say that despite the sleep aid, her insomnia had been so bad she’d gone out for a drive. That was lame, but at least credible.

But how would she explain the unmistakable signs of lovemaking? Duncan hadn’t been gentle. Neither had she.

“I don’t believe we get to choose who we fall in love with. Do you?”

He hadn’t said anything in response to her question. He hadn’t needed to. His expression had told her what she’d needed to know. What she already knew.

Once triggered, his passion had been explosive and mindless. It had left marks. Unless she was able to make repairs before she saw Cato, he would surely notice her tangled hair and wrinkled skirt, the whisker burns around her lips.

Checking to see if the abrasion was as visible as it felt, she glanced into the rearview mirror.

A face grinned at her from the backseat.

She cried out in shock and fear, and reflexively stamped hard on the brake pedal.

“Mrs. Laird. We’ve never actually met. Allow me to introduce myself.” With a flourish, the man proffered a business card, holding it between his index and middle fingers. “Meyer Napoli.”

After leaving Elise, Duncan had driven around aimlessly for a while. In search of what, he couldn’t say. Redemption, perhaps.

But it wasn’t going to be found driving the streets of the city, or in a bar, or the gym, or a movie theater, all of which he considered. He ended up at the Barracks.

Only one other detective was in the VCU. When Duncan came in, the officer made a joke of the late hours they were keeping. Duncan said something suitable in reply, then went into his office and closed the door, signaling that he didn’t want conversation.

In the back of his mind, he supposed he was thinking that if he was working on the case-actually seated at his desk reviewing the contents of the case file-then he could rationalize his private meeting with Elise.

Even after all that double-talk speculation about Savich, when he’d seen who was waiting for him inside that house, he could credibly say that he’d stayed only because he was in pursuit of the truth, a confession, new evidence. Something.

If he could convince himself of that, he could almost excuse himself for what had happened. For several hours he tried. But eventually he gave up the pretense. He’d stayed in that house because he’d wanted to be with her, not to make headway on the case. What had taken place on the dusty sofa could not be classified as police work.

Admitting it was liberating to some extent. But not entirely. He still had to grapple with the guilt.

As long as he was wallowing in his culpability, he’d rather do it in the comfort of home. He left the Barracks and drove the few blocks to his town house. By now it was as close to dawn as to midnight, but as soon as he got inside, he sought refuge in his piano.

He played rock and roll, country, and classics, but every tune had a funereal beat. The music didn’t salve his soul as it usually did. He soon quit trying to find comfort in it and lay down on his couch, placed his forearm across his eyes, and gave way to the remorse he’d been trying to outrun since leaving Elise.

It landed on him like an anvil.

On a professional level, there was no justification for what he’d done. He had been intimate with a suspect, probably the primo, numero uno no-no of law enforcement.

DeeDee and his fellow detectives would scorn him. His superiors would discipline him if not outright fire him. But no matter how severe their condemnation, it wouldn’t be as harsh as he deserved, or as severe as his self-condemnation. He had compromised an investigation. There was no forgiveness for that.

And even if that were forgivable, there was the other thing-Elise was married.

He’d been the typical preacher’s kid, out to prove that he was no holier than the other kids. Growing up, he’d habitually gone looking for mischief and usually found it.

During adolescence, he’d developed a real wild streak. The worst punishment he’d ever received was having to sit through two Sunday morning services so hungover from a Saturday night drinking binge that he’d wanted to cry. He’d had to leave the sanctuary three times to throw up a rancid blend of bile and apple-flavored wine cooler.

His dad had hoped the punishment would teach him a lesson. The experience had only taught him how to choose his liquor more wisely, how to avoid a hangover, and how to handle one if the avoidance tactics didn’t work.

Much to his loving parents’ despair, he was determined not to be different just because they were in the ministry, which made him even more adventurous than most teenagers. That applied especially to sexual exploration. He started early, and some of the most memorable of those experiences had occurred on church grounds. While the deacons were discussing the purchase of new pews or hymn-books with his father, he was coaxing kisses from their daughters in the choir room closet, where the robes were stored.