“Bullshit. Of course you did. You deliberately misled me. And let’s be honest, Ms. Killian, you’re not sorry. Not one damn bit.”

“All right.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not. I needed information, and I did what was necessary to get it. Satisfied?”

“Nope. I want something from you.” He took another bite of the scone, waiting for her reaction. When she didn’t give him one, he went on. “I wasn’t completely honest with you the other day.”

That she didn’t expect. Surprised, she sat forward. “Your answer to my question about the potential of the game leading to violent behavior?”

“How did you know?”

“Like you said, I was a cop for ten years. I interrogated suspects on a daily basis.”

He inclined his head, as if with admiration. “You are good.” He paused. “What I said, about people killing people, I didn’t lie about that. I believe it. But even the most innocent thing in the wrong hands-”

He let the words, their meaning, hang between them a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket. He drew out two postcards and handed them to her.

The first was a pen-and-ink illustration, the image a dark, disturbing representation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice chasing the White Rabbit. Stacy turned the card over. She read the one word scrawled across the back.

Soon.

She shifted her attention to the second card. Unlike the first, it was a dime-store variety postcard depicting the French Quarter.

It read: Ready to play?

She returned her gaze to Leonardo Noble’s. “Why are you showing me these?”

Instead of answering, he said, “I received the first one about a month ago. The second last week. And this one yesterday.”

He handed her a third card. Another pen-and-ink illustration, she saw. This one depicted what appeared to be a mouse, drowning in a pool or puddle. She flipped the card over.

Ready or not, game in play.

Stacy thought of the anonymous notes her sister had received. How the police, including her, had considered them more crank than threat. Until the end. Then they had realized them a serious threat indeed.

“White Rabbit is different from other role-playing games,” the man murmured. “In those, there’s a game master, a sort of referee who controls the game. He creates obstacles for the players, hidden doors, monsters and the like. The best game masters are completely neutral.”

“And in White Rabbit?” she asked.

“The White Rabbit is the game master. But his position is far from neutral. He beckons the players to follow him, down the rabbit hole, into his world. Once there, he lies. Plays favorites. He’s a trickster and a deceiver. And only the most cunning player can best him.”

“The White Rabbit has a big advantage.”

“Always.”

“I would think playing a stacked deck wouldn’t be much fun.”

“We wanted to turn the game on its edge. Upend the players. It worked.”

“I was told your game is the most violent. That it’s a winner-take-all scenario.”

“Killer takes all,” he corrected. “He pits the players against one another. Last man standing faces him.” He leaned toward her. “And once the game’s in play, it doesn’t end until all the players are dead but one.”

Killer takes all. Unease slid up her spine. “Can the characters stand together to take him out?”

He looked surprised, as if no one had ever suggested such a thing. “That’s not the way it’s played.”

She repeated her original question. “Why are you showing me these?”

“I want to find out who sent them and why. I want you to determine if I should be afraid. I’m offering you a job, Ms. Killian.”

She stared at him a moment, momentarily nonplussed. Then she smiled, understanding. She had scammed him; he was returning the favor. “This is when you say ‘Gotcha,’ Mr. Noble.”

But he didn’t. When she realized he was serious, she shook her head. “Call the police. Or hire a private investigator. Bodyguard work isn’t my line.”

“But investigation is your line.” He held up a hand as if anticipating her protest. “I haven’t been overtly threatened, what can the police do? Absolutely nothing. And if what I fear is true, a private dick is going to be way out of his depth.”

She narrowed her eyes, admitting to herself that she was intrigued. “And what exactly is it you fear, Mr. Noble?”

“That someone’s begun playing the game for real, Ms. Killian. And judging by these cards, I’m in the game, like it or not.”

He laid one of his business cards on the table and stood. “Maybe your friend was in the game, too. Maybe she was the first of the White Rabbit’s victims. Think about it. Then call me.”

Stacy watched him walk away, mind racing with the things he had told her, the things she had learned about the game. They turned to the man who had attacked her the night before.

He had warned her to “stay out of it.” Stay out of what? she wondered. The investigation? Or the game?

It’s not the game that’s dangerous, but obsession with the game.

Stacy stopped on that. What if someone had become so obsessed with the game, they’d begun to play for real? Begun to confuse fantasy and reality?

Could Cassie have gotten unwittingly pulled into that game?

A powerful tool in the wrong hands.

So many things in life were. Power. Guns. Money. Almost anything.

She considered the scenario Leonardo had painted: some wacko playing a fantasy role-playing game for real. A game in which the only way to win was to kill off the other characters, then face the White Rabbit himself-face the one controlling the game, the ultimate trickster.

A real-life White Rabbit.

The connection between Cassie and the scenario Leonardo Noble painted was flimsy at best, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the two were related.

Stranger things had happened.

Last year in Dallas.

Billie sauntered over with a plate of samples. Chocolate chip muffins, Stacy saw. Rich, dark chocolate. Billie’s sample plate and the timing of its appearance was a running joke among the regulars. If there was trouble brewing or juicy dish to be had, the sample plate came out. Billie seemed to innately know the right moment-and the right pastry-to share.

Billie smiled the enigmatic smile that had helped her snare four husbands, including her present spouse, ninety-year-old millionaire Rocky St. Martin. “Muffin?”

Stacy helped herself to a piece of the pastry, knowing full well the treat wasn’t free. Billie expected payment-in the form of information.

Sure enough, Billie set the plate on the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “Who was he and what did he want?”

“Leonardo Noble. He wanted to hire me.”

Billie arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow and nudged the plate of muffin pieces closer to Stacy.

Stacy laughed, took another and slid the plate back toward the other woman. “It has to do with Cassie. Sort of.”

“I thought so. Explain.”

“Remember what I told you about Cassie having set up a meeting with a White Rabbit?” The other woman nodded. “That man, Leonardo Noble, is the inventor of the game.”

Stacy saw interest flare in her eyes. “Go on.”

“Since we talked last, I’ve found out more about the game. That it’s dark and violent. That the White Rabbit and the last player alive play to the death.”

“Charming.”

Stacy explained about the postcards the man had received, about his theory that someone had begun playing the game for real. “I know it sounds out there, but-”

“But it could happen,” Billie filled in for her. She leaned toward Stacy. “Studies have shown that in people for whom the line between fantasy and reality is blurred, fantasy role-playing games can be a dangerous tool. Throw a game like White Rabbit or Dungeons amp; Dragons into the mix, games in which the emotional and psychological involvement is intense…it can prove explosive.”