“It’s not about you.” The girl lifted a shoulder. “He hooks up with someone new, is all excited about them, then it’s over. I’ve learned not to get attached.”

Interesting. Seemed there had been a number of severed relationships in the Noble troupe. Could one of them be carrying a grudge?

“Sounds like you’ve been here before.”

“I have. Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”

The first thing approaching a smile touched the girl’s mouth. It softened her face. “I appreciate that.”

She left the office, having to duck by her tutor on the way out. Clark Dunbar. Forty-something. Long, thin face. Bookish. Good looking in a professional way.

He watched her go, then turned back to Stacy. “What was that all about?”

Stacy smiled. “She was setting ground rules. Putting me in my place.”

“I was afraid of that. Teenagers can be trying.”

“Especially ones who are so bright.”

He leaned against the doorjamb, his tall, lanky frame seeming to fill it. She noticed how startlingly blue his eyes were and wondered if they were colored contacts. “Even the most wonderful gift can sometimes be a burden.”

She had never thought of it quite that way, but it was true. “You’ve had experience with gifted kids?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“More like Clark Dunbar, super tutor.”

He laughed. “I always wondered what my parents were thinking, naming me after the mild-mannered stiff who never got the girl.”

“What’s your middle name? Any help there?”

He hesitated. “None, I’m afraid. It’s Randolf.”

She laughed and waved him in. She sat on the edge of her desk; he in the big chair in front of it. “Have you always been a private tutor?”

“Always been an educator,” he corrected. “Better pay and better hours in this. Better class of student.”

“That surprises me. Where did you teach?”

“Several universities.”

She arched her eyebrows. “And you prefer this?”

“It sounds hokey, but it’s a privilege to work with a mind like Alice ’s. And a thrill.”

“But if you taught university, surely many of your students-”

“Not like Alice. Her mind-” he paused, as if searching for the right description “-awes me.”

Stacy didn’t know what to say. She supposed someone as ordinary as herself couldn’t comprehend such an intellect.

He leaned slightly forward, expression almost mischievous. “Truth is, I’m a bit of a hippie throwback. I like the freedom private tutoring gives me. We set our own classes and times. Nothing is rote.”

“Sometimes the expected is a good thing.”

He nodded and leaned back in his seat. “You’re speaking of your own experiences now. A former homicide detective turned technical adviser? There’s a story in that, I’ll bet.”

“Just a badass turned softie.”

“Got tired of the blood and guts?”

“Something like that.” She glanced at her watch and stood. “I hate to cut this short, but-”

“You have a class,” he said. “And so do I.” He smiled, something about his expression wistful. “Perhaps we can discuss the Romantics sometime.”

As they parted, she had the distinct feeling he wanted something more from her than a discussion of literature.

But what?

CHAPTER 19

Tuesday, March 8, 2005

9:30 p.m.

Stacy sat at a table on the second floor of the UNO library, surrounded by books. One of them an edition of Alice in Wonderland. She’d read the story-a mere 224 pages-then begun picking through a half-dozen critical essays on the author and his most famous work.

She had discovered that Lewis Carroll was considered by some to be the Leonardo da Vinci of his time. She found that interesting, as her new boss called himself a modern-day da Vinci. She tucked that away, and returned her attention to sifting through the things she had learned about the nineteenth-century author. Although simply a tale he’d made up to amuse a young girl during a park outing and only written down later, the story had become a classic.

Not just a classic, but one that had been analyzed damn near to death. According to the essays, Alice in Wonderland was far from a childish fantasy about a girl who tumbles down a rabbit hole and into a bizarre world, and was rife with themes of death, abandonment, the nature of justice, loneliness, nature and nurture.

So much for a lighthearted romp.

Stacy wondered if critics and academics made up these things to justify their own existence. She frowned at her thoughts. Ones like that wouldn’t sit well with her professors.

She had already managed to get herself on Professor Grant’s shit list. She’d been late for class and he’d been pissed. To top it off, she hadn’t been prepared, a fact the man had quickly ascertained and pounced on.

He had made it clear that the department expected better from their grad students.

Stacy tossed down her pen and rubbed the bridge of her nose, tired, hungry and disappointed in herself. Grad school was her chance to change her life. If she blew it, what would she do? Go back to police work?

No. Never.

But she had to nail the bastard who killed Cassie. Her friend deserved that from her. If it cost her brownie points-or grade points-so be it.

She returned her attention to the essay in front of her. The underlying notion of a world where the sane was insane and the rules of-

The print blurred. Her eyes burned. She fought the tears, the urge to cry. She hadn’t since that first night, when she found the bodies. And she wouldn’t. She was tougher than that.

She suddenly became aware of how quiet the library was. A prickle of déjà vu tickling the back of her neck, she closed her fingers around her ballpoint.

Stacy waited. Listened. As if in a replay of the previous Thursday night, a sound came from behind her. A footfall, a rustling.

She leaped to her feet and spun around, pen out.

Malone. Grinning at her like Carroll’s damned Cheshire Cat.

He lifted his hands in surrender. He held a copy of Cliff’s Notes on Alice in Wonderland.

Just great, the two of them were thinking alike. Now she would cry.

Spencer motioned to the ballpoint. “Whoa. Back down. I’m unarmed.”

“You startled me,” she said, annoyed.

“Sorry.”

He didn’t look sorry at all. She tossed the pen on the table. “What’re you doing creeping around the library?”

He arched his eyebrows at her word choice. “Same as you, it seems.”

“God help me.”

He laughed, pulled out a chair, swung it around and straddled it, facing her. “I like you, too.”

She felt herself flush. “But I never said I liked you, Malone.”

Before he could respond, her stomach growled. He smiled. “Hungry?”

She pressed a hand to her middle. “And tired with a killer headache.”

“Low blood sugar, no doubt.” He reached into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. He held it out. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

She accepted the candy. Opening it, she took a bite and made a sound of pleasure. “Thanks for your concern, Malone, but I’m doing just fine.”

She took another bite. The effect of the sugar on her headache was nearly immediate. “You always carry Snickers bars in your pocket?”

“Always,” he said solemnly. “Payola for snitches.”

“Or to coax information out of hungry, headachy women.”

He leaned forward. “Rumor has it you’re spending a lot of time with Leo Noble. Mind telling me why?”

“Who are you following?” she countered. “Me? Or Leo?”

“So why has Noble hired a former homicide detective? Protection? From whom?”

She didn’t deny she was working for the man. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway; Malone knew the truth. “Technical advice. He’s writing a novel.”