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about vague suspicions,
     blaming himself, wild discourses that went on and on until he fell asleep. Later, when she’d question him about what he’d
     meant, he said he couldn’t remember what he’d said or why.
    Who could blame him for drowning his sorrows? Emily thought as she turned to go back to the kitchen. She’d do it herself if
     she thought it would help. She’d put away the groceries and make some dinner, then wake him and get some food into him.
    They had the rosary at seven tonight at the funeral home to get through.
    Father Timothy O’Malley had the look of a man who should be wearing the brown robes of a monk, with his round face and balding
     head with its fringe of gray hair. But instead, he was the sixty-two-year-old pastor of St. Timothy’s and a priest who was
     close to many of his two thousand parishioners. The Ryans and Hartleys were two of the families he’d seen through several
     weddings and far too many funerals.
    Seated alongside Lynn Hartley’s bed at Phoenix General, he checked the date on his watch and calculated that it was nearly
     two weeks since the accident. He’d conducted Terry’s funeral last week and visited Lynn regularly, often with Julia. Today,
     he’d stopped in alone before going to the rectory for lunch, and he found himself marveling at how far the young woman had
     come.
    Her head was still bandaged some, but at the hairline, some new growth of blond fuzz was beginning to show. Her face had patchy
     bandages, but was still quite swollen, with dark smudges around both eyes. She was wrapped heavily around the shoulders where
     they’d operated on her broken clavicle. Her hands were discolored and puffy, but healing. Yes, he could see progress, and
     the doctors he’d spoken with earlier sounded more hopeful.
    Touching her arm, Father Tim began to pray over her, which was his habit just before leaving. As he finished the short prayer,
     he felt movement under his fingers. Suddenly, her eyes blinked, as if trying to focus in the bright light.
    Hope rising in him, Father gripped her arm. “Thank God. Can you hear me? It’s Father O’Malley.”
    Clearing her dry throat, she strained to see him. “Yes,” she managed. Her hand moved to her face, finding bandages. Noticing
     the tubes, the condition of her fingers, she frowned. “What happened?”
    “You were in a terrible automobile accident.” He squeezed her arm gently. “Your mother will be overjoyed, Lynn. I should call
     her right away.”
    The blue eyes looked back at him, puzzled. “Father, I’m not Lynn. I’m Terry Ryan.”
    At the same moment, on the second floor of the Central Precinct of the Phoenix Police Department, Captain Ed Marino hung up,
     struggling with a juvenile urge to hurl the phone across the room. The mayor had chewed his ass but good.
    Remember your blood pressure, his doctor was always warning him. If he were to check it right now, the reading would probably
     shoot off the chart. Deliberately, Marino took in a deep, calming breath, then walked to the glass door of his office and
     opened it. “Phil, come in here, will you?”
    Sitting back down at his desk, Marino reached into his desk drawer and removed a cellophane-wrapped cigar. Longingly, he fingered
     it, then held it to his nose and inhaled. Damn doctors always limiting a man’s pleasures. What did they know?
    At sixty-four, he was ten months from retirement and looking forward to moving to Seattle to be near his son and his family.
     Things hadn’t been the same since Beth had died two years ago. He’d lost his enthusiasm and most of his energy when he’d lost
     his wife. All he wanted now was to ride things out until next June, retire with pride and an impressive record that spanned
     thirty years.
    But both daily Phoenix papers were demanding answers on the killing of one of their own, reporter Don Simon. And now, the
     mayor had yielded to pressure, asking what exactly his department was doing to find the