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then rakes a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “I’m not on duty.” He looks past me, over my shoulder.
    â€œI’ll let you explain to Annalisa how we know each other.”
    Donovan starts to reach for me but drops his arm to his side as I rush past.
    I gun my motor as I leave the neighborhood, not even glancing back at the house. I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles are white. Donovan didn’t have a single thing to say about Annalisa Cruz the other night when I told him about Sebastian Laurent’s death. Not one damn word. He sat there shoving mashed potatoes in his mouth, saying nothing.

 
    Chapter 7
    D URING THE REST of my day at the newspaper, I know in my heart that Annalisa Cruz is the girl who seduced Donovan away from a life of celibacy. He doesn’t have many ex-­girlfriends. She has to be the one.
    When we began dating, Donovan told me that after his father died—­in an effort to please his grieving mother—­he’d considered life as a monk. Before he took his final vows, he met a Mexican-­American girl who had come to visit her brother, a fellow monk, at the Berkeley monastery. He had consulted with a priest and, within twenty-­four hours, packed his meager belongings and moved in with the girl. I had never known her name. And I was okay with that. I buy into the whole don’t talk about your exes thing. But now I don’t have a choice. Now I know. Her name is Annalisa Cruz.
    When he told me this story last year, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that my sexy, tough, cop boyfriend had ever even considered life as a monk. The only part that made sense was when he explained that a girl had lured him away from that path.
    The story has always disturbed me, making me jealous of a girl with such allure that she was able to change Donovan’s mind—­and the course of his life—­within hours of meeting him.
    Driving across the Bay Bridge toward home after work, I steel myself to talk to Donovan about it. He had today off work, and we had made plans to have dinner together at my place. Now that I know he spent part of his day off with an ex-­girlfriend, I’m not really much in the mood to see him. But it will be worse if I show up at my place, and he’s not there.
    My apartment is in the heart of North Beach, the Italian part of town. My grandparents settled here when they came over from Italy. The landlady gives me a great deal on my tiny studio because she went to Catholic school with my grandfather. I am usually filled with excitement when I hit the streets of North Beach, with all the cafe tables overflowing onto the sidewalks and all the good smells and music, but today my heart is heavy.
    Does Donovan’s odd behavior and nightmares lately have to do with this woman?
    Our bed is a battle zone because my sleep isn’t that peaceful, either. I still have nightmares about the day I killed a man—­waking up crying and frantically scrubbing at my face and hair until I realize in relief that it was all a dream and that Jack Dean Johnson’s guts aren’t coating my hands. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over killing a man. Even one as awful as Johnson.
    At the time, I’d thought Johnson was the one who kidnapped and killed my sister, but it turns out Caterina wasn’t one of his twenty-­four child victims. Until I hunt down the monster who snatched my sister, I know my nightmares will loop on replay.
    I pound up the stairs of my apartment building, trying to prepare what I’m going to say. I slam open the door of my apartment. Donovan is sitting on my beat-­up red velvet couch, holding a tumbler of bourbon.
    â€œIt’s her, isn’t it?” I cringe at my own words. It’s exactly the opposite of how I had intended to broach the subject. I had coached myself driving home to be calm and rational—­not a jealous girlfriend. So much