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never trusted Rose. Why did she send for you, of all people? There was no love lost between any of us.”
    Francesca hesitated.
    â€œLet me guess,” he said sarcastically. “She wants you to find the killer?”
    Francesca bit her lip. “Calder,” she began, deter mined to head him off at the pass. Even though he was always supportive of her investigations and proud of her success in them, she knew why he did not want her on this particular case—and the reason was Daisy. “This is a crime of passion. I do not think it will be hard to find the killer. From what I saw,” she added, an image of Daisy’s mutilated chest coming to mind, “someone stabbed Daisy repeatedly in a fit of anger.”
    â€œYou cannot predict the nature of this investigation!” Hart exclaimed. “Do not mistake me now, Francesca, this is one case where I do not want you involved.” His look was uncompromising.
    â€œBut I am involved. She was your ex-mistress and I am your fiancée.” Francesca tried to be firm and gentle at once.
    He made an angry sound and took her arm. “I am asking you, this one single time, to leave the investigation of Daisy’s murder alone.”
    That terrible feeling of dread rose swiftly up again. Francesca stole a look at Hart’s angry expression, her heart sinking. Now was clearly not the time to tell him that nothing and no one—not even Hart—could stop her from finding Daisy’s killer. But why did he want her off the case so badly? Surely he had nothing to hide, not from her.
    â€œThis is too personal for us both,” Hart said in a calmer tone, as if that explained his reasoning, but it explained nothing at all.
    â€œYes, it is personal for us both,” Francesca said noncommittally. She was aware of the exasperated look he cast at her, but now she was wondering about Rose. She had yet to ask her exactly when she had found Daisy. Given the extent of her grief, it was possible she had sat with her dead friend for quite some time before writing Francesca the note. One fact was clear—Daisy had been murdered before eleven or half past eleven p.m., when Rose had sent Francesca the note.
    Together, they moved toward the study, where the candle continued to flicker. As they approached, Francesca’s steps slowed, as did Hart’s. His grasp on her hand tightened, but with reassurance, not warning. Francesca glanced at him and he tried to smile at her, but the curve of his firm mouth could not extinguish the sadness in his dark navy blue eyes.
    He was far more upset than he was letting on, she thought with dismay. God, what if he still had feelings for Daisy? Could she possibly manage that, when Daisy had always felt like a threat to her relationship?
    Rose was now sitting on the sofa, curled up like a child, her knees to her chest, the dark green evening gown she wore stained with blood. Daisy remained on the floor, covered from head to toe with the throw. Hearing their footsteps, Rose looked up.
    She shot to her feet, pointing, her hand shaking. “You! I should have known! You goddamned bastard! You killed her!”
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    I N DISGUST , R ICK B RAGG swept all three newspapers from his desk, cradling his head in his hands. His head ached and he was impossibly tired. He had never felt more worn, and that had nothing to do with the fact that the grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed a single time, indicating it was one in themorning. Right now, he almost regretted accepting the mayor’s appointment, an appointment that had initially been filled with excitement and hope. He was the first police commissioner since Teddy Roosevelt to attempt the monumental mission of reforming the city’s notoriously corrupt police force. But the hottest issue of the day was his undoing, especially as