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hallway that ran through the rest of the apartment, Reilly slid her hands into her jeans pockets and strolled around the large room that took up the entire width of that end of the condo. Tall windows faced out toward Rittenhouse Square, the small Center City park that was a focal point for tourists and residents alike. Two sofas sat at right angles to one another on an oriental carpet, a gleaming dark wood coffee table between them. Neat and orderly and barely lived-in. She gravitated toward the far wall where built-in bookcases held an assortment of books, photographs, and an occasional vase.
    These weren’t the legal tomes that Reilly imagined Liz kept in her office, but an eclectic array of literature—popular fiction, biographies, nonfiction. She noticed a photograph of Liz with a man who looked about Liz’s age. They were both dressed in white shorts and polos with a logo Reilly couldn’t read over the left breast, and carrying tennis rackets. The dark-haired man, well built and what most people would consider handsome, had his arm around Liz’s waist, and Reilly felt a pang of disappointment which she quickly pushed aside. Looking for other photographs, she was surprised that there were no others in the room. In fact, the entire room looked slightly barren, as if something or some things were missing.
    Reilly returned to the photograph. She guessed that Liz was a decade younger in it, and although she was smiling, her expression was shuttered. Whatever she was feeling, she wasn’t going to reveal it for posterity.
    “Do you play?” Liz asked from somewhere behind Reilly.
    “Not tennis,” Reilly said, turning. Liz had changed into sage slacks with an off white shell, beneath which the barest hint of her lace bra showed. Reilly quickly averted her gaze. “I was more of a sandlot baseball kind of kid.”
    Liz smiled. “Hence your interest in sports medicine.”
    “When I figured out I wasn’t going to be an Olympic caliber softball player, I had to do something.” Reilly indicated the photograph. “Do you still play?”
    “No,” Liz said abruptly. “I’ve graduated to squash. Do you? Still play ball?”
    “Yep. In the city league in Fairmont Park,” Reilly said. “The hospital has a team. Well, several actually, but I play on the all women’s team. I never liked mixed teams.”
    Liz eyed the photograph. “I know what you mean.”
    “Is he your, ah…husband?”
    “Stepbrother.”
    Relieved, Reilly almost grinned before reminding herself that could mean anything. Liz might still have a husband, an ex-husband, a boyfriend—or several. Liz stood only a few feet away, but suddenly the distance between them felt heavy with unspoken questions.
    “I’m gay,” Reilly said.
    “So am I.”
    “I could use one of those bagels.”
    “Come on out to the kitchen. I’ll fix you one.”

Chapter Four

    The kitchen was bright and sleek and spotless, like the rest of the condo. A round wooden table big enough for two sat in front of a window that also overlooked the park. A stack of newspapers—all from that morning, Reilly was willing to bet—was piled neatly on the wide window ledge. A coffee pot and a single mug sat upside down in the dish drainer next to an otherwise empty sink. Reilly took that to mean Liz lived alone. Of course, it could simply be that her girlfriend, or partner, was traveling or had worked all night and wasn’t home yet. And why she was even speculating, Reilly grumbled mentally, she didn’t know.
    “Do you want your bagel toasted?” Liz asked, her back to Reilly as she took plates down from the cupboard.
    “However you’re making yours is fine,” Reilly replied. “Can I do anything? I’m pretty handy with a knife.”
    Liz looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Sit. You must be tired.”
    Reilly pulled out a chair at the small table, although she wasn’t tired. Usually when she came off an overnight shift she was too keyed up to sleep, even though mentally and physically