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she recovered?"
    "She's fine. Completely over it," David replied, but he knew it was a lie. If she was over it, she'd quit chasing ghosts, quit running herself ragged trying to help every victim in Sacramento.
    "Good. And how does she like her new home?"
    David's nerves tingled with heightened alert. Skye had only relocated a year ago. "What gives you the idea she moved?"
    "I can't imagine she'd stay where she was."
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    That was no answer. Some people did stay, for whatever reason.
    "Skye has nothing to do with you. If you're as smart as you think you are, you'll leave her entirely alone."
    "It's not as if she's been keeping a low profile," he said, raising an indignant hand to his unimpressive chest. "I've seen her on talk shows, advocating tougher sentences for 'monsters' like me. She's been in the papers, too. As a matter of fact, there was an article just a few weeks ago about that organization of hers. What's the name of it? The Last Stand?" He chuckled. "Give me a break. She doesn't know what a real monster can do.
    But that's like her, isn't it? To go charging after a cause?"
    David's muscles bunched at the affectionate way he spoke of the woman he'd terrorized. "You don't even know her."
    "What do you mean? I know her better than anyone else. Including you," he said. Then he hung up and knocked on the door to be taken away.
    David didn't respond when the corrections officer opened a door on his own side of the room. He was too busy trying to process Oliver Burke's final words, the way he'd said Skye's name.
    "Detective Willis?" the corrections officer prompted.
    Blinking, David set the handset in its base and walked on leaden feet toward the exit.
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Chapter 3
    The Last Stand was located on Watt Avenue in a flat-roofed white building constructed in the early seventies, when architecture--at least in Skye's opinion--had hit an all-time low. Made of cinder block and painted white, with red lava rocks on the roof, it wasn't pretentious, but it was conveniently located, only ten minutes from downtown toward the eastern suburbs, with excellent freeway access to both Interstate 80 and Highway 50. It was also on the ground floor. And the rent was affordable. They leased three thousand square feet for only $2,000 a month. They each had a private office. There was a small kitchen in back, two meeting rooms and a large classroom, in which they offered self-defense courses or gathered with the professionals they sometimes hired to assist their clients-- bodyguards, private investigators, attorneys, psychologists. As Skye found the right key to let herself in--the door was always locked because they accepted only prearranged appointments--she noticed a new flyer taped to the inside of the glass door. Missing: Sean Brady Regan, D.O.B. March 2, 1964; Last seen: New Year's Day. Below the words was a picture of a pleasant-looking man Skye had met at the office three weeks earlier. And underneath that was a single typed sentence. Last known whereabouts: Del Paso Heights, Sacramento, California.
    Sheridan must've spotted her standing there, stunned, because she came from inside to open the door. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you when you called this morning. I knew it'd upset you and...and you'd already suffered a shock."
    Skye didn't answer. She pointed to the flyer. "When did you get this?"
    "The police dropped it off this morning."
    "She did it," Skye said simply. "His wife killed him."
    "Why? For the insurance money?"
    "No, Sean didn't have any life insurance. It was one of the first things I asked him. But he told me he was afraid of her. He thought she was seeing another man and wanted a divorce but didn't want the custody battle that would go with it."
    Sheridan tucked her long dark hair behind one ear. She wasn't wearing 30

    any makeup, but with her bone structure, wide periwinkle-blue eyes fringed by thick black lashes, and flawless skin, she turned heads everywhere she went, especially male heads. "We can't do it all,