Footsteps approached from down the hall. A uniformed officer stopped behind Perreth. “Detective?”
“Can it wait?”
“I think you’re going to want to see this.”
Detective Perreth’s mouth twisted into something close to a snarl. “Stick around. I’ll want to talk to you further.” He spun away and followed the officer.
Sylvie groaned. She had really screwed up, throwing what she knew about Perreth into his face. But she couldn’t help it. His accusation was ridiculous. How could he possibly think Reed had abused Diana? That Diana had struck back? It would be laughable, even pitiful, if he wasn’t in charge of the case. If he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be figuring out what really happened. The one who was supposed to be finding Diana.
Hot tears stung Sylvie’s eyes. She obviously couldn’t rely on Perreth. Which meant she couldn’t rely on the police.
Down the hall, Perreth followed the officer into the lounge. As soon as he rounded the corner, Sylvie started for the church’s front door. She needed to find Diana herself. Starting with getting to Diana’s apartment before Perreth.
BRYCE WALKER had spent so much of the past week tracking down Diana Gale that when her apartment door opened and an ice-blue eye peered over the security chain, it took all he had to keep from kicking the door in, pinning her to the wall and demanding answers.
“Can I help you?” Her voice carried soft and low tones better suited to a seductress than a murderess. Of course there was no reason she couldn’t be both.
“Bryce Walker. I’m an attorney. I need to ask you some questions regarding a case I’m working on.” His voice sounded as businesslike and detached as he’d hoped. As if this really was any case. As if he was merely doing his job for a client.
The furthest thing from the truth.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and slipped it through the narrow opening.
She accepted the card with manicured fingers. “I don’t think you want me.”
“You are Diana Gale.”
“Diana is my sister.”
He peered through the small crack, trying to get a better look at her. Blond hair, large blue eyes, a heart-shaped face any man would enjoy seeing on the pillow beside him. A silver eyebrow ring pierced through the elegant arch of one brow, bringing a touch of rebellion to the picture. She held a hand to her chest, spreading pink-polished fingers across cleavage exposed by a formal green gown.
It was Diana Gale, all right. “I’ve seen your picture. And I know you’re an only child.”
“I’m Diana’s twin. We were separated as toddlers.”
She sounded sincere. But then, whatever she said in that musical voice would probably sound sincere. Fortunately he was well aware of his typical male weakness for beautiful women. And he knew how to compensate. “What is your name?”
“Sylvie Hayes.”
“And you live in this area?”
“I live in Chicago.”
“Where in Chicago?”
“Why do you want to see Diana?”
Normally he might think her abrupt duck of his question evasive. But there was something in her voice. Worry, fear, he didn’t know what—but he got the distinct impression she was concerned. About what? His questions? Her sister? Was she really who she claimed? “Are you worried about Diana for some reason?”
“I want to know why you want to see her, that’s all. So I can pass along the message.”
A lie if he’d ever heard one. And in all the years he’d spent in the courtroom, he’d heard plenty. Not only was he sure she was worried, the prospect that she was telling the truth earlier seemed likely, as well. Maybe she was Diana Gale’s twin.
Just the kind of woman his brother Ty would have insisted on helping.
A hollow twinge vibrated in his gut like a plucked guitar string. Bryce cultivated an immunity to beautiful women, but his brother had been another story. Ty would commit the resources of their law firm the moment a tear welled in a feminine litigant’s eye.
But then, Ty had been the better man.
“I have a case to discuss with your sister.” He peered over Sylvie Hayes’s blond head, trying to see into the apartment through the small space in the door. “Will you tell her I’m here?”
“What kind of case?”
“The confidential kind.”
“Well, Diana isn’t here.”
Was she telling the truth? Probably. She didn’t seem to be a very accomplished liar. Unlike her sister. “Where can I find Diana?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know that, either. But maybe if you tell me a little more about why you want to talk to her, I can help.”
“If you don’t know where she is or when she’ll be back, I can’t see how.”
Her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “You asked if I was worried about her?”
Maybe now they were getting somewhere. “Yes.”
“I am. If you tell me what this is about, maybe I can make some sense out of things. For both of us.”
Okay. He’d roll the dice. Since the client in this matter was actually himself, the case’s confidentiality was as flexible as he needed. “I came across your sister’s name yesterday. It was on the sign-in sheet at the Banesbridge prison. She visited an inmate there several times in the past year. I want to know why.”
Pale-blue eyes rounded in surprise. Or fear. Or maybe both. “Diana?”
“Yes, Diana.”
Her eyebrows pinched together, causing a tiny crease at the top of her slender nose. “I don’t understand.”
“She signed in as part of a university research project under the supervision of a Vincent Bertram.”
“Bertram?”
He did his best to tamp down his frustration. He wanted answers, not to listen to her parrot his every word. “He’s a professor in the psychology department.”
She shook her head. “Diana is earning her Ph.D. in English. I can’t see her finding a lot of twelfth-century poetry in prison. Are you sure it was her?”
“I’m sure.” Her signatures on the sign-in sheets were burned on the inside of his eyelids like a brand. “Your sister is the only Diana Gale at the university. The guards recognized her picture. The only other person it could have been is you.”
The tiny crease deepened. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
None of it made sense. Especially not his kid brother’s death. “Of course, your sister might have used her affiliation at the university to gain access, and the visit was personal.”
“Personal? How?”
“I was hoping you might have some idea.”
Once again she shook her head. “I don’t.” She sounded certain, but her eyes blinked and shifted.
“I would bet a lot of money you do have ideas. Plenty of them.”
“I’m sorry.” Through the sliver of the opening, he could see her throat move under tender skin. “What prisoner was she visiting?”
He hesitated. The idea of saying the man’s