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intended to tell her immediately, but he hadn’t been able to face putting that haunted look back into her eyes. “Miranda, I got a call from my brother in San Francisco. From Michael. A body was pulled out of the bay last night. It was Harry Mathers.”
    She only stared, her eyes locked on his for a long silent moment before she simply closed them and turned away. “It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t random.”
    “The news reports my brother’s heard don’t give many details. Just that he was killed before he was dumped in the water.”
    His throat had been slit, Ryan thought, but there was no reason to add that detail. She already knew the who and why. What good would it do for her to know the how?
    “Three people now. Three people dead. And for what?” With her back still to him she stared up at the glorious face of the Madonna. “For money, for art, for ego? Maybe all three.”
    “Or maybe none of those, not really. Maybe it’s you.”
    The quick stabbing pain in her heart had her shuddering once before she turned back. He saw the fear in her eyes, and knew that fear wasn’t for herself. “Because of me? Someone could hate me that much? Why? I can’t think of anyone I’ve had that kind of impact on, anyone I’ve hurt so deeply they would murder to protect a lie that ruins my professional reputation. For God’s sake, Ryan, Harry was only a boy.”
    Her voice was grim now, sharp with the fury that rolled in behind the fear. “Just a boy,” she repeated, “and he was snipped off like a loose thread. Just as carelessly as that. Who could I matter to so much they would have a boy killed that way? I’ve never mattered to anyone.”
    That, he thought, was the saddest thing he’d ever heard anyone say. Sadder still was the fact that she believed it. “You make more of an impact than you realize, Miranda. You’re strong, you’re successful. You’re focused on what you want and where you want to go. And you get there.”
    “I haven’t stepped over anyone on the way.”
    “Maybe you didn’t see them. Patrick’s been working on tracing that e-mail you received.”
    “Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Didn’t see them? she wondered. Could she be that self-absorbed, that remote, that cold? “Did he manage it? It’s been more than a week now. I thought he must have given up.”
    “He never does when he has his teeth into a computer puzzle.”
    “What is it? What are you trying not to tell me?”
    “The user name was attached very briefly to an account. Put on and taken off, and buried under a great deal of computer jargon.”
    She felt the cold ball form in her stomach. It would be bad, she knew. Very bad. “What was the account?”
    He laid his hands on her shoulders. “It was your mother’s.”
    “That’s not possible.”
    “The message was routed out of Florence, on that area code, and under the account registered to Elizabeth Standford-Jones, and under her password. I’m sorry.”
    “It can’t be.” She pulled away from him. “No matter how much—how little—no matter what,” she managed. “She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t hate me this much. I can’t accept that.”
    “She had access to both bronzes. No one would question her. She sent for you, then she fired you and sent you home. She pulled you away from the Institute. I’m sorry.” He put his hand to her cheek. “But you’re going to have to consider the facts.”
    It was logical. It was hideous. She closed her eyes, and let his arms come around her.
    “Excuse me.”

    She jerked in his arms as if they were bullets and not words at her back. Very slowly, she turned, took a long bracing breath. “Hello, Mother.”
    Elizabeth didn’t look as though she’d spent the last several hours flying across an ocean and dealing with the small annoyances that come with international travel. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her steel-blue suit showed not a single crease or wrinkle.
    Miranda felt as she always did when faced with her mother’s unwavering perfection—tousled, awkward, ungainly. Now suspicion was added to the mix. Could this woman who’d preached integrity all of her life have betrayed her own daughter?
    “I apologize for interrupting your . . . work.”
    Too accustomed to parental disapproval to react, Miranda merely nodded. “Elizabeth Standford-Jones, Ryan Boldari.”
    “Mr. Boldari.” Elizabeth assessed the situation, decided that the gallery owner had demanded Miranda’s