"A difficult question, Mr. Riley, with such little information. I can say that love and hate are as intricately entwined as the poets claim. Either one can take control, and either one, depending on circumstances, can be dangerous. Obsessions are rarely constructive, for either party. Tell me, are you planning a show on the topic?" "Could be." Finn reached for his coat. "As a layman, I wonder if someone who was dealing with that kind of obsession might be able to hide it. Go through the day-to-day motions without letting the mask slip." He studied Marshall's face now. "The old John Smith who mows down half a dozen people in a K Mart. The neighbors say what a nice, quiet guy he was."

"It happens, doesn't it? Most people are very clever at allowing others to see only what they wish to be seen. And most people only see what they choose in any case. If the human race were simpler, both of us would be looking for other means of employment."

"You have a point. Thanks for your time." As Finn walked out of the office, through the reception area and to the bank of elevators, he wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could calmly blow a woman's face off and walk away. There was cold blood there. That much he was sure of.

Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a territorial instinct. No, Finn concluded, that unease came from the reporter in him. The man was hiding something, and it was up to him to ferret it out.

It wouldn't hurt to take a run by the hotel and see if anyone had spotted Marshall in the area on the night of Angela's death.


In his office, Marshall sat behind his desk. He waited, and waited until he heard the faint rumble of the elevator. And he waited again until he heard nothing at all. Snatching up the phone, he punched in numbers, wiped his damp palm over his face.

He heard Finn's voice relay the information he already knew: Deanna wasn't there. Marshall slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands.

Goddamn Finn Riley. Goddamn

Angela. And goddamn Deanna. He had to see her. And he had to see her now.


"You shouldn't have come back yet." Jeff stood in Deanna's office, his pleasant, homely face set in stubborn lines of worry. The smell of paint was still fresh.

They both knew why the walls had been painted, the rug replaced. There were long, jagged scratch marks marring the surface of Deanna's desk. The police had unsealed the room only forty-eight hours before and there hadn't been time to repair or replace everything.

"I was hoping you'd be glad to see me." "I am glad to see you, but not here." Since it was just past eight in the morning, they were alone. Jeff felt obligated to convince her to give herself more time. When the rest of the staff arrived, he had no doubt they would add their weight. But now it was up to him to watch out for her. "You've been through a nightmare, Dee, and it hasn't even been a week."

Yes it had, she thought. One week tonight. But she didn't correct him. "Jeff, I've already been through this with Finn—"

"He shouldn't have let you come in."

Her hackles rose, but she bit back the first furious retort. Perhaps her nerves were still raw, she decided, if she was ready to snarl at poor Jeff. "Finn doesn't let me anything.

If it makes you feel better, he agrees with you completely about my taking more time. I don't." She eased a hip down on the wide sill of the plate-glass window. Behind her, wet snow fell in thick, listless sheets. "I need to work, Jeff. Angela's death was horrible, but hiding my head under the covers isn't going to make it, or my part in it, go away. And I need my pals." She held out a hand. "I really do."

She heard him sigh, but he crossed to her and took her hand. "We wanted to be there for you, Dee. All of us."

"I know you did." She squeezed his hand, urging him down on the sill with her. "I guess this hasn't been easy on anyone. Did you have to talk to the police?"

"Yeah." He grimaced, shoving at his glasses. "That Detective Jenner. "Where were you on the night in question?"'" Jeff demanded in such a perfect mimic of Jenner that Deanna laughed. "We all got the treatment. Simon was sweating bullets. You know how he is under pressure. Wringing his hands, gulping audibly. He got so worked up that Fran made him lie down, then tore into the cop for harassment."

"Sorry I missed it." She leaned her head against Jeff's shoulder, content to be back with friends. "What else did I miss?" She could feel his body tense and she squeezed his hand in reassurance. "I'd feel better if I knew, Jeff. I've only gotten some sketchy details about how the office was torn up. I miss our Christmas tree." Her smile was brief and sad. "Silly, isn't it? When you think of everything that was destroyed in here, I miss that stupid tree."

"I'll get you another one. Just as ugly." "Impossible." But she let it go. "Tell me."

He hesitated a moment. "The office was pretty messed up, Dee. But it was mostly cosmetic damage. Once the cops let us in, Loren had it cleaned out, repainted, recarpeted. He was royally pissed. Not at you," he said quickly. "It was the whole deal, you know. The fact that somebody got in and… did what they did."

"I'll call him."

"Deanna… I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I'm so damn sorry you had to go through all that. I wish I could say I'm sorry about Angela, but I'm not."

"Jeff—"

"I'm not," he repeated, and tightened his grip on her hand. "She wanted to hurt you. She did everything she could to ruin your career. Using Lew, making up lies, dragging that whole business with that creep football player into the public. I can't be sorry she won't be around to try something else." He let out a long breath. "I guess that makes me pretty cold."

"No, it doesn't. Angela didn't inspire great love and devotion."

"You do."

She lifted her head and turned to smile at him, when a sound in the doorway made them both jump.

"Oh, God." Cassie stood, a paperweight in one hand, a brass sculpture in the other. "I thought someone had broken in again." She pressed the hefty glass paperweight to her heart.

On watery legs, Deanna managed the two steps to a chair. "I came in early," she said, trying desperately to sound calm and in control. "I thought I might start catching up."

"I guess that makes three of us." With her eyes on Deanna, Cassie set the sculpture and paperweight aside.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"No." Deanna closed her eyes for a moment. "But I need to be here."


Perhaps her nerves were raw and her temper short, but by midmorning Deanna found some comfort in the basic office routine. Bookings had to be rearranged and rescheduled, others fell through completely due to the time lapse. New story ideas were devised and discussed. Once word spread that Deanna was back in harness, the phones began to shrill. People from the newsroom popped upstairs, out of both genuine concern and pure curiosity.

"Benny's hoping you'll do an interview," Roger told her. "An exclusive for old times' sake."

Deanna passed him half the sandwich she was nibbling at her now overburdened desk. "Benny thinks a lot of old times' sake."

"It's news, Dee. And pretty hot when you consider it happened right here at CBC and involved two major stars."

A major star, she thought. What was the difference between a major star and a minor one? She knew what Loren would have said: A minor star sought airtime. A major star sold it.

"Give me some time, will you?" She rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck. "Tell him I'm thinking about it."

"Sure." His gaze wandered from hers to his own hands. "I'd appreciate it, if you decide to do it, if you let me do the interview." His eyes cut back to her, then away again. "I could use the boost. There are rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom again."

"There are always rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom." She resented the favor he was asking, and wished she didn't. "All right, Roger, for old times' sake. Just give me a couple of days."

"You're a peach, Dee." And he felt like sludge. "I'd better get down. I've got some bumpers to tape." He rose, leaving the sandwich untouched. "It's good to have you back. You know if you need a friendly ear, I've got two."

"Off the record?"

He had the grace to flush. "Sure. Off the record."

She held up both hands as if to gesture the words back. "Sorry. I'm touchy,

I guess. I'll have Cassie set up an interview in a day or two, all right?"

"Whenever you're ready." He walked to the door. "This really sucks," he murmured as he shut the door behind him.

"You bet." Deanna leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes, letting herself hear only the impersonal murmur of the television across the room. Angela was dead, she thought, and that made her a hotter news item than she had ever been when she was alive.

The really horrid bottom line, Deanna knew, was that she was now hot news as well. And hot news made for hot ratings. Since the murder, Deanna's Hour — reruns of Deanna's Hour, she corrected — had spurted up in points, pummeling the competition. No game show or daytime drama could hope to withstand the mighty weight of murder and scandal.

Angela had given her greatest rival the success she'd hoped to take away. She'd only had to die to do it.

"Deanna?"

Her heart flew to her throat, her eyes sprang open. On the other side of her desk, Simon jumped as violently as she. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I guess you didn't hear me knock."