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  “Positive.”

  Rylee deflated, remembering Officer Quince’s description of Robin Hood’s m.o. He took only one thing, and not the most valuable. He’d definitely struck again. “How did he get in?”

  “Right through these doors.” She indicated the French doors overlooking the garden. The pane next to the bolt was nothing but jagged edges.

  “It wasn’t like that when I left last night. I’m positive.” Tin Man brushed against Rylee’s arm. She ran her hand over his head, back, and tail. “Well, I can’t see Paul standing still for all this. He’ll make sure the whole thing is investigated properly. Have you called him?”

  Sighing, Latisha fell back, resting her head against the chair. “He’s still in London and not answering his cell phone.”

  Rylee glanced at her watch. “What time is it there?”

  “Past midnight.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Our bedroom’s a mess.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t want to sleep in there. I don’t want to sleep in the house at all. Especially not by myself.”

  Rylee stood. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll stay with you until Paul returns.”

  A wobbly smile touched Latisha’s lips. “No need for that. My sister’s driving in from Asheville, and I’ve left a message for my girlfriend Cheryl. I expect to hear back from her any minute.”

  “Good. For now, though, I’ll make you some tea, then start straightening your room.”

  Latisha reached out and grasped Rylee’s hand. “You’re so good to us. Thank you.” She straightened. “Oh, I almost forgot. The detective wants you to call him.” She picked up a business card off the side table and handed it to Rylee.

  Nathan Campbell. Detective Division. Charleston Police Department. Rylee fingered the card. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Just routine things, I imagine. He had lots of questions about who all has access to the house and their comings and goings. Probably wants to confirm that the doors were secured when you left last night.” She looked at the broken glass on the floor. “I guess they’re following up a little, anyway.”

  “Does he want to speak with Carmel? And George?”

  Latisha crinkled her brow. “Actually, he didn’t leave cards for them—though I did tell him we had a housekeeper and a gardener.

  Should I have them call, too?”

  Swallowing, Rylee shook her head. “No. I’m sure he’ll let you know if he needs to speak with them.”

  Tucking the card into her pocket, she moved into the kitchen to brew some tea. .

  Rylee stood at the threshold of the master bedroom, eyes wide, hands covering her mouth. Family photos had been knocked off the bureau, shattered glass studding the carpet. Drawers ripped free of the mahogany dressers, their contents dumped everywhere. Designer clothes flung from the closets and trampled in a frenzy of destruction.

  She felt as if she were falling into a great abyss. Four houses had now been hit. Three were her clients. Detective Campbell would want to know why.

  But he’d have to do the calling. Just because he wanted a convenient suspect didn’t mean she had to volunteer.

  The chaos in the room was so great she didn’t know where to start. Finally, she moved to the bed and righted a jewelry box. She picked up a strand of pearls and placed them in a compartment. So smooth. So cool to the touch.

  Whoever did this didn’t care about money. A person could pay a lot of bills with what they could get from hocking the baubles strewn across the white coverlet.

  She fingered a tasseled key hanging from the keyhole of the jewelry box. The thought of a stranger being in the house, in this very room, filled her with the same vulnerability she’d experienced at the Sebastians’.

  The doorbell rang, jolting her out of her thoughts.

  “I’ll get it,” she hollered, hurrying down the stairs. “It’s probably Cheryl.”

  She looked through the peephole, pulled back, then looked again. He sure didn’t waste any time.

  She watched Logan lean to the right, trying to see inside the window of the dining room, before he punched the bell once more.

  She’d looked him up in her yearbook. His photo showed the awkwardness typical of school pictures, but his features were attractive even then. He’d matured in the intervening years, though, making the leap from boy to man with flying colors.

  She opened the door. He wore his work clothes—an oxford shirt, striped tie, blue jeans and Jack Purcells. Same thing he’d worn to the coffee shop.

  His eyes widened, then a slow smile began to form. The grooves around his mouth came into full play, transforming his face. His dark hair begged for a comb’s attention, the unruly locks going every which way.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  She raised a brow. “I was wondering the same thing about you.”

  “You don’t live here, I’m assuming.”

  “No. The Petries are clients of mine.”

  “You’re kidding.” He glanced nervously into the house. “What kind of dog do they have?”

  Suppressing a smile, she leaned against the doorframe, blocking the view. “Don’t worry, Wonderboy. No ferocious dogs here.

  Just cats.”

  “I didn’t think cats needed walking.”

  She let out a huff of air. “I feed their cats. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Tucking his hands in his back pockets, he leaned his head to the side. “That kind of makes you three-for-four, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Three of the houses hit by the Robin Hood burglar are clients of yours.”

  She stiffened, all humor snuffed completely out. “What do you want, Logan?”

  “No offense. I was just making an observation.”

  “Well, I have things to do, so if you would excuse me—”

  He stopped the door with his hand. “I really didn’t mean to imply anything, Rylee.”

  She gave him a tight-lipped nod.

  “Are the Petries home?”

  “They’re not available right now.”

  He pulled a card from his shirt pocket. “Would you just let them know I’m here? It’ll only take a minute.”

  She didn’t take the card. She still had the one he’d tossed her last week while quivering atop the Confederate Memorial.

  He extended the card into her space. “I’ll even stay on the porch, if they’d prefer. I just have a couple of questions.”

  “Maybe I can answer them for you.”

  He hesitated. “Were you here when the robbery took place?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d prefer to speak to them. I got my facts wrong last time, remember?”

  “They weren’t here during the robbery, either.”

  “I’d still like to talk to them.”

  She hesitated.

  His blue eyes exuded appeal. He definitely had the all-–American-boy-next-door look down to an art. And try as she might, she wasn’t immune to it.

  Snatching the card, she took a step back. “Wait here.”

  She’d barely closed the door when Latisha reached the entryway. “Is it Cheryl?”

  “No, a reporter from the paper.” She handed the card over.

  “He wants to talk about the robbery?”

  “I was just fixing to chase him off.”

  Latisha bit her lip. “Hold on a second. I should talk to him. Maybe it would wake the neighborhood up, so the police start taking these robberies seriously.”

  Rylee wasn’t so sure. Talking to the press was a very slippery slope. Just like talking to the police. “How about I have him call your office and make an appointment?”

  Latisha shooed Rylee’s suggestion away with a fanning of her hand. “Nonsense. You show him on in to the parlor.”

  “You sure you don’t want to wait until Paul gets back?”

  “The sooner we get the news out, the better.”

  Rylee watched her until she disappeared from sight. Then she took a deep
breath and reopened the front door.

  Chapter Eight

  Logan found Latisha Petrie installed in a floral print club chair, one of a pair upholstered in the same fabric as the open drapes. For a woman whose house had just been burgled, she seemed quite composed. But as she rose to greet him, her outstretched hand trembled, giving the lie to her impression of calm.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to meet under these circumstances, Mrs. Petrie.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, a waver in her voice. “Please have a seat.”

  He crouched on the edge of the sofa, his knees nearly touching the coffee table, while she resumed her place by the window. Rylee stationed herself behind Mrs. Petrie’s chair, like a lioness waiting to pounce.

  “Mrs. Petrie—”

  “You can call me Latisha.”

  “Thank you.” He placed his recorder on top of an oversized picture book on the table—Paris Interiors. “Do you mind?”

  “Go right ahead.

  In response to his questions, Latisha described coming home this morning from the airport, then discovering the broken door. Without thinking, she’d rushed through the house, finally ending up in the bedroom. Only then did she realize the danger she was in.

  “For all I knew, he could’ve still been in the house.” She studied her cupped hands. “But he wasn’t. I called the police.”

  “When did you realize what had been taken?”

  Her face slackened. “It took a while. The burglar didn’t just dig through my drawers—he ripped them out. When I walked in, I didn’t even recognize the room.”

  “And all he took was a brooch?”

  “All? My husband’s mother gave that brooch to me.” She swallowed. “She’s not with us anymore. We lost her last year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She dabbed at her eyes. “It was a Victorian mourning brooch.

  There’s a cape I wear it with, and I just leave it pinned to the side.

  The burglar dumped out all my jewelry, but had to tear through the closets before he found the brooch.”

  “Victorian.” Logan jotted that down. “I guess it was worth quite a bit.”

  She shook her head. “Not compared to a lot of my things. It’ll take a lot more money to repair the damage he did than it will to replace that brooch. The value’s not what matters, though. He broke into our home. He took something that had special meaning to us.”

  Rylee put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  After he finished with his questions, he asked to see the scene. They started in the sunroom, where the French doors had been forced. Getting inside had been as simple as breaking a pane and reaching through to work the lock. He bent down for a closer inspection, bits of glass cracking under his feet.

  “They could’ve dusted that for fingerprints,” Latisha said, pointing one of her glossy fingernails at the oiled-bronze door handle. “But you don’t need fingerprints to file an insurance claim.”

  “The police didn’t make much of an effort?” he asked, glancing Rylee’s way. “Was Nate Campbell here?”

  Rylee nodded. “They were gone when I got here, but he left his card.”

  He followed the women upstairs, noting how their feet left slight impressions on the carpet runner. Maybe the burglar had left footprints behind, too. The frustration in Latisha’s voice as she described how little the police had done elicited his sympathy, but it left him feeling strangely excited, too. He’d made the decision to beat the cops at their own game, and now it looked as if they weren’t going to put up much competition.

  The women parted on either side of the bedroom door, letting him pass through on his own. He recalled Rylee’s story about the Bosticks not even noticing they’d had a theft until they noticed the telltale dust ring.

  This time around, there was no chance of that.

  The Petries’ bedroom looked as if a wild animal had been locked inside, overturning everything in a struggle to break out. He felt guilty just witnessing the aftermath, a voyeur peering in on a private tragedy.

  “I can’t look,” Latisha said. “I’m going back down.”

  She retreated along the hallway, leaving silence in her wake. Rylee seemed torn, not wanting to leave him unattended. She waited impatiently as he moved through the room.

  The burglar had come for a specific item, something of no value in comparison to what was left behind. But in the process he’d battered the room to a pulp.

  Great violence could radically alter the place where it happened. Rendering a farmyard battlefield holy. Making a marital bedroom profane. But he’d never imagined the Robin Hood crimes were of this order of magnitude. Now, seeing the fury taken out on this place, the damage done to things the burglar hadn’t even come for, Logan had no doubt of the malevolence behind the thefts.

  “It’s evil, pure and simple.”

  Rylee made no reply. She shifted her weight, clearly ready for him to finish up. It couldn’t be a coincidence that three of the four houses hit were her clients. And whoever was doing these jobs took only things that had a sentimental value attached to them.

  Who better to know which items qualified than an employee? Rylee’s familiarity with her clients went above and beyond the call of duty.

  He gave her a speculative look. He had a hard time picturing her wreaking havoc on a room like this, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t involved. It would certainly explain the fierce protectiveness she was exhibiting. And she had keys to something like twenty houses in that bag of hers. If a person wanted to rob the wealthiest families in Charleston, they could do worse than snatching her purse.

  He wondered if she realized the police suspected her.

  “I better go check on Latisha,” she said, turning to go. “Have you seen enough?”

  “Before I leave, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  She stopped.

  “I want you to know, the police might not be taking this seriously, but I am. It’s not enough for me just to report what happens.

  I want to find the guy who’s doing this.”

  “On your own?” She looked at him the way a mother indulges a child who’s declared his intention to become an astronaut or the president.

  He looked her right in the eye. “You don’t think I can?”

  “Logan.”

  Just that. She spoke his name. But she filled it with meaning he couldn’t hope to unpack.

  “I can’t do it alone,” he said. “I know that. But maybe if I had some help. From, like . . . you?” Where did that come from?

  “Me?”

  “This guy has hit four houses now, and three of them are people you know. What if that isn’t a coincidence? What if it keeps happening? In cases like these, sometimes the police take the road of least resistance.” He gave her a pointed look. “And if it’s a scapegoat they want, you’d be the perfect candidate.”

  She crossed her arms, holding them close. “I’d thought of that, actually. And honestly, I don’t know what I’d do. In my line of work, if there’s even a suggestion of improper conduct, my business would be ruined.” A liquid sheen coated her eyes. “I’m my grandmother’s sole provider. If I lose my clients, what’ll happen to her?”

  Her words took him completely off guard. If she was lying, she was the best actress in the world.

  Her gaze darted about the room. Picking a pair of reading glasses up off the floor, she fumbled with the earpieces, then placed them on the bedside table. “I do admit to being frustrated with the police. And you know what’s strange?”

  He waited.

  “Your friend Nate Campbell made such a big deal about me putting my fingerprints on that bronze statue, but he didn’t even try to lift fingerprints from all this.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Good point.”

  She scrubbed the back of her head, making her short hair stick out at a funny angle. “I don’t know how I could help you, though.”

  He smiled. “I don’t eith
er, actually. I just figured, you know, you have access to this world. The people who are being targeted. If there really is a connection, maybe the two of us could work it out.”

  “You really think I might be of some use?”

  He paused, a little uncertain of what he’d just done. His dad had told him he needed help, but enlisting the aid of the prime suspect was probably not what the old man had had in mind.

  Yet, looking into her brown eyes, brimming with sincerity, it was impossible to take Nate’s suspicions seriously. She had to be innocent, a victim of coincidence.

  But was there really such a thing as coincidence?

  “Possibly,” he said. “Let me think on it, and I’ll give you a call later. Okay?”

  She gave him her full-on smile, a confluence of straight white teeth, lips tight and glossy, eyes bright as flood lamps in a fog.

  “Okay.” She clasped her hands together. “And thanks, Logan.

  Thanks for caring about more than just writing an article.”

  He flushed, knowing his motivations, whatever they were, could hardly be described as altruistic.

  She led him back to the front door. Part of him wanted to retract the offer. He’d blurted it out without thinking. It would be better not to blur the lines.

  At the same time, he had made a commitment to the story, and if Rylee Monroe was behind the burglaries—or an accomplice of some kind—what better way to find out? She couldn’t keep up the act forever.

  Seth was right. He was part of the story. And so was she. What he had to figure out, though, was what part she was really playing.

  Outside the Petrie house, Logan checked his voice messages, hoping Nate would have a copy of the police report for this break-in and the Sebastian one. Instead, he heard the voice of Seth, his agent. “Dude, if you’re still breathing on this earth, it is imperative that I get some fresh pages from you. I had another chat with Dora, and she is hot to get moving on this thing. h-o-t. She’s been selling the concept internally, but she needs something to show. So call me, you hear?”

  He had already filled a FedEx envelope with clippings from the Post & Courier, but apparently that wasn’t enough. He thrummed his steering wheel, trying to decide what to do. Maybe it was time to call in some favors.