Early the next morning, Lilia, dressed in black yoga pants, a light blue hoodie and sneakers. She drove the Beetle back to the law offices, singing along to her favorite Depeche Mode album. Her car might be old and a piece of crap by some standards, but she loved it. In her opinion, a car with character said more about a person than one with a functioning heater.

She turned left off the main road into the parking lot and pulled into a spot along the side of the building.

Whistling under her breath, she pulled on the doors at the front of the building.

No luck.

She pulled again, and inspected the lock. She banged on the door, and peered into the lobby. No one sat at the front desk. Looking around the main door area, she noted keyless entry points.

Employees must have codes to open the doors during off hours.

But there were no employees in sight.

She couldn’t wait. There were errands to run. She’d need her wallet. And she really did need her cell phone. She pulled on the main doors again, futilely, walked around the building, and looked at windows. Several office windows glowed yellow with artificial light, including one near the boardroom they occupied last night. She looked at the ground. No bushes, nothing to hide her actions.

Oh hell, am I really contemplating breaking into a law office?

She tried to justify her thought process.

Yes. I need my bag. It’s Aidan Murchand’s fault I left it behind. Besides, there are lights on. There’s bound to be someone there. I’ll get in and find someone, explain why I’m there, grab my bag and be on my way. Simple.

A gray emergency exit caught her eye. She remembered the embarrassing turn of events last night.

That’s his fault, too. The jerk. I’ll be the talk of the water cooler. “Did you see the crazy chick with Henderson?”

The gawkers. Ah ha! It’s not breaking in if the door is open.

She trotted to the gawkers’ door. Sure enough, the smokers left it propped open with the magazine so it couldn’t swing shut and lock them out.

She let herself in.

“Hello? Hello? Is anyone here?”

She knocked on the first door she saw.

“Excuse me? I need some help.”

She tried the doorknob, only to find it locked. The next few doors were locked as well.

She considered which direction she’d come from last night and the sequence of carpet and wall colors. She set off, and checked up and down the hallways as she walked, grateful that she’d only been on the first floor last night.

A few minutes later, she found herself on hardwood floor. Sure enough, two more turns and she stood in front of the boardroom door. There was her bag, right in the chair where she’d sat.

She pulled out her cell phone and checked her messages. Voicemail messages from both her brother and Geoff were in the log, plus a call from the leader of her coven, Celeste. Nothing unexpected. The phone in the shop was a business line only. All her personal calls came through her cell.

She dropped her phone back into her bag and glanced around. The oriental carpet looked pale and worn in natural light. She shivered. The temperature in the room felt several degrees colder than it had the night before. The air smelled different, less like stale cigars, and more like her cats’ litter box when she’d let it go for too long, mixed with the odor of bitter coffee. A faint whiff of cinnamon, like an afterthought, pushed through the other combined aromas.

She wrinkled her nose.

Several large, vibrantly green fichus trees occupied a corner of the room. Unable to resist beautiful plants, she moved in for a closer look.

Can’t be all bad if they take good care of their fichus.

She stepped around the end of the table and reached out to touch the glossy leaves. A chair lay on its side next to the table.

Huh. That’s not the chair that Miriam knocked over last night. And why is there a suit jacket on the floor?

Puzzled, she leaned over to pick up the jacket and chair. Closer to the floor she caught sight of a pair of dark brown wing tips under the table, lying at an odd angle, close to the chair. A coffee mug with gold print lay on the floor surrounded by a dark wet puddle in the carpet. Lilia ignored her inner voice, the one screaming at her to leave immediately, and leaned over a little further. Her eyes followed the shoes up a pair of brown polyester trousers to a yellowed button-down shirt. The gold and green tie drooping on the floor jogged Lilia’s memory.

No longer shivering from the cold, she nevertheless shuddered when she finally recognized the body.

Harvey Litnisky himself lay under the table, eyes fixed on the sideboard, foam around his mouth, pants soiled. The smell assailed her nostrils and she gagged.

“Oh, no. No.” She stumbled backwards, ran into the fichus plants and fell. She scrambled to her feet, staying far away from the body.

Lilia ran her hands through her hair, struggling for composure. She pressed her lips together.

“Okay. Okay. What am I supposed to do? Think, Lilia. Calm.”

She tried a couple deep breaths, but the odor of the dead man’s soiled pants coated her nose and throat.

She moved back to the table, next to the body, and leaned over again.

“Mr. Litnisky? Mr. Litnisky? Sir? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

She reached out and tentatively shook an ankle. It felt dry and very cold.

“Sir? Please. Mr. Litnisky, wake up.”

There was no change in his eyes, no hint of life. Gagging on the combined odors of fecal matter, urine and coffee, Lilia turned around, swallowed hard, and caught her breath. She dug out her cell phone with shaking hands and dialed 911.

“Drina, go home,” I said, desperate to deflect the thick layer of guilt that my sister was determined to smear all over me. “It’s not like I tried to get hit, or like I wanted to get hit. Besides, I’m fine. Go home and tell Mom I’m fine.”

Drina hesitated only a moment before dropping the dirty diaper in the biohazard trash can, apparently considering whether or not her offspring’s excrement qualified as hazardous. “I’m your big sister. It’s my duty to be here with you.”

I sighed and did my best to tune out the lecture she directed at me while she puttered around my hospital room, folding the extra clothes she’d brought and remaking the bed to her standards. For once, though, I was right. I’d come through the hit-and-run in one piece. Sore, with a mild concussion, a couple broken ribs and some spectacular abrasions and bruises, but, by and large, really fine. I’d been thanking my lucky stars since I woke up in the emergency run.

“Who’s the tiny lady that was here with you?”

I blinked at Drina. “Are you asking me a question or is that another rebuke in disguise?”

She shot me a look of disgust from where she was wiping out the bathroom sink. “Honestly, Cecelia. I don’t think you appreciate me.”

Emma diverted her attention from The Wiggles long enough to raise her eyebrows at me. Even the one year old could recognize a warning statement. I wrinkled my nose at Emma and she giggled at me.

“Of course I appreciate you,” I said to my sister. “Her name is Agnes Cooper. I was delivering at her house when it happened. She called 911 and stayed with me in the street until the paramedics arrived. I guess she rode along to make sure I was okay.”

Drina poked her head out from the bathroom. “That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”

“No. I think it was kind,” I said, even as I tried to figure out why I defended a woman I barely knew.

“She stayed overnight. That’s odd,” Drina stated.

“Whatever,” I said and laid my head back on the pillow. I closed my eyes in an attempt to shut out my sister.

She means well.

My eyes flew open and I looked around the room. Emma still lounged in the chair, enraptured by four pasty dudes singing about spaghetti.

Drina’s voice floated from the bathroom. “I mean, she doesn’t even know you.”

Your sister loves you very much. She feels responsible for you. Your mother is a good soul, but her maternal drive ain’t her strength. Your sister’s got the nurturing soul.

I glared over at Emma. “Emma,” I whispered. “Emma.”

She shot me a look, sippy cup dangling from between her front teeth, and awarded me a grin from around the rubbery nozzle. “Nog og catwa,” she said with a nod.

I frowned. “Hey Drina, is Emma talking yet?”

“Not really. Sometimes she babbles and Nora translates, but she’s not giving us any real words yet.”

I closed my eyes and put my palms on my forehead. Maybe I had a more serious concussion than the doctors originally thought. Through slitted eyes I watched Drina come out of the bathroom armed with a wad of paper towels.

“I’m going to ask for some cleaner. That bathroom is a disgrace,” she said. I laid my head back on the pillow. My sister could be a bit obsessive compulsive about cleanliness.

She is a loon, for sure, but a caring loon.

I squeezed my eyes tighter. Yep, that concussion couldn’t have been just mild. I felt a sticky hand on my arm and looked down. Emma stood beside the bed, arms in the air, little hands opening and closing. “Op. Op,” she said.

“Alright, diaper butt. But be still.” Favoring the ribs on my left side, I gingerly lifted Emma onto the bed where she snuggled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep.

Holding a sleeping baby is the surest way to fall asleep, and I soon found myself nodding off as well.

Sweet child.

“Yeah, she is,” I murmured before I realized that no one else was in the room. Emma snored gently. I shook my head, alarm rising. “Who’s there?”

No answer.

“Who’s there?” I repeated, panic fraying the edges of my sanity. I fought to remain still for the little girl sleeping beside me.

A man walked through the doorway of my room, Drina on his heels. “Miss, I need to have a word with your sister.”

“It’s Mrs. Allen,” Drina told him. “And I’m not so sure she’s ready to talk to you.”

He stopped just inside the door. “Miss Deaves?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”

“I’m Detective Andrew Martin.” He flashed a badge at me while he spoke. “I need to ask you some questions about what happened yesterday. The doctors gave me the go ahead. Is this okay with you?”

I studied the detective. He wore a gentle smile on his handsome face. He stood tall and trim in brown slacks and a white dress shirt and exuded an easy confidence.

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

“Cecelia, I’ll be back later then.” Drina couldn’t stand to give up control of a situation. She retrieved her bag and scooped a whimpering Emma from my bed. She dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll bring dinner.”

“Thanks, sis. I’ll see you later.”

Detective Martin watched my sister sweep out the door. He waited a few minutes after she disappeared, as if to be sure she was really gone, before he turned back to me.

“She’s…” His words trailed off for a moment. I could tell he struggled to be diplomatic. “Persistent.”

I chuckled. “That’s a good word for my sister.”

“I’d like to talk with you about the accident yesterday, Miss Deaves. May I sit?” he asked, and indicated the chair that Emma had vacated.

“Sure,” I propped myself up a bit further and glanced down to make sure the sensible yellow nightgown Drina had brought was buttoned up far enough for discretion. I shoved my purple-framed glasses—the hospital had forbidden my contact lenses, and anyway, I’d lost one when the car hit me—higher on the bridge of my nose.

He settled himself in the chair and produced a small notebook with the metal spiral at the top, the kind cops always use in TV shows in movies. I said as much to him.

“I guess there are a few things TV gets right.” He clicked a ballpoint pen. “Can we just start with your account of what happened yesterday?”

I relayed my memory of the events. I remembered the accident quite well.

“You’re sure it was a lime green car?” he asked.

“Absolutely. I distinctly remember thinking that I should be insulted by getting hit by a lime green car.”

“What else?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I know I looked for traffic before I crossed and I didn’t see that car. It came out of nowhere. What else are you looking for?”

“Witnesses.” He consulted his notebook. “We’ve spoken with Mrs. Agnes Cooper. She says she witnessed the accident from her living room window.”

“That sounds right. I’d just delivered to her, and she did manage to get to me in the street quickly. It makes sense that she’d been watching.”

“Anyone else? Was there anyone else in the street?”

I thought back to the moments just before and after I’d been struck. “Yes, I’m surprised Mrs. Cooper didn’t mention that there were quite a few people in the street when she got to me.”

He looked puzzled. “No, she said it was just her. She was the only person in the street with you.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I heard voices, lots of people talking around me, excited talking. I’m sure of it.”

He peered at me for a moment, pen poised above his notebook. I knew skepticism when I saw it. “Uh, did you actually see any of these people, Miss Deaves?”

I scowled. “No. But I was lying on the street. I didn’t sit up and look around. I heard them. I’m positive I heard them.”

He blinked a few times before he made some notes. “Okay. We’ll look into it, talk to the residents in the area again.”

He still had SKEPTICISM written in invisible ink all over his face. Fine.

“Thank you, detective.”

“When will you be released?” he asked.

“The doctors said I can go home tomorrow if I don’t have any other problems.”

“Will you be staying with anyone?”

I considered this. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I think I’d just prefer to go back to my own apartment.”

“You should probably stay with a friend or with family,” he stated.

"Why?"

He shifted in his seat and I saw a wet spot on his pant leg where Emma must have dribbled milk. Or I hoped it was milk she’d dribbled.

“Miss Deaves, we have reason to believe that your accident was not an isolated incident.”

“Excuse me? I don’t follow.” I squinted at him through my purple glasses.

His gaze held mine for a long moment. His brown eyes were serious, but reflected concern. “Within the last six months we’ve had four women killed by a hit and run driver. None of them survived, there were no witnesses to the actual crime and we can’t make any correlation between the victims. This appears to be the same MO: a surprise hit and run. It wouldn’t have been apparent to the attacker that Mrs. Cooper watched from her window, so whoever is doing this could have thought that he or she again would not be seen.”

“But I said that there were other people in the street.”

“And we’ll look into it,” he promised. “There’s one other thing. You do fit the general physical description of our other victims. Medium height, slender build, brown hair, attractive, young. We’re going to treat this as if your accident is related.”

A chill ran through me.

“You said that the other women were killed?”

He nodded. “If you were struck by our killer, you’re the only survivor. He may see you as the only person who can identify him.”

I sat mute for a few minutes, willing my heart to stop thundering in my chest.