He didn’t think he’d been so obsessed with sex since his thirteenth year. Then it had been Sally Anne Howe, one of the other residents of the Simon Brent Memorial Home for Children. Good old Sally Anne, Gray thought now, with her well blossomed body and sly eyes. She’d been three years older than he, and more than willing to share her charms with anyone for smuggled cigarettes or candy bars.

At the time he thought she was a goddess, the answer to a randy adolescent’s prayers. He could look back now with pity and anger, knowing the cycle of abuse and the flaws in the system that had made a pretty young girl feel her only true worth was nestled between her thighs.

He’d had plenty of sweaty dreams about Sally Anne after lights out. And had been lucky enough to steal an entire pack of Marlboros from one of the counselors. Twenty cigarettes had equaled twenty f**ks, he remembered. And he’d been a very fast learner.

Over the years, he’d learned quite a bit more, from girls his own age, and from professionals who plied their trade out of darkened doorways that smelled of stale grease and sour sweat.

He’d been barely sixteen when he’d broken free of the orphanage and hit the road with the clothes on his back and twenty-three dollars worth of loose change and crumpled bills in his pocket.

Freedom was what he’d wanted, freedom from the rules, the regulations, the endless cycle of the system he’d been caught in most of his life. He’d found it, and used it, and paid for it.

He’d lived and worked those streets for a long time before he’d given himself a name, and a purpose. He’d been fortunate enough to have possessed a talent that had kept him from being swallowed up by other hungers.

At twenty he’d had his first lofty, and sadly autobiographical, novel under his belt. The publishing world had not been impressed. By twenty-two, he’d crafted out a neat, clever little whodunit. Publishers did not come clamoring, but a whiff of interest from an assistant editor had kept him holed up in a cheap rooming house battering at a manual typewriter for weeks.

That, he’d sold. For peanuts. Nothing before or since had meant as much to him.

Ten years later, and he could live as he chose, and he felt he’d chosen well.

He poured the water into the pot, shoveled a spoonful of pudding into his mouth. As he glanced over at Brianna’s door, spotted the thin slant of light beneath it, he smiled.

He’d chosen her, too.

Covering his bases, he set the pot with two cups on a tray, then knocked at her door.

“Yes, come in.”

She was sitting at her little desk, tidy as a nun in a flannel gown and slippers, her hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. Gray gamely swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth.

“Saw your light. Want some tea?”

“That would be nice. I was just finishing up some paperwork.”

The dog uncurled himself from beside her feet and walked over to rub against Gray. “Me, too.” He set down the tray to ruffle Con’s fur. “Murder makes me hungry.”

“Killed someone today, did you?”

“Brutally.” He said it with such relish, she laughed.

“Perhaps that’s what makes you so even tempered all in all,” she mused. “All those emotional murders purging your system. Do you ever—” She caught herself, moving a shoulder as he handed her a cup.

“Go ahead, ask. You rarely ask anything about my work.”

“Because I imagine everyone does.”

“They do.” He made himself comfortable. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I was wondering, if you ever make one of the characters someone you know—then kill them off.”

“There was this snotty French waiter in Dijon. I garroted him.”

“Oh.” She rubbed a hand over her throat. “How did it feel?”

“For him, or me?”

“For you.”

“Satisfying.” He spooned up pudding. “Want me to kill someone for you, Brie? I aim to please.”

“Not at the moment, no.” She shifted and some of her papers fluttered to the floor.

“You need a typewriter,” he told her as he helped her gather them up. “Better yet, a word processor. It would save you time writing business letters.”

“Not when I’d have to search for every key.” While he read her correspondence, she cocked a brow, amused. “ ’Tisn’t very interesting.”

“Hmm. Oh, sorry, habit. What’s Triquarter Mining?”

“Oh, just a company Da must have invested it. I found the stock certificate with his things in the attic. I’ve written them once already,” she added, mildly annoyed. “But had no answer. So I’m trying again.”

“Ten thousand shares.” Gray pursed his lips. “That’s not chump change.”

“It is, if I think I know what you’re saying. You had to know my father—he was always after a new moneymaking scheme that cost more than it would ever earn. Still, this needs to be done.” She held out a hand. “That’s just a copy. Rogan took the original for safekeeping and made that for me.”

“You should have him check it out.”

“I don’t like to bother him with it. His plate’s full with the new gallery—and with Maggie.”

He handed her back the copy. “Even at a dollar a share, it’s fairly substantial.”

“I’d be surprised if it was worth more than a pence a share. God knows he couldn’t have paid much more. More likely it is that the whole company went out of business.”

“Then your letter would have come back.”

She only smiled. “You’ve been here long enough to know the Irish mails. I think—” They both glanced over as the dog began to growl. “Con?”

Instead of responding, the dog growled again, and the fur on his back lifted. In two strides Gray was at the windows. He saw nothing but mist.

“Fog,” he muttered. “I’ll go look around. No,” he said when she started to rise. “It’s dark, it’s cold, it’s damp, and you’re staying put.”

“There’s nothing out there.”

“Con and I will find out. Let’s go.” He snapped his fingers, and to Brianna’s surprise, Con responded immediately. He pranced out at Gray’s heels.

She kept a flashlight in the first kitchen drawer. Gray snagged it before he opened the door. The dog quivered once, then as Gray murmured, “go,” leaped into the mist. In seconds the sound of his racing feet was muffled to silence.