“I hit speed dial, and I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. I . . .” I blinked and it was like moving through a room stuffed with cotton, everything soft and blurry and unfocused and thick.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I . . . There was a . . .” I spun around. “My phone. I took a picture this time. I need—”

“Olivia? Sit.”

When I didn’t move, he propelled me down onto the edge of the bed. Pain shot through my skull. I winced. My fingers rose to touch the side of my head, but Gabriel caught them.

“Yes, you’ve got a goose egg, possibly a concussion.” He crouched in front of me. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Sat—No, Sunday. June third.”

“And your name?”

“Well, that one’s tougher, since I apparently have two. I’ll go with Olivia Taylor-Jones for today.”

He lifted two fingers. “How many—?”

I swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.” I paused. “You didn’t need to come out.”

“After you called me at one thirty in the morning, hung up, and wouldn’t answer when I phoned back?”

That wasn’t really an excuse for driving an hour to check on me. I could have been drunk-calling. Or dialed wrong and then couldn’t face talking to him. If he had been convinced it was urgent, his aunt lived across the road and could have checked on me.

“I was already out,” he said, reading my thoughts.

He looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His shirt was misbuttoned. His hair looked finger-combed, already falling forward in a cowlick, his cheeks dark enough that I was sure he hadn’t shaved since Friday. Like hell he’d been “out.” Not looking like that. Unless the bed had been “out” . . . as in “not his own.”

“You should have just called Rose,” I said.

“She doesn’t keep a phone in her room.” He straightened. “I’m here now, Olivia, so let’s not argue about why. Tell me what happened.”

“What hap—? Oh God.” I jumped up too fast, and my stomach lurched. I doubled over, one hand to my head, the other to my mouth. He took me by the shoulders and tried to get me to sit down, but I shook my head. Even that movement made my stomach wobble.

“Olivia? Sit. You’ve taken a serious blow to the head. Tell me what happened so I can get you to the hospital.”

“No, I don’t need—I’m just—It’s all muddled, and I’m having trouble—”

“—focusing. Which is why you need a doctor.”

“My phone. Did he take—Or she—I didn’t see—”

Gabriel had my phone. I didn’t notice where it had come from. I really was having trouble staying focused, my brain sharpening only to slide off into jumbled thoughts.

When I looked up, Gabriel was flipping through the photos on my phone, and I considered snatching it back. Not that there was anything private on it, but you don’t go through someone else’s phone any more than you’d hunt through her purse for breath mints. Yet my head hurt too much to work up any righteous indignation. Besides, he wouldn’t have any interest in uncovering anything personal. He’d go straight to what he wanted: the photos.

“They’ve been erased,” he said.

“What? No. There are the ones I took of the hound and—”

“They’ve all been erased.” He continued tapping the screen, gaze fixed on it.

“Wait. I e-mailed it to myself—”

“Yes, I see.” He stopped. Froze, actually, staring down at the tiny screen. I’d say he paled, but with his fair skin it wasn’t easy to tell.

“That’s Ciara Conway’s . . .” he began.

“Head. In my bed. Which I discovered when I was half asleep and—” I took a deep breath. “It was her head. With a blond wig. I don’t think that’s in the photo. I threw it off over . . .” I pointed. “Over there. It’s gone. Along with the head.”

My foggy brain slid away and—

And I was still dressed in only my bra and panties.

Well, at least it’s a nice set of bra and panties.

Yep, these were the thoughts going through my brain as I looked at a photo of a decapitated head on my bed.

I blinked hard and squeezed the bridge of my nose.

“You need to see someone,” he said. “You might have—”

“—a wee bit of shock at waking to find a head beside me. Not a concussion or brain damage.” I hope. “Where was I? Right. I sent the photo, and then I got hit. I didn’t see my attacker. I presume he—or she—was in here the whole time. Am I supposed to do something? I mean, obviously, yes. I should have been on the phone to the police, not my ex-lawyer . . .”

“There’s no evidence. The police would have presumed you had a nightmare and fell out of bed.”

“Until I showed them the photos.”

“Even then . . .” He didn’t say more, but I knew what he meant. Even with this photo of a weirdly bloodless, almost waxen, eyeless head, lying on my sheets, they’d have thought someone had played an elaborate prank on me. Or worse, that I was playing one on them. I was Eden Larsen, child of serial killers.

“So now what?” I said.

“Now you get that security system. This is obviously a very serious threat—”

“I mean what do I do about Ciara Conway?”

A flicker of annoyance, as if I’d interrupted him with something meaningless, like “Umm, I’m not wearing pants.” We didn’t have proof that Ciara Conway was dead, and it wasn’t like he gave a damn about her. The important thing was . . .

What was the important thing? Making sure I was safe? Why? Because he sure as hell didn’t give a damn about that, either, not unless someone was paying him to, and—

My hand shot to my head, and I winced as fresh pain stabbed through it.

Gabriel moved closer, bending down. “Olivia . . .”

“Okay. So someone killed Ciara Conway and is leaving body parts, dressed like me, as a warning. Locking my doors isn’t going to solve the problem.”

“Which is why you need a security system.”

Not what I meant. But what did I mean? I have to get to the bottom of this, and I need your help.