Robyn stood across the road from Bane. She looked down at her cell phone for the umpteenth time, as if the image she wanted was just slow in materializing, like one of those old Polaroid cameras. It was a great shot… of the blurred top of a light-haired head.

She looked at the club – at the growing crowd, at the reporters, the TV vans, the police cars, the ambulance… and she realized that every step she'd taken since finding Portia's body, as right as it had seemed at the time, had only made her situation worse.

She'd left her prints on the murder weapon. She'd been spotted fleeing the scene. She'd maybe even been spotted running down the alley. And now, to turn herself in, she'd have to pass the gauntlet of reporters and news cameras.

A primitive voice in her head screamed for her to run, but she silenced it. That would be the worst thing she could do.

She imagined a client calling her with this situation. She'd tell him to prepare for a trip to the station… just as soon as she'd made a few calls and gotten professional advice on how to proceed.

That's what she needed now: professional advice.

She didn't call ahead, just showed up on Judd's doorstep and prayed he was home. Judd Archer was a contract bodyguard Portia hired when she needed extra security, or wanted to look as if she did. He was much in demand in Portia's circles, not so much for his security abilities – which were top-notch – but for the extra services he provided.