In his dream, he willed them to live, to get up from the blood that shrouded them. Debbie, fifteen; Alice, ten. Danny had willed them to live, and just when he was sure Debbie's right hand had twitched, Danny woke up drenched in sweat, jaws aching, hand twitching. It had been 6:40 a.m. Danny had gotten up. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to dream.

Forty minutes later, Danny pulled into a parking spot behind Mac's car. This was a neighborhood in Forest Hills of well-kept, large old houses with matching immaculate lawns, far in distance and space and safety from where Danny had grown up. He got out of the car, first reaching back to get his evidence kit, and moved through the crowd of curious bystanders toward Mac, who was also carrying a kit, standing at the front door.

"What happened?" asked one woman with dyed red hair, wearing a robe she held close to her with both hands.

Danny didn't answer.

A uniformed officer stood at the front door. Both Mac and Danny had taken out their CSI ID badges and hung them around their necks. Danny had made a fist to conceal the tremor, which seemed to be getting worse.

"What have we got?" Mac asked the officer, whose name tag read WYCHECKA.

Wychecka couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

"Multiple," said Wychecka. "Upstairs. Two detectives in there, Defenzo and Sylvester."

"No one else comes in here," said Mac. "No one. Not even you."

Wychecka nodded.

Mac nodded back and moved past the officer with Danny behind him. Both men reached into their pockets and pulled out latex gloves. Danny had trouble getting his on.

"You okay?" asked Mac.

"Fine; let's work."

Mac looked at Danny, who took a camera from his kit and started up the stairs, taking photographs as he moved.

They could smell death, could smell blood as they moved up to the second-floor landing of the house.

The house was sunlight bright, furnished with comfortable antiques, solid, slightly ornate, expensive. The air-conditioning was running on high.