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He stared down. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dubious light, and then another moment to accept what he was seeing. Tumbled black hair, mouth agape, pale-blue eyes fixed in an upward stare…

Andy reeled from the door, fell back against the black and brass plaque on the outside wall. He gulped in salt-stung air, trying his hardest not to lose his breakfast then and there.

Marcus.

Marcus was dead.

Dead.

A sound squeezed out of him—wounded, animalistic.

It wasn’t grief for Marcus. His thoughts weren’t that coherent. He felt shock and horror and revulsion. He didn’t need to know how Marcus had died to understand instinctively that it had not been—could not have been—a natural death.

That look on Marcus’s face. The utter disbelief.

Once again, Andy’s stomach curdled and rose, and once again he managed to swallow down that sickened response.

How?

Why?

Yes, that was the most baffling question. Why the hell would anyone kill Marcus?

He could have an unfortunate accident.

Andy’s heart froze mid-beat.

Yeah, but this wasn’t an accident. This put as much suspicion on Andy as anyone else. Besides, Quinn had been with Andy all night long.

Had he, though?

Andy had slept so deeply—and so late. He never slept like that. Not in years.

Okay, but he also wasn’t typically sleep deprived, and he didn’t usually drink hot buttered rum before bed.

And Quinn wouldn’t—couldn’t—

Couldn’t he? Really?

Because he seemed to carry a weapon at all times. And whatever he’d been up to in the CIA, it probably didn’t involve pushing pencils or whatever the cover story was at the Agency for International Development.

No. Andy had told Quinn in no uncertain terms he did not want Marcus taken off the board like that. Quinn would not ignore Andy or overrule him. Quinn was not Marcus.CouldQuinn have done this terrible thing? Andy suspected that maybe, yes, Quinn was capable.Hadhe done it? No. Maybe it wasn’t logical—itwasn’tlogical—but Andy had to believe Quinn wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t do that to Andy.

His heart resumed beating, then gave another jump at the suddenwhoopof a police siren. A police cruiser pulled up beside the wooden walkway, and Ruthanne Wolf got out.

“You okay, Andy? Mrs. Dubonnet said you found a body?”

Andy nodded, pulled himself together. “I’m okay, but it looks like—I think Marcus is dead.”

Ruthanne’s gaze sharpened. “Marcus Bok?YourMarcus?”

“My former Marcus,” Andy agreed, and then had to swallow the inappropriate laugh that nearly tore out of his throat. It was just… He couldn’t quite believe this was really happening, that he was standing here on the walkway in frontof Time in a Bottle, staring at Ruthanne’s worried face while Marcus lay sprawled dead a couple of feet away.

“Okay. Stay here.” Ruthanne snapped the thumb break on her holster, resting one hand on the butt of her pistol and reaching for the door with the other.

Of course, she ran into the same problem Andy and Mrs. Dubonnet had: Marcus was a large man. The door rebounded back in the frame.

“He’s right there,” Andy told her shakily. “He’s blocking the door.” He had no idea why he was struggling not to laugh. This was not remotely funny. It wasghastly. And yet, he could feel laughter welling in his chest, trying to push through the tightness of his throat. That had to be shock.