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“Of course not. It was common knowledge.”

“I see. How odd that I didn’t know. I do know you are the one who wrote me the letter supposedly from Cleo. It couldn’t be anyone else, and you also wrote with great detail about Melissa.”

Albia was framed by that beautiful window, the sun surrounding her. She looked powerful, otherworldly, her stance, the tilt of her head identical to John’s.

Nick felt the sudden taste of sour bile in her mouth. It tasted like fear, fear of this woman whom everyone saw as an elegant creature they admired and respected, a woman who was powerful in her own right. They didn’t see Albia Rothman as a person who could have started off her adult life murdering someone. For John, for her little brother, whom she adored.

“I didn’t write you anything, Nicola.”

Nick let it go for the moment. What had she expected? A confession? She said after a moment of silence, “I can’t believe Cleo ever slept with Elliott Benson. Nor with Tod Gambol. She loved John.”

“Oh, but Cleo was a little harlot. John wouldn’t believe me until I finally showed him photos that I had a private investigator take of her and Elliott, all cozied up in his small house on Crane Island. It’s all private, you know, the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away. I might add that he and John both have used that house. If they happen to have each other’s woman at that house, they make sure to leave a small token, a small trace of it. Perhaps you’ve been there, Nicola?”

Nick shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I knew her. I really liked Cleo. She loved John, I’m sure of that.” She realized that only about fifteen feet separated them. She said, “Albia, it’s time to admit that you wrote me the letter, that you made up that journal confession to save me, to make me leave Chicago and leave John. You did it to help me, didn’t you? Please tell me. You wanted to protect me, didn’t you?”

Albia shrugged. “Yes, all right, no reason to lie about it now. Yes, I wrote you the letter, for all the good it did. You’re back and now you want everyone to pay. John didn’t try to kill you, Nicola.”

Nick’s heart was thudding so loudly she believed that surely Albia would hear it, that Albia must know she was so scared she was ready to pee in her pants. The words just came out, she couldn’t stop them. “If it wasn’t John, then was it you, Albia?”

A perfectly arched eyebrow went up a good inch. “Me? Goodness, no.”

“You hired someone to try to run me down, to burn down my condo, with me in it.”

“It strikes me, though, that just maybe you were the one to set fire to your own condo.”

Nick laughed, couldn’t help it. “That’s idiocy.”

Albia shrugged. She took a step back, leaned against the window, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked mildly amused. “So it was your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”

“Albia, who killed Cleo?”

“Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”

“I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”

“No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”

Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have