The Taken. Vicki Pettersson

look she gave Kit now was less baffled, but also a delay tactic. Marin believed most people found silence intolerable, a theory neatly backed up by the existence of tell-alls, the Kardashians, and Twitter. But when Kit only stared back, Marin broke the silence with a sigh. “Time off.”

      “No.”

      Marin’s nostrils flared. “Ms. Craig. One of our reporters has been murdered while pursuing a story. You need to trust that every person at this newspaper is going to do their best to discover how and why. Rockwell was one of our own. We’ll take care of it.”

      “I want to do it myself.”

      “You’re not a police officer.”

      And there, in Marin’s infamously caustic subtext, was the censure Kit had been dreading. She and Nic had pursued a story without a direct assignment from on high, proof that Kit was irresponsible, in over her head, and incapable of seeing this story—this tragedy—through to the end. Kit fought back tears. “No, but I’m the daughter of one.”

      “Kit.” Seeing the tears, Marin softened. But not much. “Go home.”

      “Auntie.”

      Marin rolled her eyes. “Stop. You only pull that ‘Auntie’ crap when you’re trying to weasel out of something. Just like—”

      “Don’t. Don’t make this about my mother.” She spoke sharply, but if anyone knew why, it was Marin. In ways, they both lived in Shirley Craig’s shadow. But Kit wasn’t going to get into that now.

      Leaning back, Marin folded her arms. “What do you have?”

      “A list of names.” Kit handed her the sheet she’d just printed, then told her about the anonymous contact. Marin’s expression narrowed further, and Kit rushed on. “I was writing my account of Nicole’s … of the crime scene when you came in. The lock on the motel door wasn’t damaged. The killer was already in the room. He had a key, maybe a contact at the motel, or the simple ability to pick locks. I don’t know.”

      “But you think the person who killed Rockwell is on this list?”

      “Would she be dead otherwise?”

      Marin tapped her chin. “What else were you two working on?”

      Kit shrugged. “She was helping John with a photo essay on the homeless living in the underground tunnels. I just finished an op-ed piece on the city’s backlog of rape kits, not exactly breaking news. There was a lifestyle piece on a new gallery opening downtown.”

      Marin squinted.

      “I swear. That’s all. I mean, the gallery’s devoted to nudes painted in neon and wearing animal heads, but I don’t see anyone killing for that.”

      Her aunt looked at the list, gaze snagging and widening on the last few names. She finally put it down, where it disappeared in the sea of papers. “You’re going to run this entire newspaper someday, Katherine.”

      Now it was Kit’s turn to squint. “You only pull that ‘Katherine’ crap when you want something. And I told you before. Changing the world is more important to me than running it.”

      Marin sighed. “And now you sound like your father.”

      She did—because her mother might have taught her how to live, even while dying, but it was her father who’d taught Kit what to do—right up until the very last breath.

       Don’t just find the easy answer, Kitty-cat! Find the truth!

      But this, too, was an old argument, one neither of them had the energy to chase. “Well, you’re going to inherit it, in any case. Sooner rather than later, if this latest quack doesn’t get my dosage right.” She rubbed at the veins in her right arm in what had to be an unconscious gesture. “So you might try acting as you’d wish your employees to do in the future.”

      “You mean run everything by you beforehand.”

      “I wish Ms. Rockwell had.”

      Kit winced, and looked away.

      “Oh, Katherine,” Marin said, more softly. “Come stay with me. Just for a time.”

      And be watched over at home as well as at work, Kit thought, shaking her head. No thanks. Her aunt was pragmatic, dogged, kind … and a total control freak. “I appreciate the offer. I do, but—”

      “I don’t want you alone. There’s a killer out there. One with the potential ability to pick locks.”

      Kit lifted her chin. “My locks aren’t simple. My security system was installed by one of Dad’s old cronies. And my dog has sharp teeth.”

      “You don’t have a dog.”

      Kit shrugged. “I’ll feel better surrounded by my things.”

      “They’ll remind you of Nicole.”

      “Breathing reminds me of Nicole.”

      Her aunt heard the crack in her voice and snapped her mouth shut on whatever she was about to say. Tilting her head, she waited a moment, then spoke quickly, sharply. “Your stubbornness is annoying.”

      “I come by it honestly,” Kit said evenly, because now she sounded like her aunt.

      Marin tapped one stubby finger on her chair arm. “Fine,” she finally said, leaning back. “Then here’s how this is going to work, and I won’t take no for an answer. I’m still your boss.”

      Kit tensed.

      “Drop everything else you’re working on, hand it to John or Ed, and focus that innate stubbornness on winnowing down that list. You find that damned contact of yours.” Marin leaned forward, sharp eyes honed. “You write down every damned detail about that crime scene, hound the detectives, and drive this damned story into the ground. Then we bury the murdering bastard that stole our reporter, our girl, with it.”

      Kit found herself unexpectedly smiling. Yes, this was what she’d needed. This was why she’d come here instead of going home. She stood.

      “Copy me on everything, I don’t care how small or seemingly insignificant. I want an update on your work to date, and daily reports after that.”

      “Thank you, Auntie.”

      “Don’t thank me.” Marin stood, too. “I’ve known Nicole since she was fourteen years old and you dragged her home like some flea-bitten stray. I don’t think I ever saw her without a camera under her arm. I definitely never saw her without you.”

      She looked at Kit like she was wearing one of her more outrageous outfits … or nothing at all. And that’s how Kit felt standing in this office without Nicole. Naked. Like something vital was missing.

      “The thing is,” Marin continued, chin wobbling, “if I ever had a child, a daughter, I’d want her to be …” She waved one arm, and shook her head. “Well … nothing like either of you. But I cared for that girl. I still care. So go out there and get me the goddamned truth.”

      “I’ll get you your truth,” Kit swore, with identical familial passion. “And a goddamned murderer.”

      Marin smiled briefly, eyes turning up at the corners like a cat considering a three-legged mouse. “Have that report on my desk by morning. I’ll be your personal research assistant and an extra pair of eyes. Meanwhile, I’d like you to reconsider staying with me. The circumstances surrounding Ms. Rockwell’s death are … unsettling.”

      “Your stubbornness is annoying,” Kit said, but reached over to place a hand on her aunt’s arm.

      Marin grazed Kit’s knuckles with her own before letting her hand fall away. “Runs in the family.”

       CHAPTER