Pretending to be sympathetic, understanding, big-brotherly but always the cool, arrogant persistence lurking in the depths of their eyes. She remembered: "I know it's been mighty nerve-shattering for you, Miss Prentiss. A terrible shock. Just to walk into her office, and see her lying there--" The big, slow-talking one especially, with the beat-up face--a detective lieutenant, he'd said he was. All afternoon until she couldn't endure another moment of it ... the office filled with policemen and photographers and Lathrup not even mercifully covered with a sheet, her dead eyes staring. Not that she'd gone in again to look or would have been permitted inside after the medical examiner had arrived and they'd started dusting the office for fingerprints. But she could picture it, she knew exactly how it was, because Macklin had gone in for a brief moment to discuss something very important with them, and had told her how it was, not sparing her any of the details. (Not his fault! She'd nodded and let him talk on.) The body stretched out on the floor, with chalk marks on the desk to indicate just how it had been resting when--resting! How mocking, how horrible the image that one word conjured up! They'd let her go at last, advising her to take a taxi home but to go to a restaurant first and eat something--a sandwich, at least--with two or three cups of black coffee. Out on the street she'd begun to breathe more freely, had felt the horror receding a little, the strength returning to her limbs. Then, suddenly, terribly, unexpectedly--this! The footsteps seemed louder than they should have been, even though he was very close behind her and was making no effort to cushion his tread. Each step seemed to strike the pavement with a hollow sound, making her feel for an instant as if she'd become entrapped in a stone vault, and he was walking, not behind, but above her, sending hollow echoes reverberating through-- Her tomb? Dear God, no! She must not allow such thoughts to creep into her mind. Quite possibly she was completely mistaken about him, and he wasn't deliberately following her at all. It happened often enough. Two people hurrying to catch a train or bus, or headed for the same destination, walking along a street where office buildings had been replaced by warehouses and empty stores, with no other pedestrians in sight and dusk just starting to gather. It was so easy to imagine that you were the victim of calculated pursuit. She must keep fear at arm's length, Lynn told herself, despite the wild fluttering of her heart, must not give way to panic or hysteria. Otherwise her wrought-up state would warp her judgment and make her do something she'd regret.