Reuben had regained his composure. The flat affect was back. ‘Yes. She was an infant when it happened. She never knew her mother.’

‘How sad.’ Amanda coughed into her hand. She patted her chest and coughed again. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. Could I have some water?’

‘I’ll get it.’ Faith walked toward the kitchen.

Reuben started to stand, but Kilpatrick said, ‘It’s cool.’

Faith saw why it was cool as soon as she entered the kitchen. Bullet head. Tight black clothes. Laslo Zivcovik was sitting at the kitchen island. He was eating ice cream from the carton. The woman who had to be Miss Lindsay stood on the other side. She was wringing a white towel in her hands, clearly unsettled by what was going on in the next room. The pearls hadn’t been Faith’s only tip-off. The older woman’s lip quivered the exact same way Will had described it.

Faith said, ‘What a beautiful kitchen,’ even though the kitchen more closely resembled a padded room at an asylum. The cabinets were white. The appliances were all hidden behind white panels. The marble countertop waterfalled onto the marble floor. Even the open staircase in the back of the room was a painfully bright white.

‘Thank you.’ Miss Lindsay folded the towel. ‘My son-in-law designed it.’

That explained a lot. Reuben might as well be a slab of marble himself. ‘It must be a chore keeping it clean, especially with a little boy. Your daughter must have a lot of help.’

‘No, she does it all on her own. Cleans the house. Does all the cooking. The laundry.’

‘That’s a lot of work.’ Faith repeated, ‘Especially with a little boy.’

Laslo’s spoon clattered onto the counter. He asked Faith, ‘You need something in here?’ His Boston accent made him sound like he had cotton shoved into his cheeks.

Filling a glass of water wouldn’t take long enough, so she said, ‘I volunteered to help with the tea.’

‘I’ll get the kettle.’ Miss Lindsay opened and closed cabinet doors, which told Faith she didn’t visit much.

‘Yo.’ Laslo tapped his spoon on the counter for attention. He pointed to a hot-water dispenser, which meant that Laslo had been here a lot.

‘All these new-fangled gadgets.’ Miss Lindsay started taking down mugs. White. Gigantic. Built for Reuben Figaroa, like everything else in the house.

Faith started filling the mugs with hot water. The kitchen counter was so tall that she felt the need to lean up on her toes. She asked Miss Lindsay, ‘Are you here to watch your grandson?’

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

‘Six years old, so he must be in first grade?’ Faith filled another mug. ‘That’s such a wonderful age. Everything is exciting. They’re so funny and happy all the time. You just want to hold on to them forever.’

Miss Lindsay missed the counter. The mug shattered like ice against the marble floor, white flecks shooting everywhere.

At first, no one moved. They stared at each other in some kind of Mexican stand-off until Laslo told the old woman, ‘Go upstairs, sweetheart. I’ll clean this up.’

Miss Lindsay looked at Faith. Her lip was quivering again.

Faith said, ‘I think you met my partner yesterday. Will Trent.’

Laslo stood up. His boots crunched the broken ceramic on the floor. ‘Go upstairs and take care of Anthony. All this noise down here. You don’t want him to wake up and get scared.’

‘Of course.’ Miss Lindsay bit her lip to stop the quiver. She told Faith, ‘Good evening.’

Her cane clunked against the floor as she walked toward the back staircase. She turned to look at Faith, then she started the arduous climb. What felt like an eternity passed before her feet disappeared.

Laslo’s boots pulverized the broken mug as he took his place back at the kitchen bar. He gripped the spoon. He scooped some ice cream into his mouth and smacked his lips. His eyes were on Faith’s breasts. He said, ‘Nice tits.’

She said, ‘You too.’

Faith used her shoe to kick open the swinging door, knowing it would leave a mark. Amanda was already off the couch, her purse in her hands. She said, ‘Thank you, Mr Figaroa. We’ll be in touch. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss.’

Kilpatrick showed them out. He let them take the lead down the hallway like he was afraid they would dart off and find something he couldn’t explain away.

At the back door, he told Amanda, ‘If you have any more questions for Fig, call my cell. Number’s on my card.’

‘We’ll need him to positively ID the body. A DNA sample would be helpful, too.’

Kilpatrick smirked at the suggestion. No lawyer willingly gave up a client’s DNA. ‘Take another picture once you have her cleaned up. We’ll go from there.’

‘Wonderful,’ Amanda said. ‘I look forward to seeing you in a few hours.’

Kilpatrick wouldn’t stop smirking. ‘Yeah, that on-the-record interview with Marcus that you talked Ditmar into agreeing to yesterday—that ain’t gonna happen. Call Ditmar if you don’t believe me.’

He didn’t slam the door, because he didn’t have to.

Amanda gripped her purse like she wanted to strangle it as she walked to the car.

Faith walked backward, looking up at the second-floor windows. There were no lights on. No Miss Lindsay peering out from behind the curtains. Faith had the same feeling that Will had described before: something wasn’t right.

They both got into the car. They were both silent until the car was turning onto Cherokee.

Amanda asked, ‘Nothing from the mother?’

‘Laslo was there.’ Faith asked, ‘What about that phone call? Kilpatrick almost jumped out of his skin.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ Amanda said, ‘Reuben Figaroa is an angry man.’

Faith would’ve said ‘duh’ to anyone else. The guns lying around the house. The operating room aesthetic. Reuben Figaroa was a human checklist for a controlling husband. Whether or not that crossed into violence was an open-ended question. At the very least, it made sense that his wife would be popping pills on her way to the grocery store.

What didn’t make sense was why she had been murdered.

Amanda said, ‘His alibi will hold. You know that. And I find it very convenient that his entire day was filled with people who are professionally bound by one legal standard or another to keep their mouths shut.’

‘Angie got her killed,’ Faith guessed. ‘That’s what this is about. Not Marcus Rippy or Kilpatrick or Reuben or any of that. Angie did one of those Jerry Springer “Surprise, I’m your mother!” things and trapped Jo into doing something that ended up getting her murdered.’

‘Don’t let the tail wag the dog,’ Amanda warned. ‘I’m worried about the son—Anthony. Even I know there should be some toys, or at least a few smudges on the glass coffee table.’

‘Backpack, shoes, coloring books, crayons, Matchbox cars, dirt.’ Faith had forgotten how much dirt boys dragged in. They were like lint traps to every particle of dust in the atmosphere. ‘If a six-year-old boy lives in that house, then his mother spends all day cleaning up after him. And she does it on her own, by the way. Miss Lindsay confirmed that Jo doesn’t have help. She does the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, just like a real housewife.’