He was right. I hated sitting back and letting them handle it. But I’d been absolutely clear with James that it was over, and I’d exhausted my know-how for dealing with the situation.

“You’re welcome to sit in,” Ricky continued. “But again, while I’d never suggest you let us take over . . .”

“I would,” Gabriel said. “Strongly.”

I wanted to at least listen in, but I wouldn’t be able to without squirming and worrying that, whatever they planned, James didn’t deserve it. How many women had I met at the shelter, abused by their partners, who refused to call the police? He’s not a bad person. He’s under a lot of stress. He doesn’t mean it. I wouldn’t be that woman.

“I’ll do a coffee run,” I said.

The moment the words left my mouth, they both stiffened.

I can’t even walk down the street alone to grab a coffee. Goddamn it, James. I know I hurt you, but I do not deserve this.

“Why don’t we both go,” Lydia offered quickly.

Gabriel’s gaze dropped to my purse in silent question. I gave him a look and said, “Of course,” meaning that I had my gun. He nodded and waved Ricky into the meeting room.

—

Lydia and I hung out at the coffee shop for almost a half hour. We didn’t talk about work, which was a first. It was easier outside the office for conversation to turn to the personal, and I discovered that Lydia was a widowed mother of two, with three grandkids, and was long-distance dating a record label exec from Sacramento who planned to retire to Chicago because, apparently, Lydia herself had no plans to stop working anytime soon.

When Ricky texted me an all-clear, we returned to find him waiting on his bike to say goodbye. I didn’t ask him what they’d decided to do about James. Nor did I ask Gabriel when I went inside. I had to trust them.

As Gabriel had warned, the police did want to talk to us about our prison visit to Chandler. We also had to answer more questions about the death of Macy Shaw.

I’m sure someone had connected us to both incidents, but the detective didn’t seem particularly suspicious. I was the daughter of convicted serial killers. It was almost as if no one was surprised that I’d morphed into the angel of death. As long as there were no indications that I’d killed anyone myself—and there weren’t—well, I was bound to attract some serious crazy.

We visited the station. We gave our statements. That was it.

—

Next we went to see Jon Childs, who hadn’t replied to my initial message, or to the two calls I’d made since.

Childs lived in a corner-unit town house in University Village. Older building. Quiet, tree-lined street. No sign to show that he ran a business out of his place. In this neighborhood they’d frown on that, and given his income, I doubted he needed to advertise for clients.

His condo was dark and the mailbox overflowed with flyers. Gabriel and I were sitting in the car discussing our next move when an older woman marched over from next door and emptied Childs’s mailbox.

I arrived at his front step just as the neighbor was coming down.

“Sorry to bother you. My husband”—I waved at the rental Jag—“and I were trying to figure out if Mr. Childs was home. I guess that”—I nodded at her armload of mail and flyers—“answers our question. When do you expect him back?”

“I didn’t expect him to be gone,” she said. “I always tell him, I’m home all day, just let me know when you’ll be away and I’ll collect the mail. It doesn’t look good when it piles up. Attracts the wrong kind of attention.” She gestured at a couple of kids across the road—clean-shaven college boys wearing two-hundred-dollar sneakers.

She continued. “But he just takes off and leaves me to collect his mail, and when he comes for it, I barely get a thank-you. He tells me I don’t need to bother with it. Well, someone has to care about this neighborhood.”

I nodded in sympathy. “I can’t say I know Mr. Childs. I’m a friend of his sister, Amy. Have you met her?”

“I never knew he had a sister.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’d hoped he was close to Amy. She certainly spoke highly of him, and she needs all the help she can get right now. With the . . .” I lowered my voice. “Cancer.”

The old woman blinked. “Cancer?”

“They did a mastectomy, but it didn’t catch it all and— I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get into it. I’m just very concerned about her. With the medical bills . . . Well, she has insurance, but it’s never enough, is it?”

The woman harrumphed in agreement.

“Amy had to sell her condo,” I said. “Which is right down the road from us. She was going to get in touch once she got settled, but it’s been almost a month and I haven’t heard from her. I was hoping maybe her brother had.” I exhaled. “Sorry for the long story.”

“No, not at all.” Her voice softened, all traces of annoyance gone. “I completely understand. You’re a good friend.” A glare at Childs’s door. “A better friend than some blood relations, I’ll bet. I don’t know when he’s coming back, but he’s never gone for long. I could give you his number . . .”

“I have it,” I said with a sigh. “I’ve called a few times. I guess he’s really been busy.”

Another glare at her invisible neighbor. “No, he just doesn’t have a lick of manners. Tell you what, hon. Give me your number and I’ll call you when he gets back.”