“I said the same thing. If you asked Pamela, she would be shocked—appalled even—that you didn’t immediately see the problem. Why did the prosecution believe the others were committed on Fridays?”

“Because it was their date night. Their daughter—” I stopped. Cleared my throat. “Me, I mean. Obviously.”

Obviously.

Except it hadn’t been so obvious. While I knew I was the child in the file, I’d disconnected from that.

The adorable toddler the police met when they first questioned the Larsens? That was me. The child who’d stayed overnight at her grandmother’s while Mommy and Daddy butchered eight people? That was me. The girl described during the arrest, screaming for her mother, biting the social worker, howling and sobbing uncontrollably for hours?

That was me.

“I was at their—I mean, my grandmother’s that night.” I paused. “Is she—?” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

“Your grandmother passed away years ago.”

“Right. Okay.” I wanted to ask about other family, but Gabriel wasn’t the person to answer that.

“Take a moment.”

As at the prison, he said it with a veneer of empathy, yet he couldn’t mask a note of impatience.

“I’m fine,” I said. “So where was Eden—I mean, where was I on the night of the last murders?”

“No one knows. That is the crux of Pamela’s argument.”

A shadow passed overhead. I looked up. Just a sparrow.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Your grandmother was the only person your parents entrusted with your care, and she was out of town. Therefore, your parents could not have killed anyone that night.”

“No, they just left me in bed. Or in the back of the car.”

Sleeping in the car. While they murdered two people.

I continued. “At that point, the Larsens had already been questioned about the murders. It makes logical sense to shake things up.”

“Yes, but as Pamela points out, they weren’t actually questioned as suspects. The police spoke to them under the pretext of investigating a neighborhood break-in. Pamela’s argument is that they would never have left you alone, either in the house or in the car. And they certainly wouldn’t take you along to a murder. That would be irresponsible parenting.”

I sputtered a laugh, then looked at his expression. “You’re serious?”

“She is. To her, the fact you were not with a sitter proves they couldn’t have committed the murders. Oddly, she has trouble finding a judge—or a lawyer—to agree with her.”

“And it’s not grounds for appeal anyway. So you based yours on prejudice against Wiccans?”

“No, I attempted to base it on this.” He took folded papers from his breast pocket. “Your mother refused. We settled on my backup—the Wiccan business. Which I expected to use in conjunction with this.” He waved the folded sheets. “On its own, the Wiccan defense was, as you say, flimsy.”

“So what’s that?” I pointed at the sheets.

He unfolded them. The papers were part of a police report. Withheld until he could present it with the proper degree of drama.

I read the sheets. Then I put them into the folder and set it on my other side—away from Gabriel.

“The answer is no,” I said.

He feigned confusion. “I believe I missed the question.”

“You held back those pages because they offer the strongest proof that the Larsens may not have been the killers. You also know if I go to these innocence groups, they might not take me seriously—I’m just a spoiled rich kid who wants someone to make all this nastiness go away. So you’re going to offer to investigate for me. I just need to stop this silly charade and go back home to my family ATM so I can hire you.” I glanced over. “Close?”

He considered the question. “No. I suspect you have no intention of going home until you’ve found your place in the world. Or until you see a pair of Jimmy Choos you can’t live without. Your current lack of funds, though, will make it difficult to hire me. But I have a solution.”

“Of course you do.”

“I will accept promissory notes due one month after your twenty-fifth birthday, when you receive the trust fund set up by your adoptive father. The extra month should allow you ample time to access the funds.”

“Done your research, I see.”

“Of course.”

“Why do you want this case?” I asked. “Yes, you can probably soak me for some serious cash, but your firm isn’t struggling for business. I’ve done my research, too. You’re successful enough that you don’t need to shill for clients.”

He opened his mouth.

I lifted my hand. “No, let me guess. Anything I can deduce is infinitely more trustworthy than anything you’re going to tell me.”

“Careful, Ms. Jones, you might offend me.”

“I owe you one for the Jimmy Choo jab. By the way, I’m a Louboutin girl, and their new line isn’t out until fall, so I won’t be going home for money until then.”

The faintest quirk of a smile. “I stand corrected.”

“As for why you’d do this? If you freed Pamela Larsen, your professional star would ascend into the stratosphere. That’s why you took her appeal. Except she didn’t like your strategy, so you lost your chance. This evidence isn’t good enough to pursue without a paying client. I can be that client.”

“You could be.”

“No, Mr. Walsh. I’m not that gullible. Or that desperate. Bill me for this morning, as per our original agreement.”

• • •

So what was in those pages Gabriel had removed from the file? That most valuable and elusive prize for any defense lawyer: a plausible alternate suspect. Jan Gunderson’s older brother, Christian.

On paper, Christian Gunderson was ideal. Midtwenties. A loner. Socially awkward. Anger-management issues that had led to three arrests for assault. Two charges had been dropped, probably because they’d been against family members—his father and his sister, Jan.

The police had zeroed in on Christian as soon as Jan and her fiancé were killed. Shortly before the deaths, Christian apparently had a huge fight with his sister, and Peter had interceded, whereupon neighbors swore they heard Christian threatening him.