Diana launched right in. “Jenny said you’d like to make an appointment. What do you need help with?”

I moved to one side, hoping she would follow, and she did.

“I’m not here for an appointment. I’m sorry that was the impression I gave. But you went to school with Claire Durant, and she suggested I talk to you.”

“I missed your name.”

She hadn’t missed it, I hadn’t given it. Now I was afraid she wasn’t going to like it.

“I’m Ryan Gracey. You went to school with my sister.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “You don’t look like Wendy.”

“No, I look like my father.” I didn’t elaborate, and if that clicked for her, she didn’t show it. “Please don’t let our relationship influence you.”

She didn’t smile. “Why do you think it might?”

“I have your yearbook. Claire gave it to me. I guess somebody picked it up at a garage sale. You probably don’t remember, but you more or less destroyed Wendy’s photo.”

“It’s a little late to say I’m sorry, isn’t it?”

“This has nothing to do with the photo, honestly. Or the yearbook. But I need to talk to somebody who knew Wendy and her best friend in middle school, Greta Harold. I know it’s not fair to just corner you this way but—”

“Are you the same Ryan Gracey who produces Out in the Cold?”

I was so surprised I didn’t answer.

“Yeah, I’m a fan, so sue me.” Diana smiled a little. “I listen to true crime podcasts when I run. Yours is one of the better ones. Your name made me think of Wendy, which is why I remember. I didn’t know you were actually related.”

“We’re years apart.”

“You aren’t going to like anything I have to say about your sister. Are you sure you want to talk to me?”

“That probably makes you the person I most need to talk to.”

She still looked skeptical. “Are you doing a story on Greta’s death?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. I don’t have anybody to see for the next two hours. I was going to catch up on charts, but I can spend a few minutes with you.”

We walked to a café several doors down. At the counter I asked for a bagel with cream cheese, but Diana only wanted coffee. Once we had our order, we tucked ourselves into a booth at the back. Suddenly the whole encounter struck me funny, and when Diana asked why I’d laughed, I turned up my palms.

“I’ve done this talk-over-coffee thing a lot. Nothing good ever comes of it.”

“What do you mean?”

I gave her a brief description of my Starbucks encounter with John Quayle, and the aftermath. I didn’t tell her about Ella.

She leaned forward, the stiffness in her spine melting away one vertebrae at a time. “That was you? At the time your name didn’t register. An officer and his dog were shot?”

“They saved my life.” I decided sharing something more might be helpful for our rapport. “He’s my guy, and the dog is happily retired and living with him.”