For the first time since our conversation began, she showed some steel. “Too busy,” she replied, “to discuss my son’s life insurance policy? It seems you were the beneficiary.”

Nick loomed behind Jolie, and he looked smug as hell.

Jolie followed my gaze and whirled.

“She still can’t see me,” Nick said.

“Nick and I were divorced two years before he died,” I reminded Margery calmly. As if she didn’t remember dancing naked around a bonfire the day the decree came through. “If I was still listed as the beneficiary, I’m sure it was an oversight.”

Nick shook his head.

Jolie looked behind her again.

“It is a sizable amount of money,” Margery said.

I swallowed. Jolie made a bring-it-on motion with both hands.

“I’m really not—”

Nick morphed over to the trash bin, fished out several pieces of the cut-up credit card, and held them under my nose.

Jolie fainted.

“I have to go,” I told Margery, and thumbed the button.

Nick stepped out of my way, and Jolie was already coming around by the time I got to her.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Jolie said. “I’m seeing things.”

I helped her to her feet, settled her in a chair, and handed her the water bottle I’d gotten out earlier.

“Vanishing cats,” Jolie murmured. “Garbage, floating in midair.”

I gave Nick a look.

He shrugged and spread his hands.

“You need a good night’s sleep,” I told Jolie.

“I need a shrink,” Jolie argued.

“If you do, so do I,” I said, trying to console her.

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Jolie countered.

“I can’t believe you’re sisters,” Nick said. “You bicker a lot, and there’s no family resemblance to speak of.” I guess he thought he was being droll. “Maybe a little around the eyes.”

“I’ve had about enough of you for one night,” I told him.

Jolie looked hurt.

I laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not talking to you,” I said.

When I was sure she wouldn’t faint again, I went into the living room, folded down the couch and made a bed for her.

She crashed without so much as a whimper of protest.

I was a lot longer getting to sleep, and when I woke the next morning, it was to the buzz of my doorbell.

I kept the chain on and peered around the edge of the door to see a uniformed messenger on the landing, holding an oversized envelope.

“Ms. Sheepshanks?”

“Yes,” I said suspiciously. I had reason to mistrust unexpected deliveries.

What was in the envelope? Anthrax spores?

“I’m not expecting anything,” I told the messenger.

“Sign here,” he said, and shoved a clipboard through the crack in the door.

Oh, what the hell?

I signed, took the envelope, and shut the door hard.

No return address.

I like to live dangerously. I pulled the little tab and peered inside.