Greer nudged me. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but she wasn’t too stricken to overlook a social opportunity. This was her chance to add a state senator and his very prominent wife to the guest list for her next party. Not to be missed.

“How kind,” she said. “Of course we’ll come.”

I planted my feet. Barbara had zipped up alongside her husband, in the motorized chair, with Joseph keeping a proprietary watch. I looked at her, then Joseph, then the senator.

They’d attended the services to show support for me, I supposed, but it seemed to me that an after-funeral party for a woman they’d seen as a kidnapper was a little over the top. If Lillian had been caught at any point during the runaway years, the Larimers probably would have lobbied for life in prison.

The question I wanted to ask, but couldn’t find the words for, must have shown clearly in my face.

My uncle cleared his throat diplomatically and spoke in a low voice. “The press is waiting to close in,” he told me. “Do you feel like dealing with them? They’ll have a million questions, all of them pretty personal.”

I looked around. Sure enough, there were people with microphones and cameras among the blatant gossips and curiosity seekers. Some members of the fourth estate were already interviewing the locals who’d attended the service, but I knew Clive was right. They were ready to pounce. And they wouldn’t stop with inquiries into my years on the run with Lillian. They’d want to know about the murders, too.

About the blood, and the fear.

How did it feel, hiding in a clothes dryer, after witnessing a double homicide?

“No,” I said, with a slow, dazed shake of my head. “No.”

My uncle took my arm. Several of his aides materialized out of the crowd and walked in casual but practiced formation around us until we reached the limo. Joseph leaned in on the front passenger side, spoke quietly to the driver.

Clive, meanwhile, held the back door for us.

Greer blushed prettily, fetching even in a whiter shade of pale, and slid in. Jolie followed, though not so readily. I stood warily before the opening.

“You would have sent her to prison,” I said, looking up into Clive’s face. “Back then, I mean. When she took me.”

“Yes,” he answered.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, in measuring silence.

Then I got into the car.

A few minutes later, we glided into the driveway at the Larimers’ place, the press effectively stopped at the heavy steel gates behind us.

Peculiar, I thought, that I hadn’t even noticed those gates on my previous visit. They must have been open before. Now, they made the estate seem as impenetrable as a fortress with the drawbridge up.