Jolie topped off my wineglass, even though I hadn’t taken a sip. “Okay,” she said, with cheerful resolve. “Let’s talk about something else. The cop. What’s his name again? Or what brings you down here. Or—”

“The ghosts?” I rested my elbows on the table and shoved the fingers of both hands into my hair.

“Or the ghosts,” Jolie said slowly.

“Do-over,” I said. “There weren’t any ghosts. I made it up.”

“You saw something.”

“I was hallucinating. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

Jolie lowered her eyes, licked her lips, took a taste of her wine.

“Isn’t it?”

Probably sensing conflict, Sweetie snarled halfheartedly from his bed, which blocked the hallway.

Great, I thought. If I get up to use the bathroom during the night, I’ll have to get past Dogzilla.

The glad tidings just kept on coming.

“All right,” Jolie agreed, with hasty diplomacy, raising both hands and holding them palms out. “Forget the ghosts. Forget Lillian and your fourth birthday. Tell me about the cop.”

“There’s a poor-to-fair chance he blew up in a car explosion night before last,” I said, and even though the thought that it might be true, by some horrible coincidence, wrenched my gut, I admit I enjoyed watching Jolie’s expression.

When she found her voice, she said, “Girl, your life is a full-scale terrorist alert. Level Orange.”

I considered describing my brief sojourn in Cactus Bend, but that would bring us back to the murders, and even though I wanted to know what had really happened the night my folks died, I needed to step back from it. It was like a psychological black hole, and if I didn’t get some kind of grip, I was going to be sucked in and swallowed.

The whole subject could wait until breakfast. Things always looked better in the morning.

Didn’t they?

I was inspired. “Let’s talk about you,” I said. “How’s the job? How’s your love life?”

“I’m thinking of leaving the university and working as a crime-scene tech,” Jolie said. Which only went to prove I wasn’t the only bomb-dropper in the family.

“Why would you do that?” I asked. I finally resorted to the wine; downed a couple of gulps while I waited for Jolie’s answer.

She shrugged. I think you really have to be a black woman to pull that kind of shoulder action off with any style. “I’m tired of being stuck in a lab all the time,” she said. “I’m always one step removed from the action. What I do is so—well—after the fact.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Jolie had a master’s degree in forensic science, and she was working on a Ph.D. She’d waited tables and sold shoes to get through school, and still maintained a four point, throughout. Plus, she really knew her bones.