Not one single muscle seemed to move in Elizabeth Ayers’s entire body. I’d have thought her made of marble, were it not for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out. Slowly she began to grin. She squared her shoulders, and again lifted her patrician chin defiantly. “It’s been a while since I’ve been involved in a good fight. Felton will be very happy.” She moved back around to the front of the chair, sat again. “I’ll ruin you if you even think about repeating such a thing.”

“Do you know where Stephen was the night Tim died?” She stared at me, her face blank. It was as if she’d already checked out. “And, again, where were you?”

Elizabeth Ayers pushed a small button on the side of her chair, then stood, clasping her hands in front of her. Boykin appeared at the door. He was my confirmation that the visit was over.

“My son and I were in New York on business. Felton handled the details in our stead.”

“‘The details’? Tim, you mean?”

She rose. “You do realize that I can make things very uncomfortable for you?”

I stood, buttoned my jacket. “More uncomfortable than this?”

She glided out of the room, disappeared down the hall. Boykin saw me out, ushering me through the doors and back out to the portico. My car was where I left it, and seeing it again was like reuniting with an old friend. The sun felt warm, welcoming. I was thrilled to be out of the icehouse.

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

The stink of smoke and the wail of fire engines pulled me off my painter’s ladder at two AM Sunday morning. The trucks sounded close. I padded to the front windows in the second-floor apartment to see red lights flashing, black smoke billowing up, and my car on fire. Two hook and ladders had blocked the street, onlookers watching from the curb, as hoses shot water through the car’s busted-out windows. I blinked, stared, not believing what I was seeing. My car. My car. I ran for the stairs, bounded out of the front door right into a huddle of gawkers, seemingly mesmerized by the angry flames. I fought my way through to the curb, my eyes on the smoke, my nose burning with the stench of toxic rubber and plastic.

“Stand back, lady, this thing is still blazin’,” a cop yelled when I got too close.

“That’s my car,” I shouted, fighting to be heard over the murmurs of the crowd and the force of the water hoses, the rumble of the trucks.

The cop looked me up and down, then consulted his notebook. “What’s your name?”

I stared, transfixed, at my melting Maxima. “Cassandra Raines.”

“You got ID?”

I held my arms out. No wallet. “Not on me. Is there somebody else out here claiming the burning car?”