And Jung? I was tired of him dropping bits of information like bread crumbs through a fairy-tale forest, giving me only one tiny piece at a time, holding back the rest. He hadn’t said anything about being at a party at Tim’s or an argument between Tim and Darby. When I asked him if Tim had any possible enemies, he steered me toward Teo Cantu, making no mention of Darby at all. Jung and I needed to talk.

I started the car, ready to pull away from the curb, but stopped when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered it, anyway.

“Cassandra Raines?”

The voice was male, tight, snappish, and immediately put me on the defensive. I cut the ignition, upsetting the driver behind me who’d been waiting for the spot. The driver honked to get me moving. I rolled my window up instead, to block out the distraction. “This is Cassandra Raines.”

“Robert V. Felton, Esquire. Stephen Ayers’s legal representation.”

I rolled my eyes, sighed. I hated lawyers. Not like I hated broccoli or cod liver oil, not like an aversion, but like how I hated sand in my bikini bottoms or a fly in my kitchen. Like an irritant. Like a rash. And why did lawyers always use five-dollar words when a two-dollar one worked just as well? Legal representation. Please.

“How may I help you, Mr. Felton?”

“You’ve made several attempts to contact Mr. Stephen Ayers. Might I ask why?”

There was a haughty arrogance in his tone that set me on edge. I took a moment to let that settle, peering out of my windshield at the busy street. “Might I ask why?” I shrugged. Sure. People can ask anything they want. That doesn’t obligate me to give an answer. My questions were for Ayers, not his “legal representation,” but I could play nice. It was a tactic that didn’t come naturally to me for some reason, but I was no quitter.

“I’ve been hired to look into his brother’s death. I was hoping Mr. Ayers could answer a few questions.”

“Questions? And hired by whom?”

“Can’t say ‘by whom,’ but the questions are general ones about his brother’s personality, habits, acquaintances, enemies—if Mr. Ayers knew of any—also his mental state, which Mr. Ayers seems to know quite a bit about.”

Felton heaved out an aggrieved breath. The kind those who thought themselves above it all gave to those they’d placed several rungs below them on the ladder for mere mortals. “Mr. Ayers does not wish to speak about his brother, certainly not to a private detective who has no business asking questions in the first place. I insist on knowing who hired you.”