I reread the reports until I realized I was stalling. I did not want to face the Repkos, but then nothing was left except for the drive to Pasadena. I gathered my things and left.

The Repko family shared a lovely ranch-style home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood east of the Rose Bowl. I left my car on the street, walked up a long, used-brick drive, and rang their bell. It was a difficult walk to make, going to see a family who believed I was responsible for their daughter's death. I was queasy and tried breathing deep, but the breathing didn't help. Maybe I would puke on their floor.

Michael answered as if he had been waiting. His eyes widened when he saw me, and the two of us studied each other. An angry red mark creased his right cheek and his upper lip was thick and mottled.

He said, You're pretty dinged up.

You, too.

The smell of lilacs was strong. Their home felt like a funeral parlor, which, I guess, it was. Michael lowered his voice as he let me in.

Go easy with my mom.

I'm not going to kneecap anyone.

Michael led me into a spacious living room where Dennis and Gordon were waiting with their parents. Gordon's eye was purple and Dennis's left arm hung in a sling. Family photographs were dotted around the room, but an enormous photo of Debra hung above the fireplace. More pictures of Debra crowded the mantel and hearth, along with stuffed animals and yearbooks and keepsakes. Her family had created a shrine.

Michael's head drooped when we faced his parents. He no longer looked like the hardened troop who had tried to beat me to death with his brothers.

Michael said, This is him.

Him.

Mrs. Repko, propped in a wing chair as if she were made of marble, stared at me with open loathing. She was in her late fifties, with the stocky, large-bone build of her sons. Mr. Repko was ten years older than his wife; a thin man with the rheumy eyes of someone who had been drinking too much every night without regretting it the next morning. He had a high forehead and glasses, and looked nothing like his sons. Debra had gotten his looks. He frowned at the marks on my face, and glanced at his sons as if he wanted to say something, but didn't.

I said, Thank you for seeing me. I know this is difficult.

Michael tells us you believe the police have it wrong.

I have some questions, is all. I'll try to make this quick.

Get to it then. Let's try to make this as pleasant as possible.

I took out my notepad. Hiding behind a 3x5 pad was an easy way to avoid the condemnation in their eyes.

I need some background information about Debra, but I also want to know what the police did and what they asked you about.

Mrs. Repko crossed her arms.