“Don’t touch me,” she said, eyes still closed.

By the time Eric arrived, Diandra was sitting on her window seat, staring out at the harbor, the coffee Angie’d made sitting cold and untouched beside her. In an hour, she hadn’t spoken a single word.

When Eric entered, she stared at him as he removed his raincoat and hat, placed them on a hook, looked at us.

We stepped into the kitchen alcove, and I told him.

“Jesus,” he said, and for a moment he looked as if he’d be sick. His face turned the color of paste and he gripped the bar until his knuckles whitened. “Murdered. How?”

I shook my head. “Murdered is enough for now,” I said.

He rested both hands on the bar top, lowered his head. “What’s Diandra been like since she heard?”

“Quiet.”

He nodded. “That’s her way. You contact Stan Timpson?”

I shook my head. “I assume the police will.”

His eyes filled. “That kid, that poor beautiful kid.”

“Tell me,” I said.

He stared past my shoulder at the fridge. “Tell you what?”

“Whatever you know about Jason. Whatever it is you’ve been hiding.”

“Hiding?” His voice was small.

“Hiding,” I said. “You haven’t felt right in this since the beginning.”

“On what do you base—”

“Call it a hunch, Eric. What were you doing at Bryce tonight?”

“I told you. Tutoring.”

“Bullshit. I saw the books you pulled out of the car. One of them was a Chilton car guide, Eric.”

“Look,” he said, “I’m going to go to Diandra now. I know how she’ll react and I really think you and Ange should leave. She won’t want you to have seen her when she cracks.”

I nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

He adjusted his glasses, walked past me. “I’ll see you get full payment for whatever remains on the bill.”

“We’ve already been paid, Eric.”

He crossed the loft to her and I looked at Angie, cocked my head toward the door. She picked her purse up off the floor and her jacket off the couch as Eric placed a hand on Diandra’s shoulder.

“Eric,” she said. “Oh, Eric. Why? Why?”

She fell off the window seat into his arms as Angie reached me. And as I opened the door, Diandra Warren howled. It was one of the worst sounds I’ve ever heard—a raging, tortured, ravaged noise that blew from her chest and reverberated across the loft and clamored in my head long after I’d left the building.

In the elevator, I said to Angie, “Eric’s wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“He’s wrong,” I said. “He’s dirty. Or he’s hiding something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. He’s our friend, Ange, but I don’t like the feeling I get from him on this.”

“I’ll look into it,” she said.

I nodded. I could still hear Diandra’s awful howl in my head and I wanted to curl up and cover myself against it.

Angie leaned against the glass elevator wall and hugged herself tightly and we didn’t speak once on the ride home.