Mrs. Davies’s face once more brightened, and she returned to the kitchen to resume bustling about a space that probably hadn’t seen a mop or sponge in years.

Phil and D.D. sat stiffly on the love seat, D.D. with her left arm tucked protectively against her ribs. I took the ratty recliner at the head of the coffee table. An orange tabby appeared from nowhere and jumped onto my lap. Then two or three more cats started to show their faces. But of course.

D.D. ended up with a black-and-white-spotted cat with bright green eyes, who shoved his nose aggressively against her injured shoulder. She hissed at him, and he leapt down, stalking away with his tail twitching.

“Now, Tom,” Mrs. Davies called from the kitchen. “Stop bothering our guests. No sense of manners, that one. I took him off of the streets as a baby, and he has yet to be grateful! Now, here we are.”

Mrs. Davies reappeared, one coffee mug of instant coffee at a time. Phil leapt to his feet, most likely to dodge further advances from Tom, and assisted. When we were all situated again, Mrs. Davies sat across from me.

She didn’t have a cup of coffee, nor did she touch the pastries. She simply sat, her hands clasped on her lap, with an air of anticipation. Two of the cats joined her, one on each side, like flanking guards. And I saw it then. The sorrow in her eyes, deep and penetrating, that no amount of cats or clutter would ever ease. She suffered, and she accepted her own suffering. She gazed at us now, knowing these questions would hurt, and resigning herself to her fate.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” I said.

“You said it’s about your sister?”

“Some new questions have come up, regarding the death of Donnie Johnson—”

“You mean his murder?”

“Yes. These detectives, they’d like to ask you about that time. About Shana, Donnie, your neighbors. All of it.”

Mrs. Davies cocked her head to the side. She frowned, seeming unsure, then relented with a short nod. “Well, it’s been a while now, you know. Lucky for you, though, seems with age, my memory prefers the past to the present. Ask me about last week, I don’t know that I could help you. But thirty years ago . . .” She sighed. “Thirty years ago, I still remember things I’d rather forget.”

“Tell us about Shana Day,” D.D. spoke up.

Mrs. Davies shot me a look, as if she wasn’t sure how to proceed in my presence.

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I have no illusions regarding my sister. You don’t need to worry about speaking ill of her in front of me.”