She tiptoed over to the remains of the chair and knelt, as I had done, to feel around its sides. “This is gross. It’s, like, Dumpster diving.”

“What is going on in here?” A second flashlight suddenly brightened the room.

I was so tired, and so focused on Petra, I hadn’t heard the new-comer in the hall. My heart pounded. I could hear it in my ears like the ocean roaring. This was a recipe for early death, personal inattention on this scale.

“Who are you and why are you in this apartment? You can answer me quickly or talk to the police.”

“I’m V. I. Warshawski,” I said quietly. “I was here with Sister Frances when she was killed. And you are … ?”

“Sister Carolyn Zabinska.”

I had heard the name, but I was swaying badly and couldn’t make sense of anything. Murray had said … He’d said I was the real target. I blinked, trying to clear my head. I turned to look at Zabinska. Her flashlight blinded me. My knees buckled, and I was suddenly on the floor, Petra’s flashlight falling from my useless hands.

I never really lost consciousness, but I couldn’t summon the strength to speak. I heard the nun ask Petra who she was. I heard Petra say I was supposed to be in the hospital but had insisted on coming to the apartment. She didn’t know why but thought I was hoping my handbag would still be here.

I struggled to speak. I was baffled by my cousin’s lies. Was she instinctively trying to save her own skin? More footfalls sounded. “No police,” I finally gasped. But it wasn’t police, it was two more nuns. And, between them and my cousin, I was half carried, half dragged up the stairs to the fourth floor.

“We can’t use the elevator until the wiring has been completely tested,” one of the nuns apologized.

We went into a clean living room, a copy of Sister Frankie’s, with books and bright throws and a statue of the Virgin, and I was put in an armchair. Someone forced hot, sweet tea into me, and I thought maybe it really was Wednesday night again, that I was back at Sister Frankie’s, that the fire, my eyes, my hands, all that had been a nightmare, and now … I sat up … And now I would pull myself together and stop being a tragedy queen.

“I don’t have my bag,” I said.

“I picked up your bag after the fire.” That was Sister Carolyn’s voice. It was cold. I was a selfish bitch, worrying about my private possessions in the middle of a disaster.

“Not my handbag, my evidence bag.” I tried to stand, but the sisters kept me in the chair.

Sister Carolyn squatted so I could see her face. “Evidence?”