Lily said, “Milagro?”

“Hm?” I glanced up from the damp soil and saw Lily staring at something behind me. I turned and saw Oswald. “Oh, hi, Oswald.”

His storm-cloud gray eyes portended nothing at the moment. He raised his eyebrows and said to Lily, “Is this part of your therapy?”

“I, uh,” she began.

“It is part of the therapy, Oswald, taking me on the same emotional journey in order to build a framework for my memories, right, Lily?”

“Yes,” she said. “I read about it in the Nordic Journal of Psychiatry.”

“Oh,” Oswald said, taken aback. “I’m sorry for interrupting then. I thought we could have cocktails in about a half hour on the terrace. My grandmother is trying out new recipes.”

Lily said, “Wonderful. We’ll see you then.”

When he nodded and went inside, I laughed and Lily said, “I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t believe you went along with it.”

“Only because I’m open to any theory right now. If you can connect with the feelings you had for Oswald, you might trigger memories. But think about him, the whole person, not just his body.”

“I’ll try, but that body is utterly captivating, don’t you think so?”

She smiled a little slyly. “It’s not my role to disagree with your opinions, Milagro.”

I changed into a clean set of the boring clothes and was putting my hair into a scrunchie from hell when there was a knock on my door.

“Enter.”

The door opened and I saw an adorable man with red-gold hair, black slacks, an ecru button-down shirt, and eyes the same pellucid pond-green as Mrs. Grant’s.

“Hi,” I said, lowering my voice for maximum flirt effect.

“Hi, honey,” he said. “It’s me, Gabriel. We spoke on the phone this morning. You look as if you’re leading a revolt against good taste.”

“It’s part of my therapy, like no skin contact.”

“Good luck with that.” He dropped into the old green armchair beside the desk. “We checked your apartment and found a million fingerprints and more body fluids than I want to think about.”

“I probably had parties,” I said. “You know how people get.”

“Actually, I do,” he said, and grinned. “We’ve tracked your activities on the day Wilcox arrived. You left a debit card trail all the way into the late evening. We also found Wilcox’s rented car in the visitors’ parking area of your garage. There was blood in the trunk.”

“Does that clear me or implicate me further?”

“The timeline seems to clear you, but it’s not conclusive. I’ve given a report to the Council and there’s not much they can do without a body.”

“Mrs. Grant scoffed at me when I asked if ‘family’ means mob. What kind of family hires forensics experts?”

Gabriel smiled, showing delightful dimples. “We’ve found it useful to support each other’s businesses and careers. We’re more like a cultural group.”

“Except that ‘cultural group’ sounds more like potlucks and clog dancing than sexy Titian-haired security managers,” I said. “I suppose I know all about this.”