“It’s beautiful,” I said. “You took it from Mama’s room?”

“No! Mama left it here.” He pointed at his bookcase.

“Why would she do that?”

“She said gremlins move things around. It’s safe here.”

Caroline had been making bizarre accusations over the past several months, accusing me of invading her privacy.

“Can we go to the zoo tomorrow?” Teddy asked me, his tone brightening.

“Maybe you can go with Gloria?”

“You never go with me.” He hugged Bunny tightly. “Mama will take me.”

My son sounded so determined when he spoke, as if the past week had simply been a bad dream. It broke my heart. “You know Mama isn’t coming back, don’t you, Teddy?”

“You said you can still see her.” His voice was shrill with the piercing logic of a young child. It was my fault for not knowing how to explain to him that his mother was dead. When he cried, I tried to console him with the idea that you can hold someone you love in your heart, even though you can’t touch them. It was foolish of me to hope that a boy who wasn’t yet four could grasp that concept; I couldn’t manage it myself.

“The service at the church was for her, Teddy,” I said gently.

“Uh-huh.”

“You need to get back into bed,” I said.

“I’m not tired.”

“What about Bunny? He looks sleepy, doesn’t he?”

Teddy considered his friend seriously. “You are tired, Bunny,” he said, sounding slightly surprised, as if the stuffed animal had spoken.

I tucked them both into bed and got Teddy some water. “No more adventures tonight,” I said. “Sweet dreams.”

“Where’s Mama now?” Teddy asked.

My heart skipped a beat. “She’s in a better place, Teddy.” Until that moment, I’d never understood why people offered platitudes like that to children. But I had nothing else to give him.

CHAPTER 12 DEIRDRE

CHAPTER 12

DEIRDRE

At eight in the morning, I was at the Seventeenth Precinct on East Fifty-First Street waiting to talk to Luis Villaverde, the detective quoted in the article about Caro’s death. I hadn’t had any contact with the police after they’d told me she was dead. Someone else—Theo was the obvious suspect—had dealt with the identification and formalities.

Villaverde gave me a toothy grin. He was in his midthirties, olive skinned and dark eyed. He wasn’t tall but he was muscular, with dents on his nose and scars on his face that made him look like a washed-up boxer. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

“We had the funeral yesterday,” I said. “It was hard.”

“Sudden deaths are always tough to square. Especially when someone’s as young as your sister. What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you about the case.”

“The case?” He eyed me skeptically.

“Could we talk somewhere private?”