He had an answer for everything, but we were drawing different conclusions from the video. I was absolutely certain about one thing: there was a reason Caro had run a mile south to the United Nations area that morning, and no one had bothered to find out why.

“There’s more to this story,” I said. “Why did she even go into that park?”

“Being completely honest, I think she was meeting someone there,” Villaverde said.

I gulped for air. “Why?”

“Here’s the list of what she had on her when she died.” He pulled out a folder. My eyes felt bleary, but I could make out a list: Watch (Cartier). Diamond wedding band. Diamond stud earrings. Memory card.

“Memory card?” I said. “She was out jogging. She wasn’t carrying anything.”

“There was a little zipped pocket in the waistband of her leggings,” he said. “You could fit a house key there, maybe a credit card. But all your sister had was this little memory card.”

“Where is it now?”

“With her husband,” he said. “Theo Thraxton took possession of everything.”

CHAPTER 13 DEIRDRE

CHAPTER 13

DEIRDRE

It was stupid to walk from the police station to the spot where my sister had collapsed. I knew that. Caro had died over a week ago. What could I possibly find? But I had to see it for myself.

The iconic United Nations building with the international flags flying in front was a little to the north. The UN headquarters was directly across, a mirrored-glass skyscraper that looked like a lonely domino on the empty landscape by the East River. Caro had dropped in front of Ralph Bunche Park, a tiny green oasis named for the first African American to win the Nobel Peace Prize. The curving Isaiah Wall was on my right, brushing against a spiral staircase that led one story up. There was a Bible verse on it:

They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.

I appreciated the antiwar sentiment, but I was ready to pick up a sword for my sister. The cops weren’t going to listen to me. Bring him to justice, no matter what you have to do, my sister had written about her husband. But I couldn’t see a way to do that. It wasn’t even clear if Theo had been involved in her death. What had made my sister write that panicked message in the early-dawn hours the day she died?