As I moved down the path to the sidewalk, I saw splashes of dark red on the pavement, and I knew instantly that it was blood, my mother's blood. I stopped abruptly, turning in one direction and then the other. I wondered where the shot had come from. Surely the police had some idea, judging from the way she'd been hit, the projection of the bullets. But if they did, they certainly hadn't shared it with me.

It was a nice neighborhood, with mostly three-story buildings that housed one or two units. I'm sure every house was expensive, which made me wonder how my mother had bought herself a home. Being a music teacher wouldn't pay that much. Just another question to add to the list.

As I opened my trunk, I glimpsed someone staring out the window at me from the home directly across the street. Then the curtain fell. It was probably nothing, but I felt uneasy after what had happened last night. Someone had clearly taken advantage of my mother being in the hospital to break into her house. I needed to be careful.

I grabbed my overnight bag, locked the car, then hurried back to the house, thinking I probably should have told Dani I would meet her somewhere else. But she'd ask a million questions why, and in the end, she'd want to see where our mom lived.

Back in the house, I took a brief shower, made quicker by the fact that my mom's shampoo smelled exactly like her and made me feel very emotional. At risk of sobbing my way through a long shower, I hopped out and changed into dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater, feeling significantly more alert and ready to take action. After considering my options, I left the house and headed to the school where my mother worked.

Inspector Greenman had spoken to the principal. I needed to do the same. I also wanted to see where my mom spent her time. I'd done a quick search on my phone for information about the school and had learned that it was a charter high school, offering specialized classes in music, dance, and theater for approximately four hundred students who had to audition to get into the program. While some of the staff had photos on the website, Laura Hawthorne did not, and I wondered if that was a deliberate choice.

When I arrived at the school, I parked in a visitor's space and made my way through the front door and into the administrative office. It was quiet in the building, although I could hear music wafting down the hallway. It was a Friday morning just after nine, so classes were clearly in session.

The school secretary, an older woman with sharp eyes, gave me a questioning look. "Can I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to the principal about my mother—Laura Hawthorne."

The woman's eyes widened. "You're Laura's daughter? I didn't think she had any children."