For a few more minutes, I watched the crew. Layla seemed like several people at once—the silent adorer of Erik, the eager subordinate to Zania, the sly one who’d told me (or warned me?) to quit. She also wanted to nix the interviews with Ray, which might have been ordinary caution, or a wish not to dredge up more grief. But maybe it was to protect Erik from further scrutiny. Clearly, he wanted to talk about Brenae. Why?

There was a charmed air about Erik; he had the harmless good looks and superficial ease that people used to call bonny. He’d also left the room three times for the bathroom and come back flushed. Whatever substance habit he had, he was barely hiding it, but in the orchestration of the artwork, the others treated him with deference, stepping aside to let his eyes and hands take over. It was clear he was their star.

I turned my phone back on and slipped out onto the palm-lined boulevard outside. After years of navigating downtown’s skyscrapers and steep hills, the first thing that struck me about the Westing’s block was its flatness and open sky. The street was wide enough and the buildings short enough to allow sun to flood the sidewalks all day. Restaurants greeted the brightness with patios, striped umbrellas, and lemon-ginger elixirs. Beside them, tiny, cave-like shops peddled army jackets and T-shirts so flimsy they were already shredding on their racks. Some pedestrians were clearly tourists, trudging along in capris, sucking in their inland waists. Others looked like they’d been posed there with their low-slung jeans, bone hips, and gleaming tans. The overall atmosphere didn’t feel snobby, though, not exclusive at all—but insatiably splendid. There was so much light to go around. Venice reminded me of every beach town, and none of them.

I spotted Ray across the street and up a block, sitting in a parked gray sedan. His eyes were closed. Had he fallen asleep? I thought of his face in the coffee shop this morning. He looked different from when I’d first met him. There was something sunken about his face, especially around the eyes.

My phone thrummed. Kaye.

“Maggie, I’m sorry,” she said. “I think you should go there at one thirty anyway, but she will likely not show up. She’s got tons of calls with producers. She’s gotten so hot all of a sudden. Like overnight.”

“I understand,” I said coolly, although my face felt numb and warm. My suit hung on me like a wet towel.

“But you should go just in case,” she said. “You should definitely go.”

I felt a nudge. Zania had somehow materialized beside me, along with a whiff of coconut shampoo.

“The shoe truck’s coming. Supposedly there’s a dolly in my father’s office,” she said. “Do you have a key?”

“Maggie?” Kaye sounded farther away. “Are you at work?”