THE PAIR OF THEM WERE sitting in his navy-blue coupe, in the shade of the little parking lot behind the gallery. I passed them while searching futilely for my own spot on the street. Despite Zania’s insistence that I park my car at the Westing, I wasn’t sure I wanted the crew to view my old station wagon. So I’d driven past the organic juicery and the small-batch ice cream shop, even down as far as the night club that hadn’t changed its pugilist sign since the sixties and was open already, its rummy interior visible through a propped door. No luck. I’d cruised back by the Westing to start again, and there they were.

I pulled to the curb and peered in the rearview mirror.

Layla sat in the passenger seat, her arms not quite crossed. It was more like she was clutching her elbows, as if holding herself in to keep from flying apart. Her profile was to me, her long red hair obscuring her face.

Nelson’s expression was easier to read. He looked patient and paternal, as if he were coaching her to understand some difficult lesson. She shook her head sharply, but he kept talking and eventually she sniffed and nodded. I couldn’t tell if she was crying. I didn’t think so. She didn’t seem the type to cry often.

I didn’t know what they were talking about, but everything in their manner suggested they knew each other well. Very well. When Nelson finished talking, he gently slipped a hand inside her shirt, and then Layla’s red head dipped toward his lap until it disappeared.

12

WHEN I GOT BACK TO the gallery, the crew was listening to the local public radio station. PSAs and twangy indie pop looped through the air. Only Pearson and Zania seemed in the room, focused on the shoes. Erik kept checking the door, but when Layla returned, he frowned at her kiss in greeting, feigning intense concentration on an arch of red pumps. Layla went to work with her mouth parted, eyes far away, as if she hadn’t left the car, was still back there, bent over Nelson’s crotch.

Although it wasn’t my place to judge, the thought of Layla and Nelson together made my skin crawl. And even more than the sex, their intimacy troubled me. What if Layla knew about the whole investigation? And if she did, why wouldn’t she inform her friends and boyfriend that I was eavesdropping on them? Presumably because Nelson had asked her not to. If that was true, then Nelson meant more to Layla than Erik did. Or Zania. That was a funny fact. Not especially germane to Brenae, but funny nonetheless. I wondered what Ray would make of it.

“TIME TO GO,” LAYLA SAID at 3:30, “or we’ll be late.”