Adam’s wearing a blue linen shirt, and his shoes gleam like a pair of mirrors. I also notice new eyeglasses with Prada frames. I wonder how it is that he’s able to spend so freely on himself.

“You must have gotten a job,” I say.

He motions me to sit and offers me a drink. I decline.

“Nope,” he says. “A few prospects, though.”

“I see,” I say.

He pours himself a whiskey over ice. “You didn’t come all this way to tell me how good I look.”

He’s right, of course.

“I didn’t,” I say. I’m searching for the words to tell him that I think Kristen Moss was involved in Sophie’s murder. I’m thinking that Connor lied to me. The Mosses did it together. It had to be the two of them. She was a small woman; there was no way she could wrestle away Sophie and drag her off to the bunker below the house. There was also the matter of his DNA. I wonder if Connor raped Sophie the night before he and Kristen killed her. I feel like he wanted to tell me something more, but he didn’t want to admit to his own culpability. When Kristen served him divorce papers after his incarceration, he wanted to hurt her back.

This was clearly one way.

“I think I know what happened to Sophie,” I say.

Adam takes a drink. “We know what happened to her.”

I weigh his expression. I study him behind those fancy new frames. I want to see his reaction to what I’m about to tell him.

“Yes,” I say. “And no.”

“That’s a strange response,” he says, playing with the ice cubes in his glass. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I do,” I say. “But I better not. Long drive back.”

“Yeah,” he says, shifting his gaze back to his glass. “Right. So what’s the no part?”

“I think Kristen was part of it,” I say.

His eyes widen. “Shit! That’s a hell of a thing to say. Kristen would never do anything like that.”

Everything stops right then. He’s defensive. It’s a strange and unexpected jolt.

“Sounds like you know her,” I say.

He shrugs a little. “Not really,” he says. “But it goes without saying that we’ve become bound together by the legal stuff. My wife. Her husband. It’s a mess that only we can really share.”

I ponder that a moment. It happens. I’ve heard stories of the family of a murder victim befriending the killer’s family.

“So you’re friendly now?”

“I guess,” he says, looking at his watch, a gargantuan and gleaming chronograph. “In fact, we were going to hang out tonight. She’s going through stuff at work. Related to a case.”