“Good memory. Do you know why you’re here?”

She tensed, though it was barely discernible from her otherwise flat affect. “They think I’m that woman. They’re accusing me of murder.” Her gaze fell to the floor. “Murders. More than one. All those Hollywood people. They think I did it.”

I was actually glad she said “they.” It meant I could still be a potential ally in her mind. Maybe she’d tell me some of her secrets after all, and maybe not.

“We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to,” I said.

She blinked once, and seemed to focus a little. She squinted her eyes at me, then looked down at the floor.

“Would you like anything? Are you thirsty?” I asked. I wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible with me, but I was also feeling an urge to help this woman. She looked and sounded so terrible, possibly impaired.

Now she looked up, her eyes searching mine. “Could I have a cup of coffee? Would it be too much trouble?”

The coffee arrived, and Mary held the paper cup with her fingertips and sipped at it with an unexpected kind of delicacy. The coffee seemed to revive her a little, too.

She kept sneaking glances at me, and she absently smoothed her hair against her head. “Thanks.” Her eyes were a little brighter, and I saw a shade of the friendly woman from the day before.

“Mary, do you have any questions about what’s going on? I’m sure you must.”

Immediately, a pall came over her. Her emotions were palpably fragile. Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, and she nodded without speaking.

“What is it, Mary?”

She looked up to the corner of the ceiling, where a camera was watching us. I knew that at least a half-dozen law enforcement personnel and psychiatric specialists were tucked away less than ten feet from where we sat.

Mary seemed to guess as much. When she did speak, it was in a whisper.

“They won’t tell me anything about my children.” Her face contorted as she fought back more tears.

Chapter 96

Chapter 96

“YOUR CHILDREN?” I asked, somewhat confused, but going along with what she’d said.

“Do you know where they are?” Her voice was wavery, but her energy had increased quite a bit already.

“No, I don’t,” I answered truthfully. “I can look into it. I’ll need some more information from you.”

“Go ahead. I’ll tell you what you need to know. They’re too young to be on their own.”

“How many children do you have?” I asked her.

She seemed dumbfounded by the question. “Three. Don’t you already know?”

I took out my pad. “How old are they, Mary?”

“Brendan’s eight, Ashley’s five, and Adam’s eleven months.” She spoke haltingly while I wrote it all down.

Eleven months?