She rested her head against the passenger window. “I went to see Zoe’s parents on my lunch hour. Her father showed me the texts Heath sent to Zoe Monday night.” She summed up her meeting with the Finches. “Why aren’t the police investigating Heath?”

“We don’t know that they aren’t.” Conor scraped a hand down his chin. “But I think we need some background information on Heath.”

He glanced sideways. Her face was drawn and tired. The encounter with the Finches had clearly taken a lot out of her. If she’d spent her lunch hour driving, then she hadn’t eaten. “I have a late night. How about stopping for a sandwich and coffee?”

“OK,” she answered, distracted.

He found a lucky spot at the curb, parked, and swiped his credit card at the parking meter kiosk. They walked a block down Eighteenth Street and ducked into a café.

Conor chose a dark, high-backed booth in the back for privacy. The bistro café catered mainly to the lunch crowd. Half the tables were empty. The waitress arrived, and Conor ordered coffee and a club sandwich.

Louisa asked for green tea.

When the waitress left, she told him about her heartbreaking visit to the Finches’ house. He reached across the table and took her hand. “You were like Zoe, weren’t you? Ahead of your class, separate from the other kids?”

“Yes.” Louisa studied their intertwined fingers. “I earned my PhD at nineteen.”

His thumb rubbed a slow circle on the back of her hand. “Is that why you need to find her so badly? Because she’s like you?”

Was Louisa like Zoe’s parents, simply refusing to accept the girl’s death because the truth would be too painful?

“Maybe.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I know what it’s like to be alone in a room full of people, to be an academic success and not have friends, to be desperate to fit in. My father traveled. My mother was dead. My aunt wasn’t interested.”

“And you were alone.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

But she hadn’t gotten over it, and Conor thanked God for his three siblings. As crazy as his life could be, the Sullivans always had each other.

“That time-heals-all-wounds saying is total bullshit. Cuts that deep never go away, no matter how many years pass. I still miss my parents.” Conor’s sandwich arrived. He pushed the plate to the middle of the table, but she didn’t seem interested. Had she eaten anything since the muffin he’d brought her that morning?

The setting sun elongated shadows on the sidewalk outside. For the first time, she’d opened up to him. She’d given him a glimpse of the wounded soul beneath her mask.