“Oh, I’m sorry, did he get that woman her job back? Did he help her sue? Did he actually do the reporting he should have done, and did Charlie Maxwell lose his restaurant and his reputation, like he deserves? I guess I must have just missed it.”

Robin walked to her mother’s dresser. Carefully, she put the penny back in the box and slid the sock drawer closed.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Nicola said. “I’m just making a point.”

“Which is?”

“Are you better off for knowing what a schmuck your husband is?”

She turned around. Stared at her.

Nicola was standing now, hands crossed over her strong chest. “You’re not, are you? I mean honestly. It isn’t like you’re going to leave him over it. And now you’re stuck with not only knowing about this shitty thing he did in the not-too-distant past—but that you’re the type of woman for whom that type of shittiness is not a deal breaker.”

Robin’s mouth felt dry. Her face throbbed red. “Thanks a lot.” Possibly the most impotent comeback she could have come up with. But there wasn’t anything else she could say. Nicola was right.

Nicola took a few steps closer. She brushed a hand against Robin’s cheek, as though she were comforting a child. “The point I’m trying to make, Robin, is that we all have pasts,” she said. “And very often, the people we love are better off not knowing about them.” She drew her lips into a smile. “Your mother loves you. She would do anything for you. Isn’t that what’s important?”

“I don’t know.”

“No one should be an open book to their children. That isn’t healthy for anyone.”

Robin closed her eyes for a moment, her head pounding. She craved an Advil. “I thought you were taking my mother to the doctor’s.”

Nicola shrugged her shoulders. “She decided to go alone,” she said. “I think she’s getting tired of me.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“How is it you’ve stayed friends with my mom all these years, Nikki? Even after her husband kicked you out of her house?”

“I told you, honey,” she said. “Foster care. Nothing makes you closer.”

Robin and Nicola were in the hallway when Robin’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Detective Morasco. “It’s work,” she told Nicola. “I’ll need to take this in the other room.” She slipped down the hall and into her old room, closing the door behind her. “Hello?”

“Robin?” His voice sounded strange. Agitated.

“Is something wrong?”

“That text you sent me, from Quentin Garrison. ‘I am not a good person.’”

“Yes?”

“You sure the time on it is correct?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, it says 9:13 on it. You’re positive that’s 9:13 P.M., not A.M.”