Robin glanced around the room, as though she were seeing where she was for the first time. The Daily Culture offices were set up as an open newsroom—art, copy, and editorial all in the same large space. At the next desk over, Jill the music editor was ordering Thai food in her too-loud voice. David from photo was a few desks away, going over red-carpet art on an enormous screen with Michael the creative director, the two of them complaining about all the rearview poses, the over-the-shoulder. “If I have to look at one more set of ass implants,” Michael was saying.

“Believe me,” Robin said. “No one is paying attention to this conversation.”

“Great.” He cleared his throat. “Great, we can talk then . . .”

Robin googled his name on her Mac: Quentin Garrison, adding NPR and podcasts for good measure. A picture popped up at the top of her screen—a bespectacled, sweet-faced young man—along with a bio from KAMC’s website. She glanced at it. “I think you may have the wrong person,” she said. “Alice Cerulli is our true crime editor.”

“Not a chance.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m working on a podcast called Closure about the Inland Empire Killers. I have a relative who was one of their victims, hence the title.”

“Okay . . .”

“I’m trying to get in contact with your mother.”

Robin blinked. “My mother.”

“I tried social media, but she doesn’t seem to be on it. I found her last name, Bloom, from your wedding announcement, but your parents’ number is unlisted.”

“You want to talk to my mother? For a murder podcast?”

“Actually, I’d love to talk to both of you. Your dad too of course. He’s retired, right?”

“No, he has a private practice now.”

“Anyway, the whole conversation can be deep background. I won’t record it if you don’t want me to. If you want to get your truth out but not your identities, I won’t name names or locations. And I have the ability to disguise voices. If you don’t want to participate at all, I respect that. But I’d at least love the opportunity to share with you what I’ve learned.”

“Mr. Garrison.”

“Call me Quentin.”

“Quentin,” Robin said quietly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

There was a long pause, to the point of Robin thinking maybe the connection had died. “Hello?” she said.

“You’re being straight with me, right?”

Robin’s other extension buzzed. Eileen. “Hold on a sec.” She clicked on the second line, told the editorial director she’d be in as soon as she ended her call, then got back on with Garrison. “Listen, I’ve got to go to a meeting.”

“Ms. Diamond, how much do you know about your mother’s teenage years?”

“She had me at nineteen.”

“How about before that?”

Robin’s extension buzzed again. “I really have to go.”