“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, look. You have my number on your caller ID. Can you call me back when you’re free to talk?”

“I don’t know. I’m really busy.”

“You can call late if you want. I’m still on West Coast time.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Can you at least do me one favor?”

“I have to go, Quentin.”

“Ask your mother about April Cooper. Ask her if she’s ever heard of her.”

“I have to go.” Robin slammed down the phone, her cheeks burning. The words had come out louder than expected. She could feel eyes on her, Jill gesturing at her dramatically, the phone still in her hand from the Thai order, mouthing, Are you okay?

“Publicist,” Robin said, affecting an eye roll. As she stood up and started for Eileen’s office, she could still feel the phone in her hand, his voice in her ear, her pulse in the tips of her fingers. And that tingling, as though there were something horrible taking place just out of her eyeshot and if she turned ever so slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse . . .

“Shitty publicist,” Michael said.

Robin forced out a laugh. “Right?” She had to shake this off. She was worked up. Emotional. It had to be hormones. Or a chemical imbalance. She’d been on meds for a short time as a teen—low-dose Valium to calm her. Ritalin to help her focus. A rarity in her neighborhood back in those days, but not when your dad was a psychiatrist. Maybe she needed a similar combo now, in early middle age. Maybe she should ask her father for the name of a good shrink . . .

No. What she needed was a decent night’s sleep. Robin had terrible insomnia lately, and it was taking its toll. Obviously.

Quentin Garrison was mistaken. Robin’s mother was a housewife from Tarry Ridge who baked pies and volunteered at the hospital and had once nursed a baby bird back to life. She’d been married and a mother for nearly as long as she’d been alive. What would she know about the Inland Empire Killers, whoever they were?

Robin gripped the back of her chair, hoping no one was watching her. She took a steadying breath and headed for Eileen’s office feeling better, but still . . . Still.

There was one thing she couldn’t shake off. That name. April Cooper. She’d heard it before.

“WHAT I’M TRYING to say is, I’m worried for your safety,” Eileen said.

Robin was in her office, holding a cup of French press coffee, Eileen’s “secret stash” as she called it—they both hated the crappy breakroom coffee. “Like the old song says . . .”

“Stop.”

“Come on, Eileen.”

“I mean it, Robin,” said Eileen, who had just finished reading Robin’s column about the Magnificent Seven reboot. “This is a legitimate concern.”