He stopped, turned around. “Hi, Ms. Diamond,” he said. “It was a lovely ceremony.”

The tall woman stuck out her hand. “Brenna Spector,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She had a strong grip and a steady gaze.

“Thank you.” In one of their early conversations, Morasco had mentioned to Robin that Brenna had that Marilu Henner thing—hyperthymesia, or superior autobiographical memory. Whatever you wanted to call it, it basically meant that she couldn’t forget a damn minute of her life if she tried. Robin couldn’t imagine anything worse. I bet that puts the pressure on you, she had said to Morasco, half joking. You blow it once, she remembers forever.

But actually she thought that Morasco’s wife’s condition might have had a lot to do with his demeanor—the way he seemed to think all his sentences through before he said them out loud. As though he ascribed a certain permanence to his comments and actions that other people didn’t. “Listen,” Morasco said. “I’m sorry about Ehrlich Baus. I’d tell you he means well, but I don’t know if it’d be the truth.”

Robin smiled. “Yeah, well . . . You have a lot of patience.”

“He does,” said Brenna. “Believe me.”

“Listen,” Robin said. “I um . . . I just wanted to get something straight. About the case.”

Brenna and Morasco exchanged a look. “I’ll see you back at the car,” she said, then turned to Robin. “Again, my condolences.”

Brenna headed up the small hill toward the parking lot. Robin watched her go, Dad’s funeral, his death, and everything her husband had told her about it trapped forever in the amber of her perfect memory.

Morasco said, “What can I help you with?”

“Okay, I didn’t really think about this before because I was so surprised by the information,” she said. “But the killer . . .”

“Yes?”

“He or she shot both of my parents with my mother’s gun.”

“Yes. That appears to be what happened.”

“So . . . that tells me my mom must have taken it out from wherever she’d been keeping it. You know . . . to defend herself.”

He said nothing.

“But you guys were asking me about people my parents know. People they might have had fallings-out with . . .”

“Yes.”

Robin was aware of others leaving the cemetery, their eyes on her as they passed. She saw Mr. Dougherty, the bright sun beating down on the back of his bent head. She gave him a weak wave that he returned as he trudged alone up the hill.

Robin turned her attention on Morasco. “Someone broke in,” she said. “My mother took out the gun she apparently owned. She tried to defend herself. Wouldn’t it make sense that the intruder was not someone she or my dad knew?”

“There’s a lot of inference in what you just said.”

“Inference?”