“No one would be able to confirm that your mother took out the gun or that she tried to defend herself against an intruder,” he said. “No one except for your mother. And she’s . . . unconscious at the moment.”

“Yeah, but it seems pretty obvious. People buy guns to protect themselves.”

“Have you been reading the news stories?”

“Not really.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I haven’t been surfing the web very much in the past couple of days.”

“I asked because the media are treating it as a home invasion.”

“Isn’t that what it was?”

He exhaled. “I can’t really discuss the case with you, Ms. Diamond.”

“Detective Morasco—”

“We don’t discuss ongoing investigations with—”

“Please.” Her voice shook. Her hands clenched into fists. The wine was wearing off and the Xanax was long gone and her feelings were showing themselves again—pain and powerlessness and an exhaustion that was agonizing, as though she’d been swimming against a strong current for hours, days. She took a breath. “I need to hear what’s going on, Detective. I won’t tell anyone. Not even my husband if you don’t want me to. But I need to hear the truth. From someone. Please.”

He looked at her. “You can’t tell anyone. You have to promise to keep this between us.”

“I promise.”

He leaned in closer, barely moving his lips when he spoke. “There was no evidence of a break-in,” he said. “No broken windows or locks. The alarm hadn’t been engaged. No one in the neighborhood heard a noise until the gunshots. So even though we’re still looking into every possibility, it seems very likely that the shooter had been invited in.”

“Oh,” Robin said.

She felt footsteps behind her. Without turning around, she knew it was Eric, before his gentle hand on her shoulder, his shiny black shoes on the grass, the smell of his cologne, her favorite. The same cologne he’d worn the night of her father’s death, that late dinner he’d had with a source . . .

“Hi, Detective Morasco,” Eric said. “I’m not sure if you heard, but we’re having some food and drinks at our house.”

“That’s really nice of you, but I should be heading out.” His gaze moved from Eric’s face to Robin’s. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

Robin nodded. She took Eric’s hand and walked up to the parking lot slowly, stopping to accept hugs and condolences, her head resting on his shoulder, inhaling cologne. When they were nearing their limo, she turned to him. She gazed up into his clear blue eyes, and wanted to trust him, wanted to trust someone . . . “Who were you texting earlier?”

“What?”