Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Acknowledgments
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Also by Alison Gaylin
- About the Publisher
“Oh, I’m an old, old friend.”
“Of Dr. Bloom’s?”
“Actually, it’s Renee and I who go back.”
“How far?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” Quentin cleared his throat. “My name is Quentin Garrison. I’m from an NPR affiliate in Los Angeles.”
“Okay . . .”
“I’ve been out here working on a podcast. It concerns the Blooms, and I thought maybe I could get some insight from you.”
“I don’t think I can give you very much insight, Quentin.”
“Were you close to Renee?”
“Present tense.”
“What?”
“Renee is still alive. I am close to Renee. Present tense.”
Quentin smiled. “That’s the insight I’m looking for. I’d love to talk to you, ma’am.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t know Mitchell or Renee. You’re only here to cover the home invasion. I’m not going to fault you for doing your job, but honestly, Quentin, I think you’ll get a far better response from the police, the coroner . . . People like you.”
“Like me?”
“People who are only interested in the Blooms because they’ve been shot.” She said it patiently, warmly. “I don’t mean to cause offense.”
The limousine passed them, Robin Diamond and her husband inside. Quentin stared at it. He couldn’t help himself. He hoped she wasn’t staring back. “No offense taken,” he said.
“I know you’re just doing your job.”
“I’ve been here since before the home invasion, ma’am,” he said. “I spoke to Mitchell Bloom when he was alive. I believe I was one of the last people to do that.”
The woman’s lips parted, but she said nothing. Her bright eyes drilled into him.
“We only spoke once but he seemed like a very good man.”
“Why did you speak to Mitchell? Why are you out here?”
Quentin exhaled. “Can I get your name, please? Can I buy you lunch? I promise I’ll tell you everything, if I can just get a few moments of your time.”
The woman bit her lip. She gave Quentin a long appraising look, as though she were trying to read his mind. The silence went on for an uncomfortable while. And when she finally spoke, it felt like a victory. “Don’t worry about buying me lunch,” she said. “I’ll pay for my own.”