Quentin weighed it all out in his mind—the promise he’d made to George Pollard, the potential knowledge Nicola Crane had. “A man contacted our station,” he said, exhaling slowly. “He’d seen Mrs. Bloom in a video. It was on the website Robin works for. They talked about Mother’s Day movies . . .”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw it.”

The waitress was back with their food. She set the plates down with a condescending smile, the diamonds on her Breitling glinting. “Anything else I can get you two?”

“No thanks,” Nicola said.

Once the waitress was gone again, Quentin leaned forward, watching Nicola’s placid face. “The man who contacted us,” he said. “He claimed to know for a fact that Renee is April Cooper.”

Nicola stared at him frozen, butter knife poised in her hand.

Quentin started to explain more but she stopped him. “I know who April Cooper was.”

“Oh. Well then . . .”

“Who is this man who contacted you?”

Quentin took a sip of his coffee. “I’m sorry. That’s the one thing I can’t tell you,” he said. “But I will tell you this. He claims he met her after her death.”

“After.”

“Yes.”

She took a bite of toast, her face relaxing. “He’s insane.”

“You’d think so.” He poured syrup over his pancakes and started to cut them up in pieces. Nicola didn’t say anything, but he could feel her watching him, waiting. She wanted more information from him. But he wasn’t here to answer her questions. That wasn’t how this worked. You have to give information to get it. He cut off a perfect bite of pancake—just the right size, the right amount of syrup, topped off with a sliver of turkey bacon. He put it in his mouth, taking his time to savor it fully before he put the fork down and met her gaze. “How long have you known Renee?”

She took another sip of her coffee. “Since we were children.”

Quentin’s eyes widened.

She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s just . . . You’re the first person I’ve met who can even prove to me she had a childhood.”

She shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t the happiest childhood.”

Quentin’s phone was in his lap. He picked it up and tapped at it a few times, trying to make it look as though he was receiving a text. “One sec,” he said, as she watched him with her ice-blue eyes. Discreetly, he turned on the voice recorder, then placed the phone facedown on the table. “Please,” he said. “Please tell me about it.”