“I’m not angry, Quentin.” She gave him a warm smile. “But you certainly are.”

He looked at her. I am. He was angry almost all the time, though it was only recently that he was having trouble keeping it buried.

Nicola eased back in her seat. “Quentin?”

“Yes?”

“Did you tell the police everything?”

His eyes widened. His face flushed. For a few seconds, he felt as though he were in the midst of a nightmare. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you tell them everything about where you were the night the Blooms were shot?” She leaned against the table, her eyes beaming into his own. “Did you tell them what you saw? What you heard? What you did?”

He could feel the color draining from his face. Was this why she looked familiar? Had she crossed paths with him at the Blooms’? “How do you know where I was?” he said. “Have you been following me?”

She gave him a tight smile and stood up, her purse clasped in her arms. “I was actually just kidding,” she said.

Quentin looked up at her face, the fear creeping into her eyes. You wanted to confess. And you nearly did. Quentin grabbed his phone off the table. He checked the screen and slipped it into his pocket, trying to think of something, anything to say that was moderately reassuring. “It isn’t like that, Ms. Crane,” he said quietly. “It isn’t what you think.” But no one heard him say it. She was already out the door.

Fifteen

Quentin

ONCE QUENTIN WAS back in his car, he took a few deep breaths. There’s a story here, he told himself. Focus on the story.

He listened to the earlier part of his and Nicola’s conversation, scribbling down every name and phrase that might help in following up on Renee’s time in the foster home. Then he called Summer and read all his scribblings aloud to her: Brittlebush, Arizona. 1978. Bill (or William) Grumley. Nicola Crane. C-R-A-N-E. But that could be a married name. Renee White.

“You got some rest,” Summer said.

“A little.”

“You want to do Closure again.”

“I . . . I think it’s worth a shot.”

“Yes!” she said, then cleared her throat, back to business. “So how old were Nicola and Renee when they were in the foster home?”

“I think they were teens. Nicola said she is younger than Renee, but she didn’t say by how much.”

“Teens,” she said. “So you still haven’t found anyone who knew Renee as a child.”

“No.”

“This is getting strange.”

“Not strange enough to mean anything yet.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Renee Bloom is a private citizen.”

Summer didn’t respond. Quentin heard the clacking of a keyboard.

“If we’re going to even mention the idea that April Cooper might be Renee, we need harder proof or else it looks like malicious intent.”

“Duh, Quentin. Please stop mansplaining First Amendment law to me.”