While they both retreated into the house, Duckworth walked back toward his car as an old green Volkswagen Beetle—one of the originals, not the remake—came up the street and pulled over to the curb in front of the house. A young woman behind the wheel killed the engine and got out.

Duckworth remembered Brian telling him he had a sister.

“Are you Monica?” he said as she approached the house.

She eyed him warily. “Who are you?”

He told her, quickly, what he’d told her parents. Once she was over the initial shock of learning her brother was in the hospital, he asked, “When was the last time you spoke with Brian?”

“I tried to call him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I saw him last week, I guess. I popped into his work.”

“Monica, do you know anyone named Sean? An acquaintance of your brother’s?”

“Sean?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know any Sean. A man or a woman?”

“Don’t know.”

“Because if he’s seeing someone, I wouldn’t necessarily know about it.”

“This Sean might no longer be with us.”

“Dead?”

Duckworth nodded. “Does that jog any memory?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “No, it couldn’t be that Sean.”

“What Sean?”

She tipped her head at the house across the street. “That was old lady Beecham’s dog. Right after Brian got his license, he backed over him.”

“He killed her dog?”

Monica nodded. “It was years ago, and even though it was her own fault for letting the dog run loose, she was pretty mad about it. But she wouldn’t care now.”

“Why’s that?”

Monica shrugged. “Mrs. Beecham has pretty much lost her marbles.”

FIVE

CAL

MS. Plimpton led me out of the dining room, through a kitchen that was bigger than my entire apartment, and out to a screened-in porch that overlooked an expansive backyard with a working fountain. The porch was decked out with white wicker furniture decorated with plump flowered cushions. Four of the chairs were occupied.

I’d been given the impression I’d be meeting just two people, not an entourage.

I figured the woman sitting in the closest chair was Ms. Plimpton’s niece, Gloria Pilford. Fortyish, decked out in white slacks, a coral-colored top and high-heeled sandals. Her blonde hair seemed to be inflated, making her head look too big for her slender body. She sprang to her feet when Ms. Plimpton and I entered the room, and those heels allowed her to look me right in the eye. When she smiled, her face wrinkled like crêpe paper, as if the muscles used to convey happiness might end up tearing her face apart.

She extended a hand and I took it.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “I’m so pleased you’re going to help us.”

Before I could say anything, Ms. Plimpton raised a hand of caution. “He’s agreed to meet you, Gloria. Nothing more than that, for now.”

The smile retracted immediately, and Gloria struggled to restore it. She turned to the three people—all male—who were still seated.