His next thought was that her apparent appetite for drama might give him a useful opening. He looked into her eyes as if he and she were having a deep meeting of the minds. “You really care about this, don’t you?”

She blinked. “Care? Of course I do. Isn’t that obvious?”

Instead of answering, he turned away thoughtfully, walked toward the rose border, and poked absently in the mulch with the tip of the umbrella she’d handed him.

“Who are you?” she finally asked. He thought he heard a touch of excitement in the question.

He continued prodding the mulch. “I told you, my name is Dave Gurney.”

“Why are you here?”

Again he spoke without turning. “I’ll tell you in a minute. But first let me ask you a question. What was your reaction—the very first thing you felt—when you found out that Carl Spalter had been shot?”

She hesitated. “Are you a reporter?”

He turned toward her, took out his wallet, and held it up, displaying his gold NYPD detective’s shield. She was standing far enough away that the word “Retired” at the bottom of the shield would not be legible, and she didn’t come any closer to examine it. He closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket.

“You’re a detective?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh …” She looked alternately confused, curious, excited. “What … what would you want here?”

“I need to get a better understanding of what happened.”

She blinked rapidly several times. “What is there to understand? I thought everything was … resolved.”

He took a few steps closer to her, spoke as if he were sharing privileged information. “The conviction is being appealed. There are some open questions, possible gaps in the evidence.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Aren’t all murder convictions appealed automatically?”

“Yes. And the vast majority of the convictions are upheld. But this case may be different.”

“Different?”

“Let me ask you again. What was your reaction—the very first thing you felt—when you found out that Carl had been shot?”

“Found out? You mean, when I noticed it.”

“Noticed it?”

“I was the first one to see it.”

“See what?”

“The little hole in his temple. At first I wasn’t sure it was a hole. It just looked like a round red spot. But then a tiny red trickle started down the side of his forehead. And I knew, I just knew.”

“You pointed it out to the first responders?”

“Of course.”

“Fascinating. Tell me more.”

She pointed at the ground a few feet from where Gurney was standing. “That’s where it was, right there—where the first drop of blood from the side of his forehead fell onto the snow. I can almost see it now. Have you ever seen blood on snow?” Her eyes seemed to widen at the memory. “It’s the reddest red you can imagine.”