“Or just the opposite, Alex. Rand told you he was a good person. He was trying to minimize his guilt, and what better way to do that than to pin the bulk of the blame on others? Troy, for one. But also Lara, because Rand had seen her let Kristal wander off before. It’s certainly nothing Lara would ever admit, but it could’ve plagued her, contributed to her depression and her suicide. All of which Barrett had put behind him. Until Rand brought it up. Talk about pushing buttons.”

My digestion had come to a halt and steak sat in my gut. “Rand wasn’t bright, I suppose he could’ve read the signals wrong, been that clumsy. You have a fertile mind.”

“I’m just thinking out loud, sweetheart. Like you do.”

“What a fun couple we are,” I said.

“We really are, Alex. Anyone can talk about stupid stuff.”

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

Unseasonably warm,” said Milo. “Unlike the reception I got at Chaderjian.” His broad back rounded as he stuck his head inside the fridge.

He’d been back from Stockton for an hour, had driven straight to my house, announced that the airlines were out to starve him. A loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter were already out on the counter. He’d drunk half a carton of milk without bothering to use a glass.

“You’re running low on provisions,” he said, voice muffled by enamel. “The lack of jelly, jam, preserves, or reasonable facsimile is inexcusable.”

“Want some potato chips and a cupcake in your school lunch, junior?”

“Hnh.” He foraged, straightened, massaged his sacroiliac with one palm. “This will have to do.” His big hand concealed whatever he carried to the counter. He set it down next to the bread.

Carton of peach yogurt. Something else Allison had brought over . . . had to be weeks ago.

“It could be bad,” I said.

“So am I.” Flipping the lid, he sniffed, frowned, spooned gobs of glossy, beige stuff into the sink, flushed with a spurt of tap water that spotted his tie.

Another sniff. “Jam at the bottom’s still good.” A spoonful of orange goop landed on a slice of bread. Peanut butter got slathered on another slice and he slapped the two halves together. Folding the sandwich double, he ate standing up.

“Bon appétit.”

“No French, don’t have the patience, today. Mon ami.”

“No cooperation from C.Y.A.?” I asked.

“You’d think,” he said, “that wardens and all those other prison types would be simpatico with cops, seeing as we’re both committed to the public safety.” He wiped his lips. “But you’d be wrong. Our job’s putting bad guys away, they’re chronically overcrowded, get buckets of shit tossed in their faces and all sorts of other indignities. So their goal is moving miscreants out. They made me feel like a germ, Alex.”

“No counseling?” I said.

“What?”