There. A selfless act. Liv would be pleased. Moreover, Matilda would be pleased, and as much as Patrick liked to pretend otherwise, he was very aware of Matilda’s importance. Currying her favor was to his benefit. She would owe him. Quid pro quo.

Now, time to give you what you want, Liv. What my son needs. For his mother to return to an unmarked grave and a cold-case file.

As Patrick walked behind Grace’s building, he spotted a middle-aged woman, her rounded figure further padded by a long down-filled jacket. A dark winter hat—pulled down as far as it would go—hid her hair and part of her face, the rest obscured by a thick scarf.

“Dressed for the occasion, I see,” he said as he ambled over. “A cold night’s dark endeavor.”

The woman let out a laugh. “Well, it is cold. This will warm me up, though.” She lifted a wine bag. “Just as soon as I get up to my friend’s apartment.”

Patrick stopped a few feet away, staying deep in shadow. “Who’s your friend?” Before she could answer, he lifted a sheet of paper and unfolded it. “Ah, now, you really did come prepared. A map of the building and all. Very thorough.”

The woman patted her pockets. “How—?”

“You dropped it,” Patrick lied, flashing his teeth in a smile, and she finally turned to him.

Pamela Larsen. I see where your daughter gets that look of hers, the one that says she knows she’s being conned but doesn’t have enough evidence to convict.

He handed back the map. “That looks like Liv’s floor.”

Pamela smiled, a wonderfully guileless smile. “It is. I’ll have to tell her I met you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She reached for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm?”

“My name. In order to tell Liv you met me, you’ll need to know who I am first.”

He stepped between her and the door, full under the light. Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed.

“You do remember me,” he said. “It was such a brief encounter, and how long ago? Thirty years, at least. But you don’t forget a fae face, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said evenly. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m afraid you won’t find Liv there. She moved into the old Carew house. Kids these days.” He shook his head. “Communications options we only dreamed of—text, e-mail, voice mail. But they still don’t talk with their parents nearly enough. Of course, in your case, I guess there’s an excuse. You don’t have Snapchat in prison, do you, Pamela?”

Pamela went still.