“Me?” Lane looked surprised. “Well, depending on the time, we were either outside or I was in my office, and my assistant was getting the kids packed up.” He looked at Ronnie. “I have an appointment to speak with the police tomorrow—they didn’t have enough staff to talk to everyone on site. Thank God I was tipped off that you were one of the people who’d been found on the scene—otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten Esme. Or called Cromwell here.” He sighed. “I wish I would have seen something. Anything. And I wish . . .” He swallowed hard. “I wish you’d told me about this. The note, I mean. I could have helped.”

“I . . . blamed myself.” It felt like there was a brick in Ronnie’s throat. “And then you’d find out about Topless. I was afraid you’d leave us.”

“Ronnie.” Lane looked devastated. “You can always tell me anything. I swear. I’m not leaving.”

Her stomach soured. Oh, but you might, if you knew everything, she thought. It was disingenuous of her to make this all about her dancing career when there were darker things he didn’t know. A man might stay with a topless dancer. That same man wouldn’t abide a child abductor.

“Did you tell the police about this note?” Cromwell asked.

Ronnie shook her head. “I didn’t know if it was a good idea. I was afraid it made me look like I had . . . motive.”

“How about the other people who received notes? Was Piper targeting them, too?”

“Sort of.” Ronnie bit her lip nervously, remembering that the others had had reasons to keep their identities private, too. Lauren and her rage. And Andrea: as soon as she said her family’s last name, Ronnie remembered reading about Eric Vandermeer in a trashy magazine in the back room of Kittens. How he’d been caught with a young woman at a hotel upstate. The police were called. It was all over the news. Eric denied having relations with the girl, but the court of public opinion was against him. Ronnie was pretty sure the girl’s family filed a restraining order.

“Well, I’m not sure what to do about the note.” The lawyer tapped the tip of his pen to his lips. “My gut would be to mention it, but we don’t want to give anyone extra ammunition. Unless we could prove who was sending them, of course. You said you saw Piper deliver one. But that doesn’t mean she delivered yours.” Cromwell turned a page on his legal pad. “Did you hear of other people not being happy with Ms. Jovan?”

Ronnie looked at Lane for this one. “Well, no,” he admitted. “Everyone loved her.”

There was a long pause, and then Cromwell raised his head as though he’d had a new thought. “You know,” the lawyer said, shifting in his chair, “you look a lot like her.”

Ronnie frowned. “Who?”