After her initial shock, Marcia’s eyes flickered with fear, then shame. “I . . .” She looked at her very expensive shoes. When she looked up, she was resigned. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Liza hadn’t been expecting that, but Tom was relaxed. “May we come in, ma’am?”

Marcia drew a breath and stepped back so that they could enter. “Please. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea?”

“No, ma’am,” Tom said. “Can we sit and talk?”

“Of course.” Marcia clasped her hands together as she led them into a sitting room.

Liza sat on a small sofa next to Tom while Marcia took the closest wingback chair.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“Through a reporter who rejected your offer of reparations.”

“Mr. Hickman,” Marcia murmured. “I hope he’s well.”

Not responding to that, Tom studied her for so long that the woman began to shift uncomfortably. “How would you prefer to be addressed, ma’am? We have a number of names.”

“Margo Kitson is who I’ve been for fourteen years. Or who I aspire to be. Call me Margo.”

“All right, Margo.” Tom looked around the room, his gaze pointedly pausing on the framed photographs lining the mantel over the fireplace. “Your daughter?”

“Yes. Tracy.” Margo rose, retrieving a family photograph and handing it to Tom.

Margo and her husband Hugh stood with a younger blond woman. Bernice, Liza thought. Bo was missing from the family portrait, having killed himself.

A boy and a girl, both about eight years old, stood in front of Margo and Hugh. Two older children stood in front of Bernice and another man. They looked to be middle-school-aged.

Tom pointed to the children. “Your grandchildren?”

“The two oldest. They’re Tracy’s children. Chris is twelve and Robin is eleven.”

“When you say Tracy, you mean Bernice,” Tom said and she winced.

“Yes, but she no longer answers to that name. The younger children are mine, with Hugh.”

Wow, Liza thought, busily doing the math. Margo had been thirty-three when she’d escaped L.A. and gone to Eden, thirty-eight when she’d escaped Eden and gone to Benicia. If those kids were eight years old, then Margo had conceived at age fifty-four.

Margo chuckled dryly. “I can see you figuring numbers in your head, Miss Barkley.”

“I’m sorry,” Liza said honestly. “I’m going to be a nurse. I can’t help but think of how unusual your pregnancy must have been.”

Margo lifted a slender shoulder. “Hugh loves my daughter and Tracy’s babies were his grandchildren from day one. He did want babies of his own, though. So we tried.” She shuddered. “Lots of fertility drugs. But it was worth it. It made him so happy.”

Tom set the photo on the end table. “You said you were expecting us. Why?”

“Not you, per se. But I saw a news special a month ago, the one about the serial killer in Sacramento?”

“You saw the locket,” Tom murmured. “The Eden locket.”

Liza knew the news special Margo was talking about. She’d seen it as well. It was an account of the serial killer who’d murdered so many women. The reporter had briefly interviewed Daisy, who’d found the locket when she’d fought and escaped the killer.