She watched him approach, her expression guarded. Her window was open. He guessed she probably wanted to close it, turn the car around, and leave.

“Mrs. Morgan.”

She remained in the car. “What’s going on? Has something happened? Is Marissa here? Is she all right?”

“You had an appointment with Ms. Fordham?” he asked. “What kind of an appointment?”

“Where is Marissa?” she demanded, annoyed and frightened. “You can answer my question first, Detective.”

“Ms. Fordham is deceased,” he said bluntly, and watched the color drain from her face.

“Was there an accident?” she asked in a thin voice, her hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. “Did she have an accident?”

“No, ma’am,” Mendez said.

Sara Morgan looked past him toward the house, murmuring, “Oh my God. Oh God.”

Tears magnified her eyes.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Mendez said.

“What about Haley? Where’s Haley?”

“She’s been taken to the hospital.”

“Oh my God.” Two big crystalline tears spilled over her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. She had begun to tremble.

“How did you know Ms. Fordham?” Mendez asked. “Were you friends?”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she murmured, her focus still on the house.

“The deputy told me you had an appointment. What kind of appointment?”

“What?” she asked, coming back to him as if she were a little startled to see him, to hear him speak.

“Your appointment was for what?”

“Marissa is—was—teaching me to paint on silk,” she said, struggling with the change of verb tense as if it were something surprising and bitter in her mouth. “She’s an extraordinary artist. Was.”

“You teach art, don’t you?” Mendez asked.

She shook her head dismissively. “Community Ed. It’s nothing. Marissa ... Oh my God. She’s dead. Why would somebody do that? Who could have done that?”

“How well did you know her?” Mendez asked.

Sara Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know. We were friends—friendly—casual friends.”

“Do you know if she was seeing anyone?”

“No. I wouldn’t know that. We never talked about anything like that.”

“You don’t know anything about the little girl’s father?”

She seemed annoyed he would ask. “No, of course not.

“I would really like just to leave now, Detective,” she said. “I’m sure I can’t help you. I would like just to go home. This is very ... I don’t even know what to say.”

Mendez ignored what Sara Morgan wanted. “I didn’t see a studio in the house. Where did she do her work?”

“The studio is in the old barn.”

“Would you show me?”

“It’s right there. Behind the house. You don’t need me,” she argued.

“You might be able to tell if something is missing.”

“Missing?” she asked. “You think someone came to rob her? You think she was killed because someone wanted to steal her art?” she said, becoming more agitated. “That’s crazy.”