“Did you have a hard time finding your way here?” he asks, letting me inside. “I thought you’d be here at eight.”

It’s only a quarter past eight, but I offer an apology anyway.

“You know the ferries,” I say.

He looks at me warily.

“Right,” he says. “Extremely unreliable.”

His tone is suddenly accusatory. I wonder if he’s just another of the control freaks that live on that Seattle block.

He yells up the stairs.

“Tyra! The detective is here!”

For such a beaten-down figure, his voice is surprisingly robust.

“I told her why you’re here.”

“Thank you. Is Mrs. Whitcomb home?”

“Susan is dead,” he says. “An accident.”

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that. Car accident?” I scan his face and he cast his eyes away in the direction of footsteps coming toward the stairs.

“No. Boating accident,” he replies. “Please don’t bring it up. Tyra was on the boat with her mom when it happened.”

I nod, but inside all I can think about is the similarity between these two best friends.

One is a liar.

The other could be a killer.

Tyra Whitcomb is gorgeous. Her dark hair has obviously been the work of a stylist. I remember cutting my own hair. I had to. She has bright blue eyes and clear, pale pink skin. She’d be a lovely girl.

If she ever smiled.

I introduce myself.

“My dad says you want to ask me about Ellie.”

“That’s right. I understand you were close, and I know that my coming here might seem like an unwanted intrusion.”

Tyra shrugs her perfect shoulders. “It’s fine. I was a wreck when it first happened, but now I’m feeling okay about it. She’s in a better place.”

She shoots a look of palpable annoyance at her father.

“Dad, do you need to be here? She wants to talk to me.”

Troy begins to shuffle into what I presume is the kitchen.

“All right, but watch your tone, missy,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re getting too big for your britches.”

“Ah,” Tyra snaps behind her father’s back. “No one says that anymore, just so you know.”

We finds seats in the living room. It’s decorated in the matchy-matchy style of a bad interior designer or a woman who feasted on every home design and improvement magazine.

“This room is lovely,” I say.

“Mom’s work,” Tyra replies, rolling her eyes dismissively. “She never saw an animal print or polka dot she couldn’t live without. I hate it.”

“Your dad told me about your mom. I’m so sorry.”

Tyra’s blue eyes go from crystalline to chipped ice. She shifts her body on a zebra-striped armchair. Her fingers quietly gouge at the row of silver studs embedded the length of the armrest.

“Yes, what happened to her mom, happened to me.”

She’s cold and defensive.