“No, none that I know of. And no.” I heave a sigh, forcing more tears to fall, then gulp for oxygen and try to breathe. My voice breaks. “He just beat cancer. He was so happy. This is so fucked up.”

I start to cry again, louder than even before. My face hurts. My eyes burn. It’s almost like these tears are real.

“All right, Ms. Van Doren,” Bierman says. “What we’ll do is draft a warrant application and affidavit. We’ll need to examine the entire house, including your father’s computer. Laptop. Phone. See if we can find anything there. We’ll also need to check his office. Go through his files and find out who might have reason to hold a grudge.”

Glover cuts in, “And that copy of the will I requested should be waiting on my desk when I get there. I’ll give that a nice comb-through.”

Bierman gives her a strong look. Then he looks back at me, sympathetic.

“Do you have somewhere you can stay for the next couple of days, Ms. Van Doren?”

I almost perk up. Almost. But I will my expression to remain the way it is, somber, sad, hopeless, and jump up to my feet for dramatic effect, sliding my Louis Vuitton into the crook of my arm. “Just do whatever it takes to find out who did this to my father.”

18

BRANDI

The doorbell rings and Nate and I both jump. No one ever rings the bell. Not without the doorman alerting us first.

Nate is on his feet first. “Expecting someone?” he asks, glancing back at me.

“No,” I say in a hushed voice. I jump up from the bed, slip into the first pair of jeans I find, and then I’m right on his heels as he approaches the door.

He leans close to the door, peering out the peephole, then stops moving completely. He doesn’t even blink.

“What?” I whisper under my breath. “Who is it?”

“Looks like a couple of cops,” he hisses.

I freeze. Pull my lip in. My heart quickens. “You think it’s about... What do I say?”

He stares at me directly in my eyes and firms his voice, still whispering. “You know nothing. You heard nothing.”

Two hard knocks sound on the other side of the door. I nod and Nate removes the safety lock, swings it open.

A man and a woman peer in. They’re both dressed in plain clothes, but they’re definitely cops. It’s in their posture, in the way they carry themselves, something subtle, but obvious to me. There’s nothing subtle about the guns holstered at their waists. I can see a vague bulge through the black woman’s slate-colored blazer, but the man has his on display, one hand on his hip like a warning.