“So this job,” Cruz said slowly, fingering his beard, “it must be pretty important to you.”

I lifted my chin. “It’s the most important thing in my life. I would never do anything to jeopardize it. I am eternally grateful to the people who hired me. And that includes Lucy Carter-Jones.”

I WAS PRETTY pleased with my delivery of that last line, and when the detectives left the room immediately after, I thought I might have scored a direct hit. They were probably out there at their desks right now running a lien and judgment search. They’d confirm that I was in debt and that I had no motive to kill Lucy. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I thought of that old mystery-novel trinity of motive, means, and opportunity. The detectives had to check off each of those boxes before they could seriously consider me a suspect. Obviously opportunity was a given in this case—I was right there beside her, after all—but there was no way they could link me to the means—that is, the gun—and I’d just established that I had no motive to kill Lucy.

Quite the opposite, in fact. It was ironic that I had to pull out my poverty and desperation to do it. Those were circumstances that I usually went to great lengths to conceal. But it made sense, and it had the added benefit of being true. I was desperate for this job. I was grateful that I’d landed it. It was only the eternal part that wasn’t true.

IT WAS A scant twenty minutes before Cruz returned to the room. Without Riley this time, and he didn’t sit down. “We appreciate your time, Ms. Lambert,” he said.

His tone was more than cordial; it was warm. He wasn’t just playing good cop. He liked me, I could tell. Not liked me the way cops on TV shows pegged their target perp, and not liked me in a leering, lascivious kind of way either. He liked me the way a nice boy in junior high liked the most demure good girl in the class. He wanted to carry my books and maybe introduce me to his mother. It was sweet.

“We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

“Oh!” I surged to my feet, elated. I’d done it. I’d convinced them. But before I started my victory lap, I had to hurdle some practical concerns. “Can I get my clothes back? And my purse?” I had no car, no money for a cab, and I was wearing oversize sweats and paper booties on my feet. “And my briefcase!” I really needed to get my briefcase back.

“Sorry,” he said. “We can’t release any evidence until the investigation’s over.”

I peered at him. “It’s not over?”

“Well—no.” He seemed apologetic. “We still have to execute the searches, and run down the manufacturer of the gun kit, and interview the family and friends—” He caught himself as he seemed to realize he’d been too quick to share their investigative game plan with me.