The question was a bid for control. “If you’d sit in the living room, then I’ll get her.”

Detective Powell responded with a small smile. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Imani registered the expression as a kind one. The man had a handsome face. Strong jaw. Masculine, broad nose. He was the kind of guy that Melissa would have blatantly checked out before leaning toward Imani and whispering something naughty. Her beautiful friend appreciated attractiveness, particularly in non-actor men and young people because their looks were more likely God’s handiwork rather than a plastic surgeon’s sculpture. “Good-looking men are like daylilies,” Melissa had said once. “No one tends to them, but there they are on the side of the road, just begging to be plucked.”

Imani supposed she shouldn’t be thinking about the male detective’s appearance. But she couldn’t help it. The brain was designed to slot people and information into categories, and Imani’s mind was working double time. It had already filed Detective Calvente into the hard-ass class, mostly because she’d been first to speak and had answered every question with a question.

Imani watched the detectives’ heavy-booted march across her recently mopped hardwood. Another detail that she couldn’t help but take note of, despite the circumstances.

“You can open the windows,” she called out. “There’s a latch at the bottom.”

She watched Detective Powell successfully crack open a pane before she walked through to the garage. Ava stood at the door. Her paralyzed body made clear that she knew who Imani had welcomed into her home.

“Honey, the police want to talk to you. Do you feel that you can speak with them?”

Ava’s lips pulled beneath her top teeth. She’d removed her mask, enabling Imani to take in the tightness of her jaw and tear-reddened nose.

“I’ll stay with you,” Imani continued. “If it gets too uncomfortable at any point, you give me a look, and I’ll shut it down.”

Ava nodded while staring at the floor. For the first time, she seemed young to Imani. She’d always thought of Ava as mature beyond her years, probably because the girl had possessed the confidence of being treated as an equal by her parents. However, the fifteen-year-old before her had been drained of bravado. Tragedy turned even grown-ups into children.

Imani felt less brave herself as she led the way into the living room. However, she tried not to give any indication, keeping her shoulders back and head held high. This was her home, she reminded herself. She was in charge. Not them.

When they entered the room, Imani gestured for Ava to take the couch and then sat beside her, at an angle. She wanted to keep one eye on Ava and one on the detectives.