Philip stiffened, a rabbit sensing a coyote. Cops unnerved her husband. He blamed it on all the cases of unnecessary force that made the news. But Imani believed the roots of Philip’s discomfort with law enforcement ran deeper. The police who’d informed him of his parents’ deaths had made an indelible, negative impression.

“You all right?” Imani asked.

Philip’s posture relaxed. “Yeah.” He chuckled. “I wonder if they’ll want crepes.”

*  *  *

They were finishing breakfast when the bell rang. Jay sprang from the table, a racehorse reacting to a retracted gate. Imani figured that he would have jumped at the chance to do just about anything. Of the group, her jokester son was the least equipped to deal with the dining room’s oppressive silence.

Talking had become taboo. No one dared discuss Nate’s death for fear of upsetting Ava. However, compared to murder, no other subject was sufficiently serious to warrant a mention. As a result, they’d eaten without a word, entombed in dead air while trying not to watch Ava’s feeble attempts to stomach small bites.

It wasn’t until Imani heard the slurp of the door seal breaking that she realized she should have answered the bell herself. Police needed an invitation to enter, and Jay was too young and polite not to provide one. Imani would at least establish some ground rules before allowing detectives Calvente and Powell to question Melissa’s daughter again.

“Hello?” Jay’s uncertain greeting echoed in the small vestibule.

Imani was up before their visitor—or visitors—could respond. She strode over to her son and tugged his shirtsleeve, signaling him to step back from the threshold.

On the opposite side stood an older man and woman, perhaps in their seventies. Rather than police uniforms, they each wore peacoats that appeared too thin for the season. The man, at least, had a tweed cap covering his head, which rose a full foot above Imani’s own. The woman lacked any scalp protection but her short, silvery hair. Neither stranger wore a mask.

The man extended a veined hand. Imani regarded it as though shaking were a foreign custom.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “May I help you?”

The hand dropped to his side. “Right. Um. Bill Walker, Nate’s father, and this is his mother, Nancy.”

The woman struggled to hold a tight smile. “The school said you took in Ava.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.”