As Imani approached the Walkers’ front door, she considered that her friends had lived like “the rest of us,” only everything they’d owned was bigger, brighter, and worthy of a close-up. Their brownstone had the same taupe exterior and black-trimmed windows as so many of its neighbors, but it was bathed in sunlight, mere feet from the tree-lined promenade. It was also surrounded by paparazzi.

Imani and Bill kept their heads down as they dodged camera lenses and the paparazzi’s questions. The photographers backed off once they hit the first stair, restrained by New York City’s private property laws and the dour expression of the uniformed, armed officer guarding the door.

Bill nodded at the cop as though they’d been previously introduced. “Ava couldn’t come. I brought her friend’s mom to help.”

Imani wondered if Bill knew her name. She tried recalling whether she’d introduced herself and then decided it didn’t matter. Nate’s dad had enough to process. As long as the officer let her in, Imani was fine with the “friend’s mom” attribution.

The cop cracked one of the brownstone’s arched double doors. He gruffly gestured for them to enter, more annoyed bouncer than gracious doorman. As soon as Imani’s feet hit the tiled vestibule, the door shut, locking them in the small vestibule between the front door and true apartment entrance. Usually, Melissa left the second door open, enabling visitors to shed their coats and shoes before heading right in. Imani tried the knob only to find it locked.

She knocked on the interior door’s walnut-stained wood. A shadow advanced through the frosted window, ultimately filling it with darkness. Imani had a flash of Melissa on the other side of the glass, broad smile that she so often covered with her fingers when laughing, as if afraid to give hidden photographers a shot of her molars.

The door retracted, revealing Detective Calvente beyond the threshold. She gave Imani a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here glare before realizing that Nate’s father stood beside her.

“Mr. Walker.”

If pity had a sound, Imani thought, it would be the trailing rumble to that final r. Again, Imani wondered why the detective struck such a different tone with her.

“Come on in, please.”

Nate’s dad led the way into the Walkers’ rotunda. Imani found it odd that the hallway looked as it always had. She’d expected yellow police tape and evidence markers, props from crime scene investigation shows. Instead, there were the familiar wide-planked herringbone floors, untouched by chalk, covered by the same Persian rug that Imani had always believed belonged on a museum wall.

“Mrs. Banks.”

Detective Calvente pronounced her name like a question.

“I’m here to help Ava collect what she’ll need,” Imani explained.

“My granddaughter wasn’t up to coming,” Bill added.