A beep emitted from Imani’s pocket, signaling a new voice mail. She wondered if Melissa had called. The prior night, her friend had texted and, surprisingly, asked to meet up—ASAP. Imani hadn’t yet replied because she still couldn’t fathom where they would go. A polar vortex had slammed the brakes on outdoor socializing, and Melissa had previously made clear that she was too nervous to see anyone indoors—especially not possible vectors like Imani, who still saw in-person patients and was married to a man who spent six days a week in a restaurant kitchen. Melissa hadn’t worked since Broadway’s close, and Nate’s latest project had been on hold for two years. Imani wasn’t sure if the Walkers had left their house since October.

“Finance!” Mrs. Halstead threw up a hand. “Money and the markets are the only things that interest him anymore. He finds stock more compelling than a famous director being shot dead in his twelve-million-dollar brownstone.”

Imani realized that the wife was doing the same thing as her husband, trying to win over the therapist by painting her spouse as myopic. If Imani had been at a bar and not mid-session, she might have asked about the case. It wasn’t every day that a wealthy celebrity was murdered. But she couldn’t let the wife score a point for the same competitive behavior that she’d pointedly ignored from the woman’s spouse.

“Let’s think about subjects that interest both of you.” She clapped, trying to focus them on the task at hand. “When you first got married, what were some of the things that you talked about?”

A buzz from her cell interrupted the silence that followed. Imani hesitated but ultimately reached into her pocket. The restaurant was filled with sharp knives and dangerous machinery, and Philip had been doing more of the food preparation since laying off 15 percent of his staff. Whoever had left a message could be alerting her to an emergency.

“Excuse me one moment.” Imani withdrew her phone. The school’s number shone on screen.

Imani pictured her kids quarantined in the school’s gymnasium. A rash of psychosomatic symptoms followed. Sore throat. Shortness of breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing the words through her empathy-inflamed larynx. “I have to take this. It’s my children’s school.”

Her office was only the one room. Two hundred square feet packed with a couch, a chair, two bookcases, and a secretary desk. It was no place to take a private call. She turned her head toward the wall as the husband muttered something about cost per minute. “Hello. Imani Banks.”

“Hello, Mrs. Banks, this is the office at St. Catherine’s. We need you to come right away.”

Imani fought the urge to cough. “What’s wrong? Are my kids all right?”

“Yes. Your children are fine. We need you to pick up Ava.”