“I’m really busy.”

Cole studied the picture of Ana and Sarah in the flapper outfits. Cole didn’t want to ask about prostitute sisters and Serbian mobsters over the phone, especially since these things might turn out to be lies.

“It’s important, Sarah. You’re on campus? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I guess so. I’ll have to cut class.”

Like it was the end of the world.

Sarah described a coffee shop on Reseda Boulevard not far from campus, and told him she would meet him in twenty minutes. Cole hung up before she could change her mind.

Twenty-two minutes later, he found her seated at an outside table. She was wearing pale blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and sandals. Her hair was shorter than in the high school picture, but otherwise she looked the same.

“Sarah?”

Cole gave her his best smile and offered his hand. She took it, but was clearly uncomfortable. He nodded toward the deli.

“Would you like something?”

“This is just weird, that’s all. I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“Well, let’s see where the answers take us. When was the last time you spoke with her?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“A year. Maybe more than a year. We kinda drifted apart.”

“But you were close in high school?”

“Since seventh grade. We all came from different elementaries. We were the three musketeers.”

Cole flashed on the picture of the three girls on the soccer field.

“Who was the third?”

“Lisa Topping. I thought about Lisa while I was waiting. You should talk to Lisa. They stayed in touch.”

“Black hair, purple highlights?”

Sarah cocked her head, and seemed engaged for the first time.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Ana had a picture of the three of you in her room. She had a picture of you and her dressed like flappers, too. That’s how I found your name.”

Sarah stared at him for a moment, then looked away. She blinked several times, and her eyes grew pink.

Cole said, “You sure I can’t get you something? Water?”

She shook her head, glancing away as if eye contact was painful.

“No, I’m just—I don’t know—”

She suddenly reached into her purse and came out with her cell phone. She punched in a number, then held the phone to her ear. Voice mail.

“Hey, honey, it’s me. There’s this guy here, his name’s Elvis Cole and I guess he’s working with the police or something, he wants to know about Ana. Call him, okay—”

She covered her phone.

“What’s your number?”

Cole told her, and she repeated it. Then she put away her phone.

“She’ll call. It’s her you should talk to.”

“Purple hair.”

“Not anymore, but yeah. She goes to school in New York, but they stayed in touch.”