I now replaced David’s pills, keeping one for myself, and then pulled on a drawer handle. It stuck. I yanked harder. When it popped open, I glanced toward the door, hoping the sound hadn’t echoed. Inside were a bottle of aspirin and a small comb and brush. I lifted the comb out of the bristles and studied the teeth. Almost clean except for a few single strands of hair. That should be enough, assuming they were David’s.

From my purse I pulled out a zip-top bag I’d loaded at home and carefully put the hair inside.

“Marisa, everything all right in there?”

I shut off the tap and grabbed my bag. “Fine!”

Running my fingers through my hair, I practiced a smile, decided it looked a bit demented, so I ditched the attempt. I’d gotten what I came for, and I now had to get out of here.

When I stepped into the hallway, David was waiting for me at the end, blocking my path to the door. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Talking about Clare always upsets me,” I said honestly. “I had a memory, and it caught me off guard.”

His hand slid into his pocket as if he were totally relaxed and had all the time in the world. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay. It’s just been a long time since I talked about her to anyone.”

“Doesn’t Brit talk about her?” His tone was casual, as if we were long-standing friends.

There was no getting around him in the hallway. Left or right, he could block me. “She doesn’t like to.”

“Still, looking at you must be a constant reminder. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my brother and had to stare at his twin every day.”

“Jeff?”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“Brit.” I reached for my phone, gripped it in my hand, and stepped toward him.

“Brit. She connects us now.”

“That’s right.” The hallway door behind him was open now, and I could see just enough to realize it was a bedroom.

He cocked his head. “Clare was strangled, right?”

That stopped me midstride. “Yes.”

His brows drew together. “That’s so awful.”

I couldn’t say Clare’s death had broken my family. It had already been in pieces. But Clare dying had shattered any hope that those pieces would ever be mended. “It was. Is.”

“I didn’t mean to be so pushy back there. I overstepped. I love Brit so much. I just want you and her to be happy.”

“She is. We are.” The best lies were short.

“Can we start over?”

“Of course, but I really have to be going,” I said. “I’ve a client meeting this evening.”

“With who?”

“An executive. He might want me to shoot his corporate brochure.”

“Branching out?”