“Paul, yes,” she said, eyes brightening. “Commercial real estate and destined to own half the city. We’ve done a few deals together. He lives near our old place.”

“He was in my studio for professional headshots,” I said. “He saw my pictures on the wall.”

“Is that safe?” David asked, turning his attention to me. “I mean, letting strange clients into your home can be dangerous, can’t it?”

“Brit recommended him,” I said.

“Serial killers can be successful,” David said. “They go to college, walk among us.”

Brit laughed. “I’m certain Paul is not a serial killer, honey.”

David swirled pasta on a fork. “Probably not. But given what happened to Clare . . .”

The room stilled and neither Brit nor I breathed.

“Sorry about that.” David coated the words with enough charm to ease my sister’s frown. If this exchange had been between Brit and me, we’d be fighting, and I’d be counting seconds to my exit. But David, who’d likely gotten an earful about me from Brit, skated by unscathed.

Brit set her fork down, reached for a wineglass filled with sparkling water. She had to be calculating the minutes until I left and she could crack open a red. Brit loved her reds. So had Clare, for that matter.

I plucked a slice of buttered garlic bread from the platter and tore off a bite-size piece. “I went to see Detective Richards.”

Brit picked up her fork and looked at David as if praying for strength. “And?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Who’s Detective Richards?” David asked.

“He investigated our sister’s murder,” Brit said.

I’d heard that word so many times now that it felt more like a bramble brushing my skin than a knife slicing flesh. “There’s nothing new to report. And he’s retiring in a couple of weeks.”

“He’s always been good about following up every few years,” Brit said.

“Clare died thirteen years ago, right?” David said.

“That’s right, babe,” Brit said.

“I asked for his case files, but he said he couldn’t do it,” I said.

“Why?” David asked.

“Formal police records can’t be handed out, I suppose, especially in an open case,” I said.

“But it’s not solved after thirteen years. The cops have had their shot. Now you get yours,” David said.

My opinion of David was improving. “Logic and the law don’t always mesh.”

“What would you do if you had the case files?” Brit’s expression teetered between shock and amusement, much like it had when I was nine and she’d caught me tie-dyeing all my clothes purple and white. “Follow up on old leads?”

“That’s exactly what I’d do. I’d start making the rounds just like the detective did thirteen years ago.”

“If no one knew anything then, they won’t now,” Brit countered.