Her health was good enough to toss a drink in my face two nights ago, I think. Maybe “health” is a euphemism for alcoholism. If they intend to try an intervention with Maude, I don’t want to be within a hundred miles of it. In fact, I’d recommend Kevlar body armor to the participants.

“What about you?” Livy asks.

“I’m on my way to Huntsville Prison.”

“Oh, God, the Hanratty thing. It’s all over the news. Midnight tonight, right? Are you required to be there?”

“No. The victim’s family wants me there.”

She shakes her head. “You always were one for duty.” In a lighter voice she says, “I still see your books in all the airports. And it still makes me jealous.”

“Come on.”

“I mean it. I make great money, but I’m compromising every day for it. You’re living the life you always talked about.”

“You talked about that kind of life too.”

She blushes, but before she can reply Annie is tugging my trouser leg. I reach down and scoop her into my arms. “Hey, punkin! You remember Miss Livy?”

Annie solemnly moves her head from side to side. I was stupid to think she’d remember anyone from the funeral.

“My hair was shorter then,” Livy tells her. Like Caitlin, she makes no attempt to talk baby talk. “I sure remember you, Anna Louise.”

I can’t believe she remembers Annie’s full name. The female memory defies explanation.

Suddenly something brushes my shoulder. It’s Caitlin, holding out her hand to Livy.

“Caitlin Masters,” she says, cutting her eyes at me as she gives Livy a professional smile.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, far too late.

“Liv Sutter,” Livy says, giving Caitlin’s hand a firm shake.

Liv Sutter. Another thing I’d forgotten: Livy’s name metamorphosed as she progressed through life. She wasn’t like a Matt who suddenly insisted on being called Matthew to be taken more seriously. Her name actually got shorter with each incarnation: “Olivia” in grade school; “Livy” in high school; and just plain “Liv” in college and law school. And there was never any question of people not taking her seriously—Livy Marston Sutter is as serious as a garrote.

“You two obviously know each other,” says Caitlin.

“Oh, we go way back,” Livy explains, laughing. “Too far back to think about.”

“We only go back a couple of days,” Caitlin replies. “But we’re looking forward to Colorado.”

There’s nothing quite like the meeting of two beautiful women of the same class. I would never have guessed that Caitlin had a catty side. Livy is ten years older but gives up nothing in any department. The friction is automatic.

“How’s John?” I ask as Livy studies me with new interest. “Her husband,” I add for Caitlin’s benefit.

“We’re separated. Six weeks now.”

So, Sam Jacobs’s gossip was accurate. “I’m sorry.”