Fifteen minutes later I slide behind the wheel of my car, avoiding the implication of what Oliver said—that what happened all those years ago to Craig might be clouding my judgment now. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Because the evidence is there. The “traitor” notes. Jay’s fear. Everything points to the brothers. What I need is to get back to the Kap-O house. To observe the way they interact in their natural habitat, not behind the glass of a two-way mirror or face-to-face in an interview room. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I’m almost back to my parents’ when I pull over, fumble in my bag for my phone, and dial a number I’ve had for months but never thought I’d call.

“Marley,” the cheery voice on the other end chimes before I even say hello.

“Cindy,” I say, and realize how happy I am to hear her. “Day off?”

“I worked a fourteen-hour shift last night. You know if you’re not married with kids, they always expect you to work longer hours.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry, Cind—” I say quickly. “Did I wake you?” I’m already starting to second-guess myself. I hadn’t thought it through. And asking what I called for sounds more ridiculous the longer I wait.

“Nah. I’m just flipping through home improvement shows on television.”

“That explains the hammering in the background.”

She laughs harder than my comment warrants, but I feel something thaw in my chest.

“Listen—do you think you could help me with something? I don’t want to keep you from getting some well-earned rest—”

“Are you kidding? With a full day off and Teddy and all my hospital friends at work, I’m bored—hey, which I guess you are, too. I mean—” she hesitates. “Teddy told me Truman wants you to take it easy, and—”

“Yep. I’m bored out of my mind. So I was wondering … do you think—if you’re not too busy—you could give me a kind of makeover?” I continue in a rush, embarrassed to hear even the words come out of my mouth. “I’m going to a party tonight and would like to look more Marilyn Monroe than Frankenstein’s monster.”

She snorts. “Marilyn Monroe? Sometimes I think you’re in your sixties instead of—wait—how old are you again?”

“What? Who would you have said?”

“I don’t know. Someone younger—still living, even. Selena Gomez. Priyanka Chopra. Emilia Clarke—”

“All right, well, make me the mother of dragons then.”

“This is going to be so fun,” Cindy says before I hang up.