Chance rode shotgun in the big Cadillac, and looked for signs of the best friend he’d known for most of his life. This one seemed quieter, edgy, and unforgiving. He squinted as he drove, lines at the corners of his eyes. It seemed wrong to be in a “borrowed” car, but Gibby didn’t seem to care about that, either. He spun the wheel with ease, like it was not his mother’s car. When he nodded, the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “Last time I saw Sara, she wouldn’t talk to me. This time will be different. Watch and see.”

Chance knew little of what Gibby intended, only that Tyra was the dead girl, and Sara the roommate. “What do you think she’ll tell you? I mean, best-case scenario, what are you hoping for?”

“I need information about Tyra. Where she worked. Other friends. Other boyfriends. Anything that’s not right. I need a place to start. If anyone can give that to me, it’s Sara.” He slowed the big car. “This is her street.”

“Looks expensive.”

“That’s her place, the third one down.”

Chance watched the condo as the car slid to a stop at the curb. The curtains were closed. A banged-up Mercedes was parked in the driveway.

“That’s Tyra’s car. The one she wrecked at Jason’s.”

“Does Sara have a car?”

“I don’t see it.” Gibby stepped out onto the street, and Chance followed him to the sidewalk, then up five steps to the stoop. “That doesn’t look right.” The front door stood ajar.

“Come on, man. Just ring the bell.”

But Gibby was already inside, so Chance followed him to a living room littered with empty wine bottles and dirty glasses. “That’s not right, either.” Gibby pointed at an open window, curtains stirring in the breeze. “Air conditioner is running. I can hear it. Sara!”

Gibby took the stairs two at a time, and Chance followed at his heels. The first bedroom was a mess, clothing everywhere, the bed unmade. “Tyra’s, I think.”

The second bedroom was more neatly kept, with pale, pink walls and views on to the park across the street. The bed was slept-in but empty, a pile of tiny clothes beside it. Terry cloth short shorts. A tank top. Chance picked up a framed photograph: two girls in the Mercedes, top down, one of them flashing a peace sign at whoever held the camera. “That’s her?”

“The blonde with the peace sign. The other one is Tyra.”

The blankets on the bed were thrown back, the fitted sheet pulled free at three corners. A water glass had spilled on the bedside table. The lamp was knocked over and broken. On the far side of the bed, Gibby found a wad of wet cloth balled against the second pillow. He picked it up. “It’s wet. It stinks.”

“What is it?”