“Ten? Twelve million?”

“Fifteen,” she corrects me, holding up her phone to show me the house on Zillow. “Fifteen freakin’ million, Dre. These aren’t just creeps. They’re rich creeps, and that’s the worst type of person.”

“Then you can stay in the car.”

I get out of the Scion before Isobel can say anything, knowing that she’ll follow me. Before I reach the gate, she’s next to me, adjusting her sundress and glaring.

“I’m going to kill you if they don’t do it first,” she whispers, matching my pace as we approach the door. “This is why people of color die first in horror movies.”

“No, that’s because they make stupid choices.”

“What do you call this?”

I turn to answer, but before I can, the oak door suddenly opens. Standing there in front of us is a woman, tall with angled, sharp cheeks. Her very ginger hair is cut in a fashionable, if not severe bob, and she’s casually dressed in a Harvard T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Her wide smile is a comfort to see, given the circumstance.

She looks down at the watch on her right wrist. “Perfect timing.”

“For?” Isobel asks.

Mrs. McIntyre looks at her for a moment, scanning her the way I imagine a robot would—wide green eyes moving methodically.

“I’m sorry, Miss…”

“Powell-Ito. But most people call me Isobel.”

“Isobel, then. I wanted to speak to Andre alone, if possible.”

“Sorry.” Isobel shakes her head. “We’re a package deal.”

Mrs. McIntyre shakes her head. “I don’t mean to be rude. But this is a personal matter, and it really only concerns Andre and me. You could sit in the study while he and I talk?”

“What concerns Andre concerns me.”

“Apologies, Mrs. McIntyre, she’s just trying to support me.”

Mrs. McIntyre turns, the sharpness of her features softening to a warm grin. “Call me Claire. But I’m afraid this is…how do I put it…” Claire pauses and looks up, as if the answer might be on the roof.

There’s no way I’m going to get what I need out of Claire with Isobel here. This isn’t her story. This isn’t her liver.

“Give us five minutes,” I tell her. I don’t look directly at her.

“Excuse me?”

“Give me five minutes. Any longer, and you can come inside. Is that fair?”

“Make it ten, and we have a deal,” Claire says, bargaining.

“Deal,” I say before Isobel can argue. This time, I turn to her. “Look, I can’t explain it to you, but you have to trust me, okay? I’ve got this, and like we both said: ten minutes, and then you can come in.”