"So," she said, pushing the plate of cookies toward us, "tell me everything. The news is saying awful things about you, Eva. I've been sick with worry."
I took a cookie I had no intention of eating, buying time to formulate my response. "It's been a nightmare," I admitted, allowing genuine emotion to color my voice. "Someone planted Collins' body in my trunk, and now they're systematically destroying my reputation and credibility."
"Oh, Eva." Sarah reached across the table to squeeze my hand, her skin cool against mine. "Who would do such a thing?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Matt interjected, his tone measured. "Eva Rae has made enemies over the years, working for the Bureau. But this feels personal."
Sarah nodded sympathetically, releasing my hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let's move to the living room," she suggested. "It's more comfortable for talking."
The living room continued the theme of calculated comfort—plush sofas arranged for conversation, books artfully displayed on built-in shelves, family photos capturing Sarah and Tommy in moments of orchestrated happiness. No husband or partner appeared in any of the frames I could see.
"I was telling Matt about Richard Collins," I said once we were seated, launching the conversational probe we'd planned in the car. "We're trying to understand why he was targeted, who might have wanted him dead."
Sarah's expression remained sympathetic and attentive. "Such a horrible crime," she murmured.
"The strange thing is," I continued, watching her face carefully, "we discovered he was investigating financial irregularities at his firm. He seemed to be building a case against someone."
"That sounds dangerous," Sarah replied, her fingers curling more tightly around her mug. "I knew Richard pretty well. Like I told you, he was a regular at my bookstore."
“But you knew him as more than that, am I right?” I asked. “What was the nature of your relationship?”
Before Sarah could respond, the front door banged open, and Tommy raced in, his cheeks flushed with exertion. "Mom, I'm hungry," he announced, stopping short when he noticed we were still in conversation.
"Tommy, what have I told you about interrupting?" Sarah's voice remained pleasant, but something shifted in her eyes—a sudden intensity that seemed disproportionate to the minor social transgression. She stared at her son with a focus that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"Sorry," Tommy mumbled, backing away slightly under his mother's gaze.
"It's fine, sweetheart," Sarah said, her expression softening as quickly as it had hardened. "Get an apple from the fruit bowl. We'll have dinner soon."
I watched the interaction with practiced observation, noting how Tommy's shoulders relaxed only after he'd left the room, how Sarah's eyes tracked him with an ownership that went beyond maternal concern.
Sarah turned back to us, her smile firmly in place once more. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes, Richard. Such a terrible shame what happened to him. He had such a keen mind for patterns and inconsistencies."
I leaned forward slightly, maintaining eye contact. "Sarah, how well did you know Richard Collins?"
Her smile never faltered. "Well enough to know he deserved better than what happened to him," she replied, her voice smooth as glass. "Don't you agree?"
The question hung between us, charged with unspoken meaning as we regarded each other across the coffee table. Sarah's expression remained open and friendly—but her eyes were calculating, measuring my response with an intensity that belied her casual posture.
“Do stay for dinner, please. It would make me so happy.”
I nodded. We could use a home-cooked meal right about now,and what was cooking in the kitchen smelled divine. I watched her as she got up with a smile.
“I’ll need to stir the sauce. Please excuse me.”
She was the perfect hostess in her perfect home, serving cookies with one hand while possibly reporting my whereabouts to the police with the other. I took a sip of coffee, buying time as I considered my next move in this dangerous game of chess we were playing.
Chapter 26
Steam rosefrom a pot on the stove as Sarah stirred what smelled like homemade marinara sauce. "I hope you both like pasta," she called over her shoulder, her movements fluid and practiced as she reached for dried herbs from a rack arranged in alphabetical order. "Tommy's favorite is spaghetti with my special sauce."
I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her perform domestic normality with the precision of an actress who had rehearsed her role for years. Everything about her house felt deliberate—not just clean and organized, but curated, as if each object had been selected and placed to tell a specific story about the woman who lived here.
"Can I help with anything?" I offered, more to establish my movements through the house than from any genuine desire to assist.
"No, no," Sarah replied, waving a wooden spoon dismissively. "You're my guests. Besides, cooking relaxes me." She glanced at the kitchen clock—a vintage piece that looked authentically retro rather than reproduced. "Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes. Please, make yourselves at home."
The invitation was exactly what I needed. "Mind if I use your restroom?"
