Page 117 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

Finally. Concrete evidence. Lana wanted to shout or jump, but instead she took out her phone and photographed the truck from every angle. Then she headed over to her car to grab an old pill dispenser from the glove compartment and check that the photos were decent. Swiping through them filled her with energy. She was confident there was more to find that linked Diana to Ricardo. Maybe even the murder weapon. She wanted just enough time to get what they could, and then they needed to hand it all over before Diana realized what was happening. She fired off a text to Detective Ramirez.

Meet me at Rhoads ranch. 8 p.m. I promise Paul Hanley will be there.

She got out of the car and put one hand on the trunk to steady herself. She felt a soft flutter, as if the car were pregnant. She looked around. The closest greenhouse was dark, silent, the shadows behind it growing longer. She watched the world slip from twilight to night, hundreds of stars peeking out over the slough.

She was ready. Lana stepped away from the Lexus, considering the presentation ahead. She had to get Diana and Martin talking or arguing or both. She knew how to stretch out the negotiation if she had to. She walked around Beth’s Camry and past Martin’s Maserati to head back to the house.

Or rather, almost past. Her stride was broken by an aberration, a kind of stop sign slamming in her brain. For a moment, Lana was afraid she was going to have another fall. But then she realized it was something in Martin’s car that had caused her to freeze.

The convertible’s top was down, the seats packed with suitcases and boxes. It appeared to be a mix of his own personal items and things from the ranch—likely heirlooms Martin wanted to bring back to San Francisco. There was a weathered cane chair sandwiched in the passenger seat upside down, its stiff back creating a kind of cage for a set of antique farm tools laid out on a towel on the floor. A bag stuffed with file folders held the chair in place, settled on the underneath of the seat like an anchor.

It was the bag that stopped her. Glossy and heavy-looking, all black, with two thin plastic grooves running down one side.

She glanced back at the closed door to the house. She’d have to get back in there soon. She pushed aside the images in her mind of Diana Whitacre and Ricardo Cruz and tried to listen with another part of her brain, where a tiny bell was ringing about the bag.

Her concentration was broken by a buzz on her phone. A response from Ramirez:

Where is Hanley now?

Now? Lana hadn’t expected the detective to get back to her so quickly. The truck was good, but she needed more evidence. Lana weighed her options. She really didn’t want to lie to a sheriff’s deputy. Not again. At least, not in text.

She took a deep breath and dialed.

Ramirez picked up right away. The sound quality was terrible, making it seem like the woman was yelling at her. Or maybe she was yelling.

“WELL?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what Paul Hanley’s doing at the moment.” Lana had some ideas. The possibilities were limited. But technically, she couldn’t be sure. “But I know he’ll be here at eight.”

The detective went into a long speech about the consequences of lying to a sworn officer, wasting government resources, harboring dangerous criminals, and so on. Lana pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the time: 6:38. She had to get back into the house.

“Reception here is terrible,” Lana shouted into the phone. “I can’t hear you. I’ll see you at eight.”

And then, despite her misgivings, Lana hung up.

The front door to the house opened, and Lana hopped sideways, trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the Maserati without it being too obvious. She dropped to the ground, pretending to adjust a nonexistent strap on her high heel. At the same time, she turned the phone in her hand, trying to fashion it into a blunt weapon.

Lana slowly raised her eyes, trying her best to look like a tired, foolish woman who needed her medication.

“Ma, you okay?” Beth asked.

Lana straightened up at the sound of her daughter’s voice and gave her a smile. She looked down. Her hand was buzzing with a stream of all-caps texts from the detective. She slid the phone to silent, pocketed it, and followed Beth inside.

Back in the dining room, Martin was eating the last of his pizza wafer. Diana had pushed aside the plates, making room for a sheaf of papers she pulled out of a slim leather folio.

“Ready?” she asked crisply.

“Almost,” Lana said. She held up the pill dispenser. Diana frowned and rocked backward, as if lung cancer might be contagious. “I’ll just need a few minutes in the restroom.”

Martin stood. “Di, I wonder if we might start this conversation privately. It’s clear Lana needs some time to take care of herself. Perhaps we could go into Dad’s study?”

Lana looked up. Private was good. Private meant she could search the house. Diana reluctantly stood and walked toward her brother with her stack of paper.

“We’ll be out shortly,” she said. “To talk through the financials. And the comps we discussed. I sincerely hope you’ll be able to participate by then.” She raised a hand to Lana, dismissing her, and followed her brother down the hall. A door swung shut beyond the den.