At that moment I finally recognized what was different about her appearance. There was a tautness to the muscles of her face that had never been there before, as if she was working hard underneath the bonhomie to stay in control, swaddling or even strapping down emotions and instincts to keep them from playing havoc with her.
“I’d love to spend more time together when you’re here,” I said. “Would you like to come to dinner one night? If you’re seeing someone, you can bring him, too.”
“Oh, that’s nice. And yes, maybe sometime. But there’s something I want more than that.”
“Of course.” I couldn’t possibly imagine what it could be. Maybe she was eager to write about her work with animals and was looking for ideas on how to start. People constantly picked my brain about becoming an author. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Okay,” she said. “I want you to find the person who murdered my family.�