“My car is parked around the corner,” I said.

“I know,” Vance said.

“That is what made me suspicious.

He knew exactly where you parked it.”

I walked up the three flights of stairs, my boots loud against the bare wood of the stairwell.

The air in the hallway smelled of cabbage and floor wax, a familiar scent that suddenly felt strange and hostile.

At one o’clock, Detective Sloan sat at my small kitchen table.

Her black flip-book was open beside her saucer, but she was not writing.