“She must be a very successful marketing manager,” Camila said. The house was large and built in the style of a French country home, al redbrick and shuttered windows. The landscaping was beautiful and the whole thing said money.
“I guess. Or maybe her husband makes a lot of money?” Hannah asked.
“That or it’s family money,” Camila said. “Her parents—hers and Neil’s—were very wealthy.”
There were no cars parked in the driveway, but there was a double garage off to the side, so maybe Sophia was already home.
They would need to ring the doorbel and find out. Camila put her hand on the car door handle and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Here goes.”
They stood in the doorway and rang the doorbel , but the house was quiet and there was no reply.
“What now?” said Hannah. Before Camila could respond they heard the sound of an approaching car and turned to see a silver-gray Range Rover pul into the driveway. The driver was a blond woman, slim and pretty. There was a young girl—maybe fourteen— in the passenger seat, and another a few years younger in the backseat. The girls looked at them with frank curiosity. Their mother looked with suspicion.
“Here we go,” said Camila. The girls climbed out of the car. They were wearing jodhpurs and riding boots. Their mother—presumably Sophia—went to the backseat and lifted out an infant car seat. She held it with one hand and turned to Camila and Hannah.
“You cal ed me earlier,” Sophia said, and there was nothing friendly about her tone. She was quite astonishingly pretty up close, with perfect skin and delicate features. Her clothes were casual but expensive.
“We’re sorry to just show up like this, Mrs. Prosper-Reynolds,”
Hannah said. “We understand that this might be difficult for you.”
“But it’s so important,” Camila put in, oozing sincerity. “We’re talking about a man’s life here, and a terrible injustice.”
“Mom . . . ?” said the older girl.
“Not now, Beth,” said Sophia. “Take your sister to the kitchen and make her a sandwich. Then get your homework started.” The girls didn’t move until Sophia fol owed her instructions up with a sharp, “Now, Elizabeth.” The sisters made their way toward the house, the older girl dragging her feet. The baby was fussing, and Sophia shifted the weight of the car seat from one hand to the other.
“If we could just have a minute—” Camila said.
“I haven’t heard from Neil in years. He was a drug addict and my parents cut him off. For al I know he died years ago. That’s al I have to say to you. If you come here again, I’m cal ing the police,” Sophia said. “I made it very clear to you on the phone that I had nothing to say. Now you show up at my home. This is harassment. You’re just lucky my husband isn’t here. Now get off my property.” She turned her back on them, and stil holding the baby seat in one hand, stalked away into the house.
“Bitch,” said Camila, none too quietly.
Hannah took her by the arm, pul ing her back toward the car.
“Come on, before she cal s the cops.” They got in the car.
“Damn,” Camila said. “Damn. I don’t believe a word she says.
She’s definitely hiding something. Protecting her brother. Did she seem kind of freaked out to you? I mean, underneath al that attitude?”
“Maybe,” said Hannah. “Or maybe she real y has lost touch with him and she never liked him much and she thinks Dandridge is guilty as hel and wants nothing to do with any of it. You know, Camila, it is possible to feel that way.”
“If you close your eyes and your ears and you’re absolutely determined not to learn the truth, sure.”
Hannah opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again determinedly, but Camila was too sharp.
“What?” she said. “You don’t agree?”
Shit. She couldn’t backtrack now. It would be too obvious and only serve to make Camila suspicious. “I don’t think it’s as clear-cut as you want it to be,” said Hannah, careful y. “Okay, so he claims the sheriff beat him up, but there’s no proof of that. And the prosecutor hid the DNA evidence that might have helped the defense. We al know that prosecutors used to do that kind of thing al the time. But that’s one hair that Sarah could have picked up somewhere, some kind of contact transfer. It doesn’t prove that someone else was the kil er. It doesn’t prove that Dandridge wasn’t.”