sparse than on the rest of her so pink skin showed through.
âAdamâs put up posters. Sheâll have a home in no time. Everybody loves goldens,â Cristina said.
Everybody minus me.
âSo youâll house-sit?â Cristina asked.
âWhatever you need. Iâm glad to help.â
Cristina clapped her hands together. âFabulous!â
For the first time in months, Lilaâs heart brimmed with hope.
7
W hen two strange men walked up to Cristinaâs front porch, Lilaâs breath caught in her throat. She told herself they were selling or campaigning for something, but the reality check didnât neutralize her fear, which was stark because Cristina had taken the dogs to get Rosie at school. Lila was alone.
If the men hadnât seen her through the front doorâs glass, sheâd have gone to her room and pretended no one was home. One, in a dark suit and wide, lime-green tie, was about to knock; when he saw her through the panes, he dropped his hand to his side and waited for her to answer the door. The other, in a rumpled blazer, scowled as she approached. She scowled back because the last thing she wanted was to talk with men she didnât know.
She cracked the door an ultra-wary four inches, narrow enough to slam shut. Not that slamming the door would do any good when the men could knock it down like the ones did in her recurring nightmare.
âLila Elliot?â the man in the rumpled blazer asked.
âYes.â She cleared her throat. It was tight, as if she were squeezing back a cry for help and holding it in reserve in case she needed it, though neighbors were too far away to hear.
The man in the lime-green tie flipped open a leather case and showed her a badge. âRich Mason. San Francisco PD. We want to talk to you about Yuri Makov.â
His name hit Lila like a cloud of pepper spray. She studied the badge. Sheâd heard of men impersonating police, then robbing or killing people. But the badge looked real, and the men knew who she was. With resignation, she opened the door.
Rich stepped into the entry and thrust out a large, friendly hand, like a dogâs paw, for a shake. His clammy hand made hers feel clammy too. He said, âSorry to bother you. You must be upset about what happened.â He was tall, slim, and clean-cut. Lila could picture him jogging along a beach or drinking wheat-grass juice at a health bar.
The other man was pudgy and dour. He introduced himself as Joe Arruzzi and grunted something about how hard it had been to find her. His clothes smelled of cigarette smoke. He had thick, bushy eyebrows, and the bags under his eyes looked like small hammocks filled with fat people.
Lila led the men into the living room. As her mother had taught her to do when visitors came, she offered them a Coke. They declined. Rich settled into one of Cristinaâs red club chairs, and Lila sank into the other. Joe leaned against the oak fireplace mantel, jingling the coins in his pockets and surveying Cristinaâs poodle sculptures on the tabletops and windowsills.
When Rich leaned forward almost close enough for his knees to touch Lilaâs, his coat fell open; at his waist the handle of a gun stuck out of a leather holster. She wincedâhis gun was the first sheâd seen since getting shotâbut Rich seemed not to notice her discomfort. Smiling, supportive, and sunny, he uncapped his pen and flipped open a notepad. Clearly, he was going to take the lead, and Joe was going to stand by watching.
âYou were new at Weatherby, werenât you,â Rich said, not so much a question as a fact.
âIâd worked there three months,â Lila said.
âDid you know Makov very well?â Rich asked.
âNo. We just talked once in a while.â
âHow would you describe him? Outgoing? Secretive? Troubled?â
âMaybe a little odd. He didnât know much English. He was