When I reach our cul-de-sac, there’s a black Dodge Charger parked in front of our house. Before I even look through the windshield at the driver, I recognize it as Benito Ramirez’s car. Sure enough, the second he sees us pull into the driveway, he steps out of the car, clutching a cup of coffee.

He waves to me as I get out of the car. Even though it’s hot out, he’s wearing a black suit jacket and a tie loosely knotted around his neck. When I first met him over a decade ago, his close-cropped hair was salt and pepper, but now it’s mostly salt.

“Millie.” He comes over to me to give me the obligatory hug and kiss. “Good to see you. You look good.”

“Thank you,” I say, even though I’m sure I look exhausted.

When Enzo comes out of the car, Ramirez says to him, “And you look like shit, my friend.”

“Thank you,” Enzo says. “I feel like it.”

Ramirez jerks his hand in the direction of our house. “Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ve got a few more reasons for you to feel like shit. You need to hear this.”

Oh God. What now?

We lead Ramirez into the house. Under other circumstances, I would have felt compelled to give him the grand tour, but none of us are in the mood for that. Still, he looks around and nods approvingly. “Nice place you got here. Better than the Bronx.”

“I’m sorry we left,” I say.

“How are the kids?”

“Very good,” Enzo says, which I suppose isn’t an outright lie.

We settle down in the living room, and I can’t stop shaking, wondering what the hell Ramirez is going to tell us. I offer him coffee, even though he’s already holding a cup, and he smiles at me sympathetically.

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase.” He drops his cup of coffee on my coffee table and leans forward on his elbows. “Luckily, I got a contact here on the island, and I did a little digging. You two were right to be worried. Willard is a tough cop, and he thinks you killed Jonathan Lowell, Enzo. He’s busy building his case right now.”

“Based on what?” I say.

“Well,” Ramirez says. “Not to be crude, Enzo, but he thinks you were doing Suzette Lowell. He thinks the two of you conspired to off her husband to get his insurance money. She recently increased the insurance payout, and we’re talking a lot of money right now.”

“That is ridiculous,” Enzo mutters.

“That lady across the street,” Ramirez says, “is singing like a bird for the police. Not just that, she took pictures.”

“Pictures?” I gasp.

“Uh-huh. Nothing outright incriminating, but lots of them at different times, standing a little too close, if you know what I mean.”

Suzette was so right. Janice is such a busybody. Enzo groans. “We were just talking.”

Ramirez arches an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Nothing. Gardening stuff. Problems with her cleaning lady. The weather. It did not matter—she always had an excuse for me to stay. I get the feeling I do not know She did not seem happy in her marriage.”

“Do you think the husband was beating her up?” “No. I did not get that sense.”

“Was she flirting with you?”

Enzo casts a worried look in my direction, then throws up his arms. “Yes. She was. Of course she was. But was nothing. Harmless.”

“So here’s the deal,” Ramirez says. “Your neighbor has pictures of you and Suzette Lowell that are very suggestive. A motel about an hour

away has a record of you checking in with a woman just a few days ago. You buy a gun using cash. Suzette Lowell ups her husband’s life insurance policy. Then the neighbor sees you going into the Lowells’ house, and the next thing we know, Jonathan Lowell is dead.”

Enzo grits his teeth. “I was in the backyard the whole time. Suzette wanted to plant a garden, so I was getting the soil ready.”

“So you expect me to believe that not only did you not hear what happened in the house, but the actual killer went in and out the back door without you seeing.”

“I had equipment going Very hard to hear And I was back and forth from my own yard.”

“Come on, Enzo.” Ramirez levels his gaze at my husband. “You can be straight with me. Did you kill him?”

Enzo drops his face into his hands. “No. I swear. Benny, I would never.”

“Then you’re going to need a really good lawyer.”

Enzo punches his fist into the sofa in frustration, and I don’t even blame him. A good lawyer? We don’t have any money. We can’t afford any lawyer, much less a good one. We will have to take whoever we can get for free. The court-appointed attorney is going to have to be good enough.

“We don’t have much money,” I say to Ramirez. “So getting a really good lawyer is off the table.”

“I thought you might say that,” he says. “So I took the liberty of reaching out to a public defender who is one of the best I’ve seen. She’s based in the Bronx, so not in this jurisdiction, but we can pull some strings to make it happen. She’s young—two years out of law school—but really sharp. She has a great winning record, and she’s had a couple of murder trials that both went her way. When I told her about you, she was eager to help.”

“That’s great,” I say.

“She’s on her way over.” Ramirez looks down at his watch. “If she hasn’t hit traffic, she should be here shortly. And then you can fill her in on all the details.” He gives Enzo a warning look. “You tell this woman everything. No bullshit.”

“Never,” Enzo agrees.

I shake my head. “That’s so nice of her to make the trip on such short notice.”

“She moved a few things around, she said.”

I narrow my eyes at Ramirez. Something about this seems a little fishy. This woman is apparently an amazing public defender, yet she’s willing to drop everything and drive all the way out from the city to Long Island to help some couple she’s never even met? Who does that? I look over at Enzo, whose expression is equally skeptical.

There’s something going on here that I’m not aware of.

Ramirez reaches into his pocket for his phone. He reads the message on the screen, then swivels his head to look out the front window. A blue sedan has pulled up in front of our house.

“That’s her,” he says.

I lean forward in my seat to get a closer look at the woman climbing out of the vehicle. She has white-blond hair pulled back into a French twist and a trim build. She looks wispy—not the kind of person you would think would be a shark in a courtroom, but looks can be deceiving. If Ramirez says she’s good, I trust him.

Ramirez leaps off the couch to let her inside. I rise to my feet as our new lawyer enters the living room, clutching a briefcase. Enzo stands up as well, and I hear the sharp intake of his breath. “Oddio!” he gasps.

Our lawyer isn’t just any public defender. Enzo knows exactly who this woman is.

And a moment later, so do I.