He turned back to me. “Who?”

“Don’t insult me, Pistillo.”

Pistillo waited a beat. Then he said, “Why don’t we all sit?”

“Answer my question.”

He lowered himself into his seat, his eyes never leaving me. His desk looked shiny and sticky. The smell of lemon Pledge clawed at the air.

“You’re in no position to make demands,” he said.

“Laura Emerson was strangled eight months before Julie.”

“So?”

“Both of them were from the same sorority house.”

Pistillo steepled his fingers. He played the wait game and won.

I said, “Are you going to tell me you didn’t know about it?”

“Oh, I knew.”

“And you don’t see a connection?”

“That’s correct.”

His eyes were steady, but he was practiced at this.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

He let his gaze wander the walls now. There was not much to look at it. There was a photograph of President Bush and an American flag and a few diplomas. That was pretty much it. “We looked into it at the time, of course. I think the local media picked up on it too. They might have even run something—I don’t remember anymore. But in the end none of them saw a true connection.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Laura Emerson was strangled in another state at another time. There were no signs of rape or sexual assault. She was found in a motel. Julie”—he turned to Katy—“your sister was found in her home.”

“And the fact that they both belonged to the same sorority?”

“A coincidence.”

“You’re lying,” I said.

He did not like that, and his face reddened a shade. “Watch it,” he said, pointing a beefy finger in my direction. “You have no standing here.”

“Are you telling us that you saw no link between the murders?”

“That’s right.”

“And what about now, Pistillo?”

“What about now?”

The rage was building back up again. “Sheila Rogers was a member of that sorority too. Is that another coincidence?”

That caught him off guard. He leaned back, trying to get some distance. Was it because he didn’t know or because he didn’t think I’d find out about it? “I’m not going to talk to you about an ongoing investigation.”

“You knew,” I said slowly. “And you knew that my brother was innocent.”

He shook his head, but there was nothing behind it. “I knew—correction: know—nothing of the sort.”

But I did not believe him. He had been lying from the start. Of that I was now certain. He stiffened as though bracing for my next outburst. But to my surprise, my voice grew suddenly soft.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” I said, barely a whisper. “The damage to my family. My father, my mother . . . ?”

“This doesn’t involve you, Will.”

“Like hell it doesn’t.”

“Please,” he said. “Both of you. Stay out of this.”

I stared at him. “No.”

“For your own sakes. You’re not going to believe this, but I’m trying to protect you.”

“From?”

He did not reply.

“From?” I repeated.

He slapped the arms of his chair and stood. “This conversation is over.”

“What do you really want with my brother, Pistillo?”

“I’m not going to comment any further on an ongoing investigation.” He moved toward the door. I tried to block his path. He gave me his hardest look and walked around me. “You stay away from my investigation, or I’ll arrest you for hindering.”

“Why are you trying to frame him?”

Pistillo stopped and turned around. I saw something change his demeanor. A straightening of the spine maybe. A quick flicker in the eyes. “You want to get into truths, Will?”

I did not like his change of tone. I suddenly wasn’t sure of the answer. “Yes.”

“Then,” he said slowly, “let’s start with you.”

“What about me?”

“You’ve always been so convinced your brother was innocent,” he continued, his posture more aggressive now. “How come?”

“Because I know him.”

“Really? So how close were you and Ken near the end?”

“We were always close.”

“Saw him often, did you?”

I shuffled my feet. “You don’t have to see someone a lot to be close.”

“Is that a fact? So tell us, Will: Who do you think killed Julie Miller?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well then, let’s examine what you think happened, shall we?” Pistillo strode toward me. Somewhere along the way, I had lost the upper hand. There was fire in his belly now, and I had no idea why. He stopped just close enough to start invading my space. “Your dear brother, the one you were so close to, had sexual relations with your old girlfriend the night of the murder. Isn’t that your theory, Will?”

I might have squirmed. “Yes.”

“Your ex-girlfriend and your brother doing the nasty.” He made a tsk-tsk noise. “That must have infuriated you.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“The truth, Will. We want to deal in truths, right? So come on, let’s all put our cards on the table.” His eyes stayed on me, level and cool. “Your brother comes home for the first time in, what, two years. And what does he do? He strolls down the block and has intercourse with the girl you loved.”

“We’d broken up,” I said, though even I could hear the whiny weakness in my own voice.

He gave a small smirk. “Sure, that always ends it, doesn’t it? Open season on her after that—especially for a beloved brother.” Pistillo stayed in my face. “You claim that you saw someone that night. Someone mysteriously lurking around the Miller house.”

“That’s right.”

“How exactly did you see him?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. But I knew.

“You said you saw someone by the Miller house, correct?”

“Yes.”

Pistillo smiled and spread his hands. “But you see, you never told us what you were doing there that night, Will.” He said it in a casual, almost singsong voice. “You, Will. Outside the Miller house. Alone. Late at night. With your brother and your ex alone inside . . .”