I had to repeat the question before she said, “Because of the secret.”

“What secret?”

“What Peter told Josh just before he died.”

I doubted Desiree Barbosa was the most articulate woman at the best of times, but this felt like circling a barbed wire fence, seeing my prize on the other side, unable to find a way in.

“And the secret that Peter told Josh about the CIA, which led to his death was . . .”

“About his dad.”

“Peter’s dad? What about him?”

“Peter found out his dad worked for the spooks. Least, he used to.”

“Dr. Evans worked for the CIA? Okay. What else?”

She stared blankly.

“A lot of people work for the CIA,” I said. “People don’t get killed every time someone finds out.”

“But it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Did Peter tell Josh why his father’s old job was a secret?”

“Because he worked for the spooks.”

We circled this a few times, but according to Desiree’s worldview, it was perfectly logical that the CIA would murder Peter—and his girlfriend—simply because he’d discovered that his dad used to work for them.

“So they killed Peter and Jan and made it look like the Larsens’ work.”

She shook her head. “Those Larsen kids didn’t kill nobody. They were framed. Like I already said.”

“Because everybody the Larsens supposedly killed knew a secret about the CIA?”

Another “Are you high?” look at me. I glanced at Gabriel, but he made no move to take over, as if he knew this was the best we could manage. That’s what happened when you gave drugs to a potential source.

“Why did the CIA kill the other couples?” I said.

“’Cause that’s what spooks do. They kill people. They’re real clever, though. They know how to hide it, like murdering a whole bunch of people the same way, so it looks like a serial killer. Then they blame innocent folks.”

Gabriel cut in, thanking Desiree for her time and calling Ricky. Seemed he had enough experience with this type of thing to know we weren’t getting more out of her.

I wanted to take Desiree aside and try to change her mind. Yes, she’d stumbled, but it wasn’t too late to get back on the path. There was no sense arguing, though. Not while she was feeling good and wondering why in hell she’d ever given this up.

So I waited by the door while Gabriel stayed with her.

I hadn’t been there long when someone rapped. I opened the door with the chain engaged.

Ricky grinned through the crack. “Hey.”

I unlatched the door.

“How’d it go?” he asked as he walked in.

“She talked. Given her condition, I doubt she had much choice in the matter.”

He looked at my expression and murmured, “Shit.”

He paused, as if he should say something. I waved him into the living room.

“So, I’ll, uh, talk to you later?” he said.

When I didn’t reply, he said, “How about I get your phone . . . ?” He trailed off as he caught my expression. “Or not.”

He got three steps away. Then he stopped. Paused. Reached into his pocket and took out a notebook with a pen hooked on the cover. He jotted something on a page and ripped it out.

“My number. I know it’ll probably go in the nearest trash can, but I’m not walking away without giving it a shot.” When I reached out, he held on to the note and met my gaze. “I’m sorry you didn’t know what was going on here. I thought you did. You should have.”

I nodded, and he released the paper. I tucked it into my pocket as he headed in to where Desiree waited.

Gabriel came out almost immediately.

“Ready?” he said.

I gave a curt nod and opened the door.

• • •

I’d planned to wait until we got in the car to confront him. I made it as far as the stairwell.

“That was a really shitty thing to do,” I said.

“Get answers?”

“You know what I mean. Desiree wasn’t that mellow because you hired Ricky to perform stud service. I worked at a clinic and a shelter. I know what people look like when they’re high on heroin. You gave drugs to a recovering addict.”

“No, I simply asked Don Gallagher to help persuade her to speak to me.”

I stopped. I waited for him to turn around. Face me. Confront me. He just kept walking down the stairs. I hurried to catch up.

“You told him to offer her drugs.”

“I did not. I explained the situation. If that was the route Ricky chose, it wasn’t at my request.”

“But you knew what he’d do. You provided drugs to a woman who’s trying to turn her life around. It’s like seeing someone step onto a ledge and giving her a push.”

He stopped now, turning to face me. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve seen women like Desiree. Women who finally get clean. And in my experience—”

“Ah, yes, your experience.” Icy sarcasm seeped into his voice. “Your experience, Olivia, is that of a privileged young woman who mingles with the masses for a few hours a week and presumes to understand—”

“Excuse me? I worked my ass off, putting in full-time hours—”

“I mean your work with addicts. I’m presuming you have no training in it. No personal experience with addicts.”

“No, but—”

“So your time spent with them likely worked out to a few hours a week, in a charity setting, where the addicts would be on their best behavior, saying all the right things, because it was the only way those services would agree to help them. Of those who did stop their drug use, how many do you think stayed clean once they got what they wanted from you?”

“I—”

“Let me tell you a few things about addicts, Olivia. They lie. Consistently. Expertly. Pathologically. They lie to anyone who comes between them and their next high. They’ll pretend to quit. They may even actually quit. But it’s a sham. At the first opportunity, they will start using again. Anyone who believes their commitment to self-transformation will be disappointed over and over until they finally wise up and stop hoping.”

There was no passion in his speech. It was a cold recital of facts without one indication that his words held anything personal. But I knew they did. It was like a wall had slammed down.