"She's in fifth grade," Meghan frowned. "It wouldn't have killed her to miss part of a day. I took her out for Walter's funeral on Monday."

"So she would have missed school for the second time in a week."

"Well, I guess that bothered me. But what really got me was how... off it sounded. Richard said his mother got in town Sunday. And he had Erin last weekend but brought her home on Sat.u.r.day. He could have picked her up again on Sunday if he'd wanted. I don't know, maybe Grace was tired when she got in. But he also said his mother would be visiting for a week. Then she says she's leaving in two days. Either way, they could have spent the afternoon with her after school, so why take her out of school for lunch?"

I said, "His charming mother seems to decide what she wants, and she demands it immediately."

"I wish I knew what she wants. The way she acted with Erin tonight. It wasn't..."

"Grandmotherly," I said.

"No" Meghan looked at Ambrose. "So I don't have any proof of anything. I just felt scared."

He shook his head. "I'm not going to argue with a mother's fear. And you were well within your rights if you're the custodial parent."

"I'm so glad you came when you did. Does your presence always diffuse situations like that?" Meghan asked Ambrose.

"Rarely," he said with a wry expression, scooping the last of his chili into his spoon.

"They sure scooted out of here in a hurry," I said, glad he took Meghan's instincts seriously, and hoping he'd take my story about the truck seriously, too.

"Yeah, I noticed that." He finished off the corn bread.

"Want more?" I asked.

"No, thanks. That was great, though. Good chili's hard to come by."

I set a mug of coffee in front of him. "You take anything in it?"

"No, this is fine. Thanks."

Meghan stood up and gestured toward the living room. I limped behind them, carrying two more mugs of coffee. I sat on the sofa, and Ambrose sat beside me. Meghan took the armchair at one end of the coffee table.

"Now, what's this about someone attacking you, Sophie Mae?"

I hesitated. "Attacking?"

His eyes narrowed. "You weren't attacked?"

It wasn't the word I would have chosen, but I supposed it was accurate enough. So I told him. I'd been crossing Avenue A in the middle of the block. I'd checked for traffic first, but had lowered my head as I crossed, because of the rain. I'd heard the squeal of tires in time to see the pickup barreling toward me and had jumped out of the way, falling between the two parked cars.

Ambrose's face creased into a frown as I spoke, and I finished and waited for him to tell me it was all in my imagination, that I must not have looked where I was going. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket.

"You said she'd been attacked, Ms. Bly. But a near hit-and-run? You neglected to mention that."

"Sophie Mae didn't think you'd put much stock in what happened. Being almost run down sounds a bit... dramatic."

He looked at both of us. "But that's what happened, right?"

We nodded.

"Good G.o.d," he muttered. "Who else saw what happened?"

"No one," I said.

"No one? So close to downtown?"

"The street was empty. There may have been traffic a few blocks up, or someone could have been looking out a window. But the only person I saw was a young guy on a cigarette break. Works at the insurance office. He says he didn't see anything and made it pretty clear about not wanting to be involved. I got his name, though."

"Good. What is it?"

"Wait-I wrote it down when I got home." I got up and went into the hallway, returning with a sheet off the memo pad by the telephone. His lips thinned as he watched me limp back. I handed him the name.

"Have you seen a doctor about that ankle?"

I shook my head. "It's not my ankle. I hit my hip on the curb when I fell. I'm bruised, but nothing's broken."

Ambrose looked like he wanted to say more, but changed his mind.

"Tell me about this truck. Did you see the license plate number? What make was it?"

"I would have told you already if I'd seen the number," I said in a testy voice. Meghan coughed. I wiped the edge from my tone and continued. "And I couldn't tell the difference between a Chevy or a Ford or anything else, just by looking."

"Okay. That's fine. What color was it?"

"Blue"

"Bright? Dark?"

"Dark. And kind of dirty."

"Dirty dark blue," Ambrose said, writing it down. "Was it a truck you'd see on a new car lot?"

"Oh no. It was old. It seemed, um, wider than the newer trucks? Boxier. And there were rust spots. And the front grill was dented."

"But it wasn't a really old truck-like a cla.s.sic."

"Huh uh. Maybe something from twenty years ago. Maybe older. Real square looking."

"Good. And the driver? What did you notice about the driver?"

"Nothing," I said, feeling defeated. "I didn't see the driver at all."

"Anybody in the cab besides the driver?"

"I don't... no, I don't think so. One figure outlined against the rear window." I closed my eyes, trying to remember. "The hands on the wheel were dark. Gloves? Or just my perspective. I don't know. The driver didn't have a face. Too dark. No features."

"Do you mean the driver was dark complected?"

"I don't think so"

"Why?"

I squeezed my eyelids together, trying to pry the reason out of my brain. "I didn't get the impression of any skin tone. I think it might have been fabric. Like a mask. Something with folds of fabric. Like a scarf or something." My eyes popped open. "It was a Ford."

"You remembered something."

"Yeah. That grill got d.a.m.n close before I twisted out of the way. I saw the letters set into the chrome."

"Can you draw how they appeared?"

"I guess. I'm not a very good artist."

"That doesn't matter, I just want the general idea of placement. It can help us determine the year of the vehicle." He turned to a fresh page in his notebook and handed it to me. I sketched out the way the word "Ford" had looked on the grill of the truck and handed the notebook back.

"Excellent. Can you think of anything else?"

I shook my head. "I think that's the limit. You made me remember more than I thought I could."

Ambrose smiled. It was a nice smile.

"So, do you believe someone tried to run me down?"

The smile faded. "Why wouldn't I believe you? Have you lied to me about anything else?"

"No" I hadn't, not once. I might not have mentioned the boxes of paperwork, but that wasn't quite the same thing as lying, now was it?

"Tell me what you were doing downtown."

"I was in Piccadilly Circus, picking up some tea." But something in my voice or my eyes gave me away.

"And before that?" he asked, looking... amused?

Meghan said, "Tell him, Sophie Mae. He needs to know."

I sighed. "I was at Beans R Us. Talking to Walter's fiancee and that friend of theirs."

"What did you talk about?"

"I wanted to find out more about them, because I knew they both hung out with Walter. And I wanted to make sure Debby knew about the fire at Walter's-don't worry, I didn't mention arson-and I asked how to get a hold of them if I needed to. Jacob didn't want to tell me, but Debby said her last name is Silverman. Deborah Silverman. I got her phone number. I'll get it for you before you leave."

"Tell me why you've zeroed in on those two."

I shrugged. "They're the only ones I've found who might have wanted Walter dead. They knew he had the money from the lottery. I can't tell about Debby-she seems pretty upset that he died, but I can't be sure. But I think Jacob is in love with Debby, and he resented Walter. He also didn't like Walter giving all that money away to charities."

"He told you this?"

"When they came in while we were cleaning out Walter's place, he mentioned something about how Walter could have used that money in better ways."

"I heard him, too. He didn't sound happy," Meghan said.

Ambrose nodded, scribbling in his notebook.

Looking up, he said, "Did you say anything to either of them that would set them off somehow? Could one of them have left the coffee shop, gotten to the truck, and positioned it on your route home?"

"They said they hadn't heard about the fire. I gave them a copy of the paper so they could read about it."

"Yeah, I saw that. Nice picture."

I ignored him. "I can't think of a thing that would make them come after me. If they'd started the fire, I guess that could have been a sensitive point. And either of them would've had time to get the truck situated, since I was in the tearoom for at least ten minutes."

Ambrose shut his notebook. "I'll look into this, see if we can't pin down the owner of the truck. In the meantime you've got to stop poking into this on your own. I told you it could get dangerous-and today it did. I don't want something like that happening again. You might not be as quick on your feet next time."

Next time. That had an unpleasant ring to it.

"So can you tell us anything about your investigation?" Meghan said.

Ambrose looked pained.

"Of course he can't," I said. "We're suspects. At least I am."

"Is that true?" Meghan asked Ambrose. "You won't tell us what's going on even though we could be in danger because you think we killed Walter?"

He sighed. "It has nothing to do with you being suspects."

"So we are suspects," Meghan said.

"Not currently."

"Did you investigate us?" I asked.

"Enough to feel confident that neither of you had reason to be involved in the murder. Though I don't like how deeply involved you've become in the whole situation."

"I couldn't see any other choice," I said.