The bus couldn’t have traveled more than two miles before Mancuso got off. This surprised me. I had it in my mind that she lived in Emma’s neighborhood because of the bus stop visits, but we were more than ten miles away. I followed the bus through the next intersection and merged into the left lane, but I kept her in sight in my rearview, thinking maybe she might wait for another bus.

But no. She’d lit another cigarette and was waiting for the light to cross the street. I made a U-turn as soon as possible. She had already disappeared when I made it back. I turned right and saw her walking down the sidewalk, cigarette smoke in her wake. I drove past her, thinking how Houston can switch from commercial to residential in the blink of an eye. We were in an older neighborhood, the houses small and close together. I parked near the next corner and fumbled in my purse for a mirror and lipstick. As she walked by me, I pretended to be engrossed in applying color to my lips. She didn’t seem to notice.

I watched her walk another two blocks and then turn left at a stop sign. I followed, and when I reached the sign, I looked in the direction she’d gone and saw her standing at the door of a gray house halfway down the block. She took one more drag on her cigarette before putting it out and unlocking the front door. Wow. She’d gone out of her way to make the bus stop visits to Emma if she lived here.

A few seconds later I pulled up to the house, noting the number painted on the curb by the driveway. I slid from behind the wheel, then felt a tiny surge of adrenaline as I walked up the short cement path.

I rapped on the door, reminding myself that this woman wanted anonymity. She would need reassurance, and I hoped I could deliver-if she agreed to talk to me at all.

She didn’t open the door, just called out, “What do you want?”

“I need your help, Loreen,” I said.

A short silence followed; then she said, “Do I know you?”

“We have a mutual friend who sent me here-Angela.” Mentioning Emma’s name first might be the wrong thing to do.

I heard the dead bolt turn and she opened the door a crack. “Angela sent you?”

“Yes.”

“I hardly know her. What’s this about?” Her door was open a little more now.

“My name is Abby. Can I come in and explain?”

“Not until you tell me how you know Angela.”

“She cleaned my house, said you were one of the best employees at Purity.”

“You need my help cleaning? ’Cause we’re not allowed to do private jobs. We had to sign a paper that we wouldn’t.”

Even though she hadn’t shut the door on me, I could tell this wasn’t working.

“Okay, here’s the straight scoop. I work for Emma Lopez, and I think you know her, even if she doesn’t know who you really are. She needs your help.”

Loreen slammed the door so hard I think the house shook. I heard the dead bolt turn.

But I had another idea on how to get her attention, even though I wouldn’t enjoy using this tactic. “Fiona,” I said loud enough for her to hear-and maybe loud enough for the neighbors, too. “I know you don’t want me talking out here about your past for everyone in the neighborhood to hear.”

A few seconds passed; then she opened the door. “Get inside,” she whispered harshly.

I stepped into a tiny foyer, shutting the door behind me. “Sorry I had to do that, but there are things you need to know and things I hope you can help us with.”

“What’d you say your name was?” She crossed thin arms over an ample chest that didn’t match her tiny physique. Were those implants a gift from James the pimp?

“Abby Rose. I’m a private detective, and I know you wrote a letter to a television show about Emma Lopez. I work for her.”

She cocked her head, staring at me. “Work for her how?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to the baby under the house-you’ve heard about that, right?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“You wrote that letter to Reality Check to help your friend Christine’s children.”

She said, “That’s a lie.” But she was about as convincing as a FEMA official.

“Listen, can we sit down and talk? You’re justifiably concerned about publicity, but I’m helping Emma just like you wanted to help her.”

“Lotta good I did. Her baby sister’s dead.”

“But you did help. The show is building them a new house. I saw it myself.” I wasn’t ready to tell her that the baby in the news wasn’t Emma’s sister. She still seemed on her guard and might not believe me.

“A new house can’t bring back a dead baby,” Loreen said. “I’m done helping.”

“Even if I promise to keep your name out of this?”

“How can you do that when there’s a stupid TV show in town? If they find out who I am, I’ll lose everything. My job, my house… everything.”

I took a risk and approached her, resting my hand on her shoulder. “I won’t let that happen.”

I felt her tremble under my touch. She said nothing.

“You were very brave to do what you did for Christine’s children, but there are things you need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like what happened to your friend.”

“She split. That’s what happened. Left those kids to fend for themselves. I was so pissed at that stupid woman I promised one day I’d make things right.” She paused. “And now I’ve screwed that up, too.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Loreen. Let me tell you what I’ve learned, okay?”

“So I can feel more guilty? Okay. Bring it on, ’cause I’m an expert at guilt.”

She turned and walked down the hall. I followed, thinking how she’d escaped a miserable existence and now had this little house and a steady job where no knew about her former profession. Heck, she might even have a husband or a boyfriend. My showing up probably felt no different to her than if I’d broken in like a kick burglar holding a gun.

She led me into a living room with old-fashioned dark paneling. Between the paneling and the double window covered by heavy drapes, I felt claustrophobic. But the carpet seemed new and freshly vacuumed, and if there was a speck of dust anywhere, I couldn’t have found it. The house didn’t smell of tobacco, so she probably smoked only outside.

I chose an armchair with a clean towel tucked carefully over the floral cushion, and she sat on the edge of a mismatched plaid sofa, her hands clenched in her lap.

“There’s no easy way to tell you, so I’ll start with what you thought you knew. Christine didn’t leave town. She was murdered.”

Loreen gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “She… she’s dead?”

“They found her body in 1997, but she remained unidentified until the TV show came to Houston and Emma asked me to investigate what happened to her baby sister and her mother. I discovered a cold-case death, and the victim turned out to be Christine.”

“I didn’t hear nothing about that on the news,” Loreen said.

“You will soon enough. Anyway, I’m hoping you can help me learn why she was murdered. I’m not sure if it’s connected to the baby’s death, but I suspect so. And here’s another important piece of information that hasn’t been reported in the press. That baby they found last week wasn’t Christine’s.”

Loreen shook her head vigorously. “You’re talking crazy now. I went through all nine months with her. Even knew the guy she was sleeping with when she got pregnant.”

“Who was the father?”

“A teenager who lived across the street from her-kid who had to be ten years younger. He liked to drink, and she was happy to supply the booze and drink with him. One night he drove drunk smack into a hill full of bluebonnets off Highway 6. Christy and me went there and left flowers by this white cross his parents put where he died. I was the one who cried. She didn’t.”

I swallowed. I already knew Christine O’Meara had led a life filled with mistakes and tragedy, and here was more of the same. “Emma was present when her mother gave birth, but the infant found under the house belonged to someone else. That’s what I need help with.”