Ellen hid her emotions. The brown bag crinkled in her pocket when she walked.

"What a shame." Linda shook her head, her rich brown eyes tilting down at the corners. She had an oval face with a largish nose, and a thick gold chain with a coral horn bounced on her bosom as they turned the corner, passing a large brick Georgian mansion, more Monticello than Miami.

"It's so sad." Phyllis made a clucking sound. "They shot the babysitter, too. It doesn't seem fair. It's like when people rob a store and shoot the clerk. Why do they have to shoot somebody? I don't know what gets into people nowadays."

Ellen didn't say anything. Phyllis and Linda didn't need the encouragement to keep talking, and she was running out of breath anyway. A fireball sun climbed a cloudless sky, and the humidity was 120,000 percent. They passed a woman walking a black poodle, and Phyllis waved to her.

"Carol and Bill were in terrible shape, after it happened. It just about killed them. There were reporters camped out on the street day and night, bothering them all the time. Cops and the FBI, always coming and going."

Ellen let her talk, to see what she could learn. They reached the next corner, turned around the block, and walked past a house intended to look like a Roman temple.

"Bill was a great father, too." Phyllis sipped from her water bottle.

"You know, he has his own investment company, very successful. He makes a lot of money for people in the neighborhood, and he doted on his son. Bought him golf bibs and a golf hat, too. Remember we saw him, Lin?"

Linda nodded. "Carol had such a hard time getting pregnant. I'm not telling stories out of school here. She talked about it all the time, right, Phyl?"

"Yes, she had a very hard time." Phyllis's lips flattened to a lip-sticked line. "They tried for a long time. She really wanted that baby, they both did. Now look what happened."

Ellen felt a stab of guilt, flashing on Carol as Mother Goose.

"The poor woman." Linda wiped her upper lip. "Isn't that just the worst luck? They finally had their miracle baby, then they never see him again. End of story."

"There's no justice," Phyllis said, puffing slightly.

"It's a sin," Linda added.

Ellen didn't know it was possible to feel more guilty than she felt already. She had always thought of Will as her miracle baby. But he could have been Carol's miracle baby. Only DNA would tell for sure. She needed that sample.

The moment passed, and Linda said, "You know, if you live long enough, you realize there's nothing you can't handle. I lost my husband and I lost my kid sister. If you asked me, I never would've thought that I'd be standing here afterwards. Life makes you strong, and death makes you strong, too."

Ellen was thinking of her mother.

Phyllis shook her head, which jiggled slightly as they rounded the block. "She always says that, but I think she's full of baloney."

"Ha!" Linda waved her off. "Go ahead, tell her about the waves."

"Okay." Phyllis looked over at Ellen and her lined face grew serious, even as she pumped her arms like a pro. "I lived in Brooklyn all my life. We couldn't believe it when we retired down here, everywhere with the water, the intercoastal, and the ocean. We loved it. My Richard used to fish, I went out with him on the boat. On the boat is where I get my best ideas."

"It's boring, take it from me," Linda stage-whispered behind her hand. "She makes me go. I wanna drown myself."

"Are you going to let me talk to our guest?" Phyllis asked, mock indignant.

"Go ahead, just don't take the long way." Linda turned to Ellen. "I'm Italian, so I love to talk, and she's Jewish, so she loves to talk."

Phyllis smiled. "That's why we're best friends. No one else can put up with us."

They all laughed, passing Ellen's car on the main drag, then taking a left onto Surfside Lane again, lapping the block.

"Here's my theory about waves." Phyllis extended her arms, palms up. "Bad things are like waves. They're going to happen to you, and there's nothing you can do about it. They're part of life, like waves are a part of the ocean. If you're standing on the shoreline, you don't know when the waves are coming. But they'll come. You gotta make sure you get back to the surface, after every wave. That's all."

Ellen smiled, considering it. "That makes a lot of sense."

Suddenly Phyllis and Linda fell silent, their gaze on the open door of a wooden contemporary on the left side of the street, catty-corner to the Bravermans'. A pretty redhead was emerging in a crisp black dress, with a black bag on her arm. She locked the door, then clacked in stylish black pumps down a concrete path to her driveway and a silver Mercedes.

"Who's that?" Ellen caught the mischievous look Phyllis and Linda exchanged. "Someone we don't like, evidently."

Phyllis burst into laughter. "I forgot my poker face."

Linda looked over at her. "You don't have a poker face. I know, I play poker with you."

"Fill me in, ladies." Ellen smiled. "I love to dish."

"She's a big snob," Phyllis answered, with the trace of a smile. "Her name is Kelly Scott and her family has more money than God. She's from Palm Beach."

"Pink and green country," Linda added with a naughty giggle, and Phyllis nodded.

"I've met her at least four times, and she acts like she never met me before. I hate that."

"Me, too," Linda said.

"Me, three," Ellen said, and they all laughed again. But she was watching the Braverman house as they walked by, looking past the yellow ribbons and the Timothy memorial and the curtains. Inside was Carol Braverman.

And Ellen needed her DNA.

Today.

Chapter Fifty-five

The sky began to cloud over, cutting the temperature, and Ellen sat low in the driver's seat of the car with the window open, watching the Braverman house. It was 10:36 A.M., but there'd been no sign of Carol, and the red flag on her mailbox was still down.

Ellen was still hoping that she'd mail a letter. She checked her Black-Berry, and Marcelo hadn't emailed or called. She wondered if she still had a job to go back to, or a crush.

Please tell me what is going on. I can help you.

She kept an eye on the house and straightened up as a mail truck appeared on the main drag and began stopping at the houses, delivering packets of mail. No sign of Carol with an envelope to be mailed, and now it was too late. The mail truck turned onto Surfside, traveled up the street on the right side, and delivered the mail to the Braverman house.

Damn.

Ellen felt on edge. Hot and testy. She sipped warm juice, then dug in her purse for the notes from the DNA test, reminding herself of the sample possibilities. Gum, soda can, cigarette butt, blah blah blah. She tossed the list aside and glanced back at the Bravermans' house, where there was finally some activity. Carol was stepping out the front door.

Ellen's senses sprang to alert. She couldn't keep waiting for something to happen. She had to make something happen. She got out of the car in her sunglasses and visor and went into her I'm-just-a-walker routine, strolling across the main drag and entering Surfside. She walked slowly, staying on the opposite side of the street as Carol walked from the front door and disappeared into the garage.

Ellen cut her pace, taking smaller steps, and the next minute, Carol came out of the garage with a green plastic gardener's tote. She had on a cute sundress and another visor, with her dark blond hair in its pony-tail again.

Ellen kept her eyes straight ahead, but watched Carol cross the lawn to the memorial to Timothy, then she knelt down, setting the gardener's tote next to her. She slid on a pair of flowery cotton gloves and began to weed in front of the memorial.