“Let’s make a deal,” she said. “Give me what’s left on your plate, and I’ll tell you a secret.”
Ethan was about to order her a full meal when she leaned closer.
“If you feed me, I’ll tell you who killed your wife Isabella. And why no one found out.”
The restaurant vanished around him.
“Killed?” he whispered. No one had ever said that word aloud.
“Sit,” he told her urgently. “Andrew — bring whatever she wants.”
“No,” Sophia interrupted. “Your plate. That’s the deal.”
Confused, he slid the expensive dish toward her. She ate quickly, using her hands. As he watched, he noticed something — the way she brushed hair from her forehead with her pinky raised.
Isabella used to do that.
When the plate was empty, Sophia wiped her mouth.
“I lived in the park behind your house in Westchester,” she began quietly. “That night, I couldn’t sleep. I saw someone go inside. They had a key. They knew the alarm code. They entered at eleven-thirty. The fire started at midnight.”
Ethan leaned forward, barely breathing.
“Did you see their face?”
“Yes. When they left, they took off their hood under a streetlight. Black Mercedes.”
“Tell me who.”
She hesitated. Fear flickered.