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In the memory, she laughs as she says my name.
“Nana!”
That’s what Ali called me. When we were toddlers and learning to say each other’s names, I couldn’t pronounce ‘Alison,’ and she could only say the last syllable of mine. ‘Nuh-nuh’ became ‘Nana,’ and it stuck – especially when she teased me years later about being an old lady, too conservative to join her on her wild escapades.
Ali, my cousin – the one who had been shot in a back alley a year ago.
The one whose murder had been ruled a cold case by the Richards, California police department.
The one for whom I had left my life in LA.
The one whose death I was here in Richards to solve.
The one whose photo was on the bedroom wall of the man I had just slept with.
The man who might have killed her.
2
In the memory, we’re both ten years old. Ali’s standing at the top of the stairs, twirling around in one of her mother’s sparkly cocktail dresses. She’s trying to get me, the tomboy, to join her.
“Come onnnnn, Nana! Just try one on!”
Another memory: Ali at sixteen, throwing pebbles at my bedroom window at midnight, whispering “Nana!” as she tries to get me to sneak outside. Two cute, long-haired, disreputable teenage boys stand behind her, trying to look cool (and failing miserably) as they wait in terror for my former Marine dad to come out of the house and start shooting at them.
I finally relented and did sneak out, though… and my dad never woke up.
One of the boys teased me by calling me ‘Nana.’ Ali turned on him furiously.
“Her name’s FIONA. Only I get to call her Nana.”
That was my cousin. Fiercely protective, loving, adventurous, wild.
I looked at her photo on the bedroom wall and prayed that if she was listening, to help me.
I was going to need it.
3
You can do this, I thought. Not only were you a private investigator, you were an actress, too. You can pull this off.
Trouble was, I’d never had an audition where if you didn’t get the gig, you wound up with a bullet in the back of the head.
I didn’t intend for that to happen.
Time to nail the part.
“Breakfast’s ready,” Jack’s voice called from the other room.
I didn’t answer.
I thought about where I was, then stepped over in front of another woman’s picture. Wouldn’t do to go directly to Ali.
As I stood there in front of the photographs, I crossed my arms judgmentally –
No, that’s not right…
I shifted my arms and wrapped them around my body, put one hand over my collarbone and the other over my hip, like I was hugging myself against the cold.
