“Go home, Patricia.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Go home before I say something we can’t forget.”
She left angry, still convinced she was right. I waited until her car disappeared, then called Detective Carmen Martinez, my closest friend since college.
“Victoria,” Carmen answered. “Please tell me you’re finally letting me drive the Cobra.”
I couldn’t speak.
Her voice changed. “Vic?”
“Patricia sold it.”
Silence.
Then Carmen said, “Do not touch anything else. Send me photos, the bill of sale, the cash, the empty space, ownership papers, insurance, appraisals, everything.”
