O’Hara followed Lassiter down a steep, narrow flight of concrete steps that plunged down the hill alongside the white stucco wall. Halfway to the garden there was a door set into the side of the house. Out of habit Lassiter jiggled the knob and found it locked, then continued down.

At the bottom of the hill the path led onto a small, flat parcel of garden surrounded by a high hedge of cypresses. The space had clearly been landscaped by pros some time ago, but since then it had been allowed to go wild. A patch of roses was overrun by weeds, while the gate to the caged vegetable garden had been left open and deer had eaten everything inside down to the roots. Something had gone wrong in this household even before today’s tragedy, and O’Hara made a mental note to check whether it was financial or medical or something else that might concern their investigation.

“This way,” Lassiter said, gesturing to the wooden deck that came off the path. She followed him to a sliding glass door that had been left open and stepped through.

She hadn’t thought much about what she was walking into. A basement converted into a laundry room or a hobby den, most likely. If she’d asked above she might have learned that the house’s lowest level had been converted into a apartment for the owner’s daughter.

But whatever she might have learned would have done her no good once she stepped through the door. She might as well have plunged down the rabbit hole or passed through the mirror.

What Juliet O’Hara saw was herself, flying. There was the long blond hair, the blue-and-gold cheerleader’s sweater and short pleated skirt revealing the toned tan legs floating effortlessly above the tiled floor.

She blinked hard and forced away the sensation of flight. Blinked hard and forced herself back to the now.