Nina opened her eyes a crack because it was better to see her killer than to cower sightlessly, expecting a gun-shot at any moment. But seeing gave her another jolt: She recognized the man. He was the one who'd been there when she was arrested, staring at her with those hate-filled eyes.

Weakly Nina closed her eyes again. It didn't matter. She still had the man's image imprinted in her mind. He was tall and muscular and richly dressed, like someone on TV His dark hair waved back from a high forehead. He looked powerful, just as Jason always looked powerful. But Jason had never once looked at her with such hatred.

Nina remembered something Gran always said: "If looks could kill. ."

Looks can kill, Gran,

Nina wanted to say.

That look's going to kill me.

The man chuckled.

"I don't care if you talk or not," he said. "Your cohort already told us everything.

He cracked like an egg. I just thought you'd like the chance to tell us your version. Maybe your friend lied a little to save his own skin. To make himself look a little better and you, well, a lot worse. Guiltier. You know?"

The man was practically crooning in Nina's ear; his face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her cheek. Nina could barely think. What was the man talking about?

For a minute Nina didn't even understand the words he'd used—"cohort"? What was that? Then she remem' bered all the mystery novels Aunty Lystra had read aloud back home, on nights when the TV wasn't working. The detectives in those books were always accusing people of being "cohorts in crime." Cohorts were partners, helpers. Did he mean Gran and the aunties, who were cohorts in hiding her?