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left her for me in a heartbeat if I’d said the word. But I wasn’t ready for him yet. I’m more mature now and ready to settle down.” She pouts her lip in the compact mirror and takes a manicured finger to a small lipstick smudge. “Believe me, Teresa wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
    She stops and looks right at me. “You, on the other hand, seem to have a bit more of a hold on him. And there’s not even a wedding ring on your finger.”
    She sounds puzzled. I can tell that she is trying to figure out what it is about me that Donovan would prefer over her. This true-­confessions thing is pissing me off. “Why are you telling me this?”
    â€œBecause I want us to be friends.”
    â€œI don’t know if that’s possible,” I say with ice in my voice.
    Her eyes widen as I walk out. She may be a viper—­may even be a killer—­but I’m Italian.
    T HE LA TE LUNCH consists of a buffet of fresh seafood and fruit. ­People fill up their plates and find spots on lawn chairs or plop down on the grass to eat. I’ve tried to keep an eye on Grant and Annalisa without making it too obvious. For a while, they roughhouse in the pool like teenagers. Grant keeps picking Annalisa up, holding her over his head, and tossing her in the water. She squeals with delight.
    I don’t know why, but I feel something that doesn’t make any sense—­jealousy. I feel like Grant threw me aside as soon as Annalisa walked up. It’s absurd. I have a boyfriend. This is not a date. And besides, he could be a killer.
    Maybe it’s because Grant has one of those magnetic personalities. He’s able to make you feel like you are the only person in the world that matters to him at that moment. It is so intense and flattering that it feels like something is missing when he directs his attention to something or someone else.
    I strike up conversations with other ­people at the party, trying to find out more about Grant and Annalisa without making it obvious. Nobody seems to know anything about Annalisa beyond the fact that she is the artist being honored, but everyone talks about how Grant is a great guy. Donovan said Annalisa was fearful the murderer would show up at this party. But what if the murderer is the one hosting the party?
    I feel bad about the way Donovan left, so I sneak into the house and dial him on my cell. He should be home in Oakland by now. His phone rings and rings, but his voice mail never picks up. This seems odd, so I redial his number. This time it goes straight to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message.
    When I come back out, Grant has Annalisa backed up against a wall in the pool, leaning in close to talk to her. She doesn’t seem to mind one bit. Maybe they are in on it together. They’re awfully cozy for a woman who just lost her live-­in boyfriend. How convenient to have him out of the way.
    Grant pulls Annalisa out of the pool and leads her to the patio. They seem deep in conversation, with Annalisa gesturing fiercely, casting a glance back at the pool.
    I look where she is gesturing. At first, it looks like everyone is frolicking, swimming, or sitting on the edge of the pool as they drink, but then I notice a woman in a black bikini casting dark looks at Annalisa and Adam Grant. She’s sitting in a beach chair, scowling and sipping on her drink. For a second, it looks like she’s mumbling to herself. I had talked to her earlier, and she had dismissed Annalisa with a wave, saying, she’d never heard of her or her art, and she was only there because she was a longtime friend of Grant’s. She went on to tell me how she was a famous interior designer who had “done” Grant’s penthouse apartment in the city.
    Now I give her a second look. Who said the killer had to be a man? A scorned woman could have seduced the pants off Laurent, shot him, and sent his vehicle plunging over the