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too?”
    â€œJust on the phone. Never met her. Carol talked about her when I came to visit. I was glad she’d made a friend who wasn’t in for murder.”
    I was confused. “Diane looked after her in the infirmary.”
    â€œYeah. I guess she got brownie points for that. Maybe it was her get-out-of-jail card.”
    â€œDiane was a prisoner?”
    â€œShe tell you otherwise?”
    â€œShe said she was a nurse.”
    â€œMaybe in some other life. I wouldn’t want her to nurse me. She’s a con artist. Bilked old ladies out of their savings.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I could hardly see straight going home, I was so mad. People on the subway kept their distance. Must’ve had smoke coming out of my ears. I hugged the guitar case like there was a machine gun inside. I wished. That jailbird Diane really conned me. I’d fallen for her story, all of it. If she lied about who she was, what else did she lie about? She was one of the people who claimed my mother was innocent. Was it any less true if Diane was a liar?
    I shivered and stared out the window of the subway. We were speeding through the black tunnel. If my mother was a killer, this was where my life would stay—in a dark tunnel. I thought back on everyone I’d talked to who knew her. They all believed she was guilty.
    I had to speak to Diane again. Get the truth this time. I’d shake her until she coughed it up. What did I do with the scrap of paper she’d written her address on? I prayed it was on the coffee table at home where she’d left it.
    I lugged the guitar up the stairs of the subway and down the street. It was heavy, but I loved every inch of it. Had to be careful not to bang it in the elevator to the third floor. I was panting when I finally put it down on the rug in my living room.
    I rushed to the coffee table. Diane’s note was right there on top of one of my hairstyling magazines. Place wasn’t far. Cabbagetown. There was a phone number. But I wasn’t going to call. Then she could bolt and avoid me. I’d take my chances she was home. If not, I’d wait.
    I checked the clock in my tiny kitchen. Nearly eight. My stomach was growling. What did I eat today? Not much. I threw some cheese between two slices of whole-wheat bread. I scarfed it down, grabbed a chocolate bar and ran out the door.
    After a couple of subway stops, I was there in fifteen minutes. The street Diane was staying on was not the best. Not the worst either. I passed a lot of old houses with drooping porches. Then I found it. A big Victorian number, not quite falling down.
    The front door was unlocked, but then I was stuck in a small hall with numbers and push buttons on the wall. And a locked door. I pressed the bell for her apartment, number 204. No answer. So either she wasn’t home, or she didn’t want visitors. I wasn’t giving up that easy.
    I pushed someone else’s bell. Some dude answered. I said in my sweetest voice, “I forgot my key. Could you please unlock the door?”
    â€œWho’s this?” he asked.
    â€œDiane,” I said.
    The buzzer rang and I opened the door. Nice guy. Too trusting though.
    I climbed up a dark wooden staircase to the second floor. I knocked on 204. Nothing. Maybe there were people she didn’t want to see. Like one of those old ladies she’d swindled.
    â€œDiane! It’s me. Amanda.”
    Dead quiet. So maybe she didn’t want to see me either. Now what? I wasn’t going to be a pussy and slink away. I banged on the door. I was going to stand up for myself.
    â€œDiane! Open up!”
    I looked down the hall. Two more apartments. If I was disturbing anybody, they didn’t come running.
    I grabbed the doorknob and jiggled it around to let her know I meant business. The door opened! I stood there like an idiot. Well, I wasn’t the only one. She wasn’t too swift, leaving the door unlocked. Anybody could walk in.
    I pushed