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she was posing?”
    “I don’t think so. These don’t look posed to me.”
    “Really?” The detective tapped the one where Sheila looked like she was posturing in front of a mirror. “What about this one?”
    “Well, she was posing in that, but I don’t think she knew her picture was being taken. If she was posing for someone, she wouldn’t have sat like this.” Amy pointed to the one where Sheila was lying on the bed. “Or done this stretch.” She indicated another one where Sheila’s legs were spread at an unflattering angle. “This isn’t the way people pose, not even for erotica.”
    Amy looked up to find the detective appraising her. “How do you know so much about this?” he said.
    “I’m a photographer,” she said, then realized he knew her only as an agent. “I mean, that’s my real career. Not that real estate isn’t a real career.” She stopped talking, feeling idiotic.
    Juarez nodded. “It’s what you do to pay the bills.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I have friends who do that. Musicians and actors, but they take dozens of other jobs—waiter, file clerk, telemarketer.”
    “Yeah, that’s it exactly. It’s hard to make a living in the arts.” She was surprised and then embarrassed that she’d assumed that a police officer wouldn’t be cultured. “Are your friends working in Steerforth?”
    “No, Manhattan.” He turned abruptly back to the photos. “Any idea when these were taken?”
    Amy shook her head.
    They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The other detective who had been there yesterday stuck his head around the door.
    “Crane wants to see us.”
    “Can you handle it? Tell him I’m with a witness?”
    “I’m not your errand boy, Juarez.” The other man cackled, flashing his teeth at both Juarez and Amy in what could be construed as a smile, though it looked more like a sneer.
    Detective Juarez’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing, gathering up the photos quickly but carefully and sliding them back into the envelope. “Thank you for bringing these in,” he said to Amy, forcing a smile and she understood that she was being dismissed.
    He handed her over to an older, burly cop at the front desk who looked like he could crush her, but whose pudgy hands gently cradled hers as he took her fingerprints.
    When Amy left the station, she hesitated before driving back to the Braxton office and instead took a detour.
    The noon Mass was almost over at St. Andrew’s Church and Amy slipped into a pew in the back. She wasn’t Catholic, hadn’t been to a church service in years, but she knew this building well, at least its basement, and the small, white-haired priest who was leading his congregation in prayer.
    She closed her eyes and let the words and the music rush over her, thinking of Sheila and of what she’d suffered. It wasn’t fair. She’d worked so hard to get beyond her past, to become more than just another single mom, just another victim of domestic violence. Sheila didn’t like labels or pity. She used humor to block emotion, sure, but she’d also used it as a defense against the very real temptation of self-pity.
    Amy felt her throat tighten and tears gathering behind her eyelids. At that moment she would have given almost anything to hear Sheila’s big, brassy laugh. What was she going to do without her? It was strange that there could be people you knew for such a short time who could have such a tremendous impact on your life. She’d known Sheila for less than a year, but meeting her had been like meeting a long-lost friend or relative, someone you’d always had with you.
    Suddenly the church felt too close. Amy had to get away. She slipped out a side door and into sunshine, tilting her head back to feel the warmth on her face as she blinked back fresh tears. An accented voice called her name and she turned to see Father Michael pulling away from the small crowd of people filing out of the building.
    “I heard about Sheila,” he said when he reached