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were married.”
    She laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve had headaches that lasted longer than our marriage did.”
    He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared her down. “What risk?” he repeated.
    â€œWe live in government housing,” she said. “There are gangs and last night there was a running gun battle while Bernadette was sitting on the porch. A neighbor boy was shot.”
    He scowled. “Why do you live there?”
    She didn’t share Bernadette’s condition with outsiders. She didn’t want to think about the night before, when she’d been awakened from a sound sleep and had to rush with Bernadette to the emergency room. It was Colby’s fault, but he didn’t know it and she wasn’t going to tell him. “My daughter doesn’t exactly blend in a white community,” she said instead.
    One eye narrowed dangerously. “Why are you living in such a place?” he persisted. “Your father was worth millions when he died, six years or so ago, and you were an only child.”
    â€œI’m not worth millions,” she informed him.
    â€œHe must have left you something.”
    She just stared at him.
    â€œYour child’s father should be paying child support,” he said, changing tacks.
    â€œChance would be a fine thing,” she replied.
    â€œHunter said he was Hispanic,” he persisted. “He must have relatives, or even friends. It shouldn’t be hard to track him down.”
    God bless Hunter for that white lie, she was thinking. “Why don’t you just do your job, Mr. Lane, and leave me alone to do mine?” she suggested, sitting back down.
    â€œHow did the child know about my arm?” he asked out of the blue, hoping to shock her into an answer. What Hunter had told him hadn’t made sense.
    She frowned. “What about your arm?” she asked, diverted.
    She didn’t know? He straightened. “She knew I was…wounded,” he prevaricated.
    â€œOh.” She studied his face curiously, but it gave away nothing. “I don’t know,” she lied. “Maybe somebody mentioned it to her.”
    Colby wondered who might know about his injury besides Hunter, but he let it slide. “Why can’t you get something in a better section of town?”
    â€œBernadette’s had enough prejudice already,” she said reluctantly. “She’s accepted in the Chicano community.”
    â€œAre you?” he chided.
    â€œSurely you know that Chicanos can be fair as well as dark?” she taunted. “Besides, I fit in quite nicely. I’m literate in Spanish.”
    â€œYou can read and write it as well as speak it?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    No wonder the child was fluent in that language. He was thinking about what she’d said, about prejudice. He’d hidden his ancestry most of his life to avoid it. Sarina didn’t try to hide Bernadette’s. But she was protective of the child, and obviously loved her. Why would she live in so dangerous a place?
    â€œI’m sure Hunter could help you find a better apartment,” he said.
    â€œWe’re happy where we are. Or are you going to assure me that guns are only found in the minority communities?” she chided.
    â€œThey’re not as likely to be used in a better neighborhood.”
    â€œHa!” She turned on her computer.
    â€œYou’re avoiding the issue.”
    She looked up at him, trying not to let her mind wander back to happier times. “You have no right to make it an issue,” she said quietly.
    He drew in a breath. “Fair enough.”
    She turned her attention back to the computer.
    â€œWhy did they send you here from Tucson, instead of just getting someone from Houston to fill in?”
    â€œAre we doing an interview?” she asked, exasperated.
    â€œYour daughter likes the Mexican. What’s his name? Ramirez?”
    She smiled deliberately. “I like