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back his Prius out of a nice shady spot under a eucalyptus tree.
    The faculty offices for the art department were in a row of aged twostory metal-and-stucco rectangles tucked along the east edge of the campus behind the larger buildings that housed the classrooms, studios, galleries, and workshops. We climbed an exterior staircase with a wobbly railing and found FO4 203. The door was open. We’d called ahead.
    “Professor Catanio?” I asked.
    “You must be Detective Beckett,” she said.
    I told her who I was and introduced Jen. The office was small and filled with furniture even older than what we had downtown. The carpeting was rust colored and worn smooth in spots by years of use. The paint was fresh, though, and the art on the walls livened up the atmosphere. I assumed it was good, but there weren’t any starry nights or water lilies or little angsty guys with their hands on their ears, so I wasn’t able to tell for sure.
    She gestured to two steel-and-vinyl chairs across from her desk. “Please,” she said. Either force of habit or simple politeness compelled her to say, “It’s nice to meet you.” Of course it wasn’t. It’s a very rare thing when it’s actually a nice thing to meet two homicide detectives. At least she’d heard about the deaths from the Benton family, so we were spared the difficulty of the notification.
    I said it for both of us. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
    “Thank you.” She didn’t look like an art professor. At least not what I’d expected an art professor to look like—no nose ring, or black turtleneck, or indoor sunglasses. Maybe art history was different. She was wearing khaki pants and a pale-yellow sweater, and she had her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. I made her for midthirties, but sadness and the circles under her eyes might have been adding some years. Sara Benton had been thirty-three.
    “Professor Catanio,” Jen began, “you knew Sara well?”
    “Please, call me Catherine,” she said, as if she found the formality embarrassing.
    “Catherine,” I said, softening my voice. “You and Sara were very close?”
    She nodded. “Since college. We both majored in art history at UCI. Took a year off after graduation and went to Europe to see the great art. We couldn’t believe we were both accepted into the graduate program at Irvine.” It was clear she was relishing the memories, but her voice dropped as she continued. “But she met Brad and quit school. I went straight through the PhD, and here we are.” She tried a smile, but it didn’t quite take.
    “She was coming back to school, though,” I said.
    “Yes.” Catherine paused a moment. “She thought I got her into the grad program here. I’m not even on the committee.” She shook her head. “She never really believed in herself like she should have. There was never a doubt she’d get in here. I encouraged her to go to UCI or UCLA and go for her doctorate. She insisted on starting smaller.”
    Jen said, “Why did she decide to go back now?”
    “A few reasons, I think. The kids were getting older. Jacob started preschool. Mostly, though, I think she really needed something that was just hers.”
    “How do you mean?” I asked.
    “Well, you know how Brad is.”
    Neither Jen nor I really did know how Brad was, but we let her go on.
    “Everything in their lives has been about him for so long I think she felt like she was getting lost. I don’t know how she managed as long as she did. He was the star, the congressman’s son, the up-and-comer. She needed something that wasn’t part of the Bradley Benton the Third show.”
    I said, “You don’t sound like you’re a fan.”
    She looked from me to Jen and back to me again, and for the first time since we’d sat down, I saw the teacher in her. In three seconds, she evaluated us and made a decision that transformed her expression. The pain and sadness that had seemed permanently imprinted there vanished and were replaced with