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was Carol. Good ol’ Dan was probably up and out already. Heaven forbid that even on a day as important as this day, he stay at home with his wife. Jillian said, “No.”
    “I couldn’t sleep,” Carol said.
    “I now know every pattern on my ceiling.”
    “It’s funny. I feel so nervous. My stomach is tied in knots, my hands are shaking. I haven’t felt like this since, well”—Carol’s laugh was brittle—“I haven’t felt like this since my wedding day.”
    “It will be over soon,” Jillian said quietly. “Do you think we should call Meg?”
    “She knows about breakfast.”
    “All right.”
    “What are you going to wear?”
    “A camel-colored pantsuit with a white linen vest. I laid it out last night.”
    “I went shopping. Nothing in my closet felt right. Then again, what do you wear for this sort of thing? I don’t know. I found this butter-yellow Chanel suit at Nordstrom. It was nine hundred dollars. I’m going to burn it when the day is done.”
    Jillian thought about her camel suit, then the coming day. “I’ll join you,” she said.
    Carol’s voice grew soft. “What did you do with the clothes you were wearing that day?”
    “When the police finally gave them back, I took them to the dry cleaners. And I’ve never . . . I’ve never picked them up.”
    “We’ll be thinking about Trisha today.”
    Jillian’s throat grew a little tight. “Carol . . . Thank you.”
    And then, of course, the most important question, the question the whole phone call had been about.
    “Do you know . . . Do you know what will happen?” Carol asked.
    Jillian’s gaze went back to the manila envelope on top of her dresser. Then she glanced at the clock. Seven-ten A . M . At least one hour to go.
    “No,” she said honestly. “But I guess we’re about to find out.”

CHAPTER 4
    Waters
    N INE-OH-FIVE A.M. D OWNTOWN, THE SCENE WAS PRETTY much what
Griffin had expected. Lots and lots of flashing lights. Very little organization. Even with an official vehicle and blaring horn, it took Griffin thirteen minutes to fight his way through the last three blocks around the courthouse. Almost immediately, he saw the problem. The media wasn’t just there. They were
there
.
    White media vans choked off the main artery of South Main Street. Choppers flooded the air. He’d already figured that most of the local news stations had sent reporters to cover the opening day of Eddie Como’s trial. Apparently, at the first sound of rifle fire, the reporters had yelled a collective yippee and called in every station resource they could muster. Now if only the police could manage such great coverage of the scene.
    Griffin drove his car up onto the curb, parking on cobblestones that technically formed a courtyard around one of the RISD buildings. Three students hastily scrambled out of his way, cursing. About four dozen more remained rooted in place, staring awestruck at the unfolding drama.
    Climbing out of his Taurus, Griffin was immediately assaulted by the acrid stench of burning gas and scorched metal. Thick black smoke poured out of the parking lot just across the street, where men were frantically shouting orders and shooting four streams of water onto a mangled heap of flame-covered autos. The state fire marshal was already there, along with a collection of rescue vehicles and illegally parked police cars. A slew of Providence detectives stood alongside the fire marshal, waiting for the firemen to squelch the flames so they could move in to secure the scene.
    “Jesus,” Griffin muttered, coughing twice, then wishing he hadn’t because it sucked more of the smoke into his lungs. Plus, this close, he caught another, richer smell underlying the odor of gasoline.
    Griffin turned toward the courthouse on his right and found more chaos. Reporters, hastily contained on the grassy lawn of the memorial park, strained against blue police barricades and shouted questions in the ears of the poor Providence cops assigned to stand