Most of the students were gone by five after ten, cars spilling out of the darkened parking lot with the sweep of headlights, engines thrumming. I offered to help her tidy up, but she said it’d be quicker if she did it herself. I wandered around the room, doing an idle survey while she emptied the coffee urn and rinsed it out, put away the drawing supplies, and then flipped out the lights. She locked the doors behind us and we headed for my VW, which was the only car left in the parking lot. As we drove through the gated driveway, she said, “I live in Montebello. I hope that’s not too far out of your way.” “Don’t worry about it. I’m on Albanil, near the beach. I can come back along Cabana and it’s no big deal.” I turned right onto Bay, and then right again on Missile, picking up the freeway about two blocks down. She gave me directions to her place and for two miles we chatted idly, while I tried to decide what I could learn from her. “How’d you first hear about Isabelle’s death?”
