Erica drove straight to the clinic from school that afternoon. She was stopped at the entrance to the staff parking lot, where a uniformed officer asked for ID, checked her against a list, then called someone on a cell phone. The lot was full of police cars, the alley blocked off with crime tape, and some television vans parked as close as they could get. The officer waved her on.

      Inside the entrance to the clinic she was stopped again, this time by a plainclothes detective.

      “Ms. Castle? I’m Detective Mike Clarkson. I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said.

      “It’s true, then?” she said. “Someone shot Dr. McIvey? I heard it on the news on the car radio.”

      “It’s true,” he said. “We’re using this office.” He escorted her to Naomi’s office.

      “Why me?”

      He was middle-aged and polite, but straightforward to a fault. He didn’t wait for her to sit down before he started. “We’re asking everyone who was in the clinic between seven-thirty and eight this morning. That’s not your usual routine, I understand. Why were you here?” He flipped open a notebook.