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AFTER LYING TO MY face, Claire looks down and checks her phone again.

“But we both know you weren’t with him,” I say.

“Ms. Welsh doesn’t know that,” Claire says.

“You think she doesn’t?” I say. “You think she won’t go into your phone records and know exactly where you were that night? Or go into the computer of your Bentley? All you will be doing, whatever your motivation is, is opening yourself up to a perjury rap.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

She checks her phone again.

“The minute you say you were with him,” I tell her, “Katherine Welsh will be waving the photograph of your husband in the vicinity of the Carson house the night of the murders.”

“Rob told me that you told him that the photograph was altered.”

“Thinking it and proving it are two entirely different matters,” I say. “But I am pleased to discover that you and Rob have been consulting on my case.”

“You mean as opposed to his case?” she asks.

“You know what I mean.”

“Me testifying as one of Ms. Welsh’s witnesses was his idea, actually.”

I close my eyes, feeling a sudden ache behind them. Or maybe just feeling as if I’m still in court, the long day still not over.

“Is Katherine Welsh aware that you plan to provide an alibi for Rob?”

“She is,” Claire Jacobson says. Another cat smile. “I was trying to be honest with her about my dishonesty.”

“I hate to break this to you, Claire,” I say. “But I’m an officer of the court. I can’t knowingly allow you to commit a crime.”

“What crime is that?”

“Perjury!”

“Prove it,” she says.

The doorbell rings then.

“That must be Robby,” she says, heading for the door.

“You’re having dinner with your husband?” I ask.

“No,” she says, over her shoulder.

Then she is opening the door and escorting the good-looking, dark-haired man in a dark tailored suit and earring, a man I think I vaguely recognize, toward where I am sitting in the living room.

“Jane,” she says, “I’d like you to meet my friend Robby Sassoon.”