Sara Paretsky Lily Arima was watching Great British Bake Off reruns when her doorbell rang. Not the one at the street door, but the one at her fifth-floor apartment. She let it go the first two times but finally paused halfway through a lemon-mousse torte wreathed with hand-sculpted chocolate lemons. It was Elizabeth Lissam, hands bunched into fists. Lily curled her lip. “Don’t tell me: I broke rule eleven, paragraph three, which is so dreadful you couldn’t wait for tomorrow to tell me about it.” “Please.” Elizabeth’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “This is hard enough, don’t make