Yvonne broke her M&M’s cookie into four pieces, picked up one, and covered the other bits with her napkin. She finished the first piece and reached for the second. Though she’d said she needed to talk to me, she didn’t seem eager to begin the conversation.

Which could only mean there was something she didn’t want to tell me. I considered possibilities. Due to seasonal affective disorder, she never smiled when it was cloudy. Or, thanks to family issues, she’d need to bring—I scanned her face, trying to estimate her age—her daughter to work three times a week. Or, due to a bizarre medical problem, her doctor had said she shouldn’t operate a computer keyboard. Or—

“I was in jail.”

Or she’d been in jail. If I’d had a month, I might have come up with that possibility, but probably not.

“Actually, it was prison.” She gave me a darting glance. “There’s a difference.”

Prison. Yvonne? She didn’t look as if she would swat a mosquito that was poking its pointed nose into her skin. What could she possibly have done to end up in prison?

She pulled out the third piece of cookie. “I was convicted of murder.”