Will rubbed his jaw. His fingers were sticky. He nodded toward Faith’s computer. Images from Gerald Caterino’s murder closet were paused on the screen. “Anything?”

“Sadness,” Faith rolled back to her monitor. “I know how crime affects families. I see it every day, and it’s soul-killing and awful, but I look at everything Gerald has done—the freedom of information requests and the lawyers and the lawsuits and the PIs and the notes and phone calls and all the money he’s spent, and I just …”

She shook her head because there was nothing more to say.

He told her, “Amanda’s pushing on Masterson. I don’t know why, but she smells something rotten and she’s usually right.”

“Short of driving to Austin and sitting on their laps, I’m not sure I can do anything to make the ISP move faster.” She slid a printout across her desk. “Look at this invoice from Detective Dirk. Past due. And that’s the most recent one. Caterino is into this asshole for almost thirty grand.”

Will saw the numbers at the top of the page. “This has a street address. I thought you said all of the checks were mailed to a post office box?”

She slid over another piece of paper with a map, web address, and phone number. “Mail Center Station. It’s at one of those shipping stores where you can rent a post office box and get a street address.”

Will was familiar with the service. His ex-wife had been a prolific user of shadow addresses. He had been forced on a few occasions to track her down through less than legal means.

He asked, “What sounds more threatening to an average person on the street, telling them you’ve got a warrant or telling them you’ve got a subpoena?”

She considered the question. “I dunno, half the federal government has ignored subpoenas. I guess a warrant?”

Will punched the speakerphone button on Faith’s landline, knowing it showed up as the Georgia Bureau of Investigation on any caller ID.

She asked, “Are you getting sugar on my phone?”

“Yes.” He dialed the number. The phone rang once.

“Mailbox Center Station,” a chirpy young man said. “This is Bryan. How can I help you?”

“Bryan.” Will made his voice higher and added a thick South Georgia drawl. “This is special agent Nick Shelton with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I’m filling out an official warrant for a perpetrator who rents post office box thirty-four twenty-one at your location. The judge is requesting the name of the box holder before he’ll approve the warrant to send out the fugitive apprehension team.”

Faith shook her head at the subterfuge, because anyone with a passing understanding of how the law worked would laugh in his face.

Bryan did not laugh.

Faith’s eyes bulged as they heard him typing on a keyboard.

He said, “Yes, sir—I mean, Special Agent. Let me … I’ve got it … Okay, so three-four-two-one is rented to Miranda Newberry. Do you need her address?”

Faith knocked over her pencil cup scrambling for something to write with.

Will said, “Go ahead, son.”

“It’s 4825 Dutch Drive, Marietta, 30062.”

“Thanks, fella.” Will hung up the phone.

“Holy shit!” Faith threw up her arms like a ref calling a field goal. “That was amazing!”

“Miranda Newberry.”

Faith swung around to her computer. She started typing, then frowning, then growling. “Oh, for the love of—”

Will waited as she furiously clicked the mouse.

Finally, Faith said, “Miranda Newberry is an unmarried, twenty-nine-year-old CPA who graduated from Georgia State and spends most of her time on crime blogs and—are you kidding me? She’s on six different YA message boards. That’s exactly what I need, a white suburban millennial dictating what books are culturally appropriate for my brown daughter.”

“Fraud,” Will said, because it wasn’t necessarily a crime to impersonate someone online, but it was definitely illegal to do it for money. “Impersonating a police officer?”

“Oh, shit, look.” Faith pointed to the screen. “She just Insta’d a photo of the Big Chicken. She says she’s meeting her boyfriend for lunch in an hour.”

Will stood up. “I’ll drive.”

The Big Chicken was located at the intersection of Cobb Parkway and Roswell Road. The name came from the nearly sixty-foot tall sign that was shaped like a giant chicken sticking up its head from an otherwise unremarkable Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. Locals used it as a landmark. Directions were given based on whether they were before or after, to the left or to the right, of the Big Chicken.

Will glanced over his shoulder as the door opened. The KFC was packed with lunch-goers from local businesses. He saw Faith holding down their spot at a booth in the back. She was looking down at her phone. They had gotten here fifteen minutes ahead of Miranda Newberry, who was running fifteen minutes late.

The door opened. He glanced over his shoulder again.

Still no Miranda Newberry.

Will finished filling up his cup with Dr Pepper at the soda machine. He walked back toward Faith, scanning the other booths. Miranda Newberry’s Facebook banner had showed a very thin woman holding two Pomeranians she had dressed like Bonnie and Clyde. Will had silently endured Faith’s small dog jokes. Betty, his dog, was a chihuahua. Sometimes, people got stuck with small dogs and all they could do was take care of them.

“Nothing.” Faith was still bent over her phone as he sat down across from her. “She’s clearly a liar. She could’ve been lying about meeting her boyfriend. I bet he lives in Canada.”

Will said nothing. He had fond memories of his own Canadian girlfriend from high school. She had been a supermodel.

He asked, “Do you want something else to eat?”

Faith scrunched up her face. Her salad had looked like someone had already eaten it. She asked, “Why am I so annoyed about her young adult book reviews?”

Will drank his Dr Pepper.

“Okay, I admit I look like the textbook white lady who screams at the guy working the omelet station because cheese costs fifty cents extra.” She took a breath. “But the only reason, and I mean the only reason, I never tried coke was because of what happened to Regina Morrow. And don’t even get me started on Go Ask Alice. That book scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I had no idea what the hell Angel Dust was and I was still terrified. Does it matter if some two-hundred-year-old ghostwriter thought ‘dig it, man’ was how young people talked?”

The door opened.

Faith tensed.

Will shook his head.

Faith ripped a handful of napkins from the dispenser and cleaned off her phone. “Did I tell you the other day, I wiped some guacamole off my iPad and accidentally liked a post by this moron I went to high school wi—”

“Heads up.”

The door had opened again.

Miranda Newberry looked almost exactly like her photos. Her bangs were shorter. She was wearing a bright orange dress with blue and green flowers. Her purse was as big as a feed bag, with dangly tassels and beadwork. Will cataloged the various types of weapons that could be concealed inside, from a switchblade to a .357 Magnum. Judging her based solely on her social media, he assumed it was more likely she had some outfits for her dogs and several stolen credit cards.

Faith turned her camera on selfie mode so she could watch the action behind her.

Miranda did not look around the restaurant like a person who was looking for a boyfriend she was supposed to have lunch with. She stood off to the side of the packed front counter, held up her phone, smiled, took a selfie, then headed back out the door.

Faith jumped out of the booth ahead of Will. They jogged across the dining room. Outside, Miranda did not get into a white Honda CRX that was registered in her name. She stayed on foot, crossing the narrow street that curved behind the Big Chicken. Then she kept going through a row of shrubs.

Will caught up with Faith in the parking lot of a truck dealership.

“I hope we don’t lose sight of her.”

She was joking. The bright orange dress was like a parking cone.

“Where is she going?” Faith edged between two white vans.

Will smelled French fries. “Wendy’s.”

He was right. Miranda headed directly toward the low-slung building and yanked open the door.

Will and Faith slowed their roll. Through the plate glass, he could see Miranda standing in line to order. The Wendy’s was only half-full. There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot. He’d just eaten a three-piece Big Box meal but the smell of fries made him hungry again.

They split off inside the restaurant, taking opposite roles. Will found a booth in the dining room. Faith stood behind Miranda in the line. From his perch, Will could see Faith peering over the woman’s shoulder, reading her phone. Like most people, Miranda was wholly consumed by the screen. She had no idea that a cop was standing behind her, though Faith’s gun was on her hip under her suit jacket.