It was so dark now that—like the elephants—I couldn’t see and had to find my way with my other senses. So I framed his face with my hands, breathed in the scent of him, touched my forehead to his. “Thomas,” I whispered. “I have something to tell you.”

VIRGIL

What tipped me off was that stupid pebble.

The minute Thomas Metcalf saw it, he went ballistic. Okay, granted, he wasn’t exactly the gold standard for sanity, but the minute he focused on that necklace there was a clarity in his eyes that had not been there when we first walked into the room.

Rage often brings out the real person.

Now, sitting in my office, I pop yet another Tums into my mouth—I think this is my tenth, not that I’m really counting—because I can’t seem to get rid of the fizzy pressure in my chest. I’ve chalked it up to heartburn from that crap we ate for lunch from the hot dog cart. But there’s a tiny, fleeting thought that maybe this isn’t a gastric issue at all. Maybe it’s just pure, unadulterated intuition. A nervous hunch. Which I have not felt in a very, very long time.

My office is covered with evidence. In front of each box taken from the PD there are several paper bags tipped onto their sides, with the contents carefully arranged in a semicircle beneath them: a flowchart of crime, a felonious family tree. I am careful where I step, making sure that I don’t crush a brittle leaf with a black spot of blood on it or overlook a small paper packet with a fiber inside.

I’m thankful for my own inefficiency, at that moment. Our evidence room was full of material that could have or should have been returned to its owners but never was—either because the investigating officer never told the property officer the items could be destroyed or returned, or because the property officer wasn’t involved in the investigations and wouldn’t have known that information on his own. After Nevvie Ruehl’s death was ruled accidental, my partner had retired and I had either forgotten or subconsciously decided not to tell Ralph to remove the boxes. Maybe on some level I wondered whether Gideon might file a civil suit against the sanctuary. Or maybe on some level I wondered about Gideon’s role that night. Whatever the reason, I’d known that I’d need to comb through these boxes again.

It’s true that, if you want to get technical, I’ve been fired from this case. Except that Jenna Metcalf is a thirteen-year-old kid who probably changed her mind six times this morning before she decided on a breakfast cereal. She threw words at me like handfuls of mud, and now that they’ve dried, I can brush them off.

It’s true, too, that I’m not sure if the death of Nevvie Ruehl was caused by Thomas or his wife, Alice. I suppose Gideon can’t be ruled out, either, now. If he was sleeping with Alice, his mother-in-law might not have been all too happy. I just don’t believe the death was a trampling, even if I signed off on that ten years ago. But if I’m going to figure out who the murderer is, first I need proof that this was a murder.

Thanks to Tallulah and the lab, I know that Alice Metcalf’s hair was found on the victim. But did she find Nevvie’s body after the trampling and leave that hair behind before she ran? Or was she the reason there was a body in the first place? Could the hair transfer have been innocent, as Jenna wanted to believe—two women who brushed by each other in the office earlier that morning, neither one knowing that by the end of the day one of them would be dead?

Alice is, of course, the key. If I could find her, I’d have my answers. What I know about her is that she ran away. People who run away either have something they’re trying to reach or something they’re trying to avoid. I’m just not sure, in this case, which one it was. But either way—why not take her daughter with her?

I hate saying that Serenity might be right about anything, but it would be considerably easier if Nevvie Ruehl were around to tell me what happened that night. “Dead men don’t talk,” I mutter out loud.

“I beg your pardon?”

Abigail, my landlady, scares the shit out of me. All of a sudden she’s standing in the doorway, frowning at the paraphernalia strewn around the office.

“Fuck, Abby, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Must you use that word?”

“Fuck?” I repeat. “I don’t know what you’ve got against it. It can be a verb, an adjective, a noun—it’s very versatile.” I smile broadly at her.

She sniffs at the detritus on the floor. “I’ll remind you that each tenant is responsible for his own refuse collection.”

“This isn’t trash. It’s work.”

Abigail’s eyes narrow. “It looks like a crystal moth lab.”

“First of all, it’s meth—”

Her hands flutter at her throat. “I knew it …”

“No!” I say. “Just trust me, okay? This looks nothing like a crystal meth lab. This is all evidence, from a case.”

Abigail puts her hands on her hips. “You’ve already used that excuse.”

I blink at her. And then I remember—one time, when I’d been on a bender not long ago and had been wallowing in my own stink for a full week without leaving the office, Abigail had come to investigate. When she walked in, I was passed out cold on my desk, and the place looked like a bomb had gone off. I told her I’d been up working all night and must have dozed off. I told her that the litter on the floor was physical evidence collected by the major crimes unit.