It didn’t take a PhD to figure out what had conjured that first dream—or to understand why she was still having them. Wade may have strayed into prickly territory, but his observations had thrown a floodlight on things she’d been trying very hard not to see—primarily that she had purposely been ducking questions about Stephen’s Jane Doe. And now, more than a month later, she still hadn’t plucked up the courage to pick up the phone.

On impulse, or perhaps out of defiance, she reached for her cell. For better or worse, it was time to stop wondering. “I’d like to speak to Detective Connelly,” she said briskly when a Sergeant Wood answered on the second ring.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Detective Connelly is no longer with the department.”

For a moment, she thought she’d heard him wrong. “Did you say he’s no longer with the department?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What does that mean?”

There was a pause, as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “It means he’s not here, that he’s taken early retirement.”

“When?”

“First of the year, I believe. Is there someone else I can connect you to?”

“No—yes! I’d like to speak to whoever has taken over Detective Connelly’s cases.”

“And may I have your name?”

“Christine Ludlow. I was Stephen Ludlow’s wife, and I was hoping . . .”

“One moment, please.”

The line abruptly went silent. A moment later, there was a new voice in her ear. “This is Captain Billings, Mrs. Ludlow, with the Office of Public Affairs. How can I help you?”

“Are you Detective Connelly’s boss?”

“Not exactly, though I did outrank him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Christy-Lynn fumbled for a response. The truth was she didn’t know what she was asking. She was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Connelly was gone when she was almost certain he’d told her he was still two years from retirement.

“Mrs. Ludlow?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was hoping to speak to whoever was handling Detective Connelly’s cases. I’ve been trying to get some information about my husband’s accident. Particularly about the woman who was in the car with him that night.”

“Your husband’s case was closed months ago, Mrs. Ludlow. There was no indication of foul play, and the tox levels all came back within legal limits. The ME’s finding was accidental death by drowning.”

“And the woman?”

There was a brief stretch of silence. “The woman?”

“Yes, Captain, the woman. I’m sure you remember her. Her pictures were in all the tabloids thanks to someone in your department.”

The captain cleared his throat, a halting, awkward sound. “Yes, of course. That was . . . unfortunate. But I’m afraid we’re not releasing any information with regard to the second victim. It’s a rather sensitive matter, after all, particularly in light of your husband’s high visibility, and the family has a right to privacy. Perhaps it would be best to simply . . . let it lie.”

Christy-Lynn’s blood began to simmer. “It’s a little late to be worrying about sensitivity, don’t you think? And where was all this concern for privacy when the press was camped out in my driveway, passing around photos that someone in your department leaked?”

“Mrs. Ludlow.” His voice was sharper now, more like a lawyer’s than a police captain’s. “There has been no confirmation that those photos were leaked by anyone in this department, though I do understand how difficult this must be for you. And despite what you might think, we take a family’s right to privacy very seriously. Which is why we won’t be releasing any information we may or may not have on a second victim.”

“And what about my rights as a wife? Do you not take those seriously?”

“Forgive me for sounding unfeeling. I don’t mean to be. But that really isn’t our concern. I hope you’ll understand. Goodbye.”

There wasn’t time to protest before the line went dead. Christy-Lynn stared at the blank phone screen with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. They were clearly eager to put the leak behind them, but where did that leave her?

Her hands shook as she scrolled through her contacts for Connelly’s cell number. If the good detective was no longer a member of the Clear Harbor police force, he might finally be willing to help.

Unfortunately, the number was no longer in service, which seemed odd. She could see a home phone being disconnected if he had moved, but most people kept their cell numbers, didn’t they? Her next call was to directory assistance, but the home number they gave her turned out to be disconnected as well. She remembered him saying something about a sailboat in the Keys, but trying to locate Connelly on one of the forty islands that comprised the Florida Keys would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

She was still contemplating what to do next when Tamara appeared with a tall to-go cup in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“A triple-shot latte,” Tamara said with an unmistakable air of pity.

“Do I look that bad?”

“Nothing a little caffeine and concealer won’t fix. By the way, you have a visitor.”