I think Mallory saw that and decided I needed a friend. She was some of the only noise I could stand. Plus, she didn’t make me talk about myself or why I constantly threw myself into work. She really just liked to talk about herself, and I was more than happy to listen—or at least pretend to listen.

There was nothing wrong with that, right? Not when it was mutually beneficial.

At least I kept telling myself that as she droned on about the tourists of the day.

“Can I try this? Is that on sale? Do you have more sizes? Do you have suggestions on where to visit in town? Like, obviously, I do, but still.” She groaned. “It never ends! Everything is all about them. They touch everything and leave the store a mess. And you know who has to deal with it?”

She looked at me expectantly.

“You,” I guessed.

“Yes, exactly,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Anyway, I came here to see if you wanted to enjoy a wine night together? We could crack open a bottle of Merlot and watch shitty reality shows together.”

She tucked her long, black hair behind her ear, waiting for my answer.

“I have a few work things to finish up tonight, can we take a rain check?” I asked.

Alonzo jumped onto the couch, and she shooed him off, sending him running to my comfort. The plump orange cat jumped up into my lap, and I let him tuck himself close to me.

Mallory glared at the feline before her gaze flicked up to mine. The scowl on her face sent a twinge of guilt rushing through me. I hated bailing on her, but I couldn’t let what I’d found wait.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically. “But I’m coming back tomorrow, and you aren’t bailing on me then.”

I forced a smile to my face.

“Deal,” I said, knowing there was no way to avoid it.

She lived a floor below me, so even if I wanted to avoid her, it was impossible. Besides, a wine night could be good for me. Maybe my brother was right. Maybe I was turning into a workaholic.

Mallory got up to leave the apartment, and I hurried from my chair back to my bedroom, where I knew I left my laptop. The screen lit up the moment I opened it, and I swiftly pulled up a tab with my email. I spotted the museum email address with my name attached to it at the top of my inbox.

Inside was the newest piece of information on the Coastal Killer I’d found while helping Barren sort through the documents for the filing system.

It was an article; one I hadn’t seen before. The Briarport Chronicle, a small news outlet in the area, had published a story on the final stabbing the Coastal Killer ever committed. I had to send it to the tip line.