Mr. Branch continues, “And if it got out, I wouldn’t have been able to keep it out of the media, and Alice was already reading at a sixth-grade level by then. I couldn’t have shielded my daughter from the fallout, Detective. Amelia was a well-known author and . . .”

“And a Branch.”

“Yes.”

“Why tell me now?”

He draws a deep breath. “I figured you guys didn’t believe me, and I didn’t want to worry about being surprised by cops on my doorstep.”

“What about your daughter?”

He sighs. “She’s old enough to hear the truth, I guess.” His eyes don’t look convinced.

“How’d you get the paperwork falsified?”

“Branch money.” His gaze meets mine. “I’m not proud of that.”

I tap my pencil against my notebook. He leans forward and takes a pen out of my cup holder and scribbles something on the back of a business card he pulled from his wallet.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“That’s Amelia’s sister’s phone number. Anna was actually the one who found her that day. She called me at the store, hysterical. She had talked to Amelia that morning and was worried about her, so she came over.” Mr. Branch clears his throat and sits up. “Anyway, please give her a call if you need confirmation.”

I nod, glance at the sketches in my notebook, one of Alice with her braids. “Where did your wife die? Where did it happen?”

He tells me, and I sit back and pick up my phone. Sometimes the humane thing isn’t necessarily the right thing, but you’ve got to make a decision.

“Hmmm. Not our jurisdiction then, Mr. Branch. This department won’t be interested in looking into the matter.” I delete the recording from my phone.

His eyes meet mine. “Thank you, Detective. These last few weeks have been . . . I don’t have any words.”

“Sometimes there aren’t any.”

He stands, shakes my hand, and leaves. I wander to the window and watch the snow fall.

* * *

I eat lunch at my desk, a turkey sandwich and an apple. Time to get back to a healthy diet, but I can’t help but eye the tin on the corner of my desk. Maybe one of André’s oatmeal raisin cookies wouldn’t be too bad. Oatmeal’s good for you. I’m prying up the lid when Chase peeks in at my door and holds up a file folder.

“Mrs. Bradley’s here. I’ve got that report she requested.” Chase’s dark eyes meet mine for a second, then his gaze drops to the floor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off today?”

“Yeah. I’m leaving shortly.”