Chase and I head back to the station. I want to check in with Dr. Gaines and the tech guys. See what they’ve come up with.

My office is freezing cold. For some reason, Sundays are particularly cold at the station, as though law enforcement stops on the weekend. Chase is out in the squad room at his desk, and I sit and spread out my notes.

We still need to talk to the Pearsons. Neither of them has answered their phones, so I left messages. But I’m assuming they’ll have the same story—everyone was having a good time, no sign of trouble.

My phone vibrates and rings on my blotter. It’s the ME returning my call. She has nothing pertinent to add to the investigation at this point. The autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow morning, ten a.m., if I want to be there. I glance out my open door. Maybe I’ll see if Chase wants to go. I’ve seen enough people cut up over the years, and my time’s better spent elsewhere. We’ll see.

By five p.m., I’m ready to close up for the day. Tomorrow will be busy.

* * *

Inside my apartment, I push up the thermostat, stick my feet into my slippers, and search the fridge for leftovers. I’m settled on the couch with a deli container of potato salad and a glass of cabernet when there’s a knock on my door.

Shit. I’m tired and really don’t feel like talking to anyone.

“Rita?” He calls through the door. “It’s Collin. You home?”

He knows I’m home. My van is parked in its usual spot right out front. That’s okay, I don’t mind him. Collin and I’ve gotten close in the three years he’s lived in the apartment above mine. He’s the son I never had, he says, and he’s not half wrong.

“Come on in. You want a glass?” I ask as he comes through the door. I tip my head in the direction of the wine bottle on the counter.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” He’s wearing a navy-blue sweater and skinny jeans.

“What’s up?” I ask as we flop on the couch.

“I was watching the news and heard about that man who was murdered.”

“Uh huh.”

“They showed a picture of his wife, and I recognized her.” His eyes are wide, and a light smattering of freckles make him look younger than his twenty-nine years.

“Yeah?”

He leans forward, runs his hand through his bangs, pushes them back into his thick dark hair. “I think she’s the lady who came into the café Saturday. André did a birthday cake for a Dr. Bradley, and I put together finger foods. That’s them, right?”

Their names have been released, so I can confirm that to Collin. “Yes. You or André talk to her when she picked up everything?”

“I did. André wasn’t there. I helped her put the order in the back of her Mercedes.” Collin claps a hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe it, Rita. Just think, André made that man’s last birthday cake. Can you imagine? What would it be like if you were celebrating your birthday and you knew it was your last, the end.”