“You’re a visual learner,” Lauren says.

I glance up at her. “Yeah, I suppose so.” I’ve always thought in pictures. I guess that’s what they call people like me nowadays when everybody’s got a label or a collection of labels. Whatever.

Lauren stands, juggles her laptop in her arms.

“Oh, did you get a look at their social media?” I ask. “The Bradleys and their friends?”

Lauren leans against the door frame, a furrow between her eyebrows. “Yeah. Typical stuff for the Pearsons and the Ferrises. Scott Westmore has a website for his business, but that’s all. Dr. Westmore and Dr. Bradley have no social media that I could find. Just a business website and LinkedIn. But I think that’s typical for their occupations. They wouldn’t want any of their patients stalking them, you know?”

I nod. “Seems prudent.”

“But the funny thing is Mrs. Bradley.” Lauren shifts the laptop to her other hip. “She’s relatively young. Women in her age group typically have Facebook at least. Her friends have an extensive social media presence. But not her. Not a trace.”

“Huh.” Even I’ve got a Facebook page under my maiden name, although I hardly ever post anything. One of my nieces cajoled me into it a few years ago when she had her first baby and wanted me to see pictures. I guess no one actually prints them out and sends them anymore.

“Seems odd,” Lauren says. “Like she’s hiding from the world maybe.”

* * *

Mrs. Bradley answers the door, looking thin and peaked, washed out. She’s wearing an oversized pair of gray sweatpants and a man’s flannel shirt that looks like it’s been pulled from the bottom of a laundry basket.

She leads Chase and me down the hall and into the kitchen. The party mess has all been cleared away, I notice as we sit at the table. The house smells of lemon and bleach and seems to echo in its stillness.

“We want to bring you up to date on the investigation, Mrs. Bradley.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Not yet.”

She nods. “When can I have my phone back?”

“Soon. We’ve got a lot to process, but it’s a priority.” How times have changed. Cell phones are the number one thing people want back after a crime.

I open a file folder. “The autopsy is complete, so we’ll be releasing your husband’s body later today.” She stares at me with round, blue eyes that look like they’ve been bruised in a prize fight, but that look is typical too.

“I’ll need to arrange a service,” she says almost to herself.

“It would be appropriate to go ahead with those plans.” I wonder if she’s up to it. Hopefully, she’s got family who can make the arrangements because this woman doesn’t look like she could handle planning a trip to the grocery store.

“How are you holding up, Mrs. Bradley?” Chase asks, his eyes searching her face. “Are you staying here alone?”

“Yes,” she says quietly.