“Sometimes the food smells get to me. I was in the bathroom.”

I leaned against the kitchen table and pressed my fingers to my temples. “Who do you think killed Graham?”

“Look, Mrs. Jones, you’ve been really nice to me, but—”

“You liked him well enough to cry over his death.”

She shook her head.

“Your child’s father.”

She tilted her chin and looked at the ceiling again. “I don’t have any proof.”

“Who?”

“Thatch Cooke.”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Cooke is a nice woman.”

“I agree. But you can’t let her husband get away with murder because you like her.”

She sighed. “Graham was sure Mr. Cooke was embezzling. But revealing that would have caused a huge scandal. He was trying to force Mr. Cooke out of the firm.”

“By challenging him for the managing partner job?”

“Graham would have won.” Her smile was cynical. “The fix was in.”

And Thatch’s motives to kill Graham kept getting stronger.

“Does anyone else know about the baby?”

“No.”

“What about your affair with Graham?”

She shrugged. “I’m not even sure how you know.”

And I wasn’t going to tell her. “You’re sure Sumner didn’t know the affair was ongoing?”

“Her friends wouldn’t have hired me to cater this weekend if she knew.”

But Graham knew. And Graham would have understood the implicit threat.

I glanced around the kitchen. “Are you leaving soon?”

“The sheriff said I could go whenever I like. When I finish cleaning the kitchen, I’ll hit the road.” The kitchen still needed work. Milk crates filled with pots and pans still littered the counters. The floor needed sweeping, then mopping. And the top of the six-burner stove needed to meet Misty’s sponge. She reached up and tightened her ponytail.

It was a gesture I saw from Grace at least once a day, and it reminded me that Misty was young.

She had told Graham she didn’t need his help with the baby. But she didn’t know how hard motherhood could be. The sleepless nights, the spit up, the diapers, the worry over tiny rashes, the bone-deep exhaustion.

And that was just the first week.

“I meant what I said about the restaurant. If you need an investor, let me know. The hours might be better than catering, especially for a new mother.”

She offered me a tiny smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’ll keep that in mind.”

I found Willa sitting on a blanket in the shade by the lake. She wore a linen shift and sandals and she’d French braided her hair, then tucked the tail. She looked like a fashion model waiting for a photographer. Cool and elegant and composed.

Especially when compared to me. Hot. Sweaty. Tired.

“Willa?”

She shifted her gaze from the water and nodded. Once. As if she expected me. "Liz said she spoke with you."

“We talked. “