That’s affair behavior, which could make this cut and dry the way I suggested it was to Andrew—a jealous lover or husband who didn’t act in rage but calculated revenge. Still, something feels off. Jealousy tends to be violent and brutal. There was nothing brutal about this crime scene. This was more like a calculated revenge killing, but then, I don’t actually know how she died to make that a serious assessment.

My attention returns to the phone. There’s a break in the messaging, a full hour with no communication with anyone before “Baby” messages Emma again with: I got a flight out tomorrow afternoon. We can have dinner together.

I check the call log and “Baby” called her five times before that text, but she didn’t take the calls. Obviously, there was trouble in paradise, and how interesting that the fiancé was gone when she died. I have to wonder if he was already in her will or on her life insurance policy. And something tells me she was busy with Jamie, who never sent another text message. Jamie, who may or may not have been happy about the wedding. I shoot photos of the text messages for myself and key several into my phone before I scan her camera roll. There are photos of her in lingerie that were taken in the mirror tonight. She sent them to no one, at least not by way of her regular text messages. Of course, she could have deleted messages. The short thread with Jamie suggests that she may have made a habit of deleting their exchanges. I flip through her apps and find no other messaging app. I lean back on my haunches and contemplate how this night might have gone, but the wedding dress that wasn’t her actual wedding dress just doesn’t fit.

I call Jamie from her phone. He doesn’t answer. I call “Baby” from her phone. He doesn’t answer.

I bag the phone and then the dress, and just as I stand up, North appears, “I guess there’s a reason why they call you special, Agent. You found the phone and her clothes.”

“And I don’t even need a donut to prove I’m special like all you officers do.” He scowls and I shove the bags at him. “Read her text messages. She was fighting with the fiancé tonight and someone she named Jamie. I tried to call them both from her phone. Neither answered.”

“Jamie,” he repeats and it’s not a question. There’s recognition there in the depths of his flat eyes and tone.

My eyes narrow. “Who is Jamie?”

“No idea,” he lies.

“Special Agent Love,” someone says from the door.

“Who is Jamie?” I repeat, ignoring the request for my attention.

“No one,” he repeats.

“Special Agent Love?” someone says more urgently now.