“Someone is playing a game,” he replies dryly.

“Like the killer who sent us an invitation to Emma Wells’ wedding,” I say, my mind back on the case. “I wonder if our invitation looks like the rest of the invitations? If it does, then whoever sent it had to have access to her supply.” I grab a notecard and write “Invitation” on it before pinning it on the board. “Jamie was close to her,” I say. “That was obvious. It could be him—”

“Or her,” he suggests.

“True. It could be a female. Either way, Jamie, the possible lover, doesn’t fit the bigger picture of pulling me into this.”

“Why?”

“That’s too narrow a view,” I reply. “Something doesn’t fit.” I grab another piece of chocolate.

Kane stands and grabs my mug. “Coffee, no Bailey’s this time?”

“Yes. Please.” My lips curve. “See. I say sorry and please.”

“And fuck you,” he comments. “Often and well.” His lips curve now and he leaves the room.

“And someone was saying ‘fuck you’ to me tonight,” I murmur softly.

I need more to go on, but at this point, I don’t even know enough to build a profile of the killer.

No cause of death.

No proof of sexual contact or the lack thereof.

No cameras for a visual.

Kane returns, offers me my coffee, and we both get back to work. My to-do list includes finding out the source of that camera outage and digging into the past life of Emma Wells. Is her murder about her past or her present? Of course, it could be about me, and she was just an innocent victim, but that just isn’t sitting right with me.

Time ticks onward and I’m sitting on the floor when exhaustion kicks in. I lay down in the middle of the stacks of papers and shut my eyes.

“Let’s go to bed.” At Kane’s voice right above me, I blink him into view. He’s on a knee beside me and I think I might have had my eyes shut longer than I thought. “Let’s go to bed,” he repeats.

“Not yet,” I murmur, shutting my eyes again.

“You don’t do well without sleep. And you barely have any details on this case. You’re killing yourself for nothing.”

My lashes pop open. “I only need four hours,” I argue.

“It’s three in the morning. I predict the phone will be ringing by seven.”

“Three?” I frown. “Already?”

“Already,” he confirms, standing up to offer me his hand and I decide he’s right. I’m done. I need to be in bed, but my mind is still working.

I let him help me to my feet and then catch his arm. “Jamie,” I say as a thought hits me. “Something about Jamie is bothering me. And I don’t mean the obvious reasons like he has a throwaway phone. Something else.”