“Let me get this straight,” he says, his tone sharp enough to have me throwing away my blanket too while steeling myself for what comes next. “Our friend,” he adds–that’s his way of discreetly referencing Pocher—because he’s a paranoid bastard who thinks everyone is always listening in—“our friend,” he continues, “is alive, you’re engaged to Kane, which by the way I had to find out on my own, and the victim of a murder last night was wearing a wedding dress. And let us not forget that there was a jar of blood with your name on it left at the crime scene. What part of that said wait to call Director Murphy?”

At this point, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and Kane’s crossed the room to disappear inside the bathroom. “I’ve been working on being more thoughtful, Director,” I comment. “Please. Thank you. Waiting until after Thanksgiving.”

Kane leans back into the room and mouths, “and fuck you, please” before he disappears again.

I’d smile, but Murphy snips that away real quick with a reply of, “What you’re working on is pissing me off all over again. Don’t patronize me.”

“First you’re my boss. That would be a stupid move. And surely you know by now that I don’t patronize. That’s not my thing.”

“Stop talking, Agent Love, unless you plan to say something of consequence.”

“Okay,” I say, angling for a reason. “I’m not solid on what I’m about to say yet, but I have a strong belief that this could be an Umbrella Man copycat or protégé of Roger’s. Not our friend.”

He’s silent three beats before he asks, “Why?”

I don’t immediately answer and not because the line may not be safe. Because every answer I give him, he could counter. Yes, this whole case feels beneath Pocher, and it feels like him asking for trouble he doesn’t need, but with the morning light, I’m clear on one fact: that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. There could be a motivation I’m missing. A distraction he’s creating to keep me and/or Kane from seeing something else. And he could just be driven by his grief to be careless. This entire crime could be driven by grief and anger that I cannot dismiss as a human reaction—yes, even Pocher is human. Maybe. Or a demon. I’m not into that shit, but if I were, he’d be on my demon list. And so, I say quite professionally, “Because my job is to look at all possibilities.”

“There are no coincidences, Agent Love,” he reminds me. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”