Now that he finally gets the point, I step to the bar where I’d been sitting, grab a notecard, scribble down my number and slide it in front of the chef. “I’ll need you to come to the station for questioning. Text me at noon tomorrow on the dot. If you don’t, we’ll hunt you down. I’ll hunt you down. It’s not ever a fun reunion when I hunt someone down. And now, you may go.” I flick Andrew a look. “If Police Chief Love agrees.”

The chef pales all over. “Police Chief Love?”

“Yes,” Andrew confirms. “Police Chief Love. And I’d like you to go to the station and get fingerprinted.”

Chef Roswell inhales and nods, removing his apron. “Whatever is needed.”

A timer goes off and he forgets all else, tossing the apron on a barstool and grabbing a potholder before rushing to the stove. A few moments later, he places a dish of mac ‘n’ cheese, bubbling with delicious cheese, on top of the stove. Oh, how painful killing this meal is to my growling stomach.

“It’s not poisoned,” he assures me. “No one touched it but me and my reputation is exceptional. And my mac ‘n’ cheese is the best on planet Earth.”

The man might know how to tempt a woman, even more so than Kane, outside that moment where he used the trashcan for a belly dumpster.

And yeah. It’s probably safe to eat the food, despite said dumpster location. However, using “probably” as a judgment call is about as stupid as assuming you know what you can’t validate. “Considering Emma Wells’ condition when I saw her last night,” I say trying, “I’ll pass.”

“Oh,” he says flatly. “I see. I ah, I see.”

I doubt it, I think. The man has thrown up in a trashcan, turned ten shades of white several times, and he’s still offering me food. Andrew motions to Chef Roswell to get moving and fortunately, he moves in Andrew’s direction. I walk to the hallway, grab my field bag, slide it across my chest, and glove up.

Once I’m back inside the kitchen, I walk straight to the refrigerator, open the door, and look for a jar of blood. There isn’t one. Of course not. That would make one of the people visiting our house tonight more obviously involved. It just never ends up that easy for me. I start walking the area, bagging samples of food, our salt and pepper shakers, and other random items, as I decide everything edible needs to go. I’m not sure how Emma died, but she was in the kitchen, water was in her hand, and that means she ate something that killed her, or she took medication.

Not poison my ass, Ms. DD Fashion Model.