He reached past her, opened the door, and let himself out.

End of story.

The odds of Thompson contacting him were lower than the seasonal pond on his parents’ farm during an August drought.

Striding back to his patrol car, he kept tabs on his surroundings as he dodged burnt-out remnants from the fireworks that had been set off by residents last night. Like the victims in the fraudulent investment scheme, the charred shells littering the street and sidewalk had perished in the night, leaving no trace behind of the hand that had destroyed them.

He kicked a spent rocket out of his path.

They were getting nowhere in their quest to identify the perpetrator of the deaths of older residents and the incidents with Grace. Even if the foxglove test came back positive and they solved the mystery of the “how,” they still didn’t know who was behind it.

One thing for certain.

Jordan Lee Thompson wasn’t BK—and she didn’t have a clue who was.

So unless Grace’s autopsy on Lorraine unearthed new evidence this morning, they were no closer to solving this case than they’d been before Tyler and Dave had come forward with intriguing but minimally useful information about the perpetrator.

Meaning more havoc could be wreaked at any moment by the cold-blooded killer in their midst.

“Would you get me another sample container, Max?” Grace made a few snips with her scissors, then picked up Lorraine’s stomach from the large cutting board and poured the contents into a measuring cup through the slit.

There wasn’t much. Most had been vomited out.

“Coming right up.” Her autopsy tech hustled over to the tool table and returned with a jar, lid off and ready for the sample. “Sorry. I thought I had you covered.”

“You did.” After only a few autopsies together, he’d learned to anticipate her every move. She never had to ask for the autopsy saw after she made the shoulder-to-shoulder Y incision that went all the way down the center of the chest. Max was always standing by with it—and whatever else she needed. “I’m taking a couple of extra samples with this one.”

Russ wandered over but kept his distance since he’d elected not to suit up. “Find anything interesting?”

“Routine so far.”

He grunted and returned to the counter on the side of the room to refill his coffee.

The door to the morgue opened, and Grace glanced over as Nate entered. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“You want a cup of coffee?” Russ lifted his disposable cup from across the room.

“Maybe later. How’s it going?” He stopped a few feet away from the autopsy table, as Russ had.

Grace eyed him. His color was normal, unlike during his first visit. But still . . . “We shouldn’t be much longer. I can brief you after we’re done if you want to wait in the hall or outside.”

“I’ll stick around.”

Huh.

His sensitivity training with the formalin/paint combo must have helped.