“What if it’s all connected somehow?” Marino continues poking a stick at it. “What if it’s all coming from the same source somehow? I mean we sure as hell have to consider it on top of everything else that’s been going on.”

It’s overwhelming to contemplate a link between Tailend Charlie and Elisa Vandersteel since both are linked to me. It might imply that Carrie Grethen is behind all of it. Behind everything, and I’m too worn down to read tea leaves, to speculate anymore. Instead I suggest to Marino that we rely on science. Since nothing else seems very trustworthy, I advise that he check with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

“NOAA should be able to tell us everything that’s gone on weatherwise.” I unlock my phone and my vision is bleary. “We’ll find out if there was any thunderstorm activity within fifty miles of here.” I feel whoozy and peckish as I text Rusty and Harold that we’re ready to transport the body.

It’s getting close to midnight and time to clear out. I’ve done as much as I can at the moment. The tent was a Rubik’s Cube to set up, and we stopped taking breaks as the work dragged on stressfully, miserably. We’re behind and overheated. I feel dehydrated, my mood deteriorating precipitously, and I have a headache that’s getting worse.

When I hear familiar voices and Velcro ripping again, I’m dizzy and jumpy as I turn around. I almost lose my balance.

“… They’re just finishing up …” Investigator Barclay pushes through the tent’s opening.

I can’t see Benton but I hear him mention something about blocking in several police cars. He’ll be out of their way in a few minutes, he says in a commanding serious voice, and I feel a nudge of dread.

CHAPTER 32

LIKE I SAID? BE ready because it stinks like holy hell in there …” Barclay announces in a stage whisper.

He’s annoyingly present and officious as he holds open the tent flap for my important FBI husband, practically saluting him, showing him into our glaringly bright, baking-hot, airless, foul-smelling theater, where I’m about to pass out.

“Whatever you need, you know where I’ll be.”

“I’ve got it from here.” Benton has had his fill.

“I almost went with the FBI, you know. I got no problem working with you guys,” as if everybody else does. “Well you got my number if there are any other questions?”

“That’s it for now.” Benton’s politeness hardens like epoxy as he tells the overbearing obtuse investigator he can leave—that nobody minds.