Tim was getting nothing done down there beyond chatting up our witnesses and keeping them calm. I knew this, sure as I knew I had little time to assess the scene before I’d have to barricade the door and get downstairs myself. There was no way to conduct the interviews with other witnesses listening in, twisting the story to serve their own needs. We’d have to separate them, but with every minute that passed, the killer—if there was one, if that person was even still here—had more time to think the situation through and prepare their next move. More opportunity to gain the upper hand.

Early in my law enforcement training, one of my instructors said it’s nearly impossible to convincingly fake an alibi without first re-creating it step-by-step. Plan to tell the cops you were out getting wine at the time of your lover’s death? You better drive to that liquor store and browse the aisles for the elusive Australian Shiraz that supposedly brought you there. You couldn’t have killed your boss because you were at the gym all evening? Unless you follow through with that fictional workout, a cop’s not going to buy it. Only by living the lie can guilty people deliver believable accounts. It’s scary to know it can be done at all, but there’s something scarier still. Despite everything I’d been told, I’ve seen killers pull alibis out of a hat neat as a magician, no false bottom in sight. And I had no desire to give these people the chance to show us what they, too, could do.

Snapping on the fresh pair of latex gloves I’d hurriedly stuffed in my pocket—my cuffs and tactical flashlight I’d clipped to my belt—before leaving A-Bay, I pulled out my notebook again. Over the years I’d gotten in the habit of making my own analysis. It’s a game I play to keep my skills sharp. I like to compare my conclusions to those of the forensics team. My training included some crime-scene investigation and management, but just as you wouldn’t expect a liberal arts grad to be an authority on psychology based on a couple of courses, I’m no pro. Look, don’t touch: that’s my motto. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay with the guy or girl who gets to the scene next.

Blissfully alone, I walked the room a second time imagining Jasper and his girlfriend settling in the previous night. I peeked in the dresser and under the bed. The two of them had shared a suitcase. They’d unpacked and stuck the empty luggage in the closet. Did they live together back in Manhattan? I’d need to find out.

Aside from the sheets, which would have to be bagged and tagged, there were several other objects worth collecting. Two iPhones were charging on a nightstand. Wherever Jasper was, he’d left that lifeline behind. We’d need someone to have a look at e-mails and messaging apps. I spotted a little blood on Jasper’s pillowcase that made me scratch my head. Blood on the sheets and a smear on the pillow, but everything else was clean. The long, dark hair beside it presumably belonged to Abella, but it would have to be analyzed all the same. I pictured her resting soundly while someone sank a blade into her boyfriend’s belly, just inches from her own, and frowned.