“Well”—he read the name tag pinned to her shirt—“Kari. I’m Detective Nate Sweeney. I have a murder victim who last used her credit card here.”

The smile dropped off Kari’s face.

He pointed to the video camera above the counter. “How long does that record for?”

“Thirty days.”

“I’m going to need to see it.”

“I… don’t know if that’s allowed.”

He thumped his badge on the counter. “I suppose I could always question you down at the station. You’d need to grab your ID and lock up the gas station, of course.”

Kari’s eyes darted sideways. “Gabe, he should be here soon—”

“This is time-sensitive, Kari. You understand.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Okay, come with me.”

He followed her to a back office with a desktop computer, floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets, and a printer. She clicked the mouse and pulled up the video surveillance footage. Nate gave her the date of Violeta’s purchase, and she opened the file, then got up so Nate could sit and watch it.

The footage was grainy, opaque, but he could make out Violeta buying two packs of cigarettes, a pack of gum, and a handful of junk food from Gabe. There was no audio, but they spoke for a few minutes, Violeta saying something and Gabe laughing. After a moment, Gabe grabbed his coat and locked up the shop, and they left.

Nate watched in fast-forward as the night passed and moved into the next day. Gabe came in and opened the shop, Kari entered, then exited. There was nothing that stuck out. So he clicked into the day before. People came in and out, paying for gas and buying food from the grocery section.

And then he saw something that made his stomach drop. A woman putting a sheaf of small, square papers on the counter in front of Gabe.

His wife.

NATE DROVE FAST, his lights flashing. He pulled up to Stevie McGraw’s home, a rusting double-wide trailer parked on an end lot in Mill Creek. The trailer had an air of neglect about it. The tiny yard was overgrown, shingles falling from the roof, the yellow siding peeled and cracking.

The perfect hideout for a teenage scumbag, Nate thought unkindly.

He hammered on the door. Stevie opened it and scowled at Nate, black hair tangled in a gnarled rat’s nest. He looked weird without his horn-rimmed glasses, younger somehow.

“I need your help.”

“Why would I wanna help a cop?”

“Because I can make those possession charges from a few weeks ago disappear.”

Stevie smiled widely. “In that case, come on in, man. Mi casa es su casa.”

The trailer was a mess—stacks of newspapers on the dining table, dishes in the sink, clothes strewn across the furniture. The faint smell of pot permeated everything.