Jordan got away from work at 9:30 p.m. She had run the blue pickup truck’s plates, discovered it had been reported stolen eight months ago, and the owner, Owen Franklin, was currently serving time in jail. A BOLO had been issued for the vehicle, but if this killer had used a stolen truck, he likely was not driving around in it. The software engineer next to Mrs. Penn had been in Seattle for the last two weeks.

She barely had time to grab a bundle of red carnations from a convenience store and arrive at Avery’s café by 10:00 p.m.

“You made it.” Avery picked up the carnations off the passenger-side seat, sat, closed the door, and clicked her seat belt in place in one continuous move.

“You had your doubts?” Jordan asked.

“Your job has a habit of popping up at the worst times.”

“I’ll send a memo to the criminals.”

“Ha ha.” She fingered the red carnation with the most wilted petals. “At least you picked her favorite color.”

“Ma and her red nails. She said they made her feel pretty.”

“She was pretty,” Avery said. “I like the way you call her Ma. Reminds me we were from Boston.”

Avery had been six when their mother had packed them up and moved to Texas. Her deep drawl made her sound as Texan as any twenty-four-year-old born in the state, whereas hints of Jordan’s Boston accent always made her stand out. She was a hybrid creature who did not quite fit in Texas or Boston.

A cool evening breeze blew in Jordan’s window as she drove through town to the small cemetery north of Austin. It was miles beyond the edge of the city, but at the time had been all Jordan could afford. She pulled through the stone entrance and wound her way to the top of the hill where the cremated bodies were interred. Jordan shut off the engine, and they both stared into the long lit room filled with hundreds of tiny boxes that all contained someone. Neither one of them was in a rush to go inside.

“What was the case that almost made you late today?” Avery asked.

Jordan’s sister normally did not care about murder, but conversations about their mother were always charged with strong emotions. Avery had been only twelve when their mother died, and she had not witnessed the darker side of Donna Poe’s addiction. Jordan remembered countless days of putting her mother to bed at 3:00 p.m. and making sure Avery had done her homework and gotten a hot dinner. Even to this day, she still had trouble containing her resentment, which always came twisted with the fear that Avery would succumb to drugs again. So, murder won as the conversation starter.