The hardware store was kind of a throwback to the stores her grandfather back in Boston talked about. People greeted you at the door, answered questions, and walked you to an item on the shelf.

Inside, she passed the front register, where a woman in her early fifties was ringing up a guy in jeans and a worn UT T-shirt. Instead of falling in line, she drifted to the back of the store. A young man, not more than eighteen, came up to her wearing a red apron. “Can I help you?”

“Do you have any plastic wrap?” she asked.

“Sure. Aisle six.”

“Thanks.”

The kid followed her. “You have a particular project in mind?”

“Thinking about doing some painting. I like home repairs.”

“Nice. Have you picked a color?”

“Not yet.” She entered aisle six and stared at the collection of tarps and light plastic wrap she had used plenty of times when she’d painted her house.

“We carry a decent selection of colors, and we can order anything.”

“Thanks.” She looked at a packaged square of heavy-duty plastic. She hefted the parcel. The weight felt about right.

“That’s not really good for painting,” he said. “It’s meant to be a barrier, like if a window got broken or a roof had a hole.”

Or if a body needed wrapping. “This all you have?”

“Yes, but we can order anything.”

“That’s good to know. Thanks. I’ll be back.”

“Sure.”

Jordan’s killer would have chosen a store like this. He could have defaulted to an online purchase, but they left credit card trails. And box stores took cash but had cameras and lots of employees.

“Hey, is Dot Andrews working today? I have a few questions for her.”

“Why?”

Jordan held up her badge. “Nothing major. Just a few questions.”

“She’s working the front register.”

“Great. Thanks.”

She made her way back to the front door. The man in line was gone, and the woman had shifted her attention to aligning bottles of energy drinks stacked by the register.

“Dot Andrews?” Jordan asked.

The woman turned. She was smiling, but dark smudges hung under her eyes, and the frown lines around her mouth were etched deep. “Yes?”

Jordan held up her badge. “I came to talk to you about Casey.”

Mrs. Andrews looked sideways and dropped her voice. “Have you heard anything?”

“No, ma’am. I just spoke to Detective Rivers, and I wanted to follow up. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Sure.” She produced a walkie-talkie from her red apron pocket and pressed the side button. “Ken, can you cover the register? I need to take a quick break.”

The radio squawked back, “Sure.”

Ken was the young kid Jordan had been talking to, and as he approached the register, Mrs. Andrews led Jordan through the store and out the back to a small picnic table covered by a sun-faded red umbrella.