I pull the two trays out and pop the first one in the microwave. “I’d give you all my sweet potatoes, Miss Walker.”

* * *

It’s funny, eating dinner after the intense orgasm I gave Zoey, but at the same time nothing could be more normal for us. We heat up our dinners and find our way to the couch. We don’t even pull up anything on my TV but instead get back to researching heavy metals.

Richard Horne, if you’re up there somewhere, listening in . . . I’m so sorry you died, but please know that something good is coming of it, I think as I tap at my keyboard. And also, what’s the deal with the heavy metals? Can I get a hint?

Hmm, maybe Zoey’s talking to dead people is wearing off on me too. I grin, and Zoey looks over. “What is it?”

“Just mentally thinking you’re rubbing off on me,” I admit. “I was just talking in my head to ol’ Dick Horne.”

“Ah,” Zoey says, and I feel her warm a bit more. She gets it. If it works, it works.

“What about his medical records? Do you have those to compare to? That would tell us if the metal exposure was recent or a long time ago,” I ask.

Zoey shakes her head. “No. I don’t get that info because it could create bias. Unless the investigating sheriff wants my input on it. I bet Jeff didn’t even request it.”

“I can,” I assure her.

“Uh, there’re these little things called privacy laws,” Zoey says, and I chuckle. “What?”

“Life insurance, Zoey. When you sign up, you agree to a full waiver that your insurance company gets any and all medical records that would be relevant to your coverage, benefits, and claims.”

“Ah,” she says, seeing the reasoning behind it. “Okay, so if we can get those records, I can compare. That would let us know when we’re looking for something, even if we don’t know what we’re looking for yet.”

“I’ll do that tomorrow and see if I can put a rush order on it so we can get some answers before the Widow Horne gets her panties in a bunch again.”

With a plan in place, I can see Zoey psyching herself up to leave. That’s why she came here, after all. The rest was unplanned and spontaneous, and awesome.

“I guess I should go?” It’s a question, showing her hand that she’s not as interested in running as she thinks she is.

“Or you could stay?” I offer, knowing she won’t.

“I can’t. I should get home . . . to Jacob, I mean,” she says, stumbling to find an excuse. Even though I’m pretty sure her . . . family member, I guess . . . would totally understand.