I stare at the page for a long time, silent as my brain works through the information. Blake doesn’t say a word, quietly propped up on my desk and letting me think.

“Something about that bugs me,” I whisper to no one, reading and rereading the bit about gross smoothies for breakfast. I mean, nobody really likes green smoothies, do they? Except for real back to the Earth hippies, who I think get their pleasure from doing ‘something right’ rather than the actual smoothie itself. They taste like grass and dirt in liquid form.

Not exactly appetizing. Liquid . . . smoothie . . . “Oh, shit!” I hiss, looking up to meet Blake’s eyes.

I can tell he’s been watching me, perfectly content to let me do my thing, and something about that is so intense. It makes me feel seen, valuable, worthy of his attention.

“What’d you figure out?” he asks, certain that I’ve made some grand discovery.

“The green smoothies for breakfast. When I went to Horne’s house for the initial callout, he died in his breakfast. Literally face down in his plate.” Blake’s brows lift an inch in anticipation. “His plate of fried eggs, bacon, buttered toast. With a glass of orange juice that spilled everywhere, including into his lap. No smoothie to be seen.”

“So maybe he had a different breakfast that day?” Blake hypothesizes.

I shake my head, sure even though I wasn’t there. “No way would someone who was complaining of heartburn drink orange juice and have all that fat first thing in the morning. It’d be a recipe for disaster.”

We’re silent for a moment, eyes locked on one another as our brains swirl with possibilities.

“Maybe it was,” Blake finally says. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone said ‘fuck it’ to a healthy diet and ate what they wanted to. Unless you’re getting at something else,” he finishes as he sees my dubious look.

“What if the heavy metal was in the green smoothie?” I whisper and then cover my mouth with my hands, surprised at my boldness. That’s a big accusation to make, especially with no proof. But it sits right in my gut. I lower my hands an inch, still not sure I should say what I’m thinking. If anyone knows firsthand what unfounded gossip and embellished stories can do to a person, it’s me. And yet . . . “That nasty grass taste . . . you could hide a lot of shit in there without the drinker noticing.”

Blake hums, scraping a hand over his smooth jaw. He looks at the file, but I feel like he’s seeing through it, not actually looking at the information it contains. “That wouldn’t be out of the norm either. I definitely felt like Yvette Horne was in it for the money already, but that’s a level-up from money hungry to murder for money. What do you think?”