My mouth twists as I chew on my lip, considering. “Like I said, she was weird at the scene, silent and still, but when she saw me looking at her, she went into full-blown wailing wife mode. It felt . . . fake and forced. But appearances can be deceiving, I know that,” I add, feeling like we’re already deeming Mrs. Horne guilty the same way everyone marks me as weird and Drop-Dead Gorgeous.

God, I hate that nickname.

Blake frowns. “I think this is an entirely different situation, Zo.”

I shrug, not wanting to argue about it, especially when I don’t want to remind Blake what people say about me, what they think about me, when I’m hopping on the Holly Band Wagon and considering hopping on Blake like a disco stick. “What do you think we should do now? Talk to Jeff?”

“Maybe. I got the feeling Sheriff Barnes is done with this case. You?”

I nod. “Yeah, me too. But this is new information. We need to share it.”

Blake sighs. “Let’s call him.”

I get on my phone, and two rings later, Jeff answers. “Hey, Zoey, what’s up?”

“Hi Jeff. I got some information I felt like I should share with you.”

“It’s not about Alver, is it? What the hell has he done now?” he groans. I can almost picture him rubbing his forehead and pinching his temples.

“No, nothing about him,” I answer. “I haven’t given him another thought.”

“Good,” Jeff says firmly. “In that case, what’s up?”

He sounds relieved, and I realize how much Sheriff Jeff Barnes has on his shoulders, even if he makes carrying his load look easy. He’s responsible for the whole county, the deputies, the county courthouse, policies and procedures, and his family too. “It’s about Richard Horne.”

His sigh is heavy with disappointment. “Zoey, let the man die in peace, for God’s sake. We should all be so lucky to die at home, peacefully in our morning meal. Only thing better would be in your sleep.” He sounds more resigned than morbid, a man in touch with his own mortality.

“I know, Jeff, but the insurance company rep, Blake Hale, got Horne’s medical records, and he’d been complaining about tiredness and heartburn. He wouldn’t—” My words are rushed out, trying to present the facts as quickly as possible, but it’s not fast enough.

“Did he die of a heart attack? Yes or no?” Jeff asks finally.

“It’s not that simple,” I try to argue. “If the heavy metals led to—”

“Yes or no.” It’s not a question this time, it’s a demand for me to choose one way or the other.

“Yes.”

“Case closed. Now go on and get out of here at a reasonable hour tonight, Zoey. There’s no need for you to be working all hours of the night down there by yourself.”