“Damn it,” I hiss, and Chunky whines in the backseat, his tongue going crazy as he tries to comfort me from afar with his licking kisses. “It’s okay, Chunkster. I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated because there’s no way to make this happen and I don’t like giving up without succeeding.”

He barks in response, and I cut my eyes to the mirror to see his reflection.

“It’s not a failure,” I argue. “I learned a lot about Sebastian . . . and the smoothies . . . and his relationship with Yvette. I just can’t confirm that’s where he is now, but it’s not likely he has more than one client in that small neighborhood. Right?”

Chunky licks his lips, Scooby Dooing the better part of his snout. I take that as agreement.

“Okay, let’s go see Zoey and tell her what we learned.”

Chapter 19

Zoey

I stare at the stainless-steel table in front of me, covered with wrinkled and pressed paper instead of a dead body. It’s honestly more challenging than a body.

Pull it together, Zoey. Examine the edges and put matching ones together like a puzzle. You like puzzles.

God, my pep talks haven’t improved in the slightest. It doesn’t help that I’ve been staring at these tiny bits of paper for hours. After Blake, Jacob, and I went through Yvette’s trash, I couldn’t help but think we might’ve missed something.

There was just so much of it, and though he was helpful, Jacob was being so dramatic about the gross factor that I didn’t feel I’d given it the full breadth of an appropriate examination. So I brought it to work and dug through each stinky, disgusting bit of it again, spreading it out on the tables in the morgue under the bright fluorescent lights.

As it turns out, I was right. We did miss something.

This time, I found a handful of torn up paper. It could’ve been junk mail, an old bill, or even scribbled notes. But as I flattened each tiny piece out, trying to figure out what I’d found, I noticed a logo in the top corner.

A quick internet search told me that it’s an internet pharmacy that specializes in folk medicines. And now, I’ve got most of the paper put together. But there are still a few key pieces that don’t fit.

“One at a time, tackle one piece at a time,” I tell myself.

“Who are you talking to? There’s not even a dead body.”

I jump in surprise, used to the quiet and solitude, and find Alver standing in the hallway across from my door. “You scared me!” I exclaim, adding, “What are you doing down here?”