I look around for wood, holding a finger up to Jeff to step closer to my desk. One touch and crossed fingers, but I still don’t feel lucky. I figure I’ll have to judge whether or not to actually drink that coffee by the gleam in Alver’s eyes when he comes back.

Jeff smiles, shaking his head in amusement. “Okay, Alver came shuffling up to tell me you’re spreading trash everywhere, bitching about health codes.” He holds his hands up high, waving them around urgently in what I can only assume is an impression of Alver’s presentation. “Hate to say it, Zoey, but he might have something on ya this time.” Jeff swirls his finger in a circle, indicating my tables of what is obviously . . . trash. “Whatcha doing?”

I drag my chair over, warning, “You’ll probably want to sit down for this.”

“Oh, shit. That bad?” Jeff says, but he’s smiling like I’m being silly as he drops to sit.

“Yeah.” I look at the trash spread out all over my morgue, not seeing the work it’s going to take to get it clean to my exacting standards, but rather, the smoking gun I’ve found. I feel like Blake should be here to present this since we’ve done so much of it together, but Jeff needs to hear this immediately. “Remember when I told you there were some unanswered questions about the Richard Horne autopsy?”

Jeff narrows his eyes sharply, drawling out, “Yeah . . . and I remember telling you the case was closed. Heart attack.”

My shoulders draw up at the reminder of how far outside the lines I’ve gone. Usually, I would never. I don’t want attention, preferring to hide from everyone, but I needed to know the truth. I needed to understand for my own professional excellence.

And for Blake. Don’t forget that part, my brain whispers.

“I couldn’t let it go,” I admit.

Jeff sighs as he leans forward to run his hands through his hair. Putting his elbows on his knees and frowning, he orders, “Out with it.”

Oh, shit, that’s his Sheriff voice, the one reserved for misbehaving DnDs—drunk and disorderlies.

So I get professional right back. “There was something bugging me about the second report. Long story short, Yvette Horne poisoned her husband. Here’s the proof of what she bought off the internet to do it.” I point at my mostly reassembled puzzle of paper bits, only now noticing the coffee stains and overall wrinkliness that make it a less than impressive smoking gun. “It’s a supplement known to have high levels of lead, arsenic, and mercury. Trifecta of poison for when you want to make sure they’re really dead.”

“Mighty serious allegations, Zoey,” Jeff says. “I know you can investigate, but you’ve always kept me in the loop before since I’m the one who would have to snap the cuffs on.”