The idea that once would’ve made my stomach churn and turn, and threaten to give back my steak, doesn’t so much as make me blink now. It’s simply what she does and who she is. A brilliant mind, passionate about her work and about giving her DBs the respect they deserve.

Once safely parked, I check my phone. Zoey hasn’t responded—not to my latest text and not to the one from this morning either.

Shit, I hope she’s okay. This morning was rough, but it turned out okay. Yvette didn’t get the money. That’s what matters.

Inside, I head downstairs to Zoey’s morgue.

“Hey, sugar snookums!” I yell, laughing a bit at the nickname that started as a joke to irritate Thelma and Louise but now makes me smile. But I don’t find Zoey. Instead, I find Sheriff Barnes sitting at Zoey’s desk with a file folder open in front of him, papers spread out along the desk’s surface. “Oh, hey, Sheriff. You looking into Yvette Horne? I can pass along what I have if it’d be helpful?”

One thing at a time. I’ll make sure he handles the investigation properly, and then I’ll kill him for whatever he did to piss off Zoey.

His eyes narrow and he swipes a hand over his mouth, smoothing his moustache down. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growls.

Whew, guess he doesn’t know about me and Zoey if he’s surprised to see me here. Good to know we hid it that well because it felt like everyone in the courtroom had to feel the tension between Zoey and me, had to know that I was sitting there with the smell of her still in my nose, the feel of her on my lips, and the desire to have her again in my heart and pants.

But the subterfuge isn’t needed anymore.

Any conflict of interest isn’t going to matter by the time this investigation is done because we’re going to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that Yvette Horne killed Richard, and any claim as beneficiary is going to be moot at that point.

“I’m here to see Zoey.”

For some reason, the five words ignite volcanoes in the sheriff’s eyes, and he stands, pushing the chair from beneath him forcefully. It rolls haywire before crashing into a table and toppling over loudly. Shoulders wide and hands clenched at his side, he snarls, “Haven’t you done enough to that poor girl?”

Uhm, what?

I didn’t do anything. He did.

Which I was trying to not mention until I handled the professional side of things first. But if he’s ready to rumble, he can bring it on. The sheriff might be barrel-chested and armed, but he’s old, beer-bellied, and probably—hopefully—not going to shoot me.