I was expecting them to be different, confirming some sort of contamination in the sample or error in the processing, but these results are nearly identical to the previous ones, with only slight variations that can be accounted for by the use of a different machine.

For all intents and purposes, they’re the same. Which means that Richard Horne had oddly high levels of heavy metals in his body when he died. And that’s weird, even for me.

“Hmm,” I ponder out loud, knowing there’s no one to hear me, as I spin in my chair. “What causes heavy metal levels and a heart attack?”

My mind is racing ahead, already contemplating possibilities and dismissing them in rapid-fire succession. I stare at the report until the black numbers blur and my eyes unfocus, which is how Jeff and Alver find me—frozenly staring off into space.

“Zoey?” Jeff says, and I startle, jumping and making a squeaking sound.

“Oh, shit, Jeff. You scared me.”

Jeff looks to Alver, who shrugs in answer like he’s seen me do weirder things before. Truthfully, he has. Though he hasn’t said a single word about catching Blake and me in that oddly questionable position, and I certainly haven’t had the guts to explain.

“You didn’t hear the door?” Jeff asks.

I look past him as though I’ve never seen the door before and shake my head. “No . . . I was thinking.”

He looks dubious, his mustache twitching as he purses his lips. “That’s what we’re calling daydreaming now?”

Alver snickers but covers it with a cough, and my spine finds some steel. As if either of them has the right to complain about that. Jeff’s the sheriff, and more than once, I’ve caught him ‘pondering’ a case in his office. And Alver sometimes likes to ‘give something a good think’ with his eyes closed and his hands laced over his stomach.

I won’t call them on it yet, though. “What’s up, Jeff?”

He catches the change in tone and seems almost thankful for the return to a more professional vibe where he doesn’t have to pretend to care whether I’m okay or not.

“I wanted to talk to you about something . . . uh . . .” Jeff stumbles over his words and looks to Alver, who recoils at the attention. “I mean, we’ve received a report about some concerning after-hours activity down here. And I wanted to follow up to make sure you’re aware that there are rules, especially where the bodies are concerned—”

“What the hell?” I say a little too loudly, and both men flinch.

Jeff’s hand even reflexively reaches for his gun, which is thankfully holstered with the snap in place. Are they shitting me? Alver told on me. He didn’t have the guts to talk to me himself and instead went over my head to Jeff.