Blake gets up to grab his laptop, setting it on the edge of his desk in front of me. “So let’s start over. What could cause Ol’ Dick to have these metals in these quantities?”

His question leaves me fluttery. Not because it’s all that unique. I’ve been asking myself the same thing. But once again, he’s letting me be the lead. Most folks in the department are so ready to get out of my presence that they don’t ask me anything other than ‘where’s the written report?’ before laying tracks for the nearest door.

He looks at me expectantly, waiting patiently for my input, and right in the middle of my chest, I feel another flutter.

Which reminds me . . .

“I think we need to leave out the heart attack as a symptom for our initial inquiries because it’s an acute event. More like the signpost, but not the road. The metal levels are indicative of a longer, chronic condition. Maybe if we can figure out how it started—”

“We can figure out how it ended,” he finishes. “Makes sense.”

I click into a browser and begin searching out possibilities. I know most of them, but there have to be some that I haven’t crossed off yet.

Blake watches me, reading over my shoulder as I jump from website to website. We discuss dozens of possibilities and discount them all.

Hours later, or so it seems, we’ve reached a dead end.

“So the oddest thing is the presence of this particular combination of heavy metals. Typically, exposure is to one metal, but Dick’s insides have basically been doused in everything—lead, mercury, and arsenic.”

“Arsenic?” Blake repeats. “That’s been used as a poison for centuries. Before it was traceable, it was known as ‘inheritance powder’ because it was commonly used by beneficiaries if dear old Dad wasn’t dying fast enough. Slip him a mickey and boom, you’ve got the keys to the kingdom. Is that what Mrs. Horne’s trying to do?”

He’s talking about murder for money, and all I hear is his pulling out historical trivia like a boss. A very sexy, smart boss. I stumble over my factual response, trying to let the heat his intelligence ignites die down. “Doubtful. We’ve all got some arsenic in our bodies. A lethal dose, though . . . definitely unusual. Arsenic is easily and routinely screened for now, so it’s a pretty stupid murder weapon.”

“Yvette Horne doesn’t strike me as the intelligent sort,” Blake retorts with a smile. It’s so distracting, so easy and light. I want to smile like that, as though the world isn’t a cruel place where things get ripped away from you as soon as you get attached to them.

Focus, Zoey. Think about Richard Horne, lying face down in his morning breakfast with juice puddled in his lap.