‘No,’ she says, and I’d bet my life she was telling the truth. ‘He is a wonderful husband. He stood up to his family for me. He throws the most wonderful surprise parties for my birthday—every time he convinces me that this year there will be no party. He often leaves lovely messages around the house for me to find. He loved Tennessee, but when I said I wanted to move to Texas, immediately he started looking at houses here, and jobs. Ever since Hope was born, he has been the most wonderful father to her.’

I realise that Hope is quietly crying.

Gabriela looks uncomfortable. Is she hiding something, or just feeling her daughter’s pain?

‘I saw a very glamorous woman in his department this morning,’ I say. ‘A tall blonde, in her thirties, large breasts. You seen anyone like that hanging around?’

I bring this up mainly to see if she looks suspicious about it.

‘No,’ she says, open-faced and anxious. A woman used to trusting her husband.

I look from her to Hope and back. I can’t tell them Kenneth will be okay, because he’s dead and in my freezer. There’s only one worry I can help erase.

‘Kenneth sounds like a good man,’ I say. ‘He didn’t run away.’

They look relieved, until they realise what this means.

I stand up. ‘Can we borrow his computer?’

•

Not even lunchtime yet, but I’m desperately hungry by the time we get back to the field office. It isn’t the sort of hunger a normal meal will solve. My favourite food is waiting for me at home, and I can’t get to it.

You’d think that knowing so much about Biggs might stop me from wanting him. But it doesn’t. Most people know that pigs feel stress and that cows grieve when their calves are taken away. People might feel guilty, but they still eat bacon and drink milk.

So what use is the guilt?

‘I have to tell you something,’ I say to Thistle as we carry the computer inside. I have the tower, she has the keyboard and router. No prints on the monitor, so we left it behind.

Thistle raises an eyebrow.

‘Hope attempted suicide,’ I say. ‘That bald patch on the back of her head was an old exit wound.’

Thistle frowns, maybe picturing Hope’s hair. ‘With whose gun? There were no—’

‘I lied. One bullet was missing. Mrs Biggs looked like she really didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to push her over the edge, so I pretended they were all there. But I also wanted you to know all the facts.’

This is true. I may want to sabotage the case, but I also need to know what happened to Biggs. And I’m fast running out of leads. We’re nowhere. I need Thistle’s help.