She goes on like I haven’t spoken. “Sure,” Bowman says. “Like the Twenty-seven Club in rock and roll. Janis Joplin. Jimi Hendrix. Kurt Cobain. Maybe the age is just a coincidence. Maybe it all is. But Sophia’s body was discovered in her car by her husband when he went looking for her. In the book, Sarah’s body is found by her husband when he decides to go looking for her. Admittedly, the real Sophia had blond hair, and the fictional one has red hair. But they both have green eyes. Both tall. Athletic. Kentucky girls who like bourbon and yoga. Sophia’s husband became the prime suspect. Sarah’s husband did too.”

“The boyfriend or the husband is always the prime suspect,” I say. “That’s true in real life and in every thriller. I don’t know why you’re here—”

“Of course,” Bowman says. “You men haven’t done very well by your partners over the years. Suspicion always lands on them, and for good reason. Sophia was found murdered in her car. She worked late and didn’t come home when she was supposed to. Of course, her husband’s fingerprints and DNA were all over the vehicle. He drove it a lot. And there were unidentified prints and other DNA in there—hairs, fibers—but they didn’t match anyone in the system. So our killer, if it isn’t the husband, is out there somewhere, and if we find him, we can match it. There’s some evidence she may have been taken by surprise. Possibly there were two assailants. There are a variety of theories we’ve explored about the crime, but we’ve pretty much reached a dead end.”

“Detective, it’s possible I read about the case and didn’t consciously remember it. Or maybe I heard someone talking about it. In the store or the barbershop. I once published a short story, in my first book, and I gave a German shepherd the name Hogan. A few months later I got an e-mail from someone I went to grade school with, and she asked me if I remembered that her dog when we were kids was called Hogan. I didn’t remember until she said it. That detail was lodged in my brain somewhere, and I pulled it out subconsciously, completely unaware. It happens.”

“I’m sure it does,” Bowman says, tapping the book again. “I would imagine when a writer writes a book like this, there are so many details they have to choose. What characters look like. Where they work. What color their eyes are. Inevitably you have to draw on some things that are familiar to you.”

“Maybe you should write a book, Detective,” I say. “You must see a lot of interesting things in your work.”

“I could never write a book. That takes a lot of discipline. And time. As I know you know.”