“Interesting strategy. These cops think they can pull off this bullshit and get you to give up DNA and fingerprints without a court order. Around here they fit you for the noose and build the gallows before they even know your name.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“No problem. Of course, you can’t leave town without telling the police. And if you can bring me your passport tomorrow, that would really help.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She reaches over and squeezes my arm. “Damn right. We’ll have to talk in more detail soon. But it’s getting late, and my husband is in charge of putting our kids to bed since I’m not there.” She shudders and rolls her eyes. “I love that man, but he’s hopeless sometimes. Last time I was out this late, the kids ate ice cream for dinner and Popsicles for dessert.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet, so we’ll hold off on naming the courthouse after me for a few more days.”

Bowman comes in without knocking and hands Diana a piece of paper. She doesn’t even look at me, just turns and goes.

“They hate it when their plans go awry,” Diana says.

“Plans?”

“Her plans for the evening,” she says. “She really hoped she could have you in a jail cell before the night was out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Diana leads me out the front door of the station, and as if by magic, a car I recognize pulls up as we emerge into the bitter cold.

Diana turns to me, her dark coat open, and extends her hand. “Here’s your ride, Connor. We’ll be in touch.”

I thank her, but she’s already hustling away, and my words float off along with the puffs of my breath.

The driver’s-side window of the car in front of me rolls down, and Preston leans out. “Get in, dummy. It’s cold.”

And I’m all too happy to do it. He pulls away while I’m buckling my seat belt.

“Thank you,” I say. “For finding Diana and for picking me up. I could have called an Uber. I know it’s after ten, and you have your family.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “I wanted to see how you were doing. What the fuck is going on? All this cloak-and-dagger shit.”

The streets are dark and quiet. Everything feels hushed by the bitter cold. I ask him about the murder of Sophia Greenfield.

“Do you even remember that?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “She was strangled in her car. I thought it was the husband. It usually is.”

“Maybe not this time. The cops haven’t arrested him.”