“So, no new leads? What about the person who found the body? Maybe they remember something. I can be very persuasive.” DeMarco’s voice dripped like syrup. “We can work together.”

The heat returned to Lane’s cheeks as she watched Ms. DeMarco sidle up to Charlie. The woman had a sort of citified poise about her that probably did make her very persuasive to the opposite sex, but she reminded Lane of a snake coiling for the strike.

“I think you should leave the police work to the professionals.” Charlie took a purposeful step out of Ms. DeMarco’s path and winked at Lane.

What was that? Flirting? A flood of emotions sent Lane’s pulse spiking to a dangerous level.

“What about new suspects? Evidence? Or the family?” Ms. DeMarco wasn’t going to be easily dissuaded. “Don’t you have anything to say about Walton’s reputation being ruined by this murder?”

That last comment was just loud enough that it drew the attention of a few people nearby. Charlie’s jaw flexed, his brows knotting as he took in her question.

“Ms. DeMarco, I’ve told you everything I can about our investigation and I expect you to do your job as a reporter. Report the truth. If you want to judge this beautiful city, that’s welcomed you by the way, on this one horrific event rather than on its character . . . well, all I can say is that would be a shame.”

“Wha—I . . .” Ms. DeMarco huffed and gave Lane a disdainful look before storming off in the direction she had come from.

“I don’t think speechlessness is a good trait for a reporter.” Lane smirked.

“She’s new. Works for some paper out of DC and is trying to make a name for herself by writing a story about Walton’s first murder in thirty years.”

There wasn’t any malice in his tone. Just . . . understanding? The good-looking deputy was catching her off guard in more ways than one. Did he really believe what he said? That something could be defined by more than one horrific event? Or someone?

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in on Monday.” Charlie looked sheepish. “This case makes me lose track of time—”

“Oh, no, I get it. Ms. Byrdie said Sheriff Huggins is sucking down antacids like they’re Tic Tacs.” Lane played nonchalant. Or at least she hoped she was. Disappointment was what she really felt when Charlie didn’t show up at the Way Station Café and she wasn’t ready to admit that—or the possibility of what it meant. She eyed the stain on his uniform. “I feel really bad about your uniform. Are you sure I can’t pay for the dry cleaning at least?”

Charlie waved his hand. “It’s almost dry. Sticky but dry.”