If that’s even possible.

“I got a text from my partner,” I lie. “Need to get back to Shelton. Do me a favor and let Dr. Collier know that I want to be the first to know the lab results, okay?”

“Sure, Detective,” Celia says. “Don’t worry. You’ll catch this guy. I have faith in that, faith in you.”

I know she means well just then, but her kindness only makes me feel more pathetic.

When I check my messages back in the car, I find two.

The first is from Linda London, the reporter from KOMO. She’s nothing if not direct.

“You need to go on air and talk about Sophie Warner’s murder. I’m getting lots of pieces of the story, but our viewers are demanding something official. I have a crew headed your way.”

I don’t call her back.

The second message is from Teresa Dibley, the woman staying with her grandkids in the tiny cabin next door to the Wisteria.

“Probably nothing,” she says, “but I’d like to talk if you can find the time. The kids and I are staying through about four o’clock today. Squeezing one more day out of what’s been a traumatic holiday, to say the least.”

Teresa I call back.

“I thought of going home,” Teresa Dibley tells me, “but I prepaid, and there are no refunds.” We’re back on the deck of the Chrysanthemum, watching Clark and Destiny row around the glassy waters of the protected beachfront. “What happened here,” she adds, her voice soft, “is almost too much to take.”

“I understand,” I say.

“Those two haven’t had it easy,” she goes on, looking at her grandchildren. “Lots of drama. They’re good kids, but I don’t know that I got them in time. Sure wish I were twenty years younger.”

“You’re doing great,” I tell her. “Your grandchildren look happy.”

She smiles in their direction and offers me some ice tea. It’s hot out on the cedar-plank deck despite the cooling breeze gliding off the water, so I gladly accept.

“Something’s been bothering me,” Teresa says, handing me a glass. “I read the news story about the case. And well, I don’t want to be the person who meddles in what you are doing. It isn’t my style at all.”

“No,” I say. “This is good. I need to hear what you’re thinking.”

Teresa sets down her glass. “When Mr. Warner returned from, you know, finding Mrs. Warner?”

She’s upset. I see it in her eyes.

“Yes,” I say. “I know this is hard.”

She looks a little embarrassed, which was not my intent at all.

“Sorry,” she says, reeling in her own sadness over what happened. “Anyway, he was a complete wreck. Just barely able to make it from his car to the cabin. I’ve never seen anyone wrapped up in that kind of grief. And I’ve seen a lot. With my son. My daughter-in-law too.”