She’s still talking as I bolt from the autopsy suite to the restroom down the hall. Inside, I run cold water in the sink and spoon it up to my face. It helps a little, but only a little. Celia, the coroner’s assistant, emerges from a stall.

“God,” she says, “that man was such a jerk. Don’t let it get to you.”

“Yeah,” I say, not letting her know that as bad as Frank Flynn was, he wasn’t the source of my little moment.

I don’t want her to know what I’m really thinking or how I feel. When you have something that you carry inside and never talk about, you don’t ever unleash it on a stranger. And since you’ve never talked about it, you don’t know even how to really frame your thoughts. You fear that your words will tumble out in a way that will only make things worse.

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.”