He went into Trey’s office. It felt strange to be in this room, alone. Or at all. Trey was his boss. They hadn’t really socialized since he lost Betsy. But he remembered the place, with its spare, modern furniture and high bookshelves lining two of the walls. He sat down at Trey’s desk, but Trey was shorter, so the chair didn’t fit him. His knees jutted up. Still, he wasn’t going to change the settings.

He called the lab and got lucky; the cute tech with the dimples, Jenna something, picked up. She always came through for him. He told her it was for the firm but made it plain it was more urgent than a regular rush job.

“I’ll get it done. But only because you begged,” she teased. “I’m going to be here until midnight, though.” A dramatic, suffering sigh.

“I owe you,” he told her.

“What kind of owe me?” she asked. “Six-pack of PBR or shrimp dinner?”

“Lobster, if you find me some fingerprints.”

She laughed, and they disconnected.

He was swirling Trey’s mouse to make Windows come up before he realized he’d probably just been asked out on a date. Worse, he’d probably accepted.

Betsy had always told him he was stupid about flirting. Once, at the grocery store, he’d left the cart to go grab a local lager from the refrigerated case in the back. A woman came up and asked what kind of beer went well with steak. He’d been telling her about his favorite brewery when Betsy came to find him. The woman left abruptly, and Betsy had almost choked to death laughing. She’d fluttered her eyelashes and fake-swooned into his shoulder. “Excuse me, kind sir, do you have any beer in your pants?”

Was it a date? Jesus. Jenna looked so young to him. Well, it was not a problem for today. He should go out with someone anyway. That swamping wave of sick desire to be the one to hand Bree her baby back told him so. It was different from simply wanting Robert safe and home. Very different. His stupid crush on Bree wasn’t ever going to be a good idea, but it was downright dangerous now. Dangerous for Robert.

He opened up his Gmail and quickly typed in his notes, all he’d gleaned from Bree’s story, the video, and that long, strange phone conversation. He organized them as he went. It wasn’t much.

Witch: Widow. 70+. One child (F). A reader, esp British mystery novels. Likes suspense movies. Owns or owned house with carport. Terminally ill. Accent = Blue collar, rural. Georgia?

Husband: Died young. Construction worker. Controlling/abusive?

Daughter:

He had no facts about the daughter, only the understanding that she was in this up to her neck and that she was the mother’s only weak point.