“Ned is talking to the police. I don’t know about Mike. I should try to call him.” That’s a thing an innocent person does, try to help. He gets out his phone—his usual phone—from his pocket and calls Mike’s number. He stands at the window. He can see Danielle’s house; there are no police cars there yet. Surely they’ll be arriving to secure her home, to look for evidence. The thought chills him. What does she have in there?

He gets Mike’s voicemail. “Mike, it’s Kyle. Call me as soon as you get this.” He imagines then that the police or Ned have already tried to reach Mike. “I’m so sorry.” He shouldn’t have said that, in case Mike’s listening to his voicemails in order and the police are probably not leaving him a message that his girlfriend is dead.

Stop second-guessing. Act normal. Forge ahead.

He adds: “Call me, Mike, please.” And hangs up.

“Where’s Mom?”

“At the police station with your sister and Ned.” Danielle’s house. What’s in her house that could point back to him? He goes to the large window in their living room. The house is two homes away from theirs. She moved into that house when Ned was in middle school, years after Grant had come from Russia as a squirming baby in their arms.

You have to get in before the police do. Lakehaven is a small department. They don’t often deal with murder, and he guesses from the Travis County sheriff’s cars that arrived to secure the park that they’ll be the lead agency. And TCSO is big and capable. But he can’t go inside there, not now, with the police about to arrive. Nothing would make him look worse.

You have time. You’re her friend and neighbor. Make up an excuse.

He puts on his running shorts, shoes, and a pullover.

“Are you going for a run?” Grant asks, disbelieving.

“Yes. A short one.” Kyle heads out the back door, along the greenbelt. His phone chimes. He glances at the screen. Mike Horvath. He steels himself. “Mike,” he answers.

“What’s going on?” Mike’s deep voice, booming.

“Where are you?”

“I got up early this morning and went fishing on Lake Travis with Peter.” Peter was Mike’s son, a senior at Lakehaven. “Why are the police looking for me? I got two voicemails before yours…”

“I am so sorry. Danielle…” He can’t say the words, even as he’s hurrying toward her backyard.

“What? What is happening?” Mike’s deep voice, lightly accented, rises in fear.

“Danielle is dead. She was found dead in Winding Creek Park this morning.”

Mike makes a noise of sheer shock and pain. It’s half gasp, half scream. “That can’t be right.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It cannot be. Where is Ned?”