It was Quentin’s turn to sigh. He and Summer had one of these for each of their podcasts—a private line for listeners to call in with tips and info. It had been Summer’s idea—a way to keep the information for each story physically separated, should they be working on two podcasts at once. Plus, Summer was a bit paranoid—the only twentysomething Quentin had ever known with virtually no social media presence, not even when they were in college together. Summer claimed burner phones were less hackable or traceable than a simple line at the office. Why she thought anyone would try to hack or trace a tipline, she’d never bothered to explain, but that was Summer—careful to the point of not even knowing why. Dean said, “When was the last time you checked the tipline?”

Quentin brought the bottle of beer to his lips and drank, the cool of it sliding down his throat, calming him. Alcohol did him too much good. Same with the Klonopin he was prescribed, allegedly for plane trips. Allegedly.

He settled into the brown leather couch—one of two identical ones, the color and texture of broken-in bomber jackets, that had been in Dean’s old apartment when they first met. Quentin loved them. Loved the faux Tibetan rug Dean had found at a yard sale, the bookshelves he’d installed, the bound Shakespeare collection that had belonged to Dean’s grandfather. He loved Dean’s kind and supportive parents and his aunt’s lasagna recipe, his closet full of soft, shareable sweaters and his positive outlook on life. You bring so much to a marriage, so much more than just yourself—and what Dean had brought to this one was almost entirely good. “Three months,” Quentin said.

“Seriously? Didn’t you buy that phone three months ago?”

Quentin nodded.

“Well then,” Dean said as Quentin drained the rest of his beer. “I’d say you’ve got a lot of listening to do.”

THE BURNER’S VOICE mail was full. Quentin explained to Dean that he’d planned on going through it after he’d finished all his other interviews. But he only said that in order to avoid more raised eyebrows and seriouslys from him. Dean couldn’t be expected to understand. He was an assistant professor of philosophy at a tiny private college in peaceful Claremont, far removed from the world of radio and from the world in general. But the truth was, Quentin had always considered these tiplines a waste of time—full of crazies and fame-seeking murder fans and elderly NPR listeners, confusing the number for the station’s weekly comment line. The thought of those same calls coming in regarding a crime that had impacted him so personally was unpleasant, to say the least.

But for Dean’s sake, he listened.