Renee moved to her and stroked her hair. She put a warm hand on her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek, her lips cool and dry on her skin. “Life is full of coincidences, honey,” she said. “We try and put them all together and we hope they’ll add up to make something meaningful. But the sad truth is, they hardly ever do. They’re just coincidences, that’s all. Stupid, pointless coincidences.”

ROBIN HAD NO intention of going to work right away, but still she drove all the way to the train station before calling Detective Morasco. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt compelled to follow her regular routine. Maybe because she had told Renee she was on her way to the office, and making that initial effort felt less to her like she was lying to her mother—something Robin got a lot guiltier over than most forty-one-year-old women. “I’d like to listen to that recording Quentin Garrison made,” she said, once Morasco picked up. “Is this an okay time to come by?”

He agreed, and Robin called Eileen and let her know she’d be coming in late. “I’ve been asked to go to the police station this morning,” she explained, which was only a half lie, really. And she needed to hear the audio recording.

When she was just a few blocks away from the Tarry Ridge station, Morasco called her and told her not to go through the front door, that he’d meet her in the parking lot, and when she got there, she understood why. There were two news vans out front, along with a handful of reporters. Guess the story hasn’t faded from the news cycle.

There was a parking lot behind the station, and Robin checked her Twitter once she’d pulled into a space. #PodcastKiller was trending again. #DeanConrad was too, his picture popping up all up and down her feed. A ringer for Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy, with a little Steve McQueen thrown in to make things interesting. Handsome, heartbroken Dean . . . Morasco greeted her at the back entrance. “Quentin Garrison’s husband is coming in later today, and the press found out about it,” he explained, though she’d already figured that out.

He ushered her in, leading her through an enormous squad room with floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming hardwood floors and executive-size desks, many of them empty. Like every municipal building in town, the Tarry Ridge police station was ridiculously sleek and architectural and far too big for what was needed of it. There had been a scandal involving a developer a few years back, but before his arrest, most all of Tarry Ridge had been supersized and overrenovated, losing all the charm Robin remembered it having when she was growing up.