It was Detective Morasco from the Tarry Ridge Police Department, and Quentin jumped a little when he saw him. A day ago, he’d found Detective Morasco good-looking in a Mark-Ruffalo-with-a-hangover kind of way, and reasonably easy to talk to. But maybe that was just compared to his partner, who was—and Quentin normally didn’t generalize like this—the worst type of straight man: that guy who’d lived his whole life thinking he was the cleverest and most charming son of a bitch in the room, either because no one had bothered to let him know otherwise, or because in the rooms he frequented (shudder), he was.

Anyway, the partner wasn’t here, but Morasco was, and Quentin didn’t find his presence as reassuring as he had at the police station. “To be honest,” Quentin told him, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

Behind Morasco, Robin was handing the shovel to the rabbi, her head bowed low, as though her neck couldn’t take the weight of it. “Me neither, actually,” the detective said. “I never knew the Blooms when they were alive.”

Quentin’s eyes widened. “Is Mrs. Bloom—”

“No, no. I misspoke. I’m just saying . . .”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Morasco’s gaze moved to the phone in Quentin’s hand. “You still working on the podcast?”

“No. I mean . . . I am. I will. But I’m not here in a professional capacity.”

“Well, I appreciate you keeping your distance, anyway,” he said. “I’m sure the family does too.”

Robin had joined her husband. The rabbi was speaking again, urging others to take up the shovel. “I should probably go,” Quentin said.

Morasco nodded—probably the reason why he’d come back here in the first place, to politely kick Quentin out of the cemetery before the Diamonds caught sight of him.

Quentin started to leave.

“Listen, Mr. Garrison . . .”

“Yeah?”

“If you wind up including the shooting as part of your podcast . . .”

“I’m not going to do that. I swear. I would never record and report on something as private as this funeral.”

“Okay, fine,” he said. “But if you change your mind and decide to branch off into this case. And if, in your reporting, you find out anything that might help us . . . Anything at all that stands out to you . . .”

Quentin exhaled. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“You still have my card?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Quentin looked at him. “You don’t have any leads as to who could have done this?”

He smiled a little. “Every lead helps,” he said. Which wasn’t an answer at all.

They said a quick good-bye, and Quentin headed up the hill and into the parking lot, past rows of cars, the waiting limousine, the empty hearse . . .