Glynis shook her head. “That’s nonsense.”

“Is it? I confronted him about his wife, told him I was going to tell Tomlinson about it, and the next day he shoots the woman and kills himself.”

“Arlan Sinclair did not kill anyone,” Glynis said quite firmly. “He certainly did not commit suicide.”

Jake stared at her. “What are you saying?”

“Arlan didn’t kill himself. Both he and his wife were murdered.”

“But the police—”

“The police force in Vernon? I’d sooner believe Osama bin Laden.”

Jake saw that she was absolutely certain. And something else, there was something more, something that was making her tremble. Anger? Fear?

He looked into Glynis’s dark, exotic eyes and suddenly understood.

“My god, you were in love with him!”

She nodded once and her eyes filled with tears. “He loved me,” she said, her voice breaking. “He loved me.”

She buried her face in her hands and broke into sobs as Jake sat there on the edge of his desk, stunned. All her talk about being able to deal with Sinclair’s hitting on her—it was all talk, a sham, a cover-up.

He heard himself say, “I thought you and Tim…”

“That was nothing,” she said, her voice muffled. “I needed to get Tim’s trust. Nothing really happened between us. I did it for Arlan … for him…”

Jesus H. Christ, Jake thought. All this time she’s been Sinclair’s lover, his mistress. She even came on to Tim to help Sinclair. The bastard used her like a piece of Kleenex. Lev was right: Sinclair’s an unfeeling, totally self-centered sonofabitch. Then he amended, Was. Was.

He looked down at Glynis again, her body wracked with sobs. Leaning toward her, Jake put an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Glyn,” he whispered to her. “I’m really, really sorry.”

She looked up at him, close enough to kiss. Tears runneled her cheeks. Her eyes were swollen, red.

“We’ve got to find out who did this, Jake. We’ve got to find Arlan’s murderer.”

*   *   *

Jake let Glynis stay in his office all afternoon. She seemed to pull herself together: dried her eyes, went to the bathroom. When she returned she began pacing the cramped office. Six steps in one direction, then turn. Six steps back, turn. She talked of nothing but finding who murdered Sinclair and his wife.

“He didn’t even own a gun,” she said, pacing. “He wouldn’t know how to use one.”

There’s nothing much to it, Jake thought. Especially at point-blank range. But he kept that to himself.

He took Glynis to dinner at the first place he could find, the Taco Bell just off the campus. She said very little, picking at the guacamole dip and chili that Jake had ordered for her. Maybe she’s all talked out, Jake thought. But her eyes were staring, looking far away from the here and now. She seemed stunned, unfocused, adrift.