“Well, dear,” Maura says, sitting up from the puzzle and fishing out a notepad from a side-table drawer. “Lucky for you it’s not all I know. I was curious about your quandary, so I made some calls. Diana heard from Mark, who heard from Lorraine Hardy, that the dispute was over Natalie’s homecoming dress. Cost a mint, apparently, and sweet Natalie went behind Daddy’s back and charged it to a credit card. He screamed at her in the parking lot at the school before the game, and Lorraine’s son Caleb heard the whole thing.”

Go, Grandma, helping out with the murder investigation! It’s not earth-shattering—a dispute over an expensive dress—but it is interesting. If Natalie’s dad was willing to lay into her in semipublic, what could he do behind closed doors? It’s something to consider.

I find myself joining the jigsaw-puzzle squad. We work primarily in silence, with Maura and Elaine falling into a snappy patter every so often about some town gossip, a colorful hotel customer, the publicist Maura hates.

I use the time, the headspace granted by the intersection of mindless sorting and the assurance of pattern and order to catalog where things stand. Luke, Morgan, Mayor Bergen…prime suspects. Well, Morgan, barely—my gut tells me it’s not her, though who knows. My gut says all sorts of things about Gabriel, too, and it’s bugging me what Ben said: that Gabriel has been awfully helpful. The biggest mystery is Natalie: who she was and what her relationships were with people. I was only in her orbit for a week, but I felt that pull. Natalie, a sun to everyone else’s planets. Who did she burn?

Elaine patters off to the TV room to refill her G&T, and I find my grandmother frowning in my direction.

“This whole murder thing isn’t good for you. You’ve had a storm cloud over you for the last hour, Celia. I think you should see Dr. Shelby.”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “And I already told you. Her daughter died. I can’t go see Dr. Shelby, even if I wanted to.”

Maura purses her lips. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to strong-arm you, but I am the adult here. I need to look out for your best interests now that your mom isn’t around. I called Dr. Shelby earlier. You have an appointment tomorrow after school. She was happy to take you. Suzanne will pick you up from school and take you over. It’s all arranged.”

Well, that’s fucked-up, I think, but maybe I’m a hypocrite. There are all sorts of ways to process grief. I’m one to talk, throwing myself into amateur-detective work. Perhaps work of a different kind offers Dr. Shelby the same solace.