“We are investigating a number of leads at this time.” Sheriff Vann’s khaki uniform shirt practically blends into the sand-colored curtain behind him, but across the years and despite the grainy quality of the footage, his blue eyes shine. Ben’s eyes.

Next to him is unmistakably a Bergen. The family resemblance is strong. High cheekbones and sparkling hazel eyes, only a wisp of salt in his pepper hair, cut short and coiffed just so. The earnest face of an American-values politician. He cuts in, and the camera zooms in close.

“I have complete confidence in the sheriff and his team, and will make it my mission to see that the person responsible for this heinous crime is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Consider it my promise today that before next month’s election, we will have our man,” Bergen says. I don’t miss the grimace from Sheriff Vann beside him.

Is that why they landed on Joe so fast? An election?

And on goes the clip reel, skipping ahead in time to footage of Joe Bedecki being perp-walked at the courthouse. It’s my first real look at him. There’s a swagger to Joe, a fire in his eyes that lasers right through the camera lens. You cocky bastard, I think. You did it, and we’re all still paying for it.

The woman on the bench turns. I’d nearly forgotten she was there.

“Hello,” Reama says, lips now curling into a cat-that-got-the-cream grin.

A shiver streaks through me. “What are you doing here?” The WestonCon ended two days ago.

“Extended vacation. Taking in the sights. A little town lore. You find it interesting as well, I see. Your grandmother’s legacy.”

I know Reama was at the hotel the night Natalie died, that she can’t be the killer, but then why is she still here?

“I have to go.” I rise on shaky legs, flee Caroline and her toothy white grin, now that the reel’s cycled back to her. A dead girl on an endless loop.

And Reama, left behind, still smiling.

I almost sprint to the resource library.

Gabriel’s hunched in front of a flickering computer screen, tongue poking between his teeth as he concentrates. The entire place is a tech graveyard, along with an assortment of local guidebooks shoved on metal shelves.

“You’re in your element,” I say, trying to regain some casual confidence. Trying to forget about Reama.

“I’m in your element, more like.” Gabriel beckons me over, and I find a screen full of search results.

“It’s not the full newspaper archives, but Mom had Bron and me convert the most notable periods from microfiche to digital a few years ago. Everything about the Quinn murder is here.”

“May I?”