“That’s on the publishing track,” Diana says, and before I can beg for something more specific, like a page number, she grabs my program and opens it to a double-spread. “Map is on page five, but it’s down one level, and look for the White Alder room. Elevator’s over there, but it’s old and slow as hell. I recommend the stairs.”

“Thanks,” I call, already moving away.

“Did you understand any of that?” Ben asks as we make for the stairs.

“We’ll figure it out.”

As we reach the landing, Sheriff Morrow strides into the lobby, with a person I assume is the hotel events manager, and they’re making a beeline for his deputy. “Shields! Let’s go!” the sheriff orders. I can’t hide my smirk as the deputy jumps away from Gabriel like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. But then Morrow swivels our way. His eyes widen with recognition, and he calls out my name. Before I’m able to respond, Ben grabs my hand.

“Come on!” We fly down one flight to the conference level and burst onto the landing in a fit of giggles. We draw stares from a few stray con-goers loitering outside the vendor hall—I hope because we’re acting like idiots, not because they recognize me.

“Why are we running?” I ask Ben.

“Because it’s fun.”

“Why are you game, all of a sudden?” I say, breathless and giddy.

Ben shrugs, ducks his head shyly. “It’s like going on an adventure with you. I think you wanting to interview a possible killer is bonkers, but as you seem determined, it’s better if you’re not alone.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I stare straight ahead. I squeeze his hand tightly in mine. We don’t want to linger. The elevator dings to our right, and as we slip down the hallway, I overhear Sheriff Morrow tell Deputy Shields to start taking alibis in the vendor hall.

According to the program book, the conference center is a giant L, and the publishing track is at the tail end of it. It quickly becomes apparent that all the conference rooms are named after trees. We pass Buckeye, Box Elder, Gray Pine, Giant Redwood, Black Walnut. It is the most NorCal thing I can imagine.

We arrive at White Alder just as the panel is letting out. I catch an easel next to the door with the schedule. There’s a fifteen-minute break until “High-Stakes Settings” begins. Ten people file by, but no Chris.

Someone grabs me by the elbow, yanks on my arm hard.

“Hey, let go of her!” Ben bellows, and I whirl around to find Chris, all shell-shocked puppy in a lavender pullover. He really loves pastels.