Five minutes later, and Ben is still on the phone. We can both take a hint. He mouths, Goodbye, grabs the rest of his grilled cheese for the road, and departs. I watch him out the front door, which is when I notice that Morgan’s no longer there. I’ve been abandoned twice over. Kind of kills the crack-investigation-team feel. Just when I think it can’t get more surreal—or depressing—Luke steps into frame, beckoning his latest tour group to the diner window. The murder tour is back in swing not even twenty-four hours after an actual murder. It’s disgustingly callous. At least he won’t be ending with a reenactment at the school pool this time.

I hope.

“You finished, hon?”

Amber’s mom appears, refilling my coffee and pointedly ignoring the spectacle outside. I hand her the black folder with my shiny new credit card, courtesy of Maura (by way of Suzanne). So much for going Dutch.

Stephanie makes to run the card, but a jingle at the door alerts both of us.

“Kyle,” she offers tightly.

“You know how I like it” is the sheriff’s hello. And then he slides into the booth across from me, as though we’d scheduled the meeting. Stephanie makes a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat, then goes to fulfill his order.

“The coffee at the hotel is garbage,” he says with a shrug. The smell of his sweat travels across the booth: a sour tang, from too much booze and not enough sleep.

“We’re both coming from over there. For some reason,” he continues. There’s warning in his tone. Passive aggressive with a side of sarcasm.

“I had to run an errand for Maura.” I blink at him.

“Well, I’m glad to catch you.” He runs a hand through graying blond hair. I see shades of Amber in him, though he’s oddly softer, despite being a cop. Amber’s a boss-ass bitch. On cue, her mom tells the snapping Karen not to do that to her ever again. And then she’s standing over us, passing me my check and slowly pouring black coffee into a chipped white mug for her ex-husband. Listening in.

“I’ll need you to come down to the station this afternoon for your formal interview. We’re one street over, on Pleasant Drive.”

“Oh, sure. Of course. I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Hmph.” Sheriff Morrow sips his coffee with a grimace, though he makes no move to soften the bitter brew.

“Anything else for you?” Stephanie asks.

“Just some privacy.”

“Do I need to call her grandmother? She’s under eighteen, Kyle.”

“Leave it, Steph. She’s not being questioned as a suspect. It’s fine.”

He says that, but I’m not so sure. Stephanie reluctantly departs, but her fierce gray-blue eyes never leave our table, ready to come to the rescue should I need.