“I understand,” I say, pretending to be properly chided. But inside my head, the wheels are turning. Luke was Natalie’s escort on the field—surely why he’s on the board outside. I need to talk to him. Piece together a timeline of where Natalie went after the car procession. Ooh. I need my own murder board.

There’s a knock at the door, so well timed I suspect the person on the other side had to have been listening. It’s Amber. She offers a fresh cup of coffee to her dad, and a tight-lipped smile at me.

“Deputy Shields is back,” she says. “With a couple con-goers in tow.”

“Right. Is there anything else you want to tell me, Cecelia?”

“Nope,” I say, already moving to leave. Gabriel’s thumb drive is searing a hole in my pocket. When we reenter the bullpen, I notice that the young cop from earlier is gone, leaving the murder board empty and unguarded.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, already moving away from reception.

“It’s down there to the left.” Amber points as they go to meet Deputy Shields and Mustache Deputy, who I see corralling a group of Maura superfans to sign in. I recognize a few people who were at the reenactment on Saturday, plus my old friend Chris.

I maneuver carefully, doing a head tuck and a whirl, the first so Chris doesn’t spot me and the latter so I can appear to be heading bathroom-ward while I double back. I zip past the open doorway and flatten myself against the near wall. I only have a minute, at best.

The murder board winks at me. I’ll be visible if anyone in the main office looks away from the group of con-goers. I ready my phone, tapping into the camera app, and steal closer. I’m ten feet from it, then five. I raise my phone horizontally to snap a pic…but, shit, I’m too close. Edging back, back, I almost have it in frame when there’s a sharp pinch in my hip, then the whoosh of papers flying. I’ve hip-butted into Mustache Deputy’s desk; I whip around and check my six, to find reception empty. Shit. Tapping hurriedly, I hope I’ve got the board in focus for the shot, but there’s no time to check before I dive behind the deputy’s desk and surreptitiously gather the files from the floor. Above me, someone clears their throat.

“Found it!” I right the folders on the desk and hop up, phone thrust forward triumphantly. Mustache Deputy does not appear amused. “Slippery fingers, whoops. Sorry for messing up your desk.” I talk so fast he’s unable to get a word in before I dart around him and power walk toward reception. In my periphery, I see Maura’s fans being led into individual interview rooms.