My eye catches on a messy scrawl next to Luke’s picture—it’s off to the side that’s hard to make out, though the bright-red marker used signals its importance. I tilt in close to the screen and squint: Cagey about alibi.

Now that’s odd. Why didn’t Luke tell the police where he was after Natalie left?

Another slash of red jumps out from next to Mayor Bergen’s headshot. Overheard screaming at victim before game.

You know what they say: if the mayor was willing to scream at his child in public, who knows what he was willing to do behind closed doors.

We pull off the highway onto a narrow two-lane road, which winds through landscape that alternates between scraggly fields and dense trees and brush until we reach a driveway announced by dual lampposts. Rinaldi Wines is etched into a wood sign at the right of the drive. We pass through the gate, swung wide open as if in anticipation of us, and then pass two dozen vehicles parked haphazardly on the sweep of grass near the house. The side yard is lit up and crowded with laughing partygoers.

“It’s…bigger than I thought it would be,” I remark, peering past the makeshift parking lot to the vineyard. Someone’s strung fairy lights along one of the paths, and I can make out several people in fancy dress, strolling.

“It’s a wedding,” Morgan explains. “They host them year-round. Our party is back here.” She pulls past the main house, a soaring Queen Anne with all windows ablaze, down a driveway marked PRIVATE. We park in front of what I think is the guesthouse but reads minimansion to me. This second house, behind the first house, was presumably built so Luke’s family could reside close by while wedding guests took over the picturesque Queen Anne. We enter the Mediterranean ranch, where we are greeted with an open-plan living area with soaring wood beam ceilings and Luke stoned on the couch. He toasts us with a White Claw and slumps into the buttery leather cushions with a dopey expression on his face. Then he gestures to the nearby kitchen island cluttered with bottles and a towering plate of brownies I assume are the “fun” kind.

“Take your pick.” Luke registers my discomfort. Delights in it. A sour spike of unease hits my stomach. I seek shelter behind the girls and pour Diet Coke into a Solo cup, adding a splash of vodka to fit in. Everyone else grabs a beverage and a weed brownie, and we arrange ourselves around Luke on the couches. I’m relieved when no one comments on my lack of sweet treat.

“How’s the case going, Amb?” Luke jumps right into it. Amber’s mid–brownie bite, chocolate coating her teeth, as she freezes, mouth open.