“Yeah, it’s what Luke calls it.” And we’re back on Luke. And the logistics are still hinky. “How long is halftime? After the homecoming-court procession specifically. There were, what? Fifteen minutes left, if that? Not much of a hookup when you have to go all the way to the main school building.”

“But private. No one goes down there during a game.”

No one but me. I try to visualize it, grasp at my own memory of how long it took to get there. It passes through my fingers like sand.

“Let’s go there. To the school.” The idea hits me like a shot. I grab my sneakers, sit on my bed to put them on. Ben gawps at me.

“It’s Sunday.”

“I know. The day of rest. The place was still swarming yesterday, the school resource officer haunting the parking lot. I couldn’t get to the pool. But I bet it’ll be quieter today. Plus, it’s raining. I want to test the timeline. And who knows, maybe we’ll find some clues.”

Ben hesitates. “I’m sure the cops have been all over it already….”

There’s a double rap, the kind of knock meant more as a statement than a request. Maura flings open the door. “What are you two getting up to in here?” She stops in the entryway, taking in me with my shoes on, Ben hunched over my laptop, the mess on the bed. “When I was your age we got straight to it, but solving a murder together works, too. Morbid, as far as foreplay goes, but they say your generation is all newfangled, don’t they?”

“Who says we’re solving a murder?” My voice practically squeaks. Maura casts me a no-bullshit side-eye.

“Sweetie, I write mysteries for a living. Which is why I have all the supplies downstairs for a good old-fashioned murder board. That’s what you need. Grab that mess and follow me. I’m not hoofing those stairs a second time.”

Maura leads us to the ground floor, where she snaps at Ben to raid a nearby closet. “You know the one,” she says, and he does. A minute later, he wheels a giant wooden corkboard into Maura’s office, a plastic bin tucked under one arm. In short order, my grandmother helps us marry my scribbled note cards and Post-its with her supply of thumbtacks and colored string, creating a map of suspects. It’s glorious. But then she frowns.

“Why is Suzanne on here?” Maura squints at the blue index card. “ ‘Gave file to Reama night of the murder,’ ” she reads aloud. Then she laughs. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve really twisted yourself into a pretzel, haven’t you? Tilting at windmills. I sent Suzanne to the hotel to give Reama an ARC of my next book. Let’s take her off before she sees it.”