I followed Amanda under the police tape to the door of the bar. The large room was packed with people, most of them looking in on the empty bar and kitchen area, a forensic staff–only zone. As I appeared, most eyes turned toward me, examined my bruises, the dried blood that I couldn’t seem to fully expel from the rims of my ears. Everyone had donned a Tyvek suit from a pile on a table by the door. I stopped and grabbed one, pulled it on, my face burning with the quiet scrutiny of dozens of people.

There were officers around who looked like they wanted to come and stop us entering the scene. A woman in a suit approached and pulled back her hood. I braced myself for the speech from the lead crime-scene officer about how Amanda and I weren’t wanted there, about how insulting it was for a victim’s family to bring in private detectives without giving the police half a chance to fuck it up. But I was surprised by a familiar face. Officer Philippa Sweeney had been Holloways Beach police when I first met her, a beat cop tasked with watching over my house six months earlier when a mob had assembled outside it, shouting and carrying on over my arrival in their town. She turned a heart-shaped face up toward me, and I was glad to see it wasn’t creased with jurisdictional fury.

“What happened to you, Conkaffey?”

“Slipped on a banana peel.”

“Right.” She smirked. “I’m the lead on this case. Detective Inspector Pip Sweeney. I was on protection detail at your house a while back.”

“I remember.” I shook her gloved hand. “That’s a swift upward turn in the career trajectory.”

“Yeah, well. Seems there were a couple of openings in Crimson Lake for sergeant suddenly.” The corner of her mouth tightened, just slightly, with a smile. She didn’t want to thank me. Couldn’t. “I took the exam and they rushed me through.”

“Nice work,” I said.

“Mmm.”

“Look, it’s very unusual, us being hired this early,” I said. “I’ve already said as much to Mr. Bell. But I’m happy to go and talk to him again, tell him that you guys need to lead and we’ll come in afterwards if there is anything we think we can assist on.”

“He’s in shock,” Sweeney said. “It’s been three hours since he learned his son is dead. He’s grabbing at straws. I’ve seen it before. You tell someone the news and before they can do anything else they go hang the washing on the line. I’m not insulted. I think he’s had a kneejerk reaction.”

“Right,” I said.

“But I’m not going to tell you guys to shove off right away,” she said. “Get a look at the scene. Make some calls if you want. If it makes Michael Bell feel better to have you here I’m not going to argue.”