As I park, the garage door opens and a Mercedes—of course, what else?—backs out of the driveway. It’s Mr. Potter. He’s older than his wife with a neatly trimmed gray beard and eyes that are golden brown.

I think of a goat.

When he sees me, he lowers the driver’s window.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Megan Carpenter. The detective who talked with Chantelle last night.”

He gives me a nod. “Yeah, very sad about the Burbanks. Nice people. Terrible tragedy.”

I don’t tell him that I doubt it was a tragedy.

“Is she home?”

“She’s always home,” he says, with a touch of irritation. “She’s on her third cup of coffee.”

I thank him and go to the front door, as the sound of the garage as it rolls downward plays in the background.

Chantelle answers right away. She’s dressed to the nines in a sleeveless emerald green dress and shoes on that I know cost more than a week’s pay in Jefferson County. She smiles with recognition.

“Just like TV,” she says. “You came back for one more thing.”

“Kind of like that,” I answer.

She invites me inside and I’m almost certain that none of the midcentury modern furnishings are replicas. Leather, wood, chrome. Mixed with the old are new pieces of steel and glass, electronics too. It’s like a showroom of what people with money covet today.

We sit in one of those leather and chrome sofas that never look inviting but are very comfortable, and talk over French press coffee.

I tell her that I came back to look for Ellie’s phone.

“If that’s okay with you?”

Chantelle nods while sipping her coffee.

“No problem,” she says, setting down her cup. “I’d help you look, but I have to meet my friends this morning. It’s something we do once a week.”

She continues to prattle on about her obligations.

I continue to covet her shoes.

“I’ll get out of your way,” I say. “You have things to do.”

She lets out a sigh. “I do. I don’t know how it is that I’m able to go on, with the loss of my friend and all. I took an extra pill last night. Just so awful to think of Carrie and Ellie that way. Even Hudson. So damn sad.”

She doesn’t seem sad. She wants to show me she’s grief-stricken as a way of letting me know she’s a very real person. None of her furnishings are fake. But her feelings might be.

“Very sad,” I say. “Again, I’m sorry for the loss of your friends.”

I add the “s”, so she won’t correct me and remind me how much she misses Ellie and Hudson.

“Thank you, Detective.”

She leads me out to the backyard and points to the bushes.

“Somewhere over there. I’m sure of it.”