She sips her wine. “Is it the beard?”

The question catches me off guard.

“How’d you know he has a beard?”

“Small town. I know things,” she explains.

I look toward the door, sinking a little inside.

“And no, it’s not the beard. He just seems like a nice guy. Interesting. There could be something there. Or maybe not.”

“Do you want to sleep with him?” Mindy asks, egging me on like she used to when we saw each other more regularly. Her teasing feels comfortable. I’ve missed her. I look at my phone. It’s only half past the hour. He’s late. He hasn’t texted that he couldn’t come.

I fill her in on what I found out from Tyra and Chantelle.

“Look before you tell me that it’s not our case—like Sheriff—I know there is a connection. The girls were extremely close. They had to sneak around to maintain their friendship because Ellie was practically under house arrest.”

“Wasn’t she in school?”

I make a quick scan of the door.

He’s not here.

“No,” I say. “Her mom homeschooled her at the behest of her husband, a real control freak.”

Mindy is doing what she does best. She’s processing the information like it’s a crime scene.

I love that about her.

“So, your theory is that, what? The girls plotted the murder of their parents? If that’s the case, why is Tyra’s dad still alive?”

“The plot was one sided. A game for Tyra. She was never going to get rid of her mother. She just told Ellie how she was going to do it—and then said she did.”

“How could she get away with such a ruse?”

“Easier than you think. Tyra knew her friend had no internet. No way of knowing there was nothing on the news. Her phone, her lifeline, was gone.”

Mindy looks up from her drink.

“That’s twisted, Megan.”

“As Sheriff says, ‘like a soft-serve cone’.”

I look down at my phone, and I hear his voice.

“Hey, Detective,” Dan says as he joins us.

“Hey,” I say. “This is my coworker, Mindy Newsom.”

He smiles. “We’ve met.”

“Yes,” she replies. “At the shop.”

“Didn’t know you worked there too, Megan.”

“She’s also a crime scene tech. And a damned good one.”

“If I were that good,” Mindy says as Dan folds his lean frame into the space next to me, “I’d be somewhere else digging up bodies instead of planting flowers.”

Dan’s wearing a lightweight quilted jacket over a T-shirt that stretches tightly across his chest. He smells a little like a campfire, but not in a bad way. He orders a local distillery’s Scotch.