The pen falls from my hand and onto the floor, rolling under the refrigerator. Katherine’s name was on the deed? I’m living in her home, not Paul’s?

I stare at the screen, and I recognize the emotion that flashes across Chief Hunt’s expression, the way it crumples his forehead and drags the corners of his mouth toward the floor. I saw it just last night after Paul returned, on the face of the chief’s son.

He leans onto the podium with both forearms, the papers clutched in a fist. “Young lady, who do you work for?”

“WXPT, Channel 19, from Kingsport, Tennessee.”

“Did y’all hear that? This lady here from WXPT in Kingsport is going about, making reckless suggestions on live television, planting rumors that are guaranteed to take on a life of their own. Everybody listen up, because I’m about to nip this one in the bud. We are investigating the murder of Sienna Sterling and only Sienna Sterling. The Katherine Keller case is closed. Anyone who implies anything otherwise is guilty of spreading fake news.”

And with that he stalks off screen. Press conference over.

The cameraman scrambles, and the shot shimmies into a pretty blonde behind a news desk. She rattles off a quick recap of everything we’ve just heard, then follows it up with a longer list of all the things we don’t know, things like suspect and motive and evidence. She doesn’t mention Katherine’s death again, but it’s there, throbbing between the lines, filling up the empty pauses.

Chief Hunt was wrong about nipping things in the bud; that seed has been planted and watered now. It’s already sprouting roots that are twisting around the truth, strangling it like kudzu. I peek around the wall to the front of the house, where people are milling around up at the mailbox. Reporters, staked out at the top of the drive.

I return to the kitchen, fishing the pen from under the fridge and adding to the list. Katherine. Sienna. Pitts Cove. Micah and Jax and Paul. Lies. So many lies. I look at the words, and my whole body tingles with the feeling the universe is laying something out for me. Giving me important pieces to the puzzle, spreading them out on a table for me to see, but there are too many to sort through. The more pieces I get, the more I can’t tell the edges from the middle. Nothing fits together, nothing makes sense.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text—Paul, telling me he’s picked up his car and will be spending the day visiting build sites. I toss it onto the counter, breathing through a wave of anger. An early doctor’s appointment is one thing. Following it up with more appointments means he’s avoiding me.