“Let me see that thing.” Chet grabs the phone from my hands and clicks to another column, scrolling through a long line of Tweets and replies. “See all the checkmarks on these profiles? That means these guys are legit. Big-time podcasters with thousands and thousands of followers, and she was in full-on Twitter conversations with them. Talking shop, picking their brains, asking for advice, stuff like that. Especially this guy Grant. They seem like good Twitter buddies.”

He pulls up a thread, a lively back-and-forth that at times is downright flirty. She asks what he’s working on, questions him on his equipment and how he handles hostile witnesses, about a conference coming up in the spring. She offers to buy him a drink. He suggests dinner instead. Her answer is a kissy-face emoji and two clinking glasses of champagne.

“Message him,” I say. “Ask him what he knows. Maybe she told him something.”

Chet scrunches his nose. “Worth a try, I guess.” He opens a private message window. “What should I say?”

I reach for the phone and start typing.

Hi Grant, you don’t know me, but I noticed your conversation with Sienna Sterling and thought you should know she died this past week. Murdered and found in the same lake as the Skeleton Bob she came here to research. My sister was the one who found her.

Chet reads it, then shrugs. “He might not have any clue what I’m talking about.”

I hit Send, and the message reappears a split second later in a bright blue bubble. “Or he might know exactly what you’re talking about.”

26

On the way home, Chet takes a detour on 64, rolling to a stop at a 1970s ranch of dark brown brick.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I take it in through the windshield. Landscaped yard, a fresh coat of paint on the door, lacy curtains hanging in the windows, everything neat and tidy. Either Jamie Holmes won the lottery, or her brother, Bobby, was selling a lot more than drugs.

“This is it,” Chet says with a nod. “I brought her groceries just last week.”

I look over, surprised. “I didn’t know you still visited Miss Jamie.”

He shrugs. Like me, Chet is no stranger to soup kitchens and donation boxes, so he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end. The shame, the hopelessness, the constant butting up against stereotypes of stupidity and laziness. He may have clawed his way to the other side, but so far, he hasn’t been able to make it stick. He doesn’t have the money to be buying groceries for himself half the time, let alone another person—and yet he did, he does, for Jamie Holmes.

“You little bleeding heart, you.”

He rolls his eyes, shoving open the door to a blast of cold. “Just don’t go blabbing it all over town, will you? I have a reputation to protect.”