Five minutes later, as she was explaining to a caller that the firm didn’t routinely file lawsuits against a client’s parents for breach of promise, she heard the casters of Ben’s chair squeaking as he rolled over to her side of the cubicle. She ended the call quickly and reluctantly turned to face him.

“You’re the big sister?” he asked. “Whose big sister?”

“William Brice Campbell, Junior,” Drue said. “But we’re going to call him Liam. You’ll have to excuse me now, because I think I just threw up in my mouth.”

“She’s pregnant?” Ben said, glancing over his shoulder at the door to Wendy’s office. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not even a little bit,” Drue assured him.

“But your dad is like, what? In his seventies? Is that even possible?”

“He’s a robust sixty-eight, and they have assured me that anything is possible, if you have enough insurance. Did you know that Charlie Chaplin’s wife had a kid when he was seventy-three?”

“Excuse me, but I find it bizarre that you happen to know that,” Ben said.

“What’s bizarre?” Jonah stood just behind Drue’s chair, his mug clutched in one hand, his coffee pod in the other.

“Drue here is going to have a baby brother,” Ben said. “Wendy’s got a bun in the oven.”

“You guys just figured that out?” Jonah said. He shook his head. “I thought that was old news.”

Drue spun around on her chair. “No way you already knew. I was the first person they told.”

“I’ve known it for weeks,” Jonah said. “The dark circles under her eyes, and the untucked shirts all of a sudden? But the biggest giveaway was the green tea and soy milk. Most days, Wendy used to drink about a gallon of black coffee, straight up, before noon.”

“You’re right, damn it,” Ben said. “Don’t you agree that it’s a little much, Brice having another kid at his age?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Steve Martin was sixty-seven when he had his first kid.” Jonah nodded at his colleagues and sauntered off toward the break room.

Drue waited until Ben got up to join his friend in the break room. She looked around to make sure she wouldn’t be overhead, then dialed the number for the Treasure Island Police Department.

“Detective Hernandez, please,” she told the operator.

“Which Detective Hernandez?”

She glanced down at the police report half hidden on her desktop. “Uh, Ray Hernandez, please.”

“One moment.”

The extension number rang twice and a woman answered. “This is Rae Hernandez.”

Drue was startled to be speaking to a female detective. “Oh hi. My name is Drue Campbell. I work for the law firm that Yvonne Howington hired to represent her after her daughter was killed two years ago at the Gulf Vista Hotel and Resort.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.