One post would examine the possibility that Colleen Hicks was living in a hippie commune in upstate New York, while another would have the missing woman joining a cloistered religious order.

Various “experts” opined that Colleen Hicks had been murdered by a Manson family–inspired cult, by a jilted former boyfriend, even by a disgruntled patient from the dental clinic where Colleen was working at the time of her disappearance.

It was all mildly entertaining, Drue decided, but what she really needed to do was talk to Vera Rennick in person. Just before dropping off to sleep, Drue sent a deliberately vague private message to the blogger.

Hi, Vera. I recently moved home to St. Pete from the east coast, and found a trove of newspaper clippings about the Colleen Hicks case in my late mother’s belongings. I’m intrigued and wonder if you’d be willing to talk to me about the case in person? Thanks, Drue Campbell.

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The woman, Drue concluded, must be a night owl. At 2:15 A.M. she’d responded to Drue’s message: I’d be happy to talk to you about Colleen. I’m free anytime before noon. It’s a retirement community on the south side. She attached the street address.

Still sleepless, Drue checked her phone at seven-fifteen Friday morning and found Vera’s response. She typed in her own response immediately. If Vera Rennick agreed, she would visit her today. It would make her late to work, but, she reflected, with Wendy out of the office, there would be no hateful yellow SEE ME notes stuck to her desk when she finally did make it in to work.

I can be there by 9, if that’s all right.

Vera’s answer came almost immediately. See you then.

Drue called Rae Hernandez on the way to meet Vera Rennick. “Call me please, Rae. I have new information about Jazmin Hicks, and it’s important that we talk.”

Vera Rennick lived in a tidy buff-colored stucco bungalow in the sprawling Sunny Shores retirement community in the Bahama Shores neighborhood on the city’s south side.

Before Drue could ring the bell, the door opened. The woman who answered the door wore a floor-length black and white floral caftan. She was stoop-shouldered, peering up at her visitor past a fringe of silver bangs, through thick-lensed glasses.

“Drue? How nice to meet you.”

She showed Drue into the living room, which, though modestly furnished, boasted a stunning waterfront view.

“Sit here,” Vera urged, pointing at an avocado velvet club chair. “It’s the best view of Little Bayou.” She pointed toward the galley kitchen, visible through the half-wall that separated it from the living room. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, maybe?”

“No, thank you,” Drue said politely.