Bill, who was Sabrina’s husband, spent his days working in a booth at the back corner of the restaurant, hunched over his laptop, doing mysterious things with stocks and bonds and making a small fortune.

“Huh,” I said to myself. I pulled out my phone. Working. A workplace. Figuring out where the suspects worked would be an excellent place to start on finding out more information. Okay, we already knew about Ian and Skyler, but what about John Pinnock? Was he retired or still working? And what about Keegan? And the so far completely unknown Charlie Seller?

I started with John Pinnock, and by the time my food arrived, I’d come to the conclusion that the man had zero social media presence. Though I’d suspected as much, it was still disappointing, which somehow made me even more okay with having him be the killer.

By the time I’d eaten most of my breakfast, I decided that I needed to know more about Charlie Seller before I could track him down on social media, mainly because of his first name. Did he go by Charlie, or was that just what his family called him? Did he go by Chuck? Charles? Or something else entirely?

After taking a final bite of (stale) French toast and a fortifying swig of coffee, I started the social media hunt for the final suspect.

I’d saved Keegan until last, figuring that as a female millennial, odds were good that she’d be easy to find. And my instincts had been correct, because she popped right to the top.

According to the information she’d added to Facebook, Keegan had grown up in Gaylord, graduated from Michigan Technological University, and was working as a project engineer at S & S, Inc., a cybersecurity company here in Chilson.

“S and S,” I said. Wasn’t that . . . ? I sat back, trying to remember the name of the place where Mia had started working in January. Mia was a computer programming whiz and the wife of Josh, the library’s IT guy. “Duh,” I said out loud, and typed Mia’s name into the Facebook search. Sure enough, Keegan and Mia worked at the same place.

Which was just down the street.

My phone’s clock said I had almost an hour before I needed to be at the library, so I finished the last bite of French (stale) toast, paid my bill, and hurried off. As I walked the last block, I tried out various ideas for starting a Keegan conversation in my head but came to the obvious-in-retrospect conclusion that the harder part might be maneuvering myself face-to-face with her. After all, did I really expect her to be walking into her office at the same time I happened to be walking past? A better plan was called for, only—

“Minnie? Is that you?”