He stumbled back to the couch and collapsed onto it. Maybe he’d sleep tonight, but probably not. Not for more than a few minutes at a burst, just like the last few nights. How the fuck does a person ever get a real sleep after their wife and baby die? Seems sacrilegious. If Colin ever got a peaceful eight-hour sleep again, he’d slit his wrists out of sheer guilt.

Sleep made him think of Riley McKay, who slept so hard he never came out of it. And Riley McKay made him think of Rose Yates. Colin had become obsessed with her, something more easily admitted in the pitch-black of his house. Obsessed with needing to know what she was guilty of, if anything. Since Meg’s death, Rose Yates had occupied a disproportionate chunk of Colin’s thoughts. He hadn’t wanted this, but he had no power to fight the way his synapses fired.

And that led to tonight, where Colin, deep in the dark, seven and a half beers in his bloodstream, wearing nothing but underwear and a thousand-pound suit of grief, powered on his phone, bringing a digital spotlight into the void. He searched his contacts for Rose Yates, whom he’d added in his list before his trip to Bury.

Colin thumbed the Call button.

Fuck it, he thought, bringing the phone to his ear. Fuck everything.

Four rings, then voicemail. It was an hour later in Bury.

He dialed again.

Voicemail.

One more time, and on the third ring, an answer. The voice was tired and hardened, dried soil sown with bitter seeds.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rose.”

“Who is this?”

“Colin Pearson.” He tried to keep his voice from slurring.

The sleep cleared from Yates’s voice, replaced by anger. “It’s late, Detective. Why are you calling me?”

“Because I figured the case out,” Colin said. The darkness, drink, and desolation allowed him to do this. A week ago, Colin couldn’t have imagined making a call like this. But life is nothing if not unpredictable.

“We’ve been over this,” Yates said, and now Colin thought he heard a little fear creep in alongside the anger. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m not talking about your husband,” Colin said. He heard the slurring now but didn’t care. “I’m talking about Caleb Benner.”

He could hear her breaths but nothing else. Nothing for maybe ten, twelve seconds.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked.

“You remember Caleb Benner, right? Disappeared back when you were in high school?”

She didn’t reply.

“Last seen by your sister,” Colin continued. “Cops talked to one Cora Yates right there in your house. Same house I interviewed you in, matter of fact. And just like with us, her interview was cut short. So I’m kinda curious to know what conversations went on in the Yates house after the detective left.”

There was a slight tremble in her voice as she spoke, but she managed to keep her composure. Not everyone could, Colin knew. Some suspects just lost their shit entirely when a cop cut close to the bone. But not Rose Yates. She knew cops. Knew everything about the inner workings of police. Or maybe Colin wasn’t in any shape to mount a proper interrogation technique.