“She is a former coworker of Loming’s. Retired now, but she worked the front desk for five of the same years Loming was at the factory, right up until the company folded.”

The receptionist. “You’re kidding,” I said. “What does she know?”

“Seems all these news stories about your uncle sparked some memories about Loming, and she’s had an epiphany. Apparently those two men were rabble-rousers, always chatting and flirting with the ladies—including her—so it was noticeably different after Brett left, especially since Loming vamoosed, too.”

“What?” I brushed hair from my eyes and squinted at the road. “Where? When?”

“He failed to show up to work for a couple of days after Brett’s supposed move. When he got back, he told Ms. Rockwell he’d been visiting some friends in Canada.” Harmison cleared his throat to show me just how little stock he put in that claim. “Loming brought a new, expensive-looking watch back from that trip, too. Thing is, she’s adamant he was always complaining about being cash-strapped.”

Ahead of me, a Subaru was driving like it was a Sunday in summer. I sped past it, wincing at the piercing wail of their horn. “What are you thinking?” I asked. “Loming used those days to make sure he’d covered his tracks?”

“We think he followed Brett out to Hook Road that night, stole the cash and the stash, and ditched his car somewhere. Loming was one of the few people who knew Brett was leaving that weekend, and he had a beef with Brett about money. With the drug business doing well, and Brett being the guy who set it all up, Loming wasn’t happy he was leaving. Any of this square with what you know?”

I didn’t have to think on that for long. Russell Loming had admitted he talked privately with Brett at the drive-in. I could see him using that time to make a last grab at the money he was owed, and getting angry when he failed. I told Harmison as much.

“Good,” he said. “That helps. Loming already admitted to dealing drugs; it’s just a matter of time before he fesses up about Brett, too. There’s no hiding anything now—the whole town’s already talking about him. Word travels fast.”

“Sure does,” I said.

I thanked the police chief for the update, and flexed my fingers on the steering wheel. My nails were short, the cuticles ragged. Russell Loming. I should have been relieved. No more worrying about Felicia’s potential involvement in my uncle’s murder, or agonizing over what else my brother might be hiding.

The receptionist’s account was strong, Loming’s behavior unarguably suspicious. As I absorbed Harmison’s theory and called Loming’s face to mind, though, I no longer saw a womanizer past his prime, but a man whose kitchen table had been set with colorful plastic dishes for his grandkids. I shook the picture from my head. Be grateful, for Christ’s sake. Brett’s killer had been found, and my family had nothing to do with the crime—at least, not this one.