I closed the front door behind me and sighed as I pried off my boots, heel to toe, one by one. Swanton was sucking the life out of me—too much family, too many bad memories—and now the situation in my new home was uncomfortable, too. Already there was a text on my phone from Mac. You okay? Tim’s just stressed. We all are.

Of course. I understand, I typed back, but what I was thinking was, I’m alone in this, and if I can’t crack the code, we’re all doomed.

I found my parents drinking tea in the living room. My dad had enforced this tradition for as long as I could remember, and even now I often reached for a hot drink and a cookie in the late afternoon. It was barely twelve o’clock, though, and their heads swiveled when I walked in. They’d been waiting for me. The first words out of Mom’s mouth were, “I talked to your aunt.”

Oh, shit.

“Honey,” she said once I was sitting down. “Your father and I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Play dumb. Feign ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“Come now,” said Dad, “you’re investigating Brett’s death. It’s obvious, love, you have that look, the same one you used to get when watching Columbo.”

That made me smile. I did love Columbo. “I’m here,” I said with a shrug. “Might as well see if I can help.”

“You’ve only just recovered from not one, but two very traumatic experiences. The last thing you need is a relapse.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“And that’s wonderful,” said Mom. “But don’t you think it might be too soon to jump back on the horse? Your evaluation is in two days. How does your counselor feel about your being here?”

I squirmed in my seat and let my gaze roam to the fireplace mantel, the bookshelves, anywhere but my mother’s face. How would Gil feel? Not great. “He doesn’t know I’m here right now, but I told him I was planning to come for Thanksgiving. He was fine with that. He said a good support system is crucial.”

They leaned their heads toward each other and locked eyes. Another transmission only they could discern.

“This isn’t an average case,” said my mother. “Brett was your uncle. His passing is upsetting enough without you rooting through his dirty laundry.”

“He didn’t pass, he was murdered, and rooting is the only way to find out why. Don’t any of you want to know who did this?” I dropped my elbows to my knees and sank my hands into my hair. “Felicia kept crucial evidence from the police. Crissy knew Brett had a girlfriend at the time he was killed and said nothing. He was dating Robbie Copely’s mom, were you aware of that? Are you guys hiding things from me, too?”

Dad peered at me over his glasses and slung a sweatered arm across his leg. Mom set down her cup and moved her hands to her lap. “Cheryl Copely,” she said. “Crissy’s sure about that?”