I swallow. Undeterred. “I want you to investigate, Alan. That is what you do.” I speak slowly, too. “This makes me think there is a witness you haven’t talked to. A witness who doesn’t think Mary was alone up there.”

“It only says Mary’s death was not an accident, and to ask Betsy. Mrs. Harris, what exactly do you want me to investigate?” Droopy green eyes droop even more, if that’s possible.

“The note, of course.”

Detective Branson stands, placing his hands on his grimy desk. He’s a stereotype, perfectly typecast. “I’m sorry. There isn’t enough here to investigate. Mary’s death was a tragic accident. Case closed. We’ve interviewed Betsy, as you know. And everyone else we could find. A letter saying it wasn’t an accident from an anonymous rich person doesn’t change that.”

I ignore The Cove dig. He’s set on his story of how things happened, that much I know by now. His reputation is on the line. If he had to admit he got it wrong, well, does he get a demotion? No. My heart is thumping. But not with panic. With anger. And with something else. I feel alive.

I stand up, reach for the doorknob. I need to get out of his tiny stupid office. I pull. Before I walk out I say, “You’re wrong. I’ll find this person without your help and then we’ll both be back here. I’ll look forward to seeing you then, Alan.” I wink at him.

Branson smiles and shakes his head. He remains standing as I leave but he doesn’t say a word. I can feel him checking out my curves as I walk out the door. These yoga pants are a man magnet. He can’t help himself.

Sam is where I left him in the parking lot. He seems surprised I’ve returned so soon, and shoves a book under the front seat before hurrying to help me.

“That was fast,” he says.

“Yes.” Despite the fact I’ll need more to convince Alan to question Betsy, I feel good about things. My revised plan is still in place and this letter was just an extra gift. I’m in control. I’m one step ahead. Sam climbs into the driver’s seat. “Home please.”

“Gotcha, Mrs. H. What did the detective have to say about your note?”

“He didn’t understand the importance of it. But he will. What are you working on? What did you put away?” It’s none of my business, but I should know something about my only friend. My paid friend, my servant, really.

“Oh, I’m getting my bachelor’s degree. Slowly. Online.” His eyes smile in the rearview mirror.

“Good for you. What subject?”

“Psychology.” He looks me in the eye through the mirror when he answers. “Just one more semester to go.”