“I only asked one question.” Legs crossed, I swiveled, smiling.

Glenn glanced behind him into the open offices. “You are a guest here,” he said roughly. “If you can’t play by my rules—” He stopped. “Why are you still smiling?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Graylin had dinner with Trent a month before she was attacked.”

The man straightened to his full height and drew back a step. His eyes narrowed.

“Mind if I call the next?” I asked.

He looked at the phone beside my hand, then back to the open floor. With a forced casualness, he shut his door halfway. “Keep it down.”

Pleased with myself, I pulled the stack of papers closer. Glenn went back behind his computer, typing with an annoying slowness.

My mood quickly sobered as I scanned the coroner’s report, skipping the picture portion this time. Apparently the man had been eaten alive from the extremities inward. They knew he had been alive at the time by the tearing pattern of the wounds. And they were fairly confident he had been eaten by the lack of body parts.

Trying to ignore the mental picture my imagination provided, I called the contact number. There was no answer, not even a machine. I called his former place of work next, my intuition settling into a nice groove at the name of the place: Seary Security.

The woman there was very nice, but she didn’t know anything, telling me that Mr. Seary’s wife was away at a “health resort” trying to relearn how to sleep. She did look in her files, though, telling me that they had been contracted to install a safe on the Kalamack estate.

“Security …” I murmured, pinning Mr. Seary’s packet to the bulletin board atop Glenn’s sticky notes to get it out of my way. “Hey, Glenn. You have any more of those sticky notes?”

He rummaged in his desk drawer, tossing me a pack, shortly followed by a pen. I scrawled the name of Mr. Seary’s workplace and stuck it to his report. After a moment’s thought, I did the same to the woman’s, writing “safe designer” on it. I added a second sticky note with “Talked to T” circled in black ink.

A scuffing in the hallway brought my eyes up from the third report. I made a noncommittal smile recognizing the overweight cop, minibag of chips in hand. He acknowledged me and Glenn’s nod, coming to a rest in the doorway. “Glenn’s got you doing his secretary work?” he asked, his good-old-boy tone almost thick enough to cut.

“No,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Trent Kalamack is the witch hunter, and I’m just taking a moment to tie the links together.”

He grunted, eyeing Glenn. Glenn wearily returned his look, adding a shrug. “Rachel,” he said, “this is Officer Dunlop. Dunlop, this is Ms. Morgan.”

“Charmed,” I said, not offering my hand lest I get it back covered in potato-chip grease.

Not getting the hint, the man walked in, crumbs falling to the tile floor. “Whatcha got?” he said, coming to peer at my thick reports stuck to the board atop Glenn’s faded sticky notes.