Maxwell Black was dead. Jason Jones had recently been upgraded to serious condition at Boston Medical.

According to Sandra Jones, she deeply regretted the damage caused by her impulsive disappearing act. She had returned, however; her husband had never harmed a hair on her head; and they could all move on with their lives now.

The whole thing rubbed D.D. the wrong way. Sandra was sorry? Tell that to Aidan Brewster, who’d basically been executed as a convenient fall guy. Tell that to Wayne Reynolds, who may have shown bad personal judgment, but up until the moment of his death, remained professionally adamant that Jason Jones was engaged in improper online activities.

Then there was Ethan Hastings, who’d disappeared for nearly four hours on the night in question, but claimed he had no idea what had happened to the Jones family computer.

For the record, D.D. had managed to get a warrant to search every computer in the Boston Daily offices to identify whether it belonged to the newspaper or to a private individual. They had used serial numbers retained by the newspaper and they had been very thorough. The Jones family computer was not in the offices. It had vanished. Just like that.

Ethan Hastings had done something. No doubt in her mind.

Unfortunately the teenage whiz kid was proving a tough nut to crack.

“Are we done?” his father was asking now. “Because we’re here in good faith, and it seems to me that there’s nothing more my son can tell you. If you can’t find the computer you need for your investigation, that’s your problem, not ours.”

“Not if your son tampered with evidence—” D.D. started to growl.

Her superintendent held up a quieting hand. He looked at her, and she knew that expression. It was the investigative equivalent of “Time to piss or get off the pot.” She had no evidence to piss. Dammit.

“We’re done,” she announced in clipped tones. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.”

Subtext being, it’ll be a cold day in hell….

The Hastings entourage exited, Ethan staring at her balefully as he walked out the door.

“He did something,” she muttered to her boss.

“Most likely. But he’s also still in love with his teacher. As long as he feels like he’s protecting poor Mrs. Sandra …”

“Who got his uncle killed.”

“Who was attacked by said uncle, at least according to what she says.”