I park my car outside Seth’s Coffee and watch as a few customers enter and leave. Someone there must have seen Kelly with a man other than Adam or her husband, Scott. Who does that third set of DNA belong to? It has to be someone that would have a reason for wanting to remain hidden. Why else would he use a burner phone? I get out of the car and pick up my tote bag. The café is only open for another hour, so I’ll have to work quickly.

I enter the establishment and take in my surroundings, being sure not to miss anything or anyone. The café is small and filled with eclectic furniture and décor. Nothing quite matches, but somehow it does, and it works. Random wooden tables, chairs of many colors and made of different materials—plastic, wood, metal. There’s an orange couch with a coffee table in front of it and two white leather chairs on either side of it, all situated in a cozy area.

A middle-aged man is sitting on the couch. His gaze bounces around the café, from his laptop to other customers to me and back again. A woman sits alone at a table reading a book. She doesn’t look up, and her attention is solely on the book four inches from her face. There’s soft classical music playing. A lone barista is leaning against the counter fiddling with her fingernails. She’s a young black woman with full, ringlet hair and big brown eyes. I’d guess her around the same age as Kelly. Perhaps they were friends.

When she notices me, she straightens up and greets me. Her name tag says Brenda.

“Hi, I’ll take a small black coffee.” I pull out my wallet.

“Can I get a name for that?”

“Sarah.” She writes my name on the cup and punches a couple of buttons on the cash register. I hand her the cash from my wallet.

“Thanks. That’ll be right up,” she says with a smile.

“Brenda, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’m here for more than just coffee.”

“Are you here about Kelly?” she asks.

“Actually, I am,” I say—a bit taken aback that she’d know. It must be the matching blazer and skirt that gave away that I’m here for more than just a casual drink.

“We had a reporter here earlier asking about her. Which newspaper do you work for?”

I consider correcting her and then decide I’d probably get better information out of her if I’m just some reporter rather than the defense attorney of the man accused of murdering her co-worker, and maybe friend.

“I work for the Gainesville Paper. I’m Sarah Smith.” I extend my hand for a handshake. She obliges. “Do you have a moment to talk?”