“Kemp. His father is,” I thumb through my yellow notepad, “Robert—goes by Bob—Kemp.”

Truman rubs a hand over his head. “All right, then. I want you talking to everyone who knew this kid—friends, teachers, classmates, girlfriends,” he hesitates, “boyfriends. I’ll get in contact with the parents.”

I nudge the side of Teddy’s chair. Oliver jots something on his notepad.

“What are you waiting for?” Truman growls.

And we scramble to pick up our things and get back to our desks.

Truman heaves himself out of his chair and follows us. Before he disappears into the lamplit abyss that is his personal office, I hear his voice behind me. “Yeah, hey, it’s me—” and then the door falls shut, absorbing his words like the foam pyramids in an anechoic chamber.

Teddy and I spend the next hour comparing notes and waiting for more data to come in from the medical examiner and forensics. It’s almost eight o’clock when it becomes clear we’re not going to get anything good until tomorrow and decide to call it a night.

He hooks his helmet strap with two fingers and slings it over his shoulder like another man might with his suit jacket.

“Normal Bar?”

“You read my mind.”

Outside, I wait for him to unlock his bike, and then I follow him in my car to the bar. He keeps waving for me to pass, but I stay resolutely behind him. After seeing the way people drive in this town, I’m less than optimistic about Teddy biking in the dark, bike light and reflectors or not.

Ten minutes later we’re sitting in our usual corner booth, shelling peanuts and sipping our respective drinks—beer for him, wine for me—when I hear a familiar voice echo across the bar.

“Marley!”

I turn to see that Cindy, Teddy’s girlfriend, has spotted us from the front door and is running toward our booth with her arms outstretched. She’s Korean American, about a head shorter than me, with her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, and full of a radiant warmth that seems to draw the eye of everyone in the room.

“Did you get the cookies?” she asks merrily.

I think of the lilac box I shoved off my desk to make room for my interview notes. At the time, a part of me assumed it was for Truman, which, of course, in hindsight doesn’t make any sense.

“Teddy was supposed to tell you they were from me. And the muffins?”

My jaw drops open, and I stare daggers at Teddy across the table.

“Those were for her?” he says through a mouthful of boiled peanuts.

Cindy smacks his arm. “They were for both of you!”