For a woman who works ten-to-twelve-hour shifts as a nurse practitioner, Cindy is a beacon of energy and an excellent baker, whom I once tried very hard not to like, but whose bright chatter and quick wit made it impossible. She’s also the only person I let call me a nickname.

“All right, you two, I’m grabbing a drink. And then I want to hear all about this new case.”

I glare at Teddy.

We’re not supposed to talk about our cases. Obviously, we do sometimes, but it’s been less than ten hours, which means he must have been so eager to tell Cindy what happened that he snuck out to call her while I was finishing paperwork.

The bartender helps Cindy instantly, swinging his hair out of his eyes and leaning forward to hand her a drink. I’m pretty sure he’s still talking when she grabs it and saunters back to our table, sliding into the booth next to me.

“But seriously,” she says, looking from me to Teddy. “What’s going on?”

“What makes you think something’s going on?” I ask, although her skills of deduction are even better than Teddy’s, and she has on more than one occasion taken us through our behavior and body language Sherlock-style to prove her point.

“Well first, because you’re at the bar you always go to after something interesting happens at work. And second, because you both have that gleam in your eyes like you’re up to something. Probably stealing a case away from poor Ollie.”

Teddy shakes his head, and I laugh.

I’ve got nothing against Oliver. But early on he was such an overachiever that Teddy and I found it quite satisfying to put him in his place.

“Right,” she says. “Well, since you won’t tell me, maybe I can guess.” She leans forward so her head’s almost in the middle of the table, stretched equally between us. “Does this have something to do with the student hit-and-run on campus?”

“How did you—?”

She taps her nose.

“We were told to be ready, but they never came. I figured—dead at the scene.” She grins.

I grimace. Nurses and doctors have a frankness about death that can make even homicide detectives seem like emotional nutjobs.

“So…”

“So,” Teddy repeats.

She beams at us like a proud gymnast who’s just landed a layout backflip with a twist.

“Have you heard from Aisha?”

“Not other than the time of death—which Marlitt already knew.”

I think she’ll bite—wanting to guess how I came by this precious bit of information—but she’s pulsing on the edge of her seat, eager to tell us everything she knows about pedestrian injuries.