“What if the person isn’t mentally balanced? Facts won’t make sense either,” Val stressed. “Perry, her ex-husband, said Gabrielle had mental issues.”

“Don’t forget that we only have his account of Gabrielle’s mental state. And that he was a person she was trying to screw over too.” Jack looked at his watch. “We’d better go in. I told Mrs. Ballard that we’d be here by six. It’s ten past, and I’ve seen the window curtains open twice since we’ve parked.”

As Val opened the car door, her stomach knotted, as if she just realized what she was about to do was wrong. She knew she was stepping over her job description boundaries here. Yes, Val could interview people, in fact she was expected to, but only those who could help determine cause and manner of death for any case that she was investigating. Since Gabrielle disappeared and died six days after Jennifer Ballard saw her, this neighbor really couldn’t add anything for Val. This was Gavin’s witness, not hers. Nonetheless, she desperately wanted to walk this fine line to gather any information she could. Gavin usually never yelled at her for overstepping, especially when she brought him useful information, something he couldn’t get from a witness. Small female, non-threatening, this described Val. People let their guard down around her, and she used this to her advantage. Since Jack was a private investigator, they spoke with him of their own free will. Many were happy to do so. To gossip. To tell their story. To feel important.

To maybe sway a case in the wrong direction? Val knew that was a possibility too, but they’d have to be smart enough, not to mention ballsy, to do that. Few are good enough to pull it off, so Jack had told her.

They got out of the car and walked up the driveway to the front door. It opened before they had a chance to knock. A tall, thin woman in dark-washed skinny jeans, light brown Ugg boots, and white turtle-neck sweater stood in the doorway. She had long straight blonde hair, parted in the middle, and dark brown eyes. Val guessed her age to be late twenties, early thirties at a stretch. A small boy about six or seven years old stood behind her. “You must be Jack Styles and Valentina Knight. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Jack smiled. “Yes, we are. Mrs. Ballard?”