“Those?” Bear says.

“Yes, these,” Kateri says. She’s tired of his stalling, of everyone’s efforts to distract her, to lead her in a different direction, to confuse her with things that don’t matter, reluctance to just tell her the goddamn truth.

“I left them,” he says.

“Where?”

“At my wife’s house,” he says. “In Vermont.” He waits a moment and then adds, “Surely you knew I had a wife.”

“I did know,” Kateri says. “When’s the last time you were there?” she asks.

“Last weekend,” Bear says.

She nods to Hurt. She needs to get her hands on those boots, and whatever else might have evidence from the crime scene on it.

Bear leans on the rail of the step that goes back into the kitchen. “You can’t put me on trial,” he says, “for having a consensual affair with a boy who’s of age.”

Hurt tips his head and slips into the kitchen again for one last sweep.

“It wouldn’t be for that,” Kateri says. “It would be for plotting to and/or helping him kill his mother. The affair is just icing,” she says.

“Why on earth would I kill his mother?” Bear says.

But she doesn’t get a chance to answer, because Hurt comes back into the garage and takes the evidence bags from Kateri, adding them to his growing collection kit.

“Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Miller,” Hurt says, curt. “A separate forensics team will be out this afternoon to conduct a more thorough search.”

He walks briskly away from the garage and motions for Kateri to follow.

“We’ll be in touch,” Hurt says over his shoulder.

Kateri, follows, flummoxed, and gets into the driver’s seat.

“I don’t care if you drive,” Hurt says, “but please stop for coffee.”

She drives out of the new development, back into town, and gets two sugary, creamy coffees and a bag of doughnuts from a non-chain place in town, where the doughnuts are heavy grease balls covered in granular sugar and cinnamon. They sit in the parking lot before going back into the office. The sky is a blinding bright blue behind trees that are nearly bare.

Hurt pulls an evidence bag from his jacket and waves it at Kateri.

“What’s that?” She licks the sugar off her fingers.

He has bagged a piece of mail. An envelope from Kerpak Industries to the auction house. It’s stamped, but it’s not canceled. Outgoing mail.

Hurt waits while she registers the name, the context, and then puts it back in his pocket.

“He wants the property,” Hurt says.

“That’s it?” Kateri asks.

“I don’t know if that’s it,” Hurt says. “There’s clearly some other shit going on. But that house is standing in the way of Bear Miller making a fuckton of money.”

“On what?” Kateri asks. “The house is worthless.”

“The land,” he says. “He wants to develop the land. The Jenkins own a big chunk of it,” he says. “I guarantee you when we open that, it’s a preempt. A hefty offer prior to auction.”