“Back to the night of the nineteenth, Mrs. Reynolds,” said Hudson. “You didn’t notice anything … out of the ordinary, perhaps?”

“You mean besides having forty people inside my house?” Eleanor shook her head. “You know, it’s usually rather quiet around here. Just me and Don, and Bennett if he’s visiting a portfolio company in town. He stays in the guesthouse, though. We don’t often have guests, but I suppose it’s fun to pretend, once in a while, that things are a certain way. Especially during the holidays.” She sighed. The shadow that darkened her face was gloomy. For once, under the bright white lights, she looked her age. Wrinkles branched from the corners of her eyes.

Hudson knew what she meant. The first Christmas after Nandalie passed, he went to the tree farm like they used to, picking out the perfect Douglas fir while Pip bopped around in the snow. He decorated it with the ornaments from the basement, strung lights across the mantel, and sipped hot cocoa while watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. He’d been more aware of Nan’s death that day than he had throughout her entire funeral. Without his wife, Christmas was a joyless, lonesome time. Eleanor had a family to be strong for, though. And Hudson—he had nobody. Especially now that Garrison was gone, too.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Eleanor said. She looked pointedly at both of them. “From your perspective, a woman I hired to photograph my Christmas party became a witness to the murder of a man I also hired to put my husband’s cold case to rest. Is that it?”

“You hit the nail on the head,” confirmed Kole, who had returned to stand next to Hudson.

Eleanor nodded. “And you think they’re connected.”

“‘Think’ is a strong word,” said Kole. “We’re exploring whether or not they could be.”

“Tell me. What connections are you exploring, then? Do you believe it’s possible that whoever killed Clive—if that’s what happened—shot Officer Garrison, too? All these years later?”

“We don’t know,” Hudson said, honestly.

“The cases are more than likely connected,” said Kole. “For all we know, Clive’s been alive and well all these years, caught wind of Garrison sniffing around, tracked where he’d be, and…” He snapped his fingers to mimic a gun going off.

It wasn’t the first time Hudson had heard that particular theory. They’d discussed a half-dozen scenarios on the short ride over. Eleanor didn’t appear to be rocked, either, and Hudson suspected the same scenario had crossed her mind, if only fleetingly. And yet, “You arrested someone, though,” she said. “Shannon, wasn’t that his name? Toby or Taylor…”

Hudson bit his tongue. Tobias, he wanted to say, but uttering his brother’s name would feel like locking him in his cell for good.

“We’re not convinced he’s our guy,” said Kole.

Eleanor nodded. “If you’re seriously exploring the possibility that Clive is alive and … did away with Officer Garrison,” she said, “then you know the human remains found in the Porsche do not belong to my husband.”