Finally, Mrs. Mori spoke. “I’m Lynette,” she said.

“Ryan.” He shook her hand and corrected himself. “Er––Investigator Hudson. I was wondering if I could speak to your daughter about the incident that took place at the Fast Mart last night.”

“Oh.” She brought her hand up over her mouth. “How awful. I’m sorry you lost someone from your department.”

Hudson cleared his throat. His mouth twitched to smile a silent thanks. Mrs. Mori was sweet. If only she knew how much more Garrison had been than simply someone in his department, but the sentiment was appreciated all the same. Not everyone felt that way. He’d taken to avoiding social media and hoped that Garrison’s wife and daughter had as well. For all the comments of sympathy and blue heart emojis, there were just as many Fuck 12s and Smells like bacons. His blood simmered just thinking about them.

“I’d like to ask Morgan a few more questions about what she saw,” he said.

Morgan’s eyes darted to her mother. It was the most alive she’d looked since she’d materialized. “I have to take Grandpa.”

“It’s okay.”

“This won’t take long,” Hudson promised. “I’m actually in the middle of another investigation. You were on my way, so I thought…” Thought what, he asked himself. Thought I’d stop by and interrogate you? “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Hudson eyed Morgan slumped in the passenger seat of his car. She’d refused to grab a jacket, so she sat, now, wrapped in an afghan she’d snagged from the living room, feet shoved into unlaced combat boots. He turned the dial on the heat. “Sorry, the seat warmer’s broken.”

“Did you find my camera?” she asked.

He wished he had a better answer for her. “No. Sorry.”

Nevertheless, it seemed to be the answer she’d expected. Her fingers tugged at the wavy edge of the blanket. Her maroon nail polish was chipped. “I have to drive my grandpa to the senior home in ten minutes.”

He nodded. He’d heard her the first time. They were parked at a slant, on the slab of concrete that separated the Moris’ modest ranch-style home from the road. Icicle lights dangled from the gutter. The wreath on the front door had seen better days. The light grey siding made the house blend in with the colorless sky.

“I guess you’d better get cracking then,” suggested Morgan.

Hudson met the challenge in her eyes. “Red dreads,” he said.

She twisted in her seat; the small movement of her torso revealed she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Those words mean anything to you, Morgan?” he pressed when she said nothing. “You talked to Investigator Devine, at the scene––”

“So why isn’t he in my driveway?”

“He’s tied up … with something else at the moment.”

“You mean with a case that’s actually in your jurisdiction? Because he said the Wesson PD guys were handling it. Shouldn’t I be talking to one of them right now?” Her voice had gained an edge, a knife kissing a whetstone. She was aiming to unnerve him. And yet, her fingers kneaded the folds of the afghan.