“Sure. It’s down the hall. But, umm … just be careful with the flush. We’re having some trouble with the plumbing.”

They exchange another of those looks I can’t interpret. I heat up a mug of coffee for myself in the microwave. Anderson declines one again. She looks at me patiently.

“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Jordan?”

Motion in the backyard catches my eye through the window over the kitchen sink. “He’s on a business trip. And he hasn’t been home for a while.”

“When do you expect him back?”

If I go around to the sliders I can see the driveway. A truck has pulled up into it. Two men are walking around the backyard, poking the ground with a long pole.

“Mrs. Jordan?”

I half turn. “Sorry, there’s someone in my yard.”

“It’s pretty important that I speak to your husband. Can you tell me if he was on a business trip …” She pauses, then sounds as though she’s reading some dates off her phone.

I’m barely paying attention. I put down my mug and open the slider to step out onto the deck. “Hey! What are you doing?”

The men turn. One strides toward me. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake.

“Here to inspect the septic tank. Got a call you were having some issues with it?”

“I didn’t call anyone.”

From behind me, “Mrs. Jordan?”

“From your husband, then,” the septic guy says. “And I can tell you, ma’am, just from my first impression, you definitely have a failure on your hands.”

“Hold on. Stop whatever it is you’re doing, poking around out there. Okay? Just give me a minute.” I hold up a finger. I turn back inside to Detective Anderson. “I’m sorry. I have to deal with this.”

She stands and looks out the window. When she faces me, her gaze is assessing. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve been having some issues with the plumbing. We got a tenant a few months ago, and the extra use has been … anyway, I’ll take care of it.”

Detective Phipps appears in the kitchen, adjusting his belt. “It didn’t overflow, but it did take a long time to flush.”

“Yeah, someone’s here about it. I really need to—” I step out onto the deck again.

The two men have pulled a long hose from the tanker truck, and there’s now some kind of odd piece of equipment on the grass. No signs of Christian, that asshole, he’s probably hiding away in the carriage house. I hope he’s sick with anxiety that the detectives are here for him. I can’t focus on that now.

“Hey! I said don’t do anything until I can talk to you!”

The men give me conciliatory waves. I turn back to the detectives, both of whom have now joined me on the back deck. Phipps shades his eyes to look across the yard. Anderson doesn’t take her eyes off of me.

“When do you expect your husband to come home?” she asks.