“Sorry,” Jennifer was saying as Mendoza scanned her phone and Rivers wended his way back through the desks to take up his place near her desk. “He’s expecting a ride. Car in the shop.” Then before anyone could ask, she added, “Harry Sinclaire. My boyfriend. I met him last year.” She inched her chin up a bit, a little proud—the spurned woman getting a little of her own back. “Kind of ironic, as I met him when I was still with James. Harry was buying one of those tiny houses James builds for a mountain cabin. He’s a great guy, by the way. Harry, that is. And yes, if you want to know the truth, he helped me get over James.”

Was she? Really over James Cahill? Something about her attitude seemed off for a woman who’d moved on. When they’d first walked into the room, she’d seemed scared, but sometimes that happened with cops. Now she was almost smug. Her phone rang again. “Oh, geez. It’s Tabitha again. Probably calling with an update on Gus.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t know this would take this long.”

Mendoza said, “I think we got everything we needed.” She checked with Rivers, who gave a swift nod. “Thanks for your time, and if you think of anything else that might help with the investigation, give us a call.” She slid a card into the teacher’s hand.

“Like I said, I don’t even know her.”

Mendoza smiled. “Just in case.”

“Okay.” Jennifer nodded and answered the phone as they walked out of the room, down the hallway to slip past the somber statue of St. Ignatius and the even more dour visage of Sister Rosemarie standing behind the counter in the school office. Upon spying their approach, she flew out of the office to unlock the doors and escort them outside to stand under the portico. Winter dusk was settling in early, the security lights in the parking area beginning to glow, a persistent rain falling from low-hanging clouds, their Jeep one of only a few vehicles in the lot.

“I trust you got everything you need,” the nun said, frowning as she glanced at the county-issued SUV with its light bar and police markings.

“We’re good,” Mendoza said.

Rivers nodded and added, “Thanks,” as the wind whipped Sister Rosemarie’s skirts and rain gurgled in the gutters.

“Let me know if you need to return.”

“Will do.” Mendoza flipped up the hood of her jacket while skirting puddles on the way to the Jeep. Rivers thought he heard her mutter, “Fat chance,” under her breath, but he couldn’t be certain.

As he slid behind the wheel and Mendoza strapped herself into the seat belt, he asked, “So, what did you think?”