“I am. She was married for about ten years and her husband died in combat. I haven’t found anything under his name, either. She has one brother who lives in Seattle, and he owns one house in the Soft Ridge area. I’ve been trying to track him down, but he’s some sort of hotshot lawyer who hasn’t bothered to call me back. I’ll keep trying.”

“Thanks.” Laurel drew connections in her head between the victims. All three victims were currently single, and all three had once been married. Abigail was the outlier, unless she’d been married before. “I’ll call you after I check Greenfield.” She ended the call and dialed Abigail.

“Twice in one day, sister? This is nice. Why don’t you come by for wine and we can dish about the hunky Captain Rivers together?” Just enough sarcasm tilted Abigail’s tone to show she was still irritated about Huck refusing her offer of a drink.

Laurel slowed down to scrutinize street signs and then turned, having memorized the route the night before when she thought she’d be popping by to drop off a retainer check. It seemed like a million years ago already. The storm added sleet to the snow, and it froze on her window. “Have you been married before, Abigail?”

Abigail chuckled. “That’s a discussion over wine.”

“Yes or no?” Laurel didn’t have time for wine.

“Yes. Briefly.” The sound of a wine cork popping came through the speakers. “For any more information, you’ll have to ask me in person.” She ended the call.

Laurel sighed and kept driving until she found Greenfield Architecture outside of city limits near a popular community church. Well, approximately eight miles from the church, but that meant near in this rural area. She pulled up to the office, which appeared to have been built decades ago with roughhewn logs and tall eaves. It had withstood the test of time well, although the sign on the arch appeared weathered. Lights shone from inside.

She jumped out of her car, caught her balance on the ice, and hunched her shoulders against the night air. Her breath puffed in visible steam as she crossed the scattered gravel and salt on the sidewalk to reach the heavy-looking wooden door and push it open.

She stepped inside a reception area with rustic, red-cushioned chairs surrounding a square, hand-crafted wooden table strewn with decorating magazines. The counter was also made of wood—this one birch with a barn style doorway to the left. “Hello?”

Davie Tate emerged from a side room that held file cabinets, a donut in his hand. He wore a Genesis Valley High School T-shirt, worn jeans, and scratched snow boots. His dark hair was ruffled and scratches showed on his bicep. “Whoa. Hi.” He jerked to a stop with jelly on his lip that he licked off. “What are you doing here?”