Chapter 1-5

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. The descriptions of the FBI building are this author’s idea of what it should look like. There is no Inverness Police Department. Inverness has a wonderful Sheriff Department that does a great job, and the Sheriff Deputies are the best.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Microsoft Copilot

DEDICATION

To my mother, Mary Katherine Miller, my daughters, Stacie DiRuzza and Nicole Skelton. I could not have finished this book without their support and encouragement.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, Ariel, for the terrific job you did in editing.

I want to thank Lorretta S and Kin C for being my beta readers. To all the women I work with, thank you for listening to me when I was complaining about when my characters would not cooperate and for encouraging me to continue writing. You are a great bunch and I’m lucky to be working with you.

Chapter One

Grant Marshall sat on his balcony overlooking Tampa Bay, coffee warming his hands as the October air brushed against his skin. The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that invited reflection whether he wanted it or not. Mornings like this always made him think of Pam, of how easily things had once fit between them, and how suddenly they hadn’t. Before, her certainty about not wanting marriage or children had suited him just fine. After being shot the year before, it didn’t. Nearly dying had rearranged his priorities in ways he still didn’t fully understand, leaving him with an unexpected desire for permanence and an equally powerful fear of what that permanence could cost.

The split had been amicable, and they had remained friends, but friendship was a thin substitute for what he now realized he wanted. Since then, he had dated, tried to move forward, tried to feel something that stuck, but nothing had. Part of him knew the problem wasn’t the women. It was the lingering awareness that his job carried risks he could never soften or explain away. Loving someone meant leaving them vulnerable to the consequences of his choices, and that was a risk he wasn’t sure he could protect anyone from. Grant took the last sip of his coffee and set the mug in the sink, rinsing it out of habit more than necessity. He didn’t linger. He grabbed his jacket and keys, locked the door behind him, and walked down the quiet hallway toward the stairs. Work was easier. Work asked for discipline, not promises, and as he stepped out into the morning, it was the only future he was willing to carry with him.

The traffic to the office was light, no accidents, no delays, which put Grant Marshall at his desk earlier than usual. He took it as a small mercy. Early mornings meant fewer conversations, fewer questions, and more time to settle into work before the day could start demanding things from him. He smiled at the receptionist already juggling a phone call and a cup of coffee; she returned it with a quick wave, the kind of silent exchange that came from familiarity rather than effort.

Grant skipped the elevator and took the stairs to the second floor, moving through the open bullpen of cubicles without breaking stride. He was almost at his office when his boss called out, sharp and unmistakable. Grant changed direction without hesitation and stepped into Martin O’Malley’s office.

O’Malley sat behind his desk, small in stature but solid in presence, bright red hair and clear blue eyes fixed on the folder in front of him. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. The Inverness Police Department had a murder, one violent enough and familiar enough to warrant outside help. As O’Malley spoke, Grant flipped through the file, the details settled into place with uncomfortable ease. The similarities were there. Too many of them.

They had been tracking three other murders with the same signature in Tampa, New Port Richey, and Brooksville, but without an invitation from local departments, all they could do was watch and wait. Inverness had finally opened the door. O’Malley wanted Grant’s team to be on it immediately. There was also a personnel change. Sybil Carrington would be joining them starting that morning.

Grant nodded, absorbing the assignment, though Sybil’s name landed like a bruise he hadn’t known was still tender. Tom Lawrence’s transfer had already thinned the team, and Sybil brought complications Grant had no interest in managing. Still, the case came first. It always did.

“I’ll get right on it”, he said, and meant it.

Grant turned on his computer and pulled up the notes he’d been keeping on the three murders. The details were too familiar now, etched into his memory whether he wanted them there or not. He picked up the phone and made the first call.

“Hey, Chuck. How are you?”

Charles Madison sounded tired before he even finished his greeting. “I’m ready for a vacation, but the bad guys won’t give me a break. What can I do for the FBI?”

Grant leaned back in his chair, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be much. “I need everything you have on Tara Whitely’s murder. We may have a similar case up in Inverness”.

There was a pause at the other end. “Figured you’d be calling”, Chuck said. “Word is New Port Richey had something that looked a lot like ours”.

Grant smiled faintly. “Sounds like you and James have been comparing notes again”.

“Only when our wives aren’t around”, Chuck said. “I’ll send you what we’ve got, but it’s thin. If this guy’s traveling, I want to know”.

“So do I”, Grant said. “I’m still hoping they’re unrelated. Everyone gets nervous when the ‘S’ word starts floating around”.

“Don’t say it”, Chuck muttered. “Florida doesn’t need another one”.

“No state does”, Grant replied. “I’ll keep you in the loop”.

The call to New Port Richey went much the same: cooperation, concern, and too many unanswered questions. Brooksville was different. Polite, guarded, and noncommittal. They promised to see what they could do. Grant had heard that before.

He set the phone down and exhaled slowly. He’d spent years cultivating relationships with local departments, learning when to push and when to wait. The distrust was still there, just better disguised. Changing minds about the FBI, about shared jurisdiction, about accepting help took time and patience. Neither of which he had in abundance when women were turning up dead.

Grant leaned back in his chair, a familiar unease settling in. Patterns like this didn’t fade, they escalated. He looked up when someone arrived who never bothered knocking, figuratively or otherwise.

“So, we’re off to Inverness”, Sara James said, hopping up to sit on the corner of Grant’s desk like she owned it. “I heard Sybil Carrington’s been assigned to our team. That’s unfortunate”.

Grant raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You have a problem with her?”

“Well, yeah”, Sara said, grimacing. “If we end up staying in a hotel, I’ll probably have to share a room with her. And I’d much rather share with Harvey”.

Grant shook his head. “I still can’t believe you and Harvey got involved. What’s the plan when it falls apart and you still must work together?”

“Who says it’s going to fall apart?” Sara asked, smiling easily. “Don’t be such a pessimist. Just because you have commitment issues doesn’t mean the rest of us do”.

Grant studied her for a moment. “If my opinion counts for anything, I’d rather Harvey leave the team than you”.

“Hey”, Harvey protested as he came up behind her, “I thought we were friends”.

Grant smiled. “We are. Sara’s just prettier”.

Harvey snorted. “Well, can’t argue with that”.

He pulled out his phone and started checking directions. “So when are we heading out?”

“I want you and Sara to go ahead”, Grant said. “Sybil and I will follow once I get the rest of the information I’m waiting on. We’ll probably be about thirty minutes behind you”.

Sara laughed. “If you let Sybil drive, you’ll probably beat us there”.

Grant frowned. “Absolutely not. I enjoy being alive far too much. Once you get there, meet Detective Joel Jacobson. He’s the lead on this case and knows you’re coming”.

Sara nodded. “I know JJ. He’s solid. Doesn’t have a problem working with outsiders”.

Harvey glanced up from his phone. “And how exactly do you know him?”

Sara smiled, quick and casual. “Police Academy. We became close friends”.

Harvey hesitated, then nodded, going back to his phone a little too quickly. “Right. Okay. Let’s get moving”.

Grant watched them walk away together. Sara’s stride was confident, unbothered. Harvey stayed half a step behind, listening more than talking. Grant had seen that pattern before, one of them always moving forward, the other quietly adjusting to keep up. It worked, until it didn’t.

Harvey Bentley’s greatest asset as an FBI agent was how easily he blended in. Average height, average build, nothing about him drew a second glance and that was exactly the point.

He was quiet, observant, and possessed a sharp memory that missed very little. If Harvey said he saw or heard something, Grant trusted it without hesitation. His one flaw was that he wore his emotions too close to the surface, which made him a terrible poker player and, at times, painfully easy to read.

Sara James was the opposite. Tall, confident, and striking, she commanded attention without trying. She was smart, quick on her feet, and had an uncanny ability to read people, and use what she learned to her advantage. Where Harvey gathered information quietly, Sara shaped the room. She could convince almost anyone of almost anything, and she knew exactly when to smile and when not to.

Grant headed to the main communications room to see if his faxes had come in. The FBI building in Tampa was divided into sections, each one largely self,contained, and Grant moved through it with the ease of someone who knew exactly where he belonged. He gathered the papers waiting for him, skimmed them quickly, then crossed the room to where several women sat around a large table.

“Good morning, ladies”, he said with a smile. “I’m heading to Inverness. If anything else comes in, could you scan it and send it to my laptop?”

“Well, it might cost you”, Janice said, peering at him over her glasses.

“For you, Janice, anything”, Grant replied without hesitation.

She laughed. “I could use someone to take the grandkids trick-or-treating this year. Who better than an FBI agent?”

“If I’m not working a case, I’m all yours”, he said, and meant it.

As he left the room, Grant was aware, without vanity, of the impression he tended to make. He had the kind of rugged looks people noticed without quite knowing why: tall, broad-shouldered, black hair usually kept too short to be fashionable, green eyes that missed very little. He looked like someone who belonged outdoors as much as behind a desk, the kind of man people trusted to show up and handle things when they went sideways.

He stayed in shape because the job demanded it, but strength alone wasn’t enough. In his line of work, and in life, it mattered just as much to be flexible, to know when to push and when to bend.

As Grant approached his office, he saw that Sybil Carrington had already arrived. She sat upright, focused on her computer, her posture composed and deliberate, as though she had been there all morning instead of minutes. At first glance, she looked like a small delicate quite woman, but Grant knew better. Appearances had never been Sybil’s weakness. They were her camouflage.

She had a way of occupying space without drawing attention to herself, of listening without seeming to. Grant had learned long ago that underestimating Sybil Carrington was a mistake most people only made once. Behind the mild expression and careful stillness was a sharp intelligence and a will that bent situations to her advantage. She didn’t push. She maneuvered. And she never played a hand unless she already knew how it would end.

The fact that she was currently involved with the boss did nothing to improve Grant’s mood. It complicated authority, blurred loyalties, and introduced politics into a case that didn’t need them. Sybil wasn’t interested in teamwork unless it served her purpose, and she had no hesitation about using people as steppingstones if the opportunity presented itself. Grant valued trust and cohesion; Sybil valued leverage.

“Be ready to go”, Grant said, stopping beside her desk. “Wheels up in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you out front”.

She acknowledged him with a brief nod, never taking her eyes off the screen. No questions. No commentary. Just acceptance. It was efficient, but a bit robotic.

Grant turned away, already bracing himself. Working a case was hard enough without wondering which battles would be fought in the field and which would be fought quietly, behind closed doors.

In his office, Grant scanned the papers he had received into his computer. He closed it up and put it in his computer carrying case along with a manilla folder. He checked in with his boss, updating him on what he had received and to let him know he was leaving.

Grant found out that there were two rooms reserved at the Holiday Inn in Inverness for them.

He passed Sybil’s desk. “Let’s roll”.

Chapter 2

Grant merged onto the highway without looking back, the city thinning behind them as the miles slipped past. Traffic was light, the drive almost too smooth, nothing to push against, nothing to distract him. He preferred it that way. The SUV responded to his hands with the same precision he expected from his team: steady, controlled, no wasted movement.

Sybil sat beside him, posture immaculate, eyes forward. She hadn’t asked a single question since they’d pulled away from the building, and Grant didn’t offer anything beyond what was necessary. Silence settled between them, not awkward, not companionable, just alert. The kind that waited to see who would speak first, and why.

“We’ve been invited in”, Grant said at last, keeping his tone even. “Local department’s lead. We assist; we don’t take over”. He didn’t look at her when he spoke. He didn’t need to. He already knew she was listening, measuring phrasing, intent, authority. That was how Sybil worked. She didn’t challenge outright. She cataloged, then chose her moment.

Sybil finally turned her attention to the folder resting between them. Her expression remained neutral as she studied the contents, eyes steady, analytical. She had seen worse in her years with Miami homicide and the Bureau, but familiarity didn’t dull scrutiny. It sharpened it.

“Okay”, she said after a moment, her tone flat. “Another sexual offender”.

Grant exhaled slowly. “That’s the concern. Three months ago, Tampa. Two months ago, New Port Richey. Last month, Brooksville. Now Inverness”. His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “I’m hoping the similarities end there, but I doubt it”.

Sybil glanced at him. “It would be worse if they didn’t”.

Grant shot her a look. “Are you always this cheerful in the mornings?”

She gave a small shrug. “Patterns matter more than optimism”.

The miles continued to roll beneath them as the conversation shifted, no longer about authority, but inevitability. By the time they crossed into Inverness, the silence had returned, heavier now, layered with what neither of them wanted to say aloud.

Grant reached over and switched on the radio, settling on a country station. The music filled the space without demanding attention, leaving his mind free to run through timelines, locations, and what little they truly knew. The facts simmered as the distance closed, and the town came into view.

Grant pulled into the Inverness Police Department parking lot and followed Sybil inside, flashing his credentials at the desk officer. They were escorted to the second floor, where a command center was already in place. Two computers hummed along one wall, a large board displayed photo of the victim, and a timeline with known facts had been started beneath them. The efficiency of it all pleased Grant, this department hadn’t wasted time. Four men sat around the long table, and Harvey stood off to the side, quietly observing the room. Sara stepped up and handed Grant a stack of papers to review.

Chief Mitchell Thompson had assigned Detective Jacobson three additional detectives to the case. Jacobson rose as Grant finished reviewing the paperwork and began making introductions.

Mason Dixon was the first to step forward, a twenty-year veteran, bald, well dressed, and still carrying himself like a man who hadn’t let the job wear him down. His posture suggested experience hard-earned and confidence that didn’t need to announce itself.

Next was Dirk Freedom, tall and lean, with sharp features and a calm, steady presence. He wore slacks and a department polo, the emblem visible but understated. A former investigator with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Dirk had spent six years with Inverness PD and carried himself with quiet pride and measured focus.

Twila Stanton was the youngest of the group and the least seasoned, though her posture tried to disguise it. She had been on the force for four years and a detective for only three months. This was her first major case, and it showed, not in hesitation, but in the eagerness in her eyes and the careful way she listened, absorbing every detail.

“Okay, gang, sit down”, Detective Jacobson said. “Let me walk you through what we have, then Special Agent Marshall can fill in the rest”.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor as everyone settled around the table. Grant sat beside Sara, Sybil on his other side, listening as Jacobson spoke.

“The medical examiner put the time of death between eight and eleven Thursday night”, Jacobson began. “Jennifer Cortez was a nurse, lived alone. She wasn’t due back at work until Saturday night. When she didn’t show, a coworker tried calling, got no answer, and came by Sunday morning. Front door was unlocked. That wasn’t normal for her”.

“Coworker didn’t enter?” Grant asked.

“No. Called it in immediately. Scene was untouched”.

Jacobson flipped a page. “We’re still waiting on the full autopsy, but preliminarily it looks like strangulation. Forensics recovered fingerprints, and there were burn marks consistent with a soldering iron. The tool itself was found at the scene”.

Mason Dixon frowned slightly. “That feels deliberate”.

“That’s why the chief asked for the FBI”, Jacobson said. “This isn’t something we see every day”.

Grant leaned forward. “Do we know if she was expecting anyone?”

“She had a boyfriend”, Jacobson said. “Out of town on a hunting trip. We’re confirming that”.

Twila shifted in her chair. “Are we sure this is the same guy as the other cases?”

Grant didn’t hesitate. “Almost certainly”.

He met her gaze, steady.

“Four women. Four different cities. All killed on Thursday nights, all within the same three-hour window. All strangled. All assaulted. And now we’ve got a very specific element showing up more than once”.

He tapped the file in front of him.

“The victims don’t line up demographically. Different ages, different backgrounds, different lives. That tells us this isn’t about who they were. It’s about what they represented”.

The room was quiet now.

“Tampa and New Port Richey match cleanly”, Grant continued. “Brooksville is thinner, but close enough that we can’t dismiss it. And here in Inverness, he made his first real mistake”.

“Which was?” Jacobson asked.

“He left fingerprints”, Grant said. “And the medical examiner recovered semen”.

No one spoke.

“That tells me he’s escalating”, Grant went on. “And it tells me he’s getting comfortable”.

Jacobson stood. “All right. Dirk, Mason, I want you digging into Jennifer’s background. Let’s verify that boyfriend’s story and rule him out properly. Twila, you’re with me. Special Agents, if you’re ready, I’ll take you to the scene”.

“Let’s go”, Grant said.

Chapter 3

They arrived at Jennifer Cortez’s house to find the scene still sealed, yellow tape fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. A patrol car idled at the curb, the officer inside watching the quiet street more out of habit than necessity.

Detective Jacobson spoke briefly with him before motioning everyone forward.

“Nothing unusual overnight”, he said as they ducked under the tape. “A few neighbors asking questions. We’re giving them the standard line and reminding them to call if they noticed anything Thursday night”.

Inside, the house was small and open, the kind of floor plan that offered no real separation between spaces. The living room flowed into the kitchen, a short bar dividing the two. Bedrooms branched off to the left, the bathroom between them. A door in the kitchen led out to the carport.

Grant took it in at a glance. No hallways. No places to hide. Everything happened out in the open.

“The front door wasn’t forced”, Jacobson said. “Which tells us she either knew him or wasn’t afraid of him”.

“She let him in”, Grant said.

The signs of the struggle were concentrated in the living room. A lamp lay on its side. A glass had shattered near the couch. Magazines and newspapers were scattered across the floor, the coffee table bumped out of place. The phone had been thrown down between the couch and the table, its cord twisted.

“She fought”, Sara said quietly.

Grant nodded. “But not long”.

He moved carefully through the room, mapping the sequence in his head. The couch first. Close contact. Control. Then movement.

The empty space in front of the television drew his attention immediately.

“This again,” Harvey said flatly.

“At least three times now”, Grant replied. “We’re still waiting on confirmation from Brooksville, but this is consistent”.

Sybil crouched briefly near the outline on the floor, studying the placement. “Positioning matters to him”.

“It always does”, Grant said. “The question is why”.

They stepped back as Jacobson spoke into his phone, requesting forensics return to recheck an item Sara had noticed. Grant appreciated the caution. Assumptions were how cases went sideways.

Outside, the neighborhood was quiet and well, kept. Sidewalks. Mature trees. Houses are spaced just far enough apart for privacy, close enough for routine. The kind of place where people noticed what didn’t belong, eventually.

“This has to bother you”, Harvey said, glancing toward the police department visible just a few minutes away. “Happening this close”.

“It does”, Jacobson admitted. “We don’t see much like this here”.

They were joined by the patrol officer, who gestured toward an older man standing a short distance away with a large dog on a leash.

“He says he noticed something Thursday night”.

The man introduced himself as Gregory Stanton. He spoke clearly, precisely, the way men did who were used to being listened to.

“A dark van”, he said. “Parked on the street, not in a driveway. That’s what caught my attention. We don’t get that around here”.

Grant asked about timing, placement, details. The answers came easily. Mr. Stanton was observant, methodical. He had a routine, and the van hadn’t fit into it.

Tinted windows. A shiny object hanging from the mirror. Parked where it didn’t belong. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jacobson arranged for a formal statement, then turned back to the group once the man had walked on.

Grant didn’t waste time. “Sybil, Harvey, head back to the command center. I want copies of the interview questions used in the other cases. Compare them. If Brooksville still hasn’t sent updates, get on them”.

They nodded and moved off.

Grant turned to Jacobson. “Let’s talk to the coworker who reported her missing. I want to know if Jennifer ever mentioned someone who made her uneasy. Someone she trusted enough to open the door for”.

As the team split up, Grant took one last look at the house.

Nice neighborhood. Predictable routines. A victim who didn’t see the danger until it was too late.

Whatever this man was becoming, he was growing bolder, and Grant knew they were already behind him.

Chapter 4

Grant and Detective Jacobson sat in the modest living room of Maeve Miller’s condo, the scent of fresh coffee lingering in the air. Maeve moved with restless energy as she set mugs and a small plate of crumb cake on the table, clearly grateful for something to do with her hands.

“This is just awful”, she said, shaking her head as she sat. “You never think something like this can happen here”.

Grant nodded but didn’t interrupt. He let silence do its work.

Maeve continued, words tumbling out faster now. “I worked emergency medicine years ago, back in New York. You see things there, things you don’t forget. That’s why I moved here. This was supposed to be quiet”.

Jacobson leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed, his expression sympathetic. “Jennifer didn’t strike you as someone who made enemies?”

Maeve shook her head immediately. “No. Jen was… easy to overlook, if that makes sense. Not because she wasn’t special, she was, but because she didn’t push. Patients loved her. Doctors respected her. She never made waves”.

Grant made a note. Didn’t push. Didn’t draw attention.

“Anyone who might have resented that?” Jacobson asked gently.

Maeve hesitated, then shrugged. “A couple of nurses grumbled when she got Nurse of the Year again. But jealousy like that doesn’t turn into murder”.

Grant watched her closely. “Anyone outside work who bothered her?”

Maeve’s fingers tightened around her mug. “There was a doctor. Paul Campbell. He asked her out. She said no. After that, he got… cold. Sharp. I saw him grab her wrist last week and whisper something. She pulled away, tried to laugh it off”.

Jacobson’s expression didn’t change, but Grant noticed how carefully he filed the detail away.

“And her boyfriend?” Grant asked.

“Tony”, Maeve said. “He’s younger. Big guy. Gentle, though. She didn’t take him seriously, not really. She called him her boy-toy”. Her smile faltered. “She didn’t want him confronting anyone. Jen believed things would just… smooth themselves out if she ignored them”.

Grant closed his notebook. That habit, ignoring problems until they forced their way in, was familiar. Too familiar.

Jacobson smiled lightly. “You make a dangerous cup of coffee, Maeve. You sure you’re not trying to soften us up?”

She laughed, despite herself, color rises in her cheeks. “If I wanted to distract you, Detective, I’d bake a pie”.

Grant stood, signaling the end of the interview without rushing it. “You’ve helped us more than you know. If anything else comes to mind, even something that feels small, call us”.

Jacobson handed her his card. “Day or night. And if I bring a thermos next time, I’m not saying no to you filling up with your coffee”.

Maeve smiled as she walked them to the door, but the lightness faded as soon as it closed behind them.

Outside, Grant exhaled slowly.

“She’s observant”, he said. “And she trusted Jennifer enough to notice what didn’t fit”.

Jacobson nodded. “People talk when they feel safe”.

Grant glanced at him. “They do. You’re good at making that happen”.

Jacobson’s grin was easy, practiced. “Comes in handy”.

Grant didn’t smile, but he didn’t disagree either.

Chapter 5

After picking up Sara and Twila, Grant suggested they grab a quick lunch before splitting up again. It was early afternoon, and everyone knew it would be the last calm stretch of the day.

He gave them a concise rundown of the interview with Maeve Miller while they waited for their food, keeping it focused on what mattered, Dr. Campbell’s unwanted attention, Jennifer’s tendency to compartmentalize, and Tony’s size without volatility.

Jacobson listened, nodding. “Campbell’s worth a closer look. Entitlement mixed with access is never a good combination”.

Sara glanced at him. “You say that like you’ve seen it before”.

Jacobson’s smile was easy. “More times than I’d like”.

Grant watched the exchange without comment. Jacobson’s tone stayed light, but the assessment was sharp. He made a mental note to loop Sybil in once she resurfaced.

Twila listened quietly, absorbing details, her questions precise when she did speak. “If Jennifer didn’t tell Tony about Campbell, that suggests she didn’t see him as a threat, at least not yet”.

“Or she didn’t want to deal with the fallout”, Grant said. “Avoidance buys time until it doesn’t”.

Lunch arrived, conversation tapering naturally as everyone ate. Grant let the lull stand. They were all thinking through the same pieces now, fitting them together in different ways.

When the plates were cleared, Grant stood. “Let’s split up. Sara, Twila, I want you to talk to Jennifer’s brother. See what you can learn about her routines, recent changes, anything that felt off. Detective Jacobson and I will speak with the boyfriend”.

Jacobson nodded. “Works for me”.

“I want updates by five-thirty”, Grant continued. “We’ll regroup at the command center”.

Grant and Jacobson were a few steps ahead as the four of them crossed the parking lot, their vehicles parked side by side near the far row. Twila’s attention lifted without thought, her gaze sliding briefly to Grant and lingering a fraction longer than necessary before she caught herself and looked away, refocusing on the path ahead.

“Don’t”, Sara murmured. “Grant doesn’t blur lines, and he never forgives himself when others try”.

Twila huffed under her breath, half amused, half embarrassed. “I wasn’t”.

Sara didn’t press it, and by the time they reached the cars, the moment had faded

Grant pulled his door shut as Jacobson climbed in beside him.

As Jacobson started the vehicle, he said. “It’s going to be interesting to see how Tony’s going to react: over emotional or showing little to no emotions”.

“I prefer little to no emotion”, Grant stated. “Too much grief can make it harder to find the truth”.

“Grief can confuse the issue. It’s possible for someone to commit murder and still feel intense grief over the matter”. Jacobson agreed.

When they reached the station, Grant noticed Sybil’s absence immediately.

“She went to lunch with the chief”, one of the officers said when he asked. “Hasn’t come back yet”.

Grant checked the time, filed the information away, and said nothing.

At five-thirty, they’d see what everyone had uncovered, and whether the pieces were starting to form a picture.

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