* * *
They foundTeddy in the kitchen, staring vacantly into a bowl.
“Mr. Hornberger?” Riley said.
He jolted, sending milk and Marshmallow Munchies across the pink marble countertop.
“Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Sorry. Call me Teddy.” He swirled a hot pink dish towel through the mess and dumped it all in the sink.
“Teddy. Do you know if your wife had any problems with people who followed her on social media?”
He shoved his glasses up his nose. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, there’s trolls everywhere. But she just chalked it up to jealousy.”
“Did she make a lot of people jealous?” Kellen asked.
Teddy shrugged miserably. “I mean, she was beautiful.”
“And had a doting husband,” Riley added.
He looked around the kitchen at the white enamel fridge, the coral cabinets. “Maybe a little too doting. I just wanted her to be happy.”
“So you aren’t aware of any threats made against her from people online?”
He shook his head. “Honestly, she isn’t one to be intimidated. My wife has…had strong opinions and enjoyed voicing them. Loudly.” He winced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay,” Riley said. “Every bit of accurate information you can give us helps.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I just can’t believe she’s gone. I don’t know who would have wanted to hurt her. I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.”
“Assessment?” Kellen asked as they headed down the walkway to his car. A beige sedan cruised past slowly before parking in front of a mailbox embedded in a fancy brick pillar.
“He’s sad and scared that she’s dead. But he’s also a little relieved.”
The detective’s eyebrows lifted. “Relieved?”
“He wanted to make her happy, but it was never enough. Every inch he gave, she needed another mile. Another cosmetic procedure. He was a means to an end, and by the time he realized it, he was too in love with her to get out.”
“I did a cursory glance at her channel. It’s…painful to watch someone twirl their hair and talk about finding the right $300 jeans. But I didn’t come across any overtly threatening comments.”
“I can do some digging into Bianca’s social media,” Riley volunteered. “I excel at cyberstalking. I mean. The legal kind,” she corrected quickly.
7
1:06 p.m., Thursday, August 13
Larry Rupley’s townhouse was two short blocks from the Bogdanovich mansion they called home. It was a bland, beige unit in the middle of two other identically bland, beige units. Nick swung Riley’s Jeep into a parking spot in the lot and accepted the folder she passed him.
Burt the dog shoved his wrecking ball head between the seats and scowled through the windshield at the row of buildings as if to say, “This isn’t lunch.”
“Lunch is next, buddy,” Nick promised the dog, ruffling his ears.
He shot Riley a glance. She’d been quiet since she’d returned unharmed—good news for Weber’s face—from the interview with the dead woman’s husband.
“You sure you’re up for this? A homicide in the morning and a missing person in the afternoon seems like a lot for someone used to proofreading portable toilet schematics.”
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow over her sunglasses. “Pellet stoves, smartass. And restroom partitions.”
