“And the other half?”
“Listens.”
“Which half are you?”
“The half that stands near an exit.”
That gets another smile, and I take it because I am learning Kara’s smiles are not casual things. They cost her something right now. Every one of them means fear did not win that particular second. My phone vibrates before we reach the SUV. It’s Sloane. I answer.
“Let me call you right back.”
I open the passenger door for Kara. “Give me one minute.”
She studies my face. “Is it about me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always answer honestly when it will make a person nervous?”
“If I lie now, you won’t trust me later.”
That resonates with her. I see it in her expression. Kara nods once and gets into the SUV. I close the door, stay where she can see me, and answer the call.
“Navarro.”
“Rafi pulled what he could on Dr. Adrian Vale,” Sloane says. “Clean license. No disciplinary actions. Works with high-performing clients, anxiety, public pressure, trauma response. Expensive, private, boring.”
“Boring is good.”
“Usually.”
I look through the windshield. Kara sits with her head turned toward the marina, but I know she’s aware of me. She is pretending not to watch.
“Sloane.”
“I know. I’m still looking.”
“You need to look into incidents that happened at her culinary school.”
“We’re already on it. Nothing official beyond old academic complaints, mostly sealed behind university policy. But Rafi found two local food blog mentions from that year. Kara Stone was apparently the rising-star student everyone was watching. Then she withdrew from a regional competition after an ingredient contamination issue. Another student placed instead.”
“Name?”
“Vanessa Moreau.”
That perks up my antena.
“Say that again.”
“Vanessa Moreau. Same Vanessa?”
“Likely.”
“It doesn’t prove anything,” Sloane says.
“No.”
But it is a point on the map. Patterns are built from points.
