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Probably a coincidence. Probably.

"Making friends with the wall?"

I turn. Molly Harris leans against her office doorway, arms crossed. She hasn't changed much. Her auburn hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, but her expression is exactly the same—equal parts amused and skeptical.

"You planning on saying hello?" she asks.

"I was getting there."

"You always did overthink simple things."

"I prefer to observe.'"

She snorts.

"Still insufferable."

"I've heard worse."

"You usually deserve worse."

A smile threatens. Almost.

We shake hands instead. No hug. Neither of us has ever been the hugging type.

"It's good to see you," she says.

"You too."

She steps aside.

"Come on."

Her office isn't really an office. It's a controlled disaster.

Case files cover nearly every available surface. Maps of Sleepy Hollow are pinned to corkboards with handwritten notes crowding the margins. Photographs overlap one another in uneven rows. Red string would almost be less dramatic.

Almost.

"I've been busy," Molly says, noticing where I'm looking.

"I can see that."

She closes the door behind us.

"Coffee?"

"Please."

She pours two cups from a machine that looks older than both of us. I accept mine gratefully.

"Long drive?"

"Long enough."

"You slept?"

"Eventually."