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“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line clicks dead.

I lower the phone and stare at it.

Four days.

So that’s how long it takes a cold case to become overdue.

All these years without answers, and somehow Cebastian is the one who can’t afford another week.

7

A SOURCE CLOSE TO THE CASE

BARYN

Simon is still asleep when I leave the inn, a feat I respect in theory and resent in practice. The man has the extraordinary ability to treat a stalled investigation as a spa day. I pause outside his door, half-expecting his snoring. Pretty sure he believes the truth will eventually get tired of hiding and just knock on his door.

Rationally, I am a patient person. I understand the scientific process. I know that DNA doesn’t care about my production schedule.

Emotionally? I would prefer if the truth could hurry the fuck up.

I head downstairs, where the inn’s breakfast offering appears to consist primarily of hospitable carbs arranged across a long table beneath a white tablecloth that has clearly survived several decades and at least one minor kitchen fire. A coffee urn the size of a tactical nuke anchors one end, beside a plate of scrambled eggs that have committed fully to the aesthetic of industrial rubber.

What I find harder to explain is the number of people who don’t actually stay here but make a point of coming by for breakfast anyway. I can understand free food as a motivating factor. Voluntarily seeking out these eggs requires a level of community loyalty I’m not equipped to understand.

I pour another cup of coffee. It’s strong enough to remove paint and hot enough to cauterize my vocal cords. Perfect.

“How’s the investigation, Mr. Podcast?”

Marj appears beside me, carrying a stack of plates that defies the laws of physics. She learned the word podcast sometime in the last few days and now wields it like a weapon.

“Slow,” I admit, leaning against the table. I scan the room. Two old men are reading the local paper, pretending not to eavesdrop on our conversation. “Stillwater has a very specific rhythm, Marj. It’s mostly andante with a side of none of your business.”

“Well,” she says, wiping a table with a dish cloth that has seen better centuries. “Things don’t move fast here unless someone’s late for the fish fry. You have any suspects?”

“Suspicion isn't a suspect,” I say, biting into an apple that is surprisingly crisp. “At the moment, the only people I can’t rule out are Casey’s parents. Which is a dead end, considering they’re... well, dead.”

Marj leans one hip against the table. “And everyone else?”

“Still figuring out who belongs on the list.”

Her mouth pinches slightly. She looks, inexplicably, disappointed. “What about me?”

I stop chewing. “What about you?”

“You could put me on the list.”

I lower the apple. “Did you kill Casey?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not putting you on the list.”

Her chin tips up. “You don’t know that.”

“I literally just asked you.”