Page 55

After too short a window of time, she pulls back. Every part of me objects to the decision.

"Wait," I say. My eyes are fixed on the evidence board. "Back up. Why the hell did a cop have a piece of a cold-case victim in her glovebox for a week, Serena? That should have been logged with evidence."

The answer to the question is a bracketed, bolded [SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH] on a transcript. I can already hear the voiceover for the episode: The evidence wasn't secured in a climate-controlled locker. It was sitting in the back of a cruiser, wedged between a spare tire and a half-eaten bag of beef jerky.

"I already told you. She didn't know what it was." She’s already retreating into her shell, her posture stiffening. "She found it at the arrest site. She thought it was a discarded car part."

"A car part?" I turn to face her. I don't buy it. I’ve spent too many years interviewing people who simply forgot or misplaced the truth. "She’s a cop, Serena. She’s trained to bag everything at a scene, especially when human remains are involved. You don't just toss a hunk of metal into your glovebox and forget about it in a situation like this.”

"She’s a local cop in a town that hasn't seen a real crime in years. Maybe ever." Her voice is sharp, defensive. "Mara is a lot of things, but she isn't a murderer, and she isn't a co-conspirator. She made a mistake. A naive, small-town mistake."

I look at her. I see the absolute conviction on her face, the twenty years of history she has with this woman. To me, it smells like a cover-up.

But her jaw is set, and I know if I push, the bridge we just built between us will collapse.

I nod slowly. I’ll keep my suspicion at bay for now. At least outwardly.

"Okay," I say. I hold up my hands in a silent truce. "A mistake, then."

"Tamsin needs to be briefed," Serena says, her focus already shifting toward the next phase of the investigation.

I nod, already reaching for my phone. “I’ll call Simon over. He can handle the gear while I interview you.”

Serena goes still.

My thumb stops over Simon’s contact.

It takes me a second. “Oh. Uhm”

Her eyebrows lift.

“I just assumed you’d agree to that.” A bold and ridiculous assumption. “I’m just used to talking to you about the case now. I skipped a few consent-related steps between willing to talk to me and willing podcast guest.”

“You did.”

“Sorry. That was—” I shove my phone back into my pocket. “You’ve spent most of the last week making your feelings about being anywhere near my podcast exceptionally clear.”

She hesitates. “Okay.”

I blink. “Okay?”

“You can interview me.”

Of all the possible responses I’d prepared for, that wasn’t one of them.

She reaches for the door handle, her hand hovering over the brass, when my phone buzzes. I pull it back out and check the screen. The caller ID displays a single word: Mother.

I answer it instinctively. It’s a reflex, a survival mechanism honed over thirty years of high-society demands and erratic midnight check-ins. I don't even have time to warn Serena before the screen flares to life.

My mother’s face fills the frame, her hair perfectly coiffed but her expression one of pure, unadulterated catastrophe. She’s standing just outside the barn, back on the compound, and behind her, a goat is bleating in a high-pitched, offended tone.

"Bear!" she shrieks. “It’s a disaster. A total failure. The designer brought the wrong shade of festive fall ribbons for the goats. They’re bright orange, Baryn. They were supposed to be burnt orange. They look like traffic cones with hooves. I told him specifically: burnt sienna, maybe a few shades darker. Do you hear me? The aesthetic is ruined!"

I stare at the screen. I can feel Serena’s bemused gaze burning into the side of my head.

"Mother," I say, my voice flat. "I'm in the middle of a⁠—"

"I don't care if you're in the middle of a coronation! Fix it! Call the retailer!" She waves a manicured hand at the goat, who is currently trying to eat a piece of neon-orange silk.