“You weren’t specifically mentioned, but I’m sure Captain Hayes knows that you’re here.”

  “Why the interest in me?”

  “He’s reopening the Emily Granger case.”

  Neil nodded. “I know. He’s been asking questions about where I was when Emily was murdered.”

  “Where were you?”

  “A world away. Did he investigate Wallace’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his conclusion?”

  “Suicide.”

  “He didn’t have any doubts?”

  “No.”

  “So, he’s fallible,” said Neil.

  “What do you mean?” asked Dr. Chen. “It looked pretty clear-cut."

  “I’m not so sure.”

  "Really?" Chen took another bite. "I heard he left a note addressed to you. Didn’t Upton show it to you?”

  “Yes. I’m not convinced it’s a suicide note.”

  “What did it say?”

  Neil scrolled to the picture. “Here. Read it.”

  Dr. Chen adjusted his glasses, one brow arching as he scanned the screen. “It’s not typical. Neutral tone. No lists. No final requests. No real instructions, except that he didn’t want to see you soon. There’s an edge of humor. Almost a riddle.”

  “Correct on all counts.”

  “And he mentions ‘Emily.’ Is that Emily Granger?”

  Neil nodded. Dr. Chen handed the phone back.

  “We’ve been going over her autopsy report. Some of the documentation … It’s off. I understand she was important to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is why the new detective doesn’t want you involved.”

  “That’s my guess. But I’d like to speak with the former ME who signed off on the autopsy for that case.”

  Dr. Chen swigged from a water bottle. “We all would. He died a year ago. Virus took him, and the two detectives who worked the case with Wallace died as well.”

  Neil rubbed his eyes and leaned forward.

  “It was like it tried to erase our collective memory.”

  “Oh, I may have given the wrong impression. They died, but not from the virus. One died when he fell off a cliff when he was hiking up in the Cascades, and the other one died out of state. I don’t have the report on that one, but it didn’t trigger any formal investigation.”

  Dr. Chen ate the last bite of his candy bar and tossed the wrapper in the trash. “Anyway, the new guy told me not to give you any information.”

  “On the Granger case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got my own sources. But I’m interested in what you found in John Wallace’s autopsy.”

  “Upton gave the go-ahead on that one. I’ll send the official report to you. Short story: He crashed into a bridge embankment at top speed. The trauma was extensive, affecting the head, chest, and internal organs. Fractures were present in the neck, hands, arms, and legs. Death was instantaneous.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He was drinking. Alcohol level was well over the limit. Might’ve killed him even without the crash. Toxic level. There were also traces of prescription painkillers. My report won’t change the detective’s conclusion.”

  “On the contrary.” Neil stood. “It changes everything.”

  “How?”

  “How well did you know John Wallace?”

  “Just professionally. All these questions about his cases … It surprises me. He was thorough. Never saw him outside work.”

  “I knew him for a long time,” said Neil. “We were friends once. I never understood how he botched Emily’s case. Like you said, he was thorough. They’ve been asking the wrong question. It’s not how it happened. It’s why.”

  “Okay. So, how does the autopsy change that?”

  A voice behind them cut in, deep and worn like boot leather; there was a rasp, a weight, a dustiness to it. Pure Texan.

  “Well, now … Why don’t you explain that to me, too.”

  Neil and Dr. Chen turned toward the doorway.

  A tall man stood there, his weathered cowboy boots planted like he owned the floor.

  Detective Captain Jubal Sydney Hayes.

  Chapter 11

  “Detective John Wallace was murdered,” Neil said, like he was saying the sky was blue.

  Captain Hayes didn’t respond right away. He studied the man across from him.

  “Is that so?” Hayes entered the office and shut the door. “That’s a mighty big statement. Sounds like gospel. But I beg to differ with you. Detective John Wallace was not murdered; former detective John Wallace took his own life.”

  Neil sized up the man who was standing with his arms crossed and a stance that looked like he was ready for a showdown.

  Born and raised in northeastern Texas, probably of Irish descent. He sounds like someone out of the old Western movies my brother loved to watch. Tall, compact, muscular. The kind of muscles used for manual labor. He came from a family of farmers. Military bearing, probably a former MP. Intense dark brown eyes … He takes in everything. Curly dark hair, freshly cut and carefully combed. He pays attention to detail.

  “Mr. Ames, your Uber driver is waitin’ for you.”

  “Captain Hayes. So, you’re the new sheriff in town. I hear you’ve been asking questions about me.”

  “And you’re back in town,” said Hayes. “I hear you’ve been … ill. Some sort of breakdown?”

  “I was on a break, but I’m fully restored. I hear you’ve been busy.”

  “And you are interfering with an ongoin’ investigation.”

  “Am I? I thought you closed your investigation into the death of John Wallace.”

  “Suicide.”

  “You see, that’s where I respectfully disagree with you: He was murdered.”

  “Prosecuting Attorney Upton holds you in high regard. You’ve been of some help to him, so I’ll be polite. Butt out.” Hayes opened the door and stood aside so that Neil could leave.

  Neil smiled and nodded at Dr. Chen as he turned toward the door.

  “Wait!” Dr. Chen called out. “Maybe he doesn’t want to hear what you have to say, but I do.”

  Neil turned back and stood between the two men.

  “Three things. First: John didn’t drink. His father was an alcoholic, and he had a bad life as a kid. Not drinking was part of his identity. If he went to a bar with his detectives, he drank root beer, or if he went to a party or social event where hard liquor was served, he drank ginger ale. Everyone who knew him could tell you this. Second: John had bad reactions to prescription painkillers. He didn't even use aspirin. Third: John drove like a grandma. He was great at maneuvering and defensive driving, but if you wanted to get anywhere fast, you would never ask John to drive.”

  “I’m not convinced,” said Hayes. “Wallace was discredited and fired. He was depressed. Drinkin’ and drivin’ was his chosen method of suicide. Luckily, he didn’t kill anyone else.”

  “The reason he drove like a grandma is that his sister was killed by a speeding vehicle as she was crossing the street. There’s one more thing that makes me question suicide. The note.”

  “The note?”

  “I’ve already dug mine. Emily is not in hers. I hope I don’t see you soon.’ He’s warning me that someone may come after me. He knows they’re after him, and he knows he’s a dead man walking. He says that Emily is not in her grave, which is true. She was cremated, and her parents took her ashes. So, his death has something to do with Emily. He’s hoping I will solve his murder without ending up dead.”

  Hayes stood with his arms folded and shook his head. “The note was found in his pocket, and he put it there in case someone killed him? That’s a bit of a stretch. If anything, the line about Emily is proof that he purposely misrepresented evidence so that the killer got off without coming to justice. Are you proposin’ that someone drugged him, poured liquor down his throat and somehow caused his car to speed up and plow into an embankment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very imaginative of you. You can go now.”

  Neil started for the door, then paused before exiting.

  “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “Why are you askin’?”

  “Because some of the newer luxury cars are susceptible to hacking. The manufacturers are trying to improve security, but properly motivated, creative hackers are finding ways around it. John drove like a grandma, but he liked luxury cars.”

  “And you came up with these theories during a casual visit with the medical examiner? Dr. Chen, I hope you haven’t been indiscreet.”

  “Upton approved his access to the Wallace autopsy report," said Dr. Chen, "But it has given me pause. What caused Wallace's death is clear. The cause of his death was massive trauma to his body as a result of a high-speed impact. Whether it may not have been an intentional act of suicide is up to you to solve.”

  “You’re involved in something far more complicated than you realize,” said Neil.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Ames.” Hayes opened the door.

  Neil stopped in the doorway. “Just one more thing.”

  Hayes shook his head. “Is this ever goin’ to end?”

  “You’re reviewing John’s other cases? Have you found any evidence that he mishandled any of them?”

  “That is none of your concern, but no, his other investigations were airtight.”

  “I’m not interested in being involved with your investigations. But I am wondering … Why did he bungle the Emily Granger case?”

  "I'm wonderin' where you got your information?" Hayes asked.

  "Doesn't take a detective to figure that out," replied Neil. "I've been asking that same question for years, and you've been asking questions about my whereabouts at the time of her murder."

  “We’re workin’ on it,” said Hayes. “There’s no body to exhume, and all we have is mishandled evidence that is unreliable. And you're to stay out of it.”

  Neil lowered his voice and leaned in. “Do your job. Find whoever killed Wallace and you'll find out what really happened to Emily. And … I will not stay out of it."

  Neil walked out. As he approached the Uber, he sent a text to Daniel Upton.

  NEIL

  Request the original preliminary & final autopsy reports on Emily Granger.

  He climbed into the car.

  “Where are we going?” asked Winston.

  Neil hit a few strokes on his phone. “The city library.”

  Chapter 12

  The new Destiny Pointe City Library was still under construction. Gone were the carved oak doors. The entrance now shimmered under glass and steel, sleek as a tech start-up.

  Neil stepped out of the Uber and handed the driver a folded twenty. “Pick up a small bag of healthy dog food, something a dog would actually like. There’ll be another trip. I’ll meet you here.”

  Neil walked to the back of the building and pushed the doorbell at the staff entrance. A moment later, the door buzzed open, and Connie Ziegler appeared, with her curly brown hair pinned back in a loose bun, a burgundy V-neck sweater, gray gaberdine trousers and oxblood boots. Other than a few lines around her eyes, she looked exactly as he had remembered.

  “Neil Ames,” she said, and her face softened. “I was so surprised to get your message. You still draw those sketchy little people in the margins of things?”

  He smiled. “Sometimes.”

  “Come on in.”

  They stepped into a staff corridor lined with frosted glass. The scent of fresh paint filled the air. The labyrinthine stacks that had once smelled of lemon oil and aging books were gone. Now it was touchscreen kiosks, polished terrazzo, and too-bright LED lights. Digital displays blinked soft blue. Security cameras blinked back.

  “It feels more like a data center than a library,” Neil remarked. “Bit different from the old days.”

  Connie nodded. “New money, new donors. They wanted something ‘visionary.’ ”

  She arched a brow. “I call it ‘optimistically sterile.’ ”

  As they walked, Neil tried to match this place with the shadows of memory. Here, Emily had taken his hand and tugged him into the closed stacks, laughing in that low, conspiratorial way she had. Here, he’d pressed her against the back wall of the history room, pages fluttering like wings from an open folio. Here, she’d called him her “dangerous distraction” and kissed him hard enough to make him forget his dress rehearsal.

  She’d been his first everything. First woman to treat him like someone worthy of desire. His talent. His body. His mind. Emily Granger, with her master’s in antiquarian cartography and ink-stained fingers, had made him feel like he could be more than a theater geek with good cheekbones and a constant sketching habit.

  They turned a corner, and suddenly, there it was.

  The one room untouched by renovation. A dark wood door, original brass handles. City of Destiny Historical Archive.

  Connie pulled it open and stood back. Neil stepped inside and stopped breathing for a moment.

  Same wood paneling. Same narrow skylight diffusing the gray light. Same scent: leather bindings, dust, ink. The world before touch screens.

  His hand grazed the edge of the long oak table. How many afternoons had they spent here? Emily reading aloud from a nineteenth-century surveyor’s journal, her voice trailing off whenever he sketched her instead of the map.

  A memory ambushed him. Her hand gripping his belt, her mouth at his ear: “God, I love how you look at me when you’re pretending to listen.”

  Neil swallowed. His throat was tight. He forced the memory down into the same iron box he used for Afghanistan. Lock it down.

  Connie watched him. “You all right?”

  He nodded. “Just … remembering.”

  She sat at the old desk and gestured toward the opposite chair. “So, what are we really looking for?”

  “A woman named Laura Jones. I think she worked with … Before she …” He added quickly, “I’m trying to find her. She might remember something from those last few weeks.”

  Connie’s brow furrowed. “Laura Jones. Doesn’t ring a bell offhand. But … Emily did request an assistant. Said she needed help with a large project. Could be the same woman.”

  She logged into the archive terminal and pulled up the internal newsletter archive.

  “Let’s search for ‘Laura Jones’ and ‘Emily Granger,’ ” said Connie, “and let’s put a five-year parameter in …”

  She tapped the keys. “Here’s Emily. Seven mentions.”

  The screen filled with old newsletter scans. Connie opened one, and there was Emily: smiling over a journal, her fingertips gently tracing the aged leather binding.

  “She had a presence, didn’t she?” Connie said. “She lit up a room without trying.”

  Neil stared at the photo. That smile … was it joy? Or did I not know what she looked like when she lied?

  He leaned back. “Keep going.”

  They flipped through more entries. April 2001. Another article, this one about a fundraiser. In the background, a young man sat at a table surrounded by books and pencils. Neil. Sketching, absorbed.

  “You were always here,” Connie said. “Emily used to joke she got more work done when you were around. She was lying, of course.”

  Neil gave a low grunt of agreement. “I thought I was her muse.”

  “You were,” Connie said. “That was obvious. She was really upset when you joined the Marines after 9/11.”

  “Was she?” Neil asked in a low, neutral tone.

  “September 2003.” Connie stopped. Her eyes narrowed.

  “There,” she said, pointing. The newsletter featured a photo from the Historical Reclamation Initiative Kickoff.

  Neil leaned in.

  Emily stood front and center, holding a letter from a nineteenth-century ship captain. Beside her, just a step behind, was a young woman with the same jawline. Same posture. Shorter hair. But the resemblance was startling. The caption below the picture named the two librarians: Emily Granger and Laura Jones.

  “I remember now,” Connie said. “We used to joke they looked like sisters. Emily said Laura was a quick study. She helped digitize several of the older maps. I seem to remember Laura was offered a job in … Australia, I think.”

  “Do we have that in print?” Neil asked.

  “I’ll check.” She opened the next issue. “Here we go: ‘Congratulations to Laura Jones on her new role as an assistant archivist at the Devereux Institute Library, Adelaide, South Australia.’

  Neil reached out. “Print that and the picture with Emily.”

  Connie hesitated. “Neil, what’s really going on?”

  He exhaled slowly. “The police have reopened Emily’s case. Did you know Katherine Sterling?”

  “Yes, she used to come here with Emily. Sad what happened to her. She left a large bequest to the library.” Connie gestured outside the archive doorway. “I doubt this is what she had in mind.”

  “I was looking through one of her files, and she mentioned Laura Jones. I’m trying to put the pieces together. Laura might be one of them. A previously unknown witness could be the key, potentially altering the entire outcome.”

  Connie sat still, hand on the mouse. “That’s why that detective was asking questions?”

  “Did he question you?” Neil asked.

  “No, he talked to human resources. They wouldn’t know anything about Emily; they’re all new. All they have is paperwork.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Neil stepped back into the brittle chill. He held the photo of Laura and Emily and a two-page farewell from a library that had forgotten both.

  His phone pinged.

  UPTON

  Just sent a messenger with a copy

  of the autopsy and police reports.

  Wallace’s car ready tomorrow.

  Hayes is pissed.

  Neil raked both hands through his hair, then braced his elbows on his knees in the back seat of the Uber.

  The driver checked the mirror. “Mr. Ames? You okay?”

  Neil didn’t answer.

  “Where to, Mr. Ames?”

  Neil pulled out his sketchbook.

  “Take me home,” he said. “I’m expecting a delivery.”

  But part of him stayed behind, trapped in a photo with two women. One lost, one vanished … and a map that no longer matched the terrain.