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“We offer a wide variety of services. Insurance is one of them.” It was true. Ish. I didn’t mention the part about also talking to dead people. Or the fact that I was probably going to have my boss talk tothisdead person. Once I convinced Elliot that was a good idea, anyway.

I got a grunt in response. Smith didn’t like it, but I hoped he was going to decide that I wasn’t a threat—at least not enough of one that he couldn’t give me a copy of the case file. With certain parts redacted, of course—that went without saying. But I wanted to see if they’d missed the button and the mud.

Or if any of them could have been the source of either button or mud. Or if there were any other injuries that couldn’t be explained by whatever had hung Gregory. Evidence that would back up whatever Ward came back with so that I could push to keep the case open.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Smith finally answered grudgingly, then gave me the case number and the direct line for the ME’s office. I jotted them down on the hotel’s little notepad.

“Much appreciated.”

He hung up on me.

I went back to trying to be a supportive friend, since Elliot clearly wasn’t interested in talking about my conversation with Smith.

We took turns calling various funeral homes everywhere from Shawano to Fond du Lac and Green Bay to see what they offered and how many arms, legs, and nonexistent first-born children we were going to have to give them in return.

Elliot eventually settled on a funeral home, and I connected them with the ME’s office, which necessitated having to talk to like six people—why, I wasn’t sure. By that point Elliot had curled up on his side, agreeing with pretty much anything I suggested, even when I suggested that we go downstairs and get into the hotel hot tub with our clothes on.

“Elliot.”

“Yeah?”

“You need to sleep.”

He blinked at me. “Can’t.”

“I know.” I sighed, then stood up. I was either going to have to drug him or get him shitfaced.

I went with shitfaced.

I did not get shitfaced. I did get tipsy, which meant I had to then wait it out after Elliot had fallen asleep before I could safely get into my mom’s car to drive home. Sometimes, I can be a responsible adult. Okay, semi-responsible.

Taavi was still up when I crept into my old room—my parents liked to get up with the sun, which meant they usually went to bed around nine or ten. My mom had left me a little note on the kitchen table, letting me know there were vegetarian leftovers in the fridge along with some cookies in the jar, if I wanted any.

I grabbed a couple cookies—molasses—and headed upstairs. On the way back from buying booze, I’d gotten myself an order of greasy cheese curds and onion rings at Culver’s—and a burger and fries for Elliot, since we’d left Mom’s food in his dad’s fridge—so that something would soak up the alcohol, so I didn’t need actual food, but I can’t say no to Mom’s cookies.

I was still chewing one when I softly pushed open the door to my room.

The bedside lamp was on, the sand-colored shade casting a warm glow across Taavi’s features, contrasting with the cool light from his tablet. He put it down as I stepped into the room and closed the door.

“How is he?” he asked quietly.

I shrugged. “The cops say his dad killed himself, which is bullshit. So pretty fucking awful.”

Taavi’s brow furrowed. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I’m working on trying to convince the lead detective to give me a copy of the case file, so I can see if there’s anything obvious that they missed.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I think I’ve already found something,” I replied, then told him about the mud and the button.

“It could be from anyone, though,” Taavi logically pointed out.

“It could,” I agreed. “But if it’s from one of the cops, then that tells me that they’re fucking incompetent for other reasons.”

Taavi’s expression was dark. “That’s still not good.”

“No, but if the mud and button aren’t from them, then I’ve got something to go on. They’re still incompetent, but at least they’re incompetent in a… useful way?”