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“Shoot.”

“One, are you going to arrest me if I do?”

Another rough laugh. “No.”

“Great. Second, when?”

“How soon can you get here?”

“Uh. Half an hour to an hour?”

“Perfect. Text me when you get here, and I’ll come bring you back.”

I had no idea what the fuck he wanted from me now, but I wasn’t going to say no to being included in the investigation—whether he wanted to talk to me as a witness or as a collaborator. I was hoping for the latter, but I’d take whatever access I could.

I went back downstairs, then slid back into my chair to polish off the remainder of my home fries and scrambled eggs with cheese and peppers. It was my dad’s favorite, although he, Mom, Elliot, and Taavi also had bacon with theirs.

“Who was that?” my mother wanted to know.

“Detective Smith at Shawano PD,” I answered, spearing a potato. “He’s asked me to come down to talk about Gregory’s case.”

Elliot looked up at that. “Are they reopening it?” he asked, and there was so much hope in his voice that I almost didn’t want to tell him that this was going to be a brutal fight.

“He wants to,” I answered. “Although I’m not sure what that will take.”

I hurried through the rest of my food, then kissed Taavi and my mother before taking her car keys and heading out. Elliot was staying at my folks’ house for the time being—I didn’t know if he’d stay overnight again or not.

Honestly, I was a lot happier with him at their house—I got to sleep in a bed instead of on a shitty futon or the floor, I got to sleep with Taavi, and I didn’t have to feel guilty about not spending time with my parents. And I felt like my mother wouldn’t let Elliot disappear into his grief again—not that she wouldn’t let him grieve, but she’d hold his hand and let him cry or take out an album to remind him about the good memories. Mom wasn’t the sort of person who was of the opinion that pretending it didn’t happen was the best ‘cure’ for grief—but she was the sort of person who thought that spending too much time in your own head was sometimes not the healthiest choice.

I was also glad Elliot wanted to be around people—I just wasn’t going to be one of them, apparently.

I pulled into the Shawano PD parking lot, parked in a visitor spot, and texted Smith. By the time I walked into the station, he was waiting for me, leaning up against the reception desk, radiating ‘small-town cop’ in khakis, a blue denim shirt, and a department-issued navy blue mask. The guy might be relatively attractive, but stylish he was not—and I forgive a lot of fashion faux pax, given that I’m cheap as fuck. But I at least wore slacks and a shirt that wasn’t denim to work.

I pushed that thought aside as he held out a hand to shake mine.

“Mr—Er. Hart,” he corrected himself.

I suppressed the smirk that wanted to show itself on my face. “Detective.”

“It’s. Um. Gale is fine.” Spots of color appeared on his cheekbones above his mask. I was guessing he wasn’t used to informality. I mean, neither am I, given that I go by my last name to ninety-nine percent of people, even the ones I like.

“Gale it is,” I replied. I wondered if that was a family name, or if his parents simply hated him as much as mine hated me when it came to naming. His cheek-spots darkened, and I felt a surge of pity for the man as he led me back through the bullpen to a desk shoved up against the corner. “The reason I go by Hart is that my parents named me Valentine,” I told him in a conspiratorial whisper.

He stared at me. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Yeah, I think I’d go by Hart, too.” He grimaced. “But you can’t go by freakin’Smith.”

He had a point. “No nicknames?”

“None I want to acknowledge.”

That made me curious about what his grade-school classmates had come up with for ‘Gale,’ but I had the feeling it was a sore spot, so I didn’t ask. “Fair enough,” I replied, settling myself in the chair placed beside his desk. “Why did you want to see me?”

“Have you heard from your FBI agent?”

I grimaced. I’d texted Raj last night and asked him what was going on, and I’d gotten a text back that said they were working on it, and he’d update me when they had something. I told him he’d better. “Only that they’re working on it,” I told Smith. Gale. Whatever.