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R eese straightened from her position on the floor and rolled her shoulders.

When they’d returned home, Hayes had set up his computer at the kitchen island, leaving the dining table she’d cleared off open.

After giving him the Wi-Fi password, Reese re-sorted the piles before delving in again, focusing on the towering stack from the trustee.

Organizing the sheets by date, she discovered reams dating back to when her parents had died.

Not for the first time, she wondered why her aunt had chosen to print out all of this when she must have had digital copies.

Rivers had mentioned emailing Julia. Reese rubbed her neck and considered.

The correspondence from the trustee and financial advisor would have been available by email or online.

Julia had been tech-savvy. She’d spent most of her nights selecting and editing her photographs.

She’d know how to access the information she wanted.

But when Reese was working on a story, she often did the same thing, especially when it became bigger and more complex.

It helped to put a timeline together with physical documents to easily compare interviews and other notes.

Every bit of this information had no doubt come from Julia’s laptop, but that and her phone had disappeared from the scene.

A hit-and-run might start off as an “accident”, but driving off without taking responsibility was a conscious choice. And one the driver deserved punishment for.

Her temples pounded with the beginning of a headache. Since she was taking a break anyway, she grabbed her phone and called a familiar number. Was gratified to hear a real person on the end of the line rather than a voicemail.

“Detective Gibbons.”

“This is Reese Decody.” When her words didn’t garner a reply, she added, “Julia Backworth’s niece?

” The SDPD detective had seemed unbearably young and earnest in their previous conversations.

Far too youthful to be a detective, although he must be older than he appeared to have reached that level.

“I was wondering if you have any updates on my aunt’s death. ”

“Nothing of note, I’m afraid.” She pictured him behind his desk, raking a hand through his thick red hair, his broad, freckled face scrunched up in frustration. “The investigation remains active.”

She blew out a breath, although she’d figured if they had found something, she would have been notified. But her job had taught her that persistence was the only avenue to information. “I sort of figured that getting a positive ID on the minivan would have led us to the driver quickly.”

“Normally it would have. But since the owner had reported it stolen the night before, we can’t tie him to the incident. Especially when no one caught sight of the driver before the van took off.”

After leaving Rivers’s office, Julia had driven to the Core Division, which housed one of the business hubs.

She’d parked in a public ramp and had left on foot through the front entrance.

She’d died before reaching her final destination.

Reese had no idea where she’d been headed.

There’d been no appointment noted in her planner, and cell phone records hadn’t recorded any incoming or outgoing calls that day.

A storefront camera had shown only partial angles, but a tourist filming the area had caught more details.

They had the color, make, model, and license number of the Honda Odyssey, which had led them to the VIN and owner.

But the video hadn’t shown the driver, and since the owner had an alibi for the time in question, the investigation focused on the theft itself, which had been similarly fruitless.

The vehicle’s GPS navigation system had been disabled.

The operator had taken a route that managed to avoid most traffic cameras, although the van was spotted again taking an exit onto Interstate 5.

And then poof. It’d seemingly disappeared.

“So the van hasn’t shown up.” Gibbons had conjectured that it could have been driven to a neighborhood and abandoned, where it’d be stripped for parts within hours.

Or continued on to the desert and set on fire.

Pushed into a quarry or pit. The driver might have it sitting in a storage shed somewhere.

“It hasn’t. We’re making the rounds to salvage yards. Sometimes an disreputable owner will take cash to make a vehicle ‘disappear.’ Checking with all of them is a slow process.”

“Did Julia’s phone or laptop show up?” Reese couldn’t help believing both of them would have been helpful in piecing together her aunt’s final days.

“No. We checked pawn shops, but there’s a market for that stuff on the dark web, too.

” Accidents drew rubberneckers along with some people who genuinely wanted to help.

It wouldn’t have been difficult to ease into the crowd and make off with personal belongings while everyone focused on the victim.

Tragedy was just another opportunity for human parasites to exploit.

As if plucking the thought from her, he added, “We’re reinterviewing the bystanders at the scene. And have followed up with every call Julia made or received in the month leading up to her death.”

She straightened, her interest captured. That was new. It would have been a laborious task. Julia Backworth was a busy woman.

“No one could shed light on why she was in that particular place on that day, however.”

Her shoulders sagged. “And the search warrant for her iCloud and Calendar?”

“I’m sorry, Reese. These companies take their own sweet time following through and sometimes even fight the warrant on relevancy grounds. That may not happen,” he hastened to add. “I know it seems like I don’t have a lot of leads to report.”

He didn’t. And the disappointment of that was crushing. But he’d covered a lot of ground even since their last conversation, and she knew from her work that eliminating possibilities was a necessary step toward finding answers.

“I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“I’ll keep you posted about our progress,” he promised.

A knock sounded at the bedroom door. “Thank you.” She disconnected and rose stiffly, crossing to open it. Hayes was framed in the doorway.

“I’m making stir-fry. I have salad fixings too, if you want one.”

Intrigued, she followed him back to the kitchen, where he had a skillet on the stove.

“You ordered groceries.” He’d said something about it earlier, but she’d been so immersed in reading that she’d lost track of time.

She checked her phone. Nearly seven thirty.

Either Gibbons was working nights, or he’d been at his desk catching up on paperwork.

“I put the refrigerated products away, but I didn’t know where the rest of the stuff goes.”

Bags, a knife, and a cutting board sat on the island counter. Opened packages of chicken and assorted vegetables were strewn throughout the available space. He was a messy cook. She was hardly in a position to complain.

“I can do that. And make the salad.”

The tasks seemed entirely too familiar, almost domesticated, and a far cry from what she’d envisioned this morning when Adam Raiker had foisted Hayes upon her. But it also provided a distraction from the quagmire of papers and the disappointing news from Gibbons.

Twenty minutes later, she had both jobs accomplished. They each fixed themselves a plate—he must have ordered the paper ones—and carried them to the table. Reese went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of water. She had plenty of that on hand.

When she returned, he lost no time digging in.

She was beginning to think food was a real issue for him.

Although…she considered him surreptitiously.

He was over six foot and built. He’d require a lot of fuel.

When she got busy, she was far more apt to forget about meals.

Like she’d forgotten about ordering groceries once they’d returned to the apartment.

“Did you discover anything interesting about Greg Pollack?”

“Interesting in a dirtball sense, I guess.” He was shoveling stir-fry into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Although she guessed it had been nearly six hours.

“Those warrants I mentioned actually exist. No surprise there. He’s a big parking scofflaw.

But he’s also got an assault and battery charge against him and a failure to appear for a drug count.

No wife, so his story was bullshit. I suppose he could have meant girlfriend. ”

“That would have been harder to verify, so he should have gone with that.” She ate some salad and then took a cautious bite of the chicken and vegetables. Her brows rose. It was surprisingly tasty.

“This is good.” She toasted him with her water bottle. “My compliments to the chef.”

His teeth flashed. “I’ve got a handful of simple meal plans I rotate through. I make plenty to tide me over for a few days. I don’t enjoy cooking enough to want to do it every day. And I never know when I’m going to have to blow out of town.”

She contemplated him. He’d mean for work, of course.

When she’d looked into Raiker Forensics eighteen months ago, she’d been curious about the number of forensic specialists they employed or contracted with.

Coupled with what was touted as a world-class lab with a rapid turnaround rate, she could see the agency’s appeal, even to cash-strapped law enforcement entities.

And, of course, Raiker himself had an unparalleled reputation. “What’s your specialty?”

He looked at her over a forkful of salad. “My tap-dancing sucks, but I kick ass at ballet.”

A smartass. Why was she not surprised? But she was adept at pinning down subjects who’d rather deflect. “At work. What’s your field of expertise?”