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He paused to let the murmurs of dismay and outright protests play out, before continuing “The time’s they are a-changing and we all know it.

I’ve had a good run. It’s time to start a new chapter.

Time to hand the torch to the next generation.

That said, I can’t pretend I haven’t been wondering about what comes next—for legacy publishers such as Millbrook House, for our wonderful, talented authors, for our gifted, dedicated editors like Keiran Chandler. ”

He said a few words more, but it was a brief and pithy farewell.

When he was finished, Rudolph reached across the small table and laid his hand briefly over mine. “Thank you, my boy. Good luck to you.”

I turned my hand and shook his. “Thank you, Rudolph. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to us all,” he said a little cryptically.

“He’s getting impatient.”

I was not talking about Rudolph. I meant Troy Colby.

Finn and I were in his red convertible Mercedes-AMG CLE53 on our way to Steeple Hill.

Finn enjoyed driving. In fact, rather than flying up for the conference, he’d driven from San Clemente to Monterey.

He was an excellent driver and I was happy to take shotgun.

The trip had felt endless the day before, but with Finn behind the wheel we made excellent time.

I could even relax and enjoy the coastal scenery a bit.

The placid sunshine felt good on my face and the salty breeze whipping through my hair was bracing, cleansing.

Finn replied laconically, “Yep.”

“Which means he might escalate.”

“Maybe. But it also means, he’s going to start having doubts. Which is good. We want him to question what he really knows, how strong his position really is.”

“He didn’t seem doubtful today,” I said.

“It’s hard to say what he seemed. His questions were pretty vague.” Finn reached across and absently squeezed my thigh.

He was a tactile guy, prone to brief, casual touches, but I was getting more reassuring squeezes and strokes than usual, and while I wasn’t typically emotionally needy, I did appreciate those silent signs of caring and support.

Eight years was a long time, and I did know a lot about Finn, although most of it was probably pretty trivial.

I knew he had sensitive skin and sunburned easily, which was why, beneath that pricy Costa Azzurra, he always smelled faintly of sunscreen.

I knew he and a few other crime writers often got together for pickup basketball games at conferences.

I knew this beloved red sportscar was the first thing he’d treated himself to when he’d started to earn big money.

I knew he played the piano beautifully, classic jazz, but that he mostly listened to Tom Petty and Moon Martin.

I knew he was crazy about his kid, liked big dogs, Japanese whisky, and Dylan Thomas.

There was a wealth of stuff I didn’t know—because I hadn’t wanted to know. The more I’d learned, the more I’d cared, and that was something I just couldn’t afford to do.

But now…

When it was maybe too late, I wanted to know everything.

Then again, I already knew—had always instinctively known—the most important things: that he was unshakably honest; that quiet, kind steadiness was his default; that he took care of people without making them feel managed or useless.

He was doing that now.

I glanced at his profile. “Thanks for doing this.”

His mouth curved, though his gaze remained on the curving road. “This morning’s panel was my last scheduled event. I’ve got to fill the time somehow.”

I shook my head, smiling.

He glanced at me then, said, “Rudolph Dunst thinks a lot of you. He made that clear during that interview.”

“He’s always been really helpful, very supportive.

With everyone. That’s just how he is. A true professional.

Unfailingly generous with his time and advice.

He always took the attitude that we were all in this together.

That together we were doing something important, something that really mattered. ”

“He’s the last of a dying breed.”

That was a depressing thought.

We drove in silence for another mile or so before I said, “Don’t you think it’s weird that this all suddenly started up again? For more than twenty years nothing happened. And now…”

“There was a confluence of events,” Finn said, “probably starting with your father’s passing.

He was the former sheriff, so the local paper would have covered it.

Would have covered the fact that you showed up for the funeral.

There was probably a little information on you, just enough.

You put the house on the market, which would have stirred additional interest, raked up some memories. ”

I said, “Speaking of that. When I told the Realtor to put the house on the market, I told her to dump everything. She didn’t feel that was right, so she boxed up whatever legal docs she thought might be needed down the line and shipped it all off to me.

The box is still sitting in storage. But I’m wondering if there was something in his possessions that triggered… something.”

“Your father was sheriff at the time. Is it possible he knew what happened? Would he have withheld information to protect you?”

“Not a chance. Knowledge of my involvement would have just confirmed his worst suspicions. Anyway, his drinking was out of control by then. I don’t think he’d have noticed my complicity—hell, I don’t think he’d have noticed a crime in progress if he’d wandered into the graveyard in the middle of Milo hitting Dom over the head. ”

Finn snorted.

“But maybe there was something in all that junk. Betty, my realtor, sold whatever she could as far as furniture, tools, knickknacks, and then donated the rest.”

“It’s a small town. Just the act of selling everything off— especially the fact that you handled it long distance—putting the house on the market, would certainly spark speculation, conversation. People talk.”

“Yes.”

“Then, shortly after, you showed up for a writing conference in Monterey that undoubtedly received some local coverage.”

“That’s all true. But if anybody actually knew anything, why would they wait for me to resurface? Why wouldn’t they have gone to the police twenty years ago?”

“Maybe Colby doesn’t know anything for sure.

You pointed out several inconsistencies in the manuscript.

Some of this could be fishing.” He seemed to weigh his thoughts before adding, “The truth is, given your friendship with Milo, there was probably a fair amount of speculation about your potential role in Dominic’s disappearance.

People would talk. They always do. The police would listen.

They always do. But you need more than gossip and speculation to file charges. You have to have proof.”

“My friendship with Milo wasn’t a secret, but I wasn’t part of his circle.”

“There sure as hell would have been speculation regarding Milo, even before he ducked out. For a lot of people, leaving the way he did would have confirmed their suspicions.”

“You’re assuming he left voluntarily.”

“I am. Yeah.”

“Why?”

“No body.”

“But…”

“We know why Dominic’s body wasn’t found—by the way, that’s also an assumption on your part.

Remains might have been found but not identified.

But what would be the reason for hiding Milo’s body?

And if it was suicide—most suicides don’t attempt to conceal their death.

They might try to hide that they’ve committed suicide, but typically people don’t want their families to agonize over a mysterious disappearance. ”

I hadn’t considered the situation from that perspective. It seemed my original instinct had been correct. Milo had bailed.

Finn said, “I want to know how much local law enforcement suspects. I need to get my hands on cold case reports, coroners’ records, or old sheriff’s logs to see if unidentified remains were ever recovered in the Pescadero Marsh area.

If no body was ever found, it’s harder to prove a crime—even with your confession. ”

The confession no one had heard but Finn.