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Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” was blasting through the speakers when I entered the county coroner’s office. It didn’t take long for me to spot Silas, his hands in full air-guitar mode as he played along to the tune. Today he was dressed in his usual style—a Hawaiian shirt, linen slacks, and flip-flops. As the song’s chorus bellowed in the background, he did a swift kick in the air and spun around, his eyes widening when he spotted me standing there, watching. Startled, he froze. Then he reached for a remote control and paused the music.

“I ... ahh, hey, Georgiana,” he said. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough. Looks like you’re having a fun day at work.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m on my lunch break, thought I’d blow off some steam.”

Silas was one of the most laid-back, happy people I knew, making his comment about blowing off steam surprising.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Wish I could say it was, but no, it’s not. I kinda made a mess of things with Lana last night.”

Silas and Lana had started dating several months before, and his relationship with her was one of the longest he’d ever had.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She broke up with me.”

“Why?”

“She’s pushing me to move in together.”

Seemed a little soon to me.

“You two haven’t been dating long,” I said. “Four months, right?”

“Five, and I agree, it hasn’t been long enough. Ask me, any talk about shacking up needs to wait until we hit the year mark.”

“How did you respond when she suggested you two move in together?”

“I said I wasn’t ready, and ... well, it wasn’t the response she wanted, that’s for sure. She flipped out, started ranting about how she couldn’t stay in a relationship with a person who didn’t love her as much as she loved them.”

How passive-aggressive of her.

“It’s not true,” he continued. “I’ve loved that woman from the moment I laid eyes on her. I just don’t see the need to rush things, you know? If we’re meant to be together, we will be. What’s the rush?”

He leaned against his desk, crossed one leg in front of the other, and sighed, and I tried to muster up some words of encouragement.

“Maybe Lana just needs a little time to process the conversation you had last night,” I said.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t feel good, though. Hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since our little tiff, and I miss her like crazy.”

“How did the conversation end?”

“She stormed out of my house, slammed the door, and drove off.”

“Have you been in contact since then?”

He swished a hand through the air. “Nah, figured she needs some space to sort through her feelings. I’ll be honest, I’m bummed out. I thought we had something special, something different than the ladies I’ve been with in the past.”

Different was good.

We’d been friends for years, and while he’d dated here and there, he didn’t commit to women often, which led me to believe he’d end up a lifelong bachelor. He’d always been a free spirit, a man who didn’t like being tied to anything for too long ... well tied down to anything other than his surfboard.

“How is Lana different than the other women you’ve dated?” I asked.

“It’s the connection we have—or had, I guess. Never felt anything like it. She’s the best thing that’s ever come into my life ... aside from you, I mean.”

He offered me a cheeky grin, and we both laughed.

“Have you told Lana how you feel about her?” I asked.

“I’ve said things here and there, sure.”

“Have you told her what you just told me?”

“No, guess I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

“I get a little tongue-tied talking to her about deep stuff. I get nervous around her—butterflies, you know? It’s different, talking to you. We’re buddies. We have history.”

“We do. Lots of good memories over the years.”

“With Lana, we’re still in those early days of getting to know each other. I’ve been a little paranoid about messing up, and for good reason. I just did.”

“Relationships aren’t perfect. She should know that. If she wants to move in, it tells me she’s trying to create a future with you, which isn’t a bad thing, even if the timing isn’t right.”

He ran a hand along his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “I need your advice, Gigi. Do you think I should ... you know, reach out to her in some way? Or should I wait?”

“How about doing a subtle check-in?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Start off easy. Send her a text message. Keep it brief, let her know you’re thinking of her. Tell her you hope she’s doing all right, or you hope she’s having a good day ... something like that.”

He wagged a finger at me, “Good idea. Should I do it now or ...?”

“Now’s good.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

I waited while he typed out his message one finger at a time, deleted it, typed it again, deleted it and then nodded, satisfied on his third try.

“And ... sent,” he said. “I’m all yours. Figure you’re here for a reason. What’s up?”

“Maybe my reason for stopping by is to check in and see how you’ve been.”

“As much as I appreciate that, we check in every Friday at the coffee shop. You get a new case, or something?”

“I did. I’ve just been hired to investigate the death of Noelle Winters.”

“Ahh, I wondered if you’d wind up getting involved. Her friend came here. Pushy little lass. She was asking all kinds of questions about the autopsy. I wanted to help her, but I, you know ... I can’t.”

“When Zoey came to see me this morning, she said Noelle was strangled.”

“Yep.”

“Manual or ligature?”

“Manual.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the electricity at Noelle’s house went out on the night she was murdered. It was out for five minutes or so. She was alive before the electricity went out, and dead when it came back on. Is five minutes enough time to strangle someone to death?”

“You betcha. When a person is being strangled, they lose consciousness within seconds. The pressure alone blocks the veins and arteries in the neck, stopping the flow of oxygenated blood to the brain.”

“I knew it happened fast, but not that fast.”

“A mere eleven pounds of pressure is all that’s needed to cut off blood flow.”

“Leaving the victim with permanent brain damage.”

“You’re right. Brain damage within thirty seconds, and death shortly thereafter.”

In the past, I’d only had one case involving strangulation, and it taught me a lot. Based on statistics in strangulation cases over the years, women were strangled six times more often than men, and often because the assailant was experiencing intense emotion and rage. I’d always found murder by way of strangulation different than the other ways one could kill a person. The interaction was far more intimate. It wasn’t always about the murder itself. It was about the need to exercise power and control over the victim’s next breath.

“Strangulation is an awful way for anyone to go, even if death comes quicker sometimes,” I said. “It’s just as terrifying.”

“Yep, I agree.”

“Is there anything else I should know as I get going on this case?” I asked.

“Still early days. If something comes up, I’ll give you a holler.”

I nodded. “All right, see you on Friday.”

“Hang on a second. There’s one other thing I should mention. The murderer left fingerprint indentations on Noelle’s neck. Based on the size, I’m leaning toward a man, not a woman. If I’m wrong, and a woman is responsible, her hands are larger than most.”

I turned. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Any time. And hey, while I have you here, you ought to take a look at a few of the autopsy photos, so you can see the fingerprints for yourself.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

He reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a file folder, and then handing it to me. I spent the next several minutes going over the photos. Silas was right. The marks on Noelle’s neck were significant in size.

“I was told the husband was upstairs when Noelle died, and their five-year-old daughter was in her room.”

Silas bowed his head, huffing out a heavy sigh. “Always sad when a child loses a parent.”

“It is. Have you met Noelle’s husband?”

“I have. He was at the house, talking to the police when I showed up.”

“How was he?”

“Frantic. Broken up. Seemed genuine, though I suppose that’s not my expertise. It’s yours.”

One last thought crossed my mind.

“I’m guessing, given there were so many people in attendance at the engagement party, it must be difficult for you to sort out fingerprints,” I said. “Bet they were everywhere.”

“Difficult doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s like finding a matching brick in a stack of similar bricks. Could take months to sort them all out, which brings me to an even better solution.”

“What’s that?”

“You could do us both a favor—find the killer and save me the trouble.”

He was right.

Months to sort through the plethora of fingerprints he’d collected at the crime scene was far too long.

I needed answers, and I needed them now.