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Discovering a professional connection between the two critics turned out to be more difficult than the two agents anticipated. Harold and Eleanor reviewed different restaurants. Eleanor preferred the ultra-fine-dining establishments, those with Michelin stars, places dignitaries dined. Harold reviewed a more eclectic mix of restaurants. He still preferred more traditional, established eateries to trendy, avant-garde places, but awards weren’t important to him. He’d only reviewed five Michelin-star winners in his entire career. Three of those were restaurants Eleanor had also reviewed, and both reviewers had only glowing things to say about them.

The personal connection also yielded little they could use. By all accounts, the two had never interacted. Harold in general preferred to be nearly anonymous. He had no personal social media accounts, and his professional accounts held no pictures that contained his face and very few that contained any part of him at all. He never interacted with other food critics, chefs or food writers. He worked in the shadows.

“Not far enough in the shadows,” she muttered.

“What’s that?” Michael asked.

“Nothing. I’m giving up for the night. I have an address for Eleanor Crestwood’s sister in Camden. If you don’t come up with anything better, I say we talk to her tomorrow.”

“Good with me,” he replied. “I’ve cross-referenced every single restaurant they’ve both reviewed. Only the three connections and they both loved all three.”

“Maybe the killer’s a masochist who’s pissed that they won’t insult him?” she offered glumly.

“Ha. Well, we’re both trying to stay positive, so let’s not let ourselves down by assuming the worst just yet. We’ll talk to the sister tomorrow and go from there.”

“Fair enough. Good night, Michael.”

“Yep.”

Michael collapsed on the couch and was instantly asleep. Faith looked at him for a moment, and an odd swirl of emotions coursed through her.

She and Michael had dated for roughly a year. Their relationship had ended over three years ago, over a year before she had met David, just before her encounter with Jethro Trammell. The split was amicable, both of them realizing they worked much better as friends than lovers. Especially now that Michael was married to Ellie and Faith was preparing to move in with David, she rarely thought about their relationship.

Still, for a brief but intense moment, Faith was sure that the two of them would end up together for the long haul. Michael was the first man she had ever truly loved, and while she could honestly say her love for him now was no more than friendship and camaraderie, there were moments, like this one, when the ghosts of her old feelings came back to haunt her.

She headed to her bedroom, moving quietly so as not to wake Michael or Turk. As she changed for bed, she thought about how little a person ever truly knew. Three years ago, she knew she would marry Michael. Now, even when she tried, she could only drum up a memory of the love she'd once had for him.

She knew she would marry David. Not now, and probably not even soon, but eventually, she knew she would be Mrs. Faith Friedman.

But what if that was true? What if, five years from now, she knew that she and David never had a chance? What if, twenty years from now, she knew that she was never going to find her true love, and it wasn't worth trying anymore?

She got into bed and tried to push those thoughts from her mind, but staring up at the ceiling and realizing that the day was rapidly approaching when she would sleep in a different bed in a different house with a different man sharing that house brought to mind the fragility of the future.

She wasn't interested in dwelling on her personal life right now, so she applied that focus to the case. The victims knew that they were going to enjoy a meal, then share their thoughts on that meal for their readers to see. They knew they were going to do this many times for many more years before they were tired enough they no longer wished to work. They knew that when that day came, they were going to retire and enjoy their golden years in comfort and peace.

And in the last minute of their lives, they knew that all of that—all of their plans, all of their dreams, all of their assumptions—was a lie. They knew that none of it meant anything more than a ghost of a memory.

They knew that they were going to die.

Faith stared at the ceiling and thought about knowing until exhaustion accomplished what relaxation couldn’t and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Camden was close to the polar opposite of Rittenhouse Square. While not technically a part of Philadelphia, many of its residents commuted to the city for work, then returned home to neighborhoods far less affluent than the ritzier Philadelphia burgs.

Melinda Tyler, nee Crestwood, lived in a single-story ranch house sporting a lawn of patchy, brown grass surrounded by a chain link fence and covered in peeling paint that might once have been white. When the three agents knocked on the door, it was answered by a harried-looking woman in her mid-forties who glared at the two human agents and snapped, “Whaddya want?”

“Melinda Tyler?” Faith asked.

“Yeah, that’s me. Whaddya want?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your sister.”

Melinda stared at her for a moment. Then she laughed. “All right. Come on in, then. I guess I should have expected you guys eventually. You want a beer?”

“We’re all right, thank you.”

Melinda shrugged and headed to the kitchen to get one for herself. The three agents followed her to find the interior of the house as faded as the exterior and twice as dirty. As Faith stepped into the living room, a boy of around nine slammed into her hard enough that Michael had to catch her to prevent her from falling.

The boy looked up at Faith and grinned. “Hi.”

Before Faith could answer, he continued barreling through the house. The reason for his flight became clear a moment later when a girl a couple years older than him jumped out from underneath the dining room table and leapt onto the boy’s shoulders. “Gotcha!”

The children chased each other through the kitchen and living room, somehow avoiding their disinterested mother, who returned to the living room and cracked open the beer. She sat on the couch next to a toddler who wore nothing but a diaper. Thankfully, the tot was more interested in the puzzle box she was playing with than the open beer can inches away from her.

Faith and Michael shared a glance and, after a glance at the stained loveseat, chose to stand.

“When was the last time you spoke with your sister?” Faith asked.

Melinda shrugged. “College, maybe.”

Faith and Michael shared another glance. “So you two weren’t close.”

Melinda looked away from the TV, which was airing some celebrity reality show, and said, "You're not very bright, are you?"

Faith’s lips thinned. She stepped forward, grabbed the remote and turned the tv off. “Miss Tyler”

“Mrs. Tyler.”

Faith took a deep breath. “Mrs. Tyler, we’re investigating your sister’s murder. Do you have any information that can help us with that?”

Melinda shrugged defiantly. “How the hell should I know? Probably one of the restaurants she pissed off.”

“Any idea who that might be?”

“Shit, take your pick. From what I gather, she was just as much a stuck-up bitch to the rest of the world as she was to me.”

Faith squatted in front of her until they were at eye level. “I realize that you don’t care that your sister is dead. Read you loud and clear on that. But I care, and if you insist on being difficult, I’ll just have you detained as a person of interest and drag you to the police station to have this conversation.”

Melinda held Faith’s gaze. “Wouldn’t be the first time a couple of cops tried to shake me down.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Michael said. “Where were you two nights ago.”

Melinda frowned. “Two nights ago? I thought she died last week.”

“Humor me.”

She gestured around her. “You see my kids. How long do you think they’d last without me to take care of them?”

Faith declined to offer an opinion on that. “So you were home.”

“I’m always home. Leroy works, and I cook and clean. That’s the way it goes when you’re not an uppity celebrity whore.”

“You clearly hate your sister,” Michael said, “So you can see why we might wonder where you were the night she died.”

“I was here. I’m always here. And I’m not gonna fucking kill anyone. What would be the point? Wouldn’t change anything about my life.”

Faith glanced at Turk. Turk dipped his head and began trotting through the house, sniffing for clues.

“What is he, a drug dog? Because I have a doctor’s prescription for everything I have.”

“He’s not a drug dog,” Faith said, “but if there’s a trace of the poison that killed your sister anywhere here, he’ll find it.”

“Poison? Ha! That’s funny.”

“That so?” Michael asked.

“Sure. Eleanor was a snake, so it’s funny that she died by her own venom.”

“Oddly enough, we think you might be right,” Faith said. “We think she wrote a review that angered someone enough that they chose to kill your sister and Harold Grimes to get revenge.”

“Who’s Harold Grimes?”

“Another food critic.”

“Were they fucking?”

Faith took a deep breath. “No. As far as we know, they didn’t know each other.”

“They just both pissed off the same restaurant?”

“Possibly.”

Melinda rubbed her chin. “Might be that French place she told me about.”

Faith stared at her a moment. “I thought you said you hadn’t spoken with her since college.”

“Sure, I haven’t talked to her. But she tried to talk to me a couple of weeks ago.”

“And you didn’t think that was important?”

Melinda gave Faith another defiant look. “How the hell is that my problem?”

“It’s your problem because you clearly hate your sister, and your behavior right now is coming dangerously close to obstruction of justice,” Michael said. “That makes people ask some questions you probably don’t want them to ask. So please, give us a reason to ask someone else.”

Melinda showed the first sign of shrewdness she had since they arrived and nodded. “All right. I'll show you the email she sent. I didn't respond, but maybe that'll tell you something."

She opened her phone and showed the two agents an email. Faith scanned it briefly. The top portion was brief:

Hey, sis, I know you hate me, but I’m worried. I think I might have made someone really angry, but I don’t know if I’m overreacting or not. Can you tell me if you think I should go to the police?

The bottom portion was a much longer email forwarded from a Marcus Delaney. It was a rambling, disjointed message that made three primary points: Eleanor was a vicious c-word who knew nothing about food, Eleanor deserved to suffer a violent death, and Marcus was seriously considering being the one to provide her that violent death.

“I didn’t reply,” Melinda said proudly. “She wasn’t there for me when I needed help, so why the hell should I help her?”

Turk trotted to Faith and snorted irritably to show he hadn’t found anything. With that revelation, Faith had no more interest in talking with Melinda. “We might have more questions in the future,” she said. “Keep your phone on and keep staying inside your house for a while.”

“Yeah, sure,” Melinda said. “I’ll see you later. Hey, close the door on the way out.” She hooked a thumb toward the toddler. “This one’s a runner.”

Faith and Michael shared another glance, then left the house.

“Well,” Michael said when they closed the door behind them. “At least we have a suspect now.”