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After some time spent digging, Mattia Reggio obtained a cell phone number and an address for Hazel Sloane, the reporter who had written the eyewitness piece about Colleen Clark being picked up from Cumberland County Jail. Reggio called Sloane, explained who he was, and asked, in the politest possible way, if it was chance that had led her to be present when he arrived early to collect Moxie Castin’s client after her release. Sloane, being smart enough to recognize that she might now have an in with the defense, didn’t tell Reggio to take a hike, but admitted that she herself had not been at the jail, and the tip-off had come from a source in Portland.

“What source?” said Reggio.

“I can’t tell you that on a point of principle,” said Sloane, “but I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The pictures were sent via email, with a message detailing where and when they were taken. We assumed they must have come from a woman, since the message was signed ‘A Concerned Mother.’ A call to the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office confirmed that Colleen Clark had been released at that time.”

Reggio decided not to mention the car that had followed him from the parking lot. He had assumed, based on information received from Moxie Castin, that it was Sloane’s vehicle, but now it seemed Moxie had been mistaken, incorrectly linking the car to the reporter once the pictures of Colleen leaving jail appeared on the newspaper’s website. Moxie had then immediately lost interest.

“What about the email address used to send the pictures?” said Reggio. “Do you still have it?”

“I’m not giving that to you,” said Sloane, “but again, it wouldn’t be much use. I sent a couple of messages in reply, but they bounced back. Whoever provided those pictures doesn’t want to be identified, which is another reason to think it might be someone who could lose their job for what they did.”

Reggio wasn’t sure what he could have done with the email address even if she’d shared it with him. He didn’t have that type of expertise—didn’t have much expertise at all, really, and what he did have was criminal.

“You’ve been very helpful,” he told Sloane. “Thank you.”

“I’m hoping it might be a two-way street. After all, you—”

But Reggio had already hung up. He had no interest in being a source—no, call it what it was: a rat—for a reporter. If she wanted information, she could get in touch with Moxie Castin, who would know how to roll those dice so they came up sixes for him.

Reggio heard a soft knock on the door of his den. This was his personal fiefdom and Amara never entered without asking first. It was a holdover from the old days, when it was better if she didn’t know what might be stored in the drawers of the old metal desk that had accompanied them to Maine. She never even cleaned the space, leaving the care of it to him. He did vacuum the floor occasionally, but only when he could no longer see his feet for dust and debris.

Reggio told her to come in. Amara was carrying his nightly caffè corretto on a tray: a shot of espresso with a small glass of brandy on the side. She placed the tray on his desk and stroked his hair.

“I didn’t want to disturb you while you were on the phone,” she said. “Anything I should be worried about?”

“Nothing,” said Reggio. He took her right hand in his and kissed it softly. “It’s all good.”