Detective Anderson leaned over the black glove hidden by the bush outside my office. "Hmm."

"What do you think?" I asked. He wasn't giving me enough clues with his multiple "hmmms" and chin scratches.

His tan trench coat fluffed in the breeze as he stood straight again and faced me. "This might be why we didn't find prints at the scene."

Interesting. No prints, huh? Thanks for letting that one slip, Anderson.

"It doesn't look like it's been in the elements for long," I said, trying to contain my excitement at the slipped clue.

He scratched his chin. "No. A few days at most, but you have had work crews in and out of the building, so it might belong to one of them."

Doubtful.

Anderson pursed his lips, and his eyes narrowed.

"What?" I asked. I didn't like the look.

He shook his head once. "I'm trying to decide if this will go better here or at the station."

My cheerful expression fell. "Why in the heck would you need to take me to the station?"

"Vonnie," he said and tipped his head to the right. "Someone killed Mick Darcy in your office."

Another clue. Nobody moved the body into my office in a setup situation, but finding out that clue didn't cheer me in the slightest.

"We both know I didn't do this, Anderson." I crossed my arms.

He did his too, and damn it, it looked cooler when he did it. "You didn't enjoy having Mick as your mentor."

It wasn't a question, but I answered it anyway. "Would you? He clicked his pen nonstop and told me to get naked shots for more money."

"That's not a reason to kill a man."

I rolled my eyes. "I know. That's why I didn't kill him."

A tear took hold of the corner of my eye, but I refused to cry in front of Anderson. I just couldn't believe he'd actually consider that I'd killed Mick. Didn't he understand me better than that?

"People often do things they normally wouldn't when under stress. Broadrick has been gone a few weeks now." Anderson kept on making accusations, and I wanted to scream at him. "I heard Mick got upset because you kept him out of your cases."

The smell of pine coated the air, and my nose tickled. Probably from the allergies and not the tears that were threatening harder with each of his comments.

"I have less than three hundred hours left with him as my mentor. Killing him doesn't help me. I don't know what I'm even going to do now."

I'd considered asking Frasier to take over my mentorship hours but figured I needed to solve the case of his dead partner before broaching the topic.

Anderson released a breath, and my shoulders drooped. "You're still on my suspect list, Vonnie. I'm sorry."

My head bobbed of its own accord because I was too focused on not crying to do anything else. "I get it."

Lies. Total lies.

Anderson patted me on the shoulder. "This is good work on the glove. I'm going to call in the team to collect it. We officially cleared Mrs. Coogs as well."

"Great," I said and twisted. With each passing second, I came closer to losing the war against the tears.

"Vonnie," Anderson called me when I'd made it four sidewalk squares away from him. "You're low on the list. The fourth suspect."

"Super," I said, but probably not loudly enough for him to hear.

Out of earshot I sniffled and then, after turning the corner toward my home, wiped my eyes and nose.

Being the fourth suspect wasn't that bad. It meant three worse people were ahead of me. One of them probably did it. Of course, I'd been too upset to take the time to figure out who Anderson considered higher than me. That would have been useful information. Although past experience meant he wouldn't tell me.

I hit Main Street and did my best to force a smile. If someone drove by and saw me upset, they'd stop and want to learn why. If anyone else questioned me, I'd definitely lose my hold on the bravado I'd forced.

As it was, I turned right to head back to my new office and had to sniffle again.

I glanced at the high school baseball fields as I walked past them. I'd solved a murder there. Almost died in the process. But I did something before the cops.

My steps picked up a fraction.

I could do this. Solve the murder. I'd done it before. Hell, I'd done it four times before.

So what if Anderson had me down as a suspect? I was probably always a suspect, regardless of where or what happened in this town.

Yeah.

I didn't need to cry. What I needed to do was get out there and solve a crime. Since I couldn't break into my old office to get a look at the crime scene because Anderson and his crew would be there collecting the glove, I'd spend the time going through the folder of receipts my aunt left. Progress counted as progress.

No way in hell was Uncle Richard cheating on Claire. I'd put that case to bed pronto and check it off my list.

**

Two hours into my hunt, I'd laid out all the receipts into different piles and leaned back in my chair staring at them. I tapped the desk with my pen.

Damn it.

Aunt Claire might be onto something.

My phone vibrated on the desk beside me, and I grabbed it. The air from my movement caused the diner receipt pile to topple over.

BROADRICK: Made it back to the states. At Walter Reed.

My heart beat into overdrive and I clutched the phone.

He was home!

Alive and home.

My heart skipped three beats and then restarted but for a different reason.

Walter Reed? Why did that sound familiar?

Why did thinking the name cause a bubble of anxiety to surface in my throat?

Before responding, I Googled the name and held my breath when I scanned the first result.

"Walter Reed National Military Medical Center," I whispered to myself.

Why was he there? What wasn't he telling me in his text?

How did I respond and get him to give me the details? Why hadn't he commented on anything else I'd sent him in messages? Knowing Broadrick, I expected him to have a paragraph comment on each of the things I'd mentioned in my sixty plus texts. He didn't even yell about the bruised ribs.

Something wasn't right.

My fingers twitched as I returned to the text screen. I had to say something. But what? I wanted to scream in joy, hug him through the phone, and then yell at him to tell me everything.

VONNIE: Are you hurt?

And then to celebrate his return I sent a gif of the Sarge from Cars saying "Welcome home, soldier."

Comedy always helped when I wanted to cry.

I waited for his response. Nothing.

So, I waited some more.

"Come on," I chanted to my phone while staring at the same unchanging screen.

I turned away from Uncle Richard's incriminating receipts. As much as I hated to admit it, Aunt Claire was right to be suspicious. He ate dinner at the Clearwater diner at least once a week. Two meals were on each receipt, so who was he eating with?

To pass the time, I started a suspect list of Mick's possible killers of my own. Unlike Anderson's list, I wasn't suspect number four. I didn't hit the list until number six.

1. Eric-stepson

2. The wife-the wife is always on the list

3. Frasier-business partner

4. The shop owner where he bought his hats.

5. The neighbor. The ID Channel had an entire show on it.

6. Vonnie Vines

7. Mrs. Metts-my old landlord hated me moving out. She'd do something like this to get revenge.

Honestly? It wasn't a substantial list. I needed to dive deeper and figure out the major players in Mick's life. Considering I just learned he had a stepson, I had a lot of work to do.

I stared at the list and tapped my pen on the side of the desk, deep in thought. Maybe Mick was dating Uncle Richard? Wouldn't that just be the craziest small-town drama twist ever?

Eww. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed impossible. My nose crinkled at the image of my uncle dating someone who wore a fedora. He had better fashion sense.

My phone vibrated against the desk, and I grabbed it automatically as my heart kicked into overdrive. I hadn't been this excited about the possibility of a message being from Broadrick since we first started dating.