In an alley off of Central Street, I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. Already, there was a curious crowd gathering and some entry-level cops holding them back. Police lights spun, flashing off the stone walls.

I caught Zinnia’s scent before I saw her, leaning against the alley wall. Another detective had his hand on her shoulder.

She was crying.

“Zinnia,” I said, stepping up behind her and touching her shoulder.

She tensed. “Oh, Gen, you’re ...