Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for blood to spoil.

The officer shrugged his round shoulders, found the keys, and led me to the car as slowly as he possibly could. The smell hit me long before the reality of it did. I wasn’t even close enough to see inside. I had to stop, put my hands on my knees, and take a deep breath.

“You sure you wanna do this?” the officer asked. I got the feeling he didn’t want to get any closer to the car than necessary, either.

I nodded, filled my lungs, and held my breath as he unlocked the car and stepped back, not wanting to be anywhere near it when I opened the door.

I scanned the interior from where I stood, hoping Emery would still be inside just waiting for someone who could see the departed to show up so she could tell them who killed her. Was that too much to hope for?

’Parently.

She was nowhere to be found. Had probably crossed the moment she left her still body.

Speaking of which … if the killer left all this blood out in the open, clearly having killed someone inside, why take the body? Lyle discovered the car that night around midnight. Maybe the culprit had planned to come back for the car and dump it. Why else leave it out in the open like that? Unless the body had some kind of incriminating evidence, but if the killer was so worried about evidence, surely he would know that the car would be covered in incriminations of every size and shape.

Yet there was none. CIB found no evidence pointing to anyone other than Lyle Fiske. No other fingerprints. So suspicious fibers or stray hairs. I couldn’t walk to my kitchen without leaving some kind of incriminating evidence behind. I could find hair in places I’d never visited in my life. And yet there was none in the car. Not even from her dad? Her best friend? A coworker?

Besides the blood, the car was pristine.

So, naturally, anything Fiske had touched or shed would seem highly suspicious. And Taft said he’d done it before. He’d killed before.

I bit my lip, fought a wave of nausea, and stepped even closer. I wasn’t wrong. Fiske did not do this. But whoever did knew a lot about crime scene investigation. Enough to do a bloody good job of framing him.

I opened the door. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t eaten in a while or I’d been stressed about Beep or I’d been manhandled by a large child, but my face once again headed straight for the ground. This time all on its own.

* * *

“You okay?” the officer asked as he held out a paper cup.

We were in a cage that held weapons and ammunition and file cabinets. It smelled like metal and dust and gunpowder, which was way better than Emery’s car had smelled. I feared Eau du Death would never take off. The mere thought of it caused my stomach to clench yet again, and I fought the heave with everything I had. I failed.

The officer kicked a metal trash can over to me as I fell to my knees and made the most humiliating retching sounds I’d ever heard from man or beast. They echoed off the metal that somehow muffled and amplified the sounds at the same time.

Ignoring the laughter coming from outside the cage—there were several cops hanging around—I wiped my mouth on a sleeve and sat back on the chair. At least now I’d have some interesting fodder next time I played Never Have I Ever.

* * *

Cookie texted me saying she was taking some files home and to pick them up from her when I got in.

Mr. Adams had mentioned that Emery was very close to her grandfather. If someone was stalking her or if she’d received any threats, he might be the only one she’d tell.

Even though it was getting late, I drove out to the Morningwood Retirement Community—which sounded like it had been designed by a horny botanist. Oddly enough, Mrs. Allen from the complex was now living here, too, with her poodle, Prince Phillip, a.k.a. PP.

I stopped at the office to let the administrators know who I was and what I was doing there, though the residents had their own apartments. This was assisted living, but not like a nursing home, so that was nice.

The receptionist drew my route on a map to point me toward Mr. Geoff Adams Sr.’s apartment. I asked about Mrs. Allen as well, but she told me Mrs. A. was in the actual nursing home on account of the fact that she liked to take PP for walks and would sometimes end up on Alameda Boulevard in her nightie and socks. To see her, I’d have to come back during visiting hours and sign in at the next building.

I made a mental note to come back ASAP and then headed toward Mr. Adams Sr.’s place.

* * *

I’d originally thought the name of the retirement center odd, but driving through the housing units confirmed it. I entered on Morningwood Lane. Turned left at Pussy Willow Drive. Right on Peter Pepper Place. Left on Cockscomb Court. And finally right on Wang Peonies Way.