Brandon stared at her blankly. She nodded and took a drink of hot chocolate.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Who’s the roommate?”

Genevieve smiled and picked up one of the frosted cookies. She took a slow bite, held Brandon’s eye, and let the piece melt in her mouth. Realizing what she was doing, he rolled his eyes. “Gen⁠—”

She held up a finger and he stuffed his hands into his pockets as if to keep from strangling her. After some time, when she was done with her cookie, Genevieve brushed the crumbs from her lap, stood, and walked over to him. She spoke in a quiet, somber voice. “I saw him in my dream,” she said. “It seemed so obvious then. The black hair, the dark eyes. How big he is. Don’t you see it?”

Brandon looked down at her intently, trying to work it out, and slowly she saw the truth begin to dawn. “Mr. Garcia,” he said, and nodded. “Tyler is Mr. Garcia’s son.” Brandon circled around her and sat on the sofa.

“It all fits,” Genevieve said. “Tyler once said he took his mother’s name, Caivano, because he and his father didn’t get along. I think he even said his father had disowned him. They both have terrible tempers and violent histories. Maybe Tyler had to return here to help support his dad financially after he got fired, and that’s why he’s so bitter and angry all the time. He’s made no secret about hating Pinewood.” She said this last incredulously, not understanding how someone couldn’t love her town.

“It took someone very strong to stage that suicide,” Brandon mused, and reached for another cookie. Genevieve nodded and joined him on the couch.

“They could have done it together, or maybe it was just Tyler.”

Brandon leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I mean, these are only assumptions⁠—”

“Oh, come on, Brandon!” Genevieve exclaimed. “Mr. Garcia was fired, he was completely disgraced, and Miss Love swept in and replaced him, and everyone loved her and talked about how much better she was in the position. Ms. Pierce was second in line for the job. Tyler has a motive!”

“At the same time,” Brandon pointed out, “you said Tyler wasn’t close with his dad—that’s why he took his mom’s name and left town in the first place. So why would he care or feel obligated to help his dad out?”

Genevieve waved her hand impatiently. “There’s no time for worrying about minor details. We need to find out for sure whether he’s involved, and then maybe... we’ll find...” Her voice trailed off.

Realization dawned in Brandon’s eyes, and he looked at her with astonishment. “You still think Miss Love⁠—”

“I don’t know!” Genevieve wailed. “But without a body, couldn’t there still be a chance?” She lowered her voice again. “That message. It sounded like someone was obviously in trouble.”

Brandon removed his glasses and rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “I think you’re way off the mark about Miss Love,” he said, “but you’re right about one thing. It’s time to call the detective.”

Genevieve balked. “Call Detective Christie?”

“Well, what else?” he asked incredulously. “You’re the one making a case that this guy is a killer.”

“Yes, but it sounds totally crazy! We don’t have that much to go on.”

“You’re more concerned about looking foolish to some detective than getting a killer off the street?”

“I just want to be sure. Tyler is my coworker, the guy my father hired, and I’d hate to falsely accuse…” An idea suddenly came to her. “Hey, we know when he works! If we can find a way to get in his house⁠—”

“Um, no.” Brandon’s face had darkened. “That’s going too far. Listen to yourself! You’re talking about breaking and entering—again. What do you think your father would think about that? Anyway, it’s not Tyler’s house, remember? It’s Mr. Garcia’s. How would you know he wasn’t home?”

She sighed. “That’s true. I just wish there was a way⁠—”

“Genevieve, just make the phone call,” he said. “Or, like my Grandma Winnie used to say, ‘as god is my witness, I’ll do it myself.’”

Genevieve stared at him, open mouthed.

“What?” he said. “Did the frosting turn my teeth purple?”

“Witness,” Genevieve whispered.

“I don’t⁠—”

“The witness,” Genevieve said excitedly. “The neighbor who told Detective Christie she saw a man at Ms. Pierce’s apartment the night she died.”

Brandon’s brow cleared, and he looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re thinking⁠—”

“We go find the neighbor,” Genevieve said. “We show her a picture of Tyler, she IDs him as the one there that night, and then we call Detective Christie.”

“Or not.”

“Or not,” she agreed. Feeling quite satisfied with herself, she reached out for the last cookie, but Brandon lunged and got there first.

Within the hour they were on their way to the Sunrise apartment complex off Bryant Lane. Brandon had printed a picture he’d taken on his phone last week of Genevieve behind the counter at Sweet Dreams. She’d been splattered when a milkshake tin had slipped from the blender and had missed a large blotch of chocolate ice cream that had dried on her cheek. No one had bothered telling her this, although Brandon did have the decency to point it out after he’d snapped the photo. Tyler had been manning the register at the time, wearing his usual sullen expression, and his height and general appearance in the picture could be easily ascertained.

The day was beautiful—sunny and in the fifties, without a cloud in the sky. The maples on Pinewood’s tree-lined streets had begun changing color and gracing the sidewalks with vivid reds and golds. “Just think,” Genevieve piped cheerfully from the driver’s seat, “if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be slumbering away this gorgeous afternoon.”

Brandon, who was slumped in the passenger seat with his eyes half-closed, cradling a thermos of strong coffee, grunted in reply.

When they reached the complex where Ms. Pierce had once lived, Genevieve’s teasing mood sunk a notch, weighed down by the gravity of their errand and the ghastly memories of that night.

Could her coworker truly have committed such a heinous crime? She was about to find out.

She pulled into an open space and shut the engine off. Brandon, who had been dozing, woke with a start and seemed to immediately sense the shift in Genevieve’s mood. She was staring at the door to Number 124, remembering Detective Christie saying, According to the witness, Ms. Pierce rarely had visitors. She felt a surge of pity.

Brandon handed her the thermos. She looked at him. She took the thermos and, wincing, swallowed a bitter mouthful. “I hate coffee,” she said.

“I know.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Genevieve checked her reflection in the mirror, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, then smoothed her hair. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, without looking at her. She rolled her eyes and got out of the car.

“Which one?” Brandon asked. They stood, surveying the stacks of nondescript apartment units.

“Detective Christie said the witness spotted the mystery man from her kitchen window,” Genevieve mused, “so that narrows it down to the apartments on this side of the balcony units. And it would have to be this building, because that one,” she pointed to the other building, “has bedroom windows facing this side.”

“Sounds legit,” Brandon said. “Let’s get knocking.”

They tried 126 first, the unit adjacent to Ms. Pierce’s. No one answered. Next, they tried the unit directly above 124. That one was answered by an elderly man with no shirt, no hair, and an obvious hearing problem.

“What?” he shouted when Genevieve introduced herself. She leaned closer to him, trying to be discreet, and said, “My name is Genevieve Winterland. I wanted to ask you about the night your neighbor, Ms. Pierce⁠—”

“Who?” he hollered. Genevieve could smell bacon on his breath.

“Didn’t you say the witness was a woman?” Brandon whispered to her.