Not exactly appetizing. Liquid . . . smoothie . . . “Oh, shit!” I hiss, looking up to meet Blake’s eyes.

I can tell he’s been watching me, perfectly content to let me do my thing, and something about that is so intense. It makes me feel seen, valuable, worthy of his attention.

“What’d you figure out?” he asks, certain that I’ve made some grand discovery.

“The green smoothies for breakfast. When I went to Horne’s house for the initial callout, he died in his breakfast. Literally face down in his plate.” Blake’s brows lift an inch in anticipation. “His plate of fried eggs, bacon, buttered toast. With a glass of orange juice that spilled everywhere, including into his lap. No smoothie to be seen.”

“So maybe he had a different breakfast that day?” Blake hypothesizes.

I shake my head, sure even though I wasn’t there. “No way would someone who was complaining of heartburn drink orange juice and have all that fat first thing in the morning. It’d be a recipe for disaster.”

We’re silent for a moment, eyes locked on one another as our brains swirl with possibilities.

“Maybe it was,” Blake finally says. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone said ‘fuck it’ to a healthy diet and ate what they wanted to. Unless you’re getting at something else,” he finishes as he sees my dubious look.

“What if the heavy metal was in the green smoothie?” I whisper and then cover my mouth with my hands, surprised at my boldness. That’s a big accusation to make, especially with no proof. But it sits right in my gut. I lower my hands an inch, still not sure I should say what I’m thinking. If anyone knows firsthand what unfounded gossip and embellished stories can do to a person, it’s me. And yet . . . “That nasty grass taste . . . you could hide a lot of shit in there without the drinker noticing.”

Blake hums, scraping a hand over his smooth jaw. He looks at the file, but I feel like he’s seeing through it, not actually looking at the information it contains. “That wouldn’t be out of the norm either. I definitely felt like Yvette Horne was in it for the money already, but that’s a level-up from money hungry to murder for money. What do you think?”

My mouth twists as I chew on my lip, considering. “Like I said, she was weird at the scene, silent and still, but when she saw me looking at her, she went into full-blown wailing wife mode. It felt . . . fake and forced. But appearances can be deceiving, I know that,” I add, feeling like we’re already deeming Mrs. Horne guilty the same way everyone marks me as weird and Drop-Dead Gorgeous.

God, I hate that nickname.

Blake frowns. “I think this is an entirely different situation, Zo.”

I shrug, not wanting to argue about it, especially when I don’t want to remind Blake what people say about me, what they think about me, when I’m hopping on the Holly Band Wagon and considering hopping on Blake like a disco stick. “What do you think we should do now? Talk to Jeff?”

“Maybe. I got the feeling Sheriff Barnes is done with this case. You?”

I nod. “Yeah, me too. But this is new information. We need to share it.”

Blake sighs. “Let’s call him.”

I get on my phone, and two rings later, Jeff answers. “Hey, Zoey, what’s up?”

“Hi Jeff. I got some information I felt like I should share with you.”

“It’s not about Alver, is it? What the hell has he done now?” he groans. I can almost picture him rubbing his forehead and pinching his temples.

“No, nothing about him,” I answer. “I haven’t given him another thought.”

“Good,” Jeff says firmly. “In that case, what’s up?”

He sounds relieved, and I realize how much Sheriff Jeff Barnes has on his shoulders, even if he makes carrying his load look easy. He’s responsible for the whole county, the deputies, the county courthouse, policies and procedures, and his family too. “It’s about Richard Horne.”

His sigh is heavy with disappointment. “Zoey, let the man die in peace, for God’s sake. We should all be so lucky to die at home, peacefully in our morning meal. Only thing better would be in your sleep.” He sounds more resigned than morbid, a man in touch with his own mortality.

“I know, Jeff, but the insurance company rep, Blake Hale, got Horne’s medical records, and he’d been complaining about tiredness and heartburn. He wouldn’t—” My words are rushed out, trying to present the facts as quickly as possible, but it’s not fast enough.

“Did he die of a heart attack? Yes or no?” Jeff asks finally.

“It’s not that simple,” I try to argue. “If the heavy metals led to—”

“Yes or no.” It’s not a question this time, it’s a demand for me to choose one way or the other.

“Yes.”

“Case closed. Now go on and get out of here at a reasonable hour tonight, Zoey. There’s no need for you to be working all hours of the night down there by yourself.”

His fatherly advice glances off my back, which is riled up with his dismissal of the information I shared.

“Sure.”

I hang up the phone and Blake frowns. “That’s it?”

“The county coroner can keep a file open,” I admit, “and leave a cause of death as unknown. But it’s not something to do without a good reason. This is a small county, not a big one where the ME is a whole separate department. Jeff’s going to want this file closed ASAP. He sure as hell isn’t going to help us.”