“Did I see who?”

“Jenna Coeur.”

His eyes widen. “Did I see her where?”

“At the memorial service,” Crystal says impatiently, pulling her iPad out of her bag.

“Jenna Coeur was there? Are you sure?”

“Positive. I recognized her but I don’t know if anyone else did, and I could tell she was trying to keep a low profile. She was disguised as a blonde—or maybe she is a blonde now—and she came in late and then snuck out right before the end of the service.”

“Why was she there?”

“Good question.” Crystal rapidly types the name Jenna Coeur into the search engine. “There’s obviously some connection between her and Meredith Heywood. We need to figure out what it is.”

“Maybe they’re old friends or something, from when they were kids.”

“I doubt it. Meredith lived in Ohio all her life and I’m pretty sure Jenna Coeur was from someplace in the northern Midwest—Minnesota, North Dakota . . . something like that. Her real name was Johanna Hart.”

“Coeur means heart in French.”

“You speak French?”

“I took it in high school. That’s one of the only words I remember. That’s because on Valentine’s Day junior year there was this Parisian exchange student who—”

“Frank.”

“Yeah.”

“As much as I love to hear about your teenage Casanova years, we’re talking about Jenna Coeur right now.”

“Right. I’ll tell you the other thing later,” Frank says as he pulls out onto the highway. “Her name was Mimi. It’s a good story.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“Named Mimi? French girls?”

“No, I meant aren’t they always good stories. Anyway—” Crystal breaks off as the search results appear. She scans the links, then clicks the top one and quickly reads the news item that pops up.

“Looks like our friend is back in the headlines today, Frank.”

“Yeah? What did she do?”

“Today? She went to a funeral and left early. But ask me what she did seven years ago today.”

“What did she—” Frank breaks off. “Oh. That was seven years ago already?”

Crystal nods, scanning the retrospective news item about Jenna Coeur—also known as the notorious Cold-Hearted Killer.

“She was acquitted, you know,” Frank comments.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Just like O. J. Simpson at his criminal trial.” He shakes his head. “If you ask me, they both got away with—”

“But O. J. Simpson wasn’t at Meredith’s funeral. Jenna Coeur was. Why?” Crystal types in Jenna Coeur’s name along with Meredith’s, looking in vain for a connection.

The two women’s lives must have intersected at some point in the past, even though they’re nowhere near the same age, haven’t ever lived in the same state, and God knows they’ve probably never traveled in the same social circles . . .

It doesn’t make sense. Jenna Coeur has been a recluse for the past few years. Why would she show up in Ohio today?

“I’m having a hard time coming up with any scenario where these two might cross paths,” she muses aloud. “Not in the real world, anyway . . .”

But what about online?

That’s a strong possibility—and one she fully intends to bring up when she interviews Meredith’s blogger friends later.

As Landry pours sugar into her steaming latte, still thinking about her conversation with Detective Burns, she finds herself wondering about Bruce Mangione, the man who’d brought her coffee back in the Atlanta airport.

Chances are, he’ll be on her flight home tomorrow. He’d said something about just being in Cincinnati for twenty- four hours, and there are only a couple of Sunday options for connecting flights back to Alabama.

If he is there, she’ll have to thank him again. They’d parted ways so quickly at the rental car counter . . .

And maybe she can ask him what he thinks about Meredith’s murder.

Landry assumes the detectives haven’t made much progress on the case, and she wonders what, exactly, Detective Burns is going to ask when they meet at the hotel later.

I wish I felt like I might have answers for her, but I probably have more questions than she does.

What if the case is never solved?

What if whoever killed Meredith gets away with it?

No. That can’t happen. They need some kind of closure. They, as in her family; they, as in the blogging community; they, as in . . .

Me.

I need closure.

I need to know that Meredith was the victim of a random crime, not stalked and killed because she shared too much online.

I need to know that what happened to her can’t possibly happen to me.

“Are we staying, or going?” Elena asks, interrupting her thoughts.

“It’s up to you guys,” Landry says with a shrug.

About to press her lips to the white plastic lid of her cup, Kay glances up and shrugs. “I don’t care. I’ll stay or go. It’s up to you, Landry. You’re driving.”

Landry isn’t used to being the driver or the decision maker. At home she often defers to Rob’s judgment, or to the kids’.

But today she’s discovered that she kind of enjoys being in charge. “Let’s stay.”

No sooner do the words escape her mouth than she sees the skittish expression on Elena’s face. “Or we can go,” she adds quickly. “I really don’t care.”

“I wouldn’t mind sitting down.” Kay is holding a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin.

“Good. We’ll sit.”

Landry allows Kay to lead the way to the only empty round table, over by the plate-glass window facing the road. They settle into three chairs, sandwiched between a high school girl reading a magazine and listening to music that’s audible from her earbuds and a woman who has her back to the room and is busily thumb-typing on her cell phone.

Watching Kay sip her tea as Elena gulps her coffee like it’s water, Landry can’t help but note their differences again—from each other, and from her. Elena is a little younger and brasher than the women she’s used to, Kay a bit older and more reserved.

If Landry had crossed paths with either of them in real life rather than on the Internet, they probably wouldn’t even be friends.

Making eye contact, Elena smiles with her eyes, her mouth hidden behind the cup.

Our differences don’t matter, Landry thinks. These women were there for me when I needed them. That’s all that counts.

Elena yawns deeply, then says, “It’ll be so nice to sleep in tomorrow morning. Too bad it’s back to the early morning grind on Monday.”

“I can’t believe y’all are still in session up there. My kids have been out for weeks.”

“That would be great. I always think June would be the nicest time to travel to all the places I want to go. By the time we’re out of school, it’s almost July, and then August—prime season at all the nice hotels within driving distance, and airfares are up, too. I can’t afford to fly and pay for a place to stay plus meals. So I always wind up spending most of my summer sitting around at home.”

“Sounds like my summer,” Kay says. “My life, actually, ever since I got laid off.”

She used to be a guard at a federal prison—the one where the Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh was executed back in 2001, she mentioned once in a blog comment, wryly calling it her one brush with celebrity.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could all just go on a real vacation together?” Elena muses. “Spend a few days at some lakeside cottage or on a beach, just relaxing in the sun . . .”

“We can!” Landry doesn’t stop to reconsider the idea that just popped into her head. “My house is right on the water, and my husband is going away on a Father’s Day golf trip next weekend. If you guys buy your plane tickets—you said there were cheap fares out of Boston right now, Elena . . .”

“There are, especially last minute. I got here for less than two hundred bucks round-trip.”

“You’d have to connect through Atlanta, most likely, or maybe Charlotte, coming from the Northeast. You can stay with me and you won’t even have to pay for food,” Landry goes on. “I have plenty of room.”