I wasn’t sure what to do or where to go, so I just got in my car and drove. It felt right when I found myself in the cemetery a half hour later. Momma’s grave was a rectangle of dirt with a small metal plaque marking the spot. Flowers covered half of it. As I approached her grave, I nearly laughed at the thought of how pissed she would have been to see them. Ever practical, Momma had hated cut flowers.

“Why kill something just because it’s beautiful?” she used to say. “It’s selfish to take it for yourself and not share it with the rest of the world.”

I sank to the ground as I remembered a talk I’d had with her a few months before high school graduation. My school had held a Valentine’s Day fundraiser where students could buy roses and send them to other people—a friend, a secret crush, a significant other. I’d been upset because my boyfriend at the time, Tanner, hadn’t sent me any roses. All my friends’ boyfriends had sent them flowers. When Tanner figured out that I was upset, he showed up at my house after school with two dozen long-stemmed red roses, but I was still pissed. My attitude irritated the snot out of Momma, and she lit into me after he left.

“Is it wrong to want my boyfriend to send me flowers?” I demanded through my tears.

“But you didn’t really want your boyfriend to send you flowers, now did you?” she asked. “Because that boy brought you more flowers—and better-looking ones at that—than the ones he would have sent you at school, and you still aren’t happy. You wanted those flowers for the wrong reasons, Magnolia.”

She was right, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it at the time, because when she put it that way, it seemed petty and trite, and I felt entitled to my outrage.

Some of Momma’s bluster faded, and she sat down next to me on the sofa and took my hand, waiting until I looked up at her to continue. “There’s a reason for the phrase beauty is more than skin-deep, Maggie. You’re a beautiful girl, but don’t let your looks get in your way.”

I bristled and tried to pull my hand away. “Are you calling me shallow?”

“No, Maggie. Listen.” It was her tone that got through to me—soft and tender—so unlike the woman who’d raised me. “This isn’t even about Tanner’s roses.” She paused. “I know you’re tenderhearted, even if all those teenage hormones are getting in your way, but what I’m about to tell you is a lifelong lesson, so listen good, okay?”

I nodded.

“There are people out there who will use you for your looks. And they’ll use their own looks and charm to hurt you. Lucifer was a beautiful angel, the most beautiful angel of all, and look where that got him.”

My lips parted in surprise. Was she comparing me to Satan?

Her hand tightened around mine. “You have to be more wary than most. Men will want you because of your beauty, but many of them will only want you for your looks and not what’s deep inside you—a pure and loyal heart. When your looks fade, those men’ll be gone, just like the roses Tanner brought you. You’re a good girl, Maggie . . . when you’re not getting in your own way.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that you worry too much about what other people think than about being true to yourself. The Maggie I knew two years ago would have shrieked with happiness at those two dozen flowers, instead of pouting about not getting a half-wilted rosebud at school.” She put her free hand under my chin and tilted my face up to meet her gaze. “Magnolia Mae Steele. Ignore the naysayers, and be true to yourself.”

I gave her a watery smile. “And stay away from Lucifer because he’ll drag you to the fiery pits of hell.”

She grinned. “I knew you were a bright girl, but just remember Lucifer’s not wearing a name tag. Be wary of all pretty men who seem too good to be true.” Sadness crept into her eyes. “Because they usually are.”

Now, sitting on the ground next to her grave, I realized the sadness in her eyes had been put there by my father’s betrayals. “Oh, Momma. I know you were warning me, but why weren’t you more direct?”

“Speaking to graves, are you? Makes me rethink working with you.”

I whipped my head to the side and found myself looking up at Owen. I got to my feet and held his gaze. “How’d you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard. I was pulling into the parking lot behind the catering kitchen while you were pulling out. I followed you. When I saw you sitting here, I decided to give you some space.”

“Are you going to work with me?”

“I’m considering it. We need to work out a few terms first.”

I nodded. “Agreed.”

“I heard about your showdown at the station with Detective Martinez.”

I lifted my shoulder into a half-shrug. “Is Brady really working with you?”

“You mean did he and I come to some sort of agreement with the Walter Frey case? No. He was the one who suggested taking your statement. I told him that I thought he might be too close to you to get an accurate statement, but he blew me off.”

More lies from Brady. “So why did he take my statement?”

“Because he was worried about you. I believe that part is true.” He shifted his weight. “I thought he was just trying to hit on you, but after our chat last week, I pressed him for his real reason, and he admitted you’d arranged to meet Walter Frey to talk to him about his involvement with your father.”

Had Brady been playing me even back then? “Is Brady working some big case related to my father? Did he get close to me just to gather information?”

Owen shook his head. “He was blowing smoke up Maria’s ass, but there are rumors that . . . well, she suspects you’re back in town to do your father’s bidding. She thinks the timing of the deaths and your return are too closely linked to be coincidental.”

“What does Brady think?”

“That you’re caught in the middle.”

“And you?”

He hesitated before pushing out a breath. “I’m prone to fall in line with Brady on that one.” But he didn’t look happy to admit it.

“But you’re not working together on that theory?”

“Brady is uncharacteristically tight-mouthed on the subject, and he seems obsessed with the Emily Johnson case.” He held my gaze. “Brady asked me to pull Amy Danvers’s and Melanie Seaborn’s files after he started the Johnson investigation. You left town at around the same time Melanie was murdered. What’s the link?”

I shook my head and gave him a tight smile. “Sorry, Owen. We need to work out some details first.”

He tilted his head to the side. “I’m listening.”

“I’m an anonymous source as far as you’re concerned. No one knows you’re getting this information from me.”

He grimaced. “I’m not a reporter, Magnolia. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Don’t you have informants?”

“Yeah, but they still have to testify if it comes down to it.”

“No offense, but I don’t trust your department. I didn’t even trust you until a few days ago.”

“Why do you trust me now?”

“As I already told you, Rowena Rogers told me your uncle was innocent and you are too.”

His eyebrows lifted. “She referred to me by name?”

“No, but she was very specific. She knew all about you.”

He took a second to process my words. “And you didn’t kill her?”

“No. Of course not. Why do members of the Franklin Police Department keep accusing me of murder?”

He lifted a hand in surrender. “It had to be asked, but do you know who did?” When I didn’t answer, he asked, “Do you know anything about Rowena Rogers’s murder?”

When I still didn’t answer, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“What exactly do you propose here, Magnolia? What’s your endgame?”

“To clear the reputations of your uncle and Shannon Morrissey. To stop a serial killer.”

That caught his attention. “A serial killer? Was Brady onto something?”

“I meant what I said. If we’re going to help each other, anything I tell you has to be kept a secret. You can use what I tell you. I can lead you to places and give you information, but I want my name left out of it.”

He scowled. “How am I gonna explain to everyone how I knew where to go?”

“Your great intuition.” I held his gaze. “When I say you can’t tell anyone, I mean anyone. No Brady.”

“He and I aren’t exactly seein’ eye to eye these days.”

“Maybe so, but you’ve been friends for years. I suspect you’ll make up. And you can’t tell him.”

“Fine. I won’t tell him. But you can’t tell anyone you’re working with me either.”

“I don’t have anyone to tell, so you’re good.” The reminder of just how alone I was sent a spike of pain through me.

“What about that musician you’ve been singing with? The one who works for your mother?”

“He works for her partner now, and we’re taking a break.”

A hint of a grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “You have the shortest relationships of anyone I know.”

I lifted my chin and gave him a haughty glare. “Since this is a working partnership, I don’t see how that concerns you. If it helps explain how you got the information, I can call and leave you ‘anonymous’ tips,” I said, using air quotes.

He really grinned this time. “I think you can just tell me, and I’ll go from there.”

“How are you going to fit this in with your regular work?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem since I’m on administrative leave.”

“What?”

“Internal affairs has some questions about my handling of Walter Frey’s murder . . . and a few other things. That’s why I heard about what happened in the interrogation room. I was summoned to the station to get the good news about my unpaid vacation.”

“Is it normal to suspend someone over that?”

“No. Let’s just say there are some people who don’t want me there.”

“And if you were to figure out the identity of a serial killer?” I asked with raised eyebrows. “Would that help you keep your position?”

“You really think there’s a serial killer?” he asked.

“Surely you looked at the files you pulled,” I said.

“I pulled two files for him—one was murdered ten years ago, and the other had committed suicide. Seems like a stretch.”

I blinked. “Wait. What? Only two files? Then where did he get the other ones?”

He looked startled. “What other ones?”

“There were at least four other murders, Owen, and Brady has files on all of them.”

Owen scowled. “We need to see those files.”

“Do you think Brady will hand them over to you?”

“No.” He paused. “But you can get them.”

“Me?”

“You were staying at Brady’s apartment, so you know how to get in, and you know where he was hiding it. You’re the logical choice.”

“You’re kidding, right? I can’t break into his apartment. Why don’t you just ask him about it?”

“No way. Like I said, he and I are at odds at the moment. He’ll never tell me.”

“So we just jump to breaking and entering? I thought you were a cop!”

“Trust me, if Brady finds you in his apartment, he won’t consider it breaking and entering.” He looked me over, and for a second I thought he was going to walk away and say none of this was worth the hassle, but a grudging look of acceptance twisted his face and he pushed out a sigh. “Come on. You’ve got some files to steal.”