Staring down at the iPad, Nola paced the length of the narrow trailer, whose walls were covered with hundreds of random pages, like a bulletin board in a student union—postcards, magazine photos, old album covers, and sketches from her notepad: of Nola’s cat, of the milk barn, of the trailer, of every animal she’d spotted on the property, and of course of Longwood’s open fields and native plants. There were no drawings of people, except for one sketch of DeShawn from the metal shop, and naturally, a postcard of Bob Ross painting happy little trees.
Along the front wall were six finished canvases, leaning one against another, like dominos in midfall.
Rrrrrr, Sarah Connor purred, sniffing the spot where she’d left the dead toad.
It has to be in here. Check again, Nola told herself.
She scrolled back to the top of the reservation list, rescanning them one by one. That’s when she saw it.
Spear.
That name—she knew it, from years ago. That was Mint’s old code name: Spearmint, that was it, based on his favorite military saying, that the best units and best leaders lived on the tip of the spear.
Such macho awfulness.
But if that’s you, sir . . . She scrolled to the right, checking the details.
Spear. 7:30 p.m. Party of 2.
Email contact was [email protected].
Ragdog? Nola didn’t know what it meant. Maybe a nickname from his Tenth Mountain days? Mint’s official email followed the usual format, [email protected]. He had a personal one on Gmail. But if he was also using Hotmail?
You cheating on your wife, sir? Nola asked, surprised by how much the thought riled her. Mint was a decorated soldier, a good father, a loyal investigator who once risked his life for— No. Don’t think it.
But she had to. When it came to Archie Mint, it’s all she thought. For years now.
“Hey, Sarah Connor, how’re your password-guessing abilities?”
The cat turned away, sniffing the floor and licking it twice.
Nola pulled out her phone and opened a browser. Hotmail.com.
She had his username. Ragdog1216.
Password?
She tried a few. Each had the same result. Your password is incorrect. Eventually, a warning appeared: You have （1） try remaining before we lock your account.
Something opened in Nola’s chest, a sharp, aching twist. She didn’t know if it was anger or pain, but right there, she wanted to put her fist into the phone’s screen. Turning back to the iPad, Nola reread the entry in the reservation book.
Spear. 7:30 p.m. Party of 2.
It was him. Had to be him. Replaying it again, she told herself it was probably just a work dinner. But who schedules work at 7:30 p.m. on a Saturday? More important, whoever Mint was scheduled to eat with, why didn’t he or she step forward once Mint was found dead?
She studied the name. Spear. 7:30 p.m. Party of— Huh.
Nola pulled the iPad closer. She’d missed it at first. In the far-right column . . . under notes . . . Mint’s entry looked like it was blank, but it wasn’t. At the very bottom of the cell, there was tiny, light blue type, like fine print. A few other entries had it, too. She expanded the image to see it better.
Most of the entries had the words OpenTable, the reservation app. Two others listed Resy, also a reservation app. But Mint’s entry had this:
Black House
Confused, Nola clicked on it. Had to be a referral. If you made your reservation through OpenTable, the steak house’s system listed OpenTable in your entry. Same with Resy. But as she clicked on the words Black House . . .
A pop-up window appeared. Open in App Store?