PJ was always teasing me about my vast array of connections. If it wasn’t the Kevin Bacon thing, he was likening me to an infinite network hub. He’d tried the spider/spiderweb analogy once, but I’d shut that one down hard. Because spiders. No. Just no.

But Kevin Bacon, network hubs, or spiderwebs, I was never so grateful to have resources at my fingertips.

My first call was to my lawyer friend Forrest, who owed me big time. I helped him make a scrapbook that he used to propose to his wife—more than five hundred photographs, chronicling their relationship from high school through law school. So yeah. Big time. And if it meant lassoing one of the best criminal defense lawyers in town for PJ’s benefit, I wasn’t above calling in that favor.

Next, a friend of a friend was besties with the wife of the Washington County jail warden. So before the sun set on one of the longest days ever, Forrest and I were seated an interrogation room.

Given my last-minute summons, Forrest was surprisingly well put together in his gray bespoke suit and Captain America tie, his ginger goatee perfectly trimmed. But then, maybe dressing for intimidation was his lawyer superpower. He was as calm as I was jittery, his fountain pen held motionless over his legal pad while my heels clicked against the concrete floor as my knees bounced.

When the guard escorted PJ into the room, I almost didn’t recognize him. For one thing, he was wearing an orange jumpsuit, and as PJ has told me more times than I can count, jumpsuits are only good on Star Trek and orange is not his color. For another, he… drooped. His shoulders, his hair, the corners of his mouth—all his usual verve was damped down so far it was undetectable.

Plus, he was handcuffed.

He’d never looked so much like he needed a hug—and of course, because of the jail rules, I couldn’t give him one.

The guard led him to the table by one elbow. “Half an hour,” the guard said, and then stepped outside. A glass window allowed him to keep an eye on us, but the door allowed enough isolation to meet attorney-client privilege regulations.

I clutched my pearls so I wouldn’t violate rules and reach across the table to grab his hand. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. But don’t worry. With Forrest’s help, we’ll get this straightened out in no time.”

PJ’s smile was wan. “Will we?”

“Of course! You didn’t hurt Dianne. I don’t know what Bae is thinking.”

“Not just Dianne.” He pushed his lank hair off his forehead with both hands, causing his handcuffs to clink. “Ava too.”

“What?” I screeched. Unfortunately, that caught the attention of the guard, but I waved at him. “All good.” Then I leaned forward and whispered, “How can they possibly think that?”

For an instant, the light returned to PJ’s eyes in a militant sparkle. “It’s that stupid boa’s fault. They found feathers.”

“Hold on, you two,” Forrest interjected. “Tash filled me in on everything that has transpired up to this point, but let’s hit pause for a moment. What’s the significance of finding feathers and how does that make you a suspect?”

I sighed. “We attended the big craft show at the Expo Center last weekend. PJ got a teal feather boa from one of the vendors.” I jabbed the table with my index finger. “Of course they found feathers at Ava’s. You were wearing the boa, and it was shedding like a molting hen.”

PJ grimaced. “They were under Ava’s body.”

Forrest and I blinked at him. “Under? But…” I shook my head. “Whatever. Those feathers went everywhere. Bae had one stuck to his eyebrow for at least twenty minutes. They probably blew under there when the CSI team processed the scene.”

“Maybe.” His shoulders slumped even more. “But that wouldn’t account for the ones they found under Dianne.”

“Peej—”

“Okay,” Forrest interjected again. “Feathers allegedly from your boa were found at both crime scenes under both victims?” When PJ nodded, Forrest uncapped his fountain pen and made notes in something that must be lawyer code because I certainly couldn’t make it out.

“You know—” PJ dredged up a ghost of his usual smirk from somewhere. “Spending quality time in handcuffs with Detective Hottie isn’t nearly as fun as I expected.”

I gritted my teeth, stomach roiling. This was so unfair. “If feathers are the only evidence—”

“Fingerprints. My fingerprints were all over Ava’s house.”

“Of course they were. We were there for at least ten minutes before we found her.”

“But yours weren’t.”

“I was wearing gloves!”

PJ sighed. “There’s traffic cam footage of me in Moocher near the intersection of 99W and Bull Mountain around the time that Dianne…” He glanced at Forrest. “Left this plane of existence.”

Forrest paused, his pen suspended over his pad. “And why were you at the intersection of 99W and Bull Mountain?”

“PJ is in the IT department for our company. The co-location data center that houses our servers is less than a mile away. PJ had a perfectly legitimate reason for being there.” I snapped my fingers as the obvious solution dawned on me. “That’s it! You were working over there with the whole team, right? They can give you an alibi.”

“I was there alone most of the afternoon. Vinh”—he nodded at Forrest—“my boss ordered us all back to the server room at the office right after lunch, but sent me back alone afterward. So apparently I had ample opportunity to zip over there, bash Dianne with a shovel, and jab a snowflake into her neck.”

“A what?”

He lifted his hands as though he was about to sketch something in the air, but the cuffs clinked and he lowered them again. “A snowflake. You know. One of those dangerous pointy metal things that fits into one of your infernal craft machines.”

“You mean a die? Like for the Cuttlebug?”

He clenched his eyes shut. “Please don’t use that word.”

“Cuttlebug?”

“No.” He clenched his teeth. “Die.”

I leaned forward, but the table’s edge digging into my middle reminded me I couldn’t hug him. Damn it! “PJ—”

“The snowflake didn’t kill her. Not like it killed Ava. But—”

“So Ava was killed by a…” Forrest glanced at his notes. “…a die too?”

PJ glared at him. “Ohmygod, I told you—”

“PJ, this more than anything proves you couldn’t have anything to do with it. You hate paper crafts.”

PJ snorted. “Apparently that makes it more likely that I’d take out my homicidal tendencies with them, thus proving my hatred for the weapon and the victim simultaneously.”

“Mr. Purdy.” Forrest capped his pen and set it on the table. “As your attorney, I advise you to never repeat that sentiment.”

I rubbed my hands over my face. “I really wish you didn’t watch so many of those crime shows.”

“Believe me,” PJ said, his voice shaky, “right now, I wish the same thing.”

The guard opened the door and stepped inside. “Time’s up.” He walked over to cup PJ’s elbow and pull him to his feet.

I pushed myself out of the awful plastic chair. “I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

PJ pressed his lips together as if he was keeping an incriminating comment from bursting out. Then he sighed. “Just promise me you’ll take care of Mary Pickford.”

“Mary Pickford?”

“My cat, Tash. Just take care of my cat.” He smiled tightly and let the guard lead him out.

“This is the most unbelievable, ridiculous, outrageous...” I muttered as a deputy escorted Forrest and me from the room. I turned to the deputy. “Where would we find the homicide detectives?”

She glanced from Forrest to me. “You’d have to ask for them at the front desk.”

“Well, then, take us there.” I offered zero apology for my curtness as she showed us the way. Apparently when my loved ones get arrested, I get a tad testy.

When I demanded to speak to Detective Bae, the staffer behind the desk didn’t show me to his lair. Instead, he made a call and Huber showed up.

“Ms. Van Buren. What can I do for you?”

“You can release PJ.”

She sighed. “I can’t do that. Right now, the evidence supports his arrest, and unless we discover something that tells a different story—”

“Then I’ll find it.” I straightened my shoulders. “Because I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Ms. Van Buren. Tash.” Huber’s tone held sympathy edged with warning. “Please do not interfere with the investigation. You could harm Mr. Purdy’s case more than you help it.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not stupid. But I know PJ better than anyone, and I know he didn’t do this. The police ask for information from the public to assist them, right? Well, I’ll do everything in my power to assist.”

“Tash—”

“Excuse me, but I have a cat to feed.” I paused with my hand on the door handle. “And tell Detective Bae for me that he should be ashamed of himself.”

She huffed a laugh. “Oh trust me. He is.”

Forrest flanked me as I headed for the storage lockers where jail visitors had to check their belongings. Jail visitors. I almost cried.

I collected my purse and Forrest his satchel. When we stepped outside into the cool night air, he gave me a reassuring hug. “I’ve got this covered, Tash.”

I leaned into the embrace for a minute, then stepped back. “You don’t know how good that makes me feel.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to admit that the details of this case are… interesting, to say the least. I’ll review the evidence and have another conversation with Mr. Purdy. We’ll get through this. I promise.”

He accompanied me to my car, making sure I was inside before he lifted a hand in farewell. I gripped my steering wheel as he walked away. Despite Huber’s assurance, I debated whether to call Bae and tell him exactly why he’d made a huge mistake. After all, I still had both his and Huber’s cards in my purse, and I was alternating between furious and terrified at PJ’s predicament. I really didn’t want to think about him locked up in there, with who knows what kind of other people. PJ might talk a confident game, but when it came down to it? He was still… medium. And jail wasn’t the safest place for guys who relied on bravado rather than bulk for self-defense.

Only the notion that antagonizing Bae might make things even worse for PJ kept me from making the call. Instead, I drove over to PJ’s place. Moocher was parked in his spot under the carport. Oh, lord. They arrested him at his home. That meant his neighbors witnessed it. My eyes prickled, and I blinked rapidly. Poor PJ. He was probably mortified. On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t have been crazy about being arrested at work either.

Work. Did Vinh know? I should have asked PJ when I had the chance. I parked my car and sent a quick text to Francine, our HR director. I’d have a quiet word with her tomorrow and find out what the options were. PJ was bound to be released because only an idiot—Bae—would believe he could murder anyone, but who knew how long the investigation would take?

I took the stairs up to PJ’s door. I gave thanks that he and I were the sort of besties who swapped home and car keys, so at least I didn’t have to convince the property manager to let me in. I opened the door carefully. The last thing I needed was to have to chase the cat—Mary Pickford, PJ? Seriously?—across the complex.

Of course, the minute I walked in, my nose started to twitch with the urge to sneeze. I really needed to contact the cat rescue people. I followed a trail of teal feathers from the entry to the living room. The boa was coiled on the sofa, and the cat blinked at me from the feathery nest. She kept her gaze fixed on me over the breakfast bar when I stepped into the kitchen. Cans of cat food were lined up in regimental precision on the countertop, and as soon as I popped the lid on one, she leaped off the sofa, raising a veritable hurricane of teal floof.

I sneezed. Between the cat and the feathers, I’d need a respirator by the time I was done here. As Mary Pickford sashayed into the kitchen and wound around my ankles, the feathers clung to my skirt, my shoes, and—I looked cross-eyed—my nose. I blew that one off, only to have it drift into my cleavage.

“I’m surprised the dang boa has any feathers left,” I muttered as I dug a spoon out of the silverware drawer. “Anyone within ten feet of the thing gets feather-bombed by it faster than they can say ‘plucked chicken.’”

I froze with a spoonful of kitty pâté suspended over the cat’s dish. Anyone within ten feet…

Mary Pickford mrowed irritably and batted at the spoon. I shook the cat food off the spoon into the dish, although part of it landed on her ear. Since I knew for a fact PJ hadn’t killed anybody, whoever had done the deed had to be someone who’d been near him while he’d been wearing the boa—or at least somewhere he’d been. All the detectives needed to do was trace PJ’s movements and interview everyone who’d been in the same place.

I winced as I scooped half the can into the dish, although it wasn’t easy with the cat’s head in the way. Finding all those people might be a Herculean task. The first place PJ had worn the boa was at the Expo Center, and there were tons of people there—including Dianne and Ava, who both could’ve been infested with feathers before they ever left the craft show.

I dumped some kibble into the second dish and made sure the water bowl was full. As I washed the spoon, my fingers trembled so much that I dropped it with a clatter, making Mary Pickford leap away from her food for approximately two seconds.

A few of the people on the list were unfortunately too easy for me to identify: Graciela and the women in the scrapbooking circle. Furthermore, Graciela had been scheduled to meet with Dianne the day of the murder. I hated—hated—to think that anybody I knew could be capable of not one, but two murders, not to mention framing PJ for the crimes. But it was more important to see that the right person was punished.

And PJ was definitely not the right person.