Deck rubbed a hand over his beard.
“Something unfit for polite company.”
“Correct,” Frannie said.
Lucy leaned forward eagerly.
“But they’re saying the internet thinks Mercer buried her under one of his houses.”
Deck stared at her.
“The internet also believes Elvis runs a bait shop in Florida.”
Lucy shrugged.
“That thread actually had some decent mapping.”
Frannie groaned softly.
“Lord help us.”
Deck leaned toward the laptop.
“Let me see that.”
Lucy brightened.
“I thought you said internet detectives were dangerous.”
“They are,” Deck muttered. “But occasionally they stumble onto something useful.”
Frannie folded her arms.
“Eleanor is going to regret hiring both of you.”
Charleston had nearly chewed Eleanor up and spat her out once already. If Frannie could keep even one microphone at arm’s length this time, she would.
At that moment, Eleanor stepped out of her office carrying a folder.
“What am I going to regret?”
Lucy spun the laptop toward her.
“The Atlanta podcast says Mercer buried Caroline at a jobsite.”
“They don’t know that,” Eleanor said evenly.
“They’re trending, though,” Lucy said.
“God save us from people with microphones and too much free time,” Deck said.
“That’s exactly what they are,” Frannie agreed.
Eleanor set the folder on the desk.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
April:
