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I stare at the file in my lap, flicking through the crime scene photos again. “He comes off more like an idiot than a murderer,” I answer.

Trevor chuckles from the driver’s seat with one hand on the wheel and another clutching that burrito about ready to fall apart. I insisted on driving if he was going to eat, but he’s a little territorial with his car. I keep my left hand ready just in case I have to grab the wheel to stop us from dying.

“Did you find anything in the truck?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he says, chewing. “Surprisingly spotless, though.”

“Can’t fault him for staying ahead of the health inspector.”

“No, but it’s creepy.”

I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to my notes.

“Hey — I’m getting a phone call,” he says.

“So, answer it.”

“I’m driving.”

I look from him to the burrito and back again. “Seriously?”

“It’s in my jacket pocket. Grab it.”

I reach across him to fish into his breast pocket.

“Not that one.” He gestures down with a smirk.

I tilt my head. “And you think Milo Murray is creepy?”

I grab the edge of his jacket and pull it up to get at his phone. It vibrates in my hand. “It’s Dougie,” I read as I swipe. “Silva and Rhys here.”

“You know, Silva, every time you answer Rhys’ phone, the rumor mill goes ape-shit.”

“Trust me, Dougie, the only person with a little meat in their mouth right now is Trevor.”

Trevor looks at me. “Hey⁠—”

“What do you need?” I ask.

“We found a body,” Dougie says. “You two want to get down here.”

I almost hesitate. “Why? Who is it?”

He sighs. “It’s Detective Wells.”

It stabs deep. “They made him?”

“It looks like it.”

“Text the address. We’re on our way.”

I hang up and wait for the message.

“What’s going on?” Trevor asks.

“The Quinns made Martin,” I answer. “He’s dead.”

He deflates. “First Canon McGregor, now Wells? Coincidence?”