"He could have died," Sarah said as she stepped out of the hospital, the glass doors sliding closed behind her with a whoosh. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Caleb was admitted, and it was the first time she'd been allowed to see him.

Jane wrapped a reassuring arm around her shoulder. "Any of us can die at any time, honey."

Sarah scoffed. "You know that's not what I meant."

Jane looked both ways before entering the crosswalk. "Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood a bit. I know exactly what you meant, but I've told you before, it wasn't your fault."

"If he hadn't given me a ride home, if I hadn't taken so long in the bathroom, if—"

As they got to the other side of the street, Jane stopped and spun Sarah around to face her. "You had no way of knowing that Caleb would find that old space heater in the back of the closet. If anyone is to blame, it's me for buying the darned thing at an antiques mart years ago and then forgetting that I even had it. But if his parents can accept it being just an unfortunate accident, then so should you."

"But—"

"But nothing. Carbon monoxide poisoning is no joke for that exact reason: it's odorless and practically undetectable if you don't know what to look for. Thankfully we got to him in time, and Caleb will make a full recovery in a few days. So stop thinking in 'what ifs.' Otherwise you'll just drive yourself crazy."

Sarah sighed. She knew that her aunt was right, but the guilt she felt over what almost happened yesterday still gnawed away at her insides. She needed a distraction. And as if fate had heard her silent plea, a police car pulled up to the curb beside them.

"Hello, ladies. Anyone up for a cup of flat white, caramel spiced whatever they sell at this place? I'm buying," Quinn said, leaning across the passenger seat and pointing to the nearby coffee shop.

"You know I would, but I ditched work early to come here and there is a stack of geography quizzes that I need to grade before tomorrow," Jane said, the regret evident in her voice. "Come by the house later?"

Quinn smiled and nodded. "You bet. Sarah?"

Knowing this was her chance to get an update on the last big thing that happened before the most recent big thing, she jumped at the offer. "Yeah. You know me? I can never refuse a sugar rush."

With the squad car neatly parked under a "No Standing or Stopping Any Time" sign—irony was dead in New Bedford—they entered the coffee shop and placed their orders.

"Any update on the black house murder?" asked Sarah after she took her drink from the barista.

Quinn shushed her and motioned to a two-person table by the window. "The forensic analysis came in yesterday, and the case is now closed," they said softly once no one was in immediate earshot.

Sarah's eyes popped open at the unexpectedly good news. "So you've identified the victim and found the killer already?" she asked, unable to hide her excitement.

But Quinn shook their head. "No. The DA decided not to pursue it further for the lack of public interest." They took a sip of their tall Americano.

"What do you mean lack of public interest?" Sarah repeated, barely believing her ears as her heart rate spiked. "A woman got walled up in a fireplace, and I'm no detective, but I'm pretty sure she didn't put herself there on her own. Which means that there's a killer on the loose somewhere around here."

Quinn shrugged. "Based on the evidence, those bones are at least eighty years old. I'm sorry, Sarah, but it's not my decision."

She clenched her fist under the table to stop herself from saying something she'd regret later. Taking a deep breath, Sarah struggled to remain reserved. "So? Who cares if the bones were old? Don't senior citizens deserve to live—"

"No, no, no," Quinn cut her off before she could continue with a now teary argument. "You misunderstood. The age of the victim here isn't the important thing. The crime lab found proof that showed that they've been dead and in that wall for at least eight decades."

Her fingernails were now digging into her palm. "And again, I ask: so? Murder doesn't have a statute of limitations." When instead of answering Quinn glanced away and took a sip of their coffee, Sarah dialed-up her argument.

"There's a family out there waiting to hear what happened to their ancestor eighty years ago," she said, leaning forward in her seat for additional emphasis. "A woman disappeared seemingly into thin air and people probably mourned her. Don't they—and she—deserve closure?"

"Drop it, Sarah," Quinn said, depositing their cup back on the table with a clank. "We did our due diligence and none of our databases contained missing persons who would fit the victim's profile. If the murder happened when science is telling us it did, then unless the killer was in kindergarten, they're already dead, too. Do you know the cost of an investigation like this on a town like New Bedford? I appreciate your passion, and I am sorry to disappoint you, but we don't have the resources to waste that kind of money just to fill in a blank on a death certificate."

"Your digital records are probably incomplete and don't even go back that far, right? What about paper archives and—"

Quinn stood, the legs of their chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Drop it."

* * *

"You want to do what now?" Ms. Yang-Mills, the high school counselor, nearly dropped the stack of files she'd been holding as Sarah burst into the office and hastily explained her idea.

Although it seemed like the best plan as she made her way over from the coffee shop, now that she'd gotten such an incredulous reaction, Sarah wasn't so sure.

"That body that was found in the old tear-down on my aunt's street," she repeated, a little less enthusiastically than before. "I . . . I want to do some research on who she was and how she got there."

The counselor placed the files on the corner of her desk and plopped into her chair with a sigh. Weaving her fingers together, her face contorted first between signs of amusement and then disapproval.

"Thaaaat doesn't sound like such a good idea to me," she said, drawing out the first word with an accompanying squint of her eyes.

Sarah willed herself to remain calm and concentrated on facts instead of emotions.

"I can do it as my capstone project," she said, taking a seat in the chair across from the desk. "It has numerous aspects from different subjects that I can tie-in, like history, science—"

"No, no, no, I get that." Ms. Yang-Mills butted in with a wave of her hand. "It just seems to me that you should best leave the investigating to the authorities."

Sarah slouched down in her chair. "That's the thing: they don't care," she said, biting her tongue before she'd inadvertently add what she really thought. Because now it was undeniable that he attitude of New Bedford's law enforcement toward an old murder was less from a lack of interest in solving the case than from an abundance of willingness to cover something up. And what that something could be had definitely piqued her curiosity.

"Oh, that can't be true. I'm sure you're mistaken," Ms. Yang-Mills said with the conviction of anyone who'd never been betrayed by a cop before. "These things are complex and they take time. Just because we don't see every aspect of an investigation doesn't mean that the police aren't doing their jobs. So promise me that you'll stay out of it?"

Sarah stared, a sickness at the pit of her stomach developing from the blatant gaslighting. It was bad enough to get this kind of treatment from Alex Quinn, but having a so-called educator do the same thing really stung. Seeing the counselor's plastered-on smile and realizing that arguing was futile, she finally said, "Okay."

She was going to have to approach this from another angle.

"Would picking a more general research topic involving the town be better?" she asked, relaxing her shoulders to give the appearance of defeat.

Ms. Yang-Mills unweaved her fingers and instead, leaned her chin on her open palm. "Hmm. Possibly. What did you have in mind?"

Sarah looked up at the ceiling, feigning deep thought as she studied the plaster of Paris medallion decorating the base of the chandelier. "I don't really know," she lied with a shrug as she lowered her gaze. "I'm kind of intrigued by the cool architecture around here. Where would one go to, say, find out more about who designed and originally owned the older buildings in town? Would that be the library or—"

"Oh, honey, no," objected the counselor, perking up. "You'd need to go to the land commissioner's office for that." Spinning around in her chair, she pointed out the window. "But as luck would have it, you wouldn't even have to go far."

Having gotten the exact information she needed, Sarah couldn't make it out of the school fast enough. Sprinting across the street, she cut through the square with its paper lanterns and other Halloween tchotchkes before stopping for a breath in front of an imposing building.

Unlike the school and the library, this structure was made of gray stone instead of red brick. But with its four stories instead of the others' three and the grand balustrade lining its front steps, its significance was undeniable. The etched letters above the entry spelling out CITY HALL also kind of gave its importance away, too.

Inside, she followed the directional signage one floor up to a door marked "New Bedford Commissioner of Public Lands." And for a brief moment, Sarah thought she'd hit the jackpot as her eyes washed over the vast room containing dozens of filing cabinets and computer terminals.

But after chatting with the man behind the service counter about what records she was looking for, Sarah's hopes quickly diminished.

"Only records from the last thirty or so years have been digitized," he said with a nod toward the computers. "Everything else is in storage."

"But the older documents are accessible, right? Someone can go look for them if I tell you what I need?" she asked, feeling like every time she took one step forward, she'd get knocked two steps back.

He reached under the counter and pulled out a form that looked like it had been a photocopy of a photocopy.

"You're free to fill this out. I can't guarantee how long it'll take, though. The law says we have up to six month to oblige, but it may be sooner."

Sarah took the form titled 'NBCPL Records Request.' "Six months?" she repeated while scanning the fields. How was she even to know what the lot number was for the address she was interested in or if there were any parties holding liens against the property?

The staffer wasn't sympathetic. "It's a manpower issue. On most days, it's just me and the boss in here," he said, thumbing toward a closed door behind him. On the frosted glass, the words C. Moore, Land Commissioner were painted.

"C. Moore?" Sarah asked as her brain started going into overdrive at the revelation. 

Moore. Moore? It couldn't be that easy. Could it? But if her hunch was right, she wouldn't need to wait half a year to dig into an eighty year old murder.