“See you later.” I climbed up my steps and let myself into the cool inside.
I kept myself busy the rest of that afternoon, answering emails and sipping the prosecco—the bottle I had at home was much better than the stuff I’d had at Lilette—doing some reorganizing of shelves, resisting the nagging voice in the back of my head telling me to look up murders of gay men in Chicago during the two years he’d lived there.
It wouldn’t be proof of anything even if I found anything. For that matter, it wouldn’t prove anything if I didn’t find any. Maybe he hadn’t felt the urge to kill until he came to New Orleans.
Or maybe the killings had nothing to do with Peyton.
But I couldn’t stop wondering.
The sun was going down when I got the paper out of the recycling bin. It wouldn’t hurt anything to l
