JJ
Kinsley’s apartment smelled exactly the same. Vanilla air freshener, old takeout, and the floral laundry detergent she once told me smelled expensive even though I thought it smelled like somebody had murdered a bouquet.
For one stupid second, standing just inside the doorway, I expected her to come out of the bedroom and complain that I had walked in without knocking. Of course, she didn’t.
The detective met Mrs. Taylor and me inside. He had already documented the rooms before asking us in, but today he wanted people who knew Kinsley to tell him what the apartment couldn’t. Before we moved farther, he made the rules clear. We weren’t searching, opening drawers, moving belongings, or deciding what happened to Kinsley based on one shirt or a half-empty bottle of shampoo.
He wanted ha
