Page 19 of Dead Man's List

Sam set the bag on the table. “Of course. It’s a whole chicken pot pie.”

Connor groaned. “Gimme. Gimme now.”

Sam took a step back. “Don’t bite my hand off. There’s enough for a small army in there.”

“Or just me and Connor, who can put away as much food as a small army,” Kit said dryly, opening the bag and pulling out the plates and serving containers. No paper plates for Betsy McKittrick. She’d sent her best Corelle, the cheerful blue and pink flowers on the plates making Kit smile. “Ooh, and candy bar cake.” She took a sniff. “Snickers.”

“Oh my God,” Connor moaned. “Food now. Please.”

Kit rolled her eyes and served him a plate. “At least you’re quiet when you’re stuffing your face.” She glanced at Sam and paused, her hand on the serving spoon. He still looked upset. “What’s wrong?”

Sam looked away. “I…I’m sorry, Kit. I didn’t mean to listen in.”

She frowned, then understood. “Oh. My origin story.” He’d overheard. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she needed to wipe that guilt from his expression. “I probably would have told you at some point anyway, so it’s fine.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” He took a look at the whiteboard, his eyes going wide. “That’s a lot of names.”

“We’re not close to being done,” Connor said with his mouth full. He swallowed. “Munro’s Ferrari is also missing.”

“The killer stole it?” Sam asked.

“Maybe,” Connor said. “If itwasthe killer, why do you think they would have done it, Sam?”

“To sell it? Why does anyone steal a Ferrari?”

Kit agreed. “It could be as simple as that.”

Connor shook his head. “Logistics,” he said, then stuffed more food in his mouth.

Kit looked at the photo of Munro’s garage, startling when Sam took the spoon from her hand. He served her some pot pie and gently nudged the photo back into its folder.

“Eat, Kit. Your mother made me promise that I’d get you to eat.”

Kit tucked in and sighed happily. “Mom’s food is the best.”

“Five stars,” Connor said, mouth full once again.

“Manners,” Kit snapped. “At least I wasn’t born in that barn. You might have been, though.”

Connor only grinned, waiting until he’d swallowed to speak again. “What are the logistics? Did the killer hide in Munro’s garage? Did he stab Munro at least once there in the garage? There’s enough blood for one good gushing wound, but not twenty.”

“He definitely slit Munro’s throat in the desert,” Kit said. “We were wondering why he didn’t bury him.”

“Depends on when he dumped him,” Sam said, taking the chair beside her. “There were high winds the day before we hiked. I was watching the weather, afraid that we’d have to cancel if it didn’t die down. It did die down, of course, but if it was that windy when he was dumping the body, he was either fighting the wind and the sand or he figured the wind and sand would do his burying for him. Or some of both.”

“Okay.” Kit paused, her next bite on the fork. “That makes sense. Next question is, why did his killer choose that spot in that park to hide a body? I’ve asked the park service for a list of names of people who entered the park for the last three days, but the park has open entry, so they’ll only have names of people who used the areas they charge for.”

Sam made a face. “His killer didn’t drive a Ferrari in that sand, I can guarantee.”

“So what are the logistics?” Connor asked again. “He enters Munro’s garage—how and from where? He stabs Munro at least once. Does he put him in the Ferrari? That’s not smart if he intends to sell it. Blood’s a bitch to get out of the stitching on the leather seats.”

“Where did he take the Ferrari?” Kit started a new list on the whiteboard, a marker in one hand and her fork in the other.

Sam took the marker from her hand and gently pushed her back into her chair. “Eat. I’ll scribe.”

Connor snickered. “Eat, Kit. Or he’ll tell your mommy.”

“Then I’ll tell her never to feedyouagain,” Kit shot back.

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