The Chase residence looms over Pacific Heights like a tombstone, its Gothic arches cutting into the fog. Evelyn answers the door herself, still in mourning black despite her husband only being missing. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry—this dame’s done her crying in private. 'You’re back early,' she says, voice fraying at the edges like a worn dollar bill.

Her parlor smells of lilies and dread. You lay out the facts like a coroner arranging tools: the earring, the untouched wedding ring, O’Sullivan’s refusal to investigate. The way her manicured fingers dig into the armrest tells you she suspected as much. 'The pearl’s mine,' she whispers. 'I lost it at the charity gala two weeks ago. But Richard—he wouldn’t...' Her throat works silently around the unthinkable.

A grandfather clock ticks in the hall like a jury deliberating. You notice fresh scratches on the parquet floor near the French doors—too deep for furniture, too straight for accident. Evelyn follows your gaze. 'The police did that,' she lies badly. Then, softer: 'They didn’t even take off their shoes.'

Outside, a car engine turns over in the mist. Evelyn flinches. Through the drapes, you catch a glimpse of a black sedan idling at the curb—same make as Mendoza’s patrol car. The pieces click together with cold precision. This isn’t a missing persons case. It’s a cover-up. And Evelyn Chase knows more than she’s saying.