Detective Miller was a broad-shouldered man with gray hair cut close to his scalp and a gold wedding band worn thin on his left hand.

He sat across the scratched oak table from Pendelton and me, flipping through the handwritten pages of my blue ledger notebook.

“You’re twenty-two years old, Miss Vance?” Miller asked.

“Nora Vance,” I said. “And I’m twenty-two.”

“You have no formal training as a licensed nurse or elder caregiver?”

“No,” I said.

“I was hired six weeks ago off a paper flyer at the community center.”

Detective Miller put my notebook down and opened the light blue manila folder Pendelton had placed by his elbow.