Humility had never really been his thing, and having to apologize to those he’d pissed off when the offense was still so recent, so raw, made his gut churn with disgust. But by the time he’d showered, dressed, and thrown together a few days’ worth of clothes, he knew he didn’t have any other option. He had to find out if there was a possible connection between Abby’s case and the one he’d been working down in New Orleans. And that meant going to the source. As he was leaving his apartment, he grabbed the party-size bag of peanut M&M’s from one of the boxes he still hadn’t unpacked and mentally prepared for the humiliation he was about to put himself through. He tore open the bag and popped a handful of the sweet and salty goodness into his mouth, then fired up his Mustang. A few minutes down the road, after he’d stalled as long as he could, he heaved a resigned sigh and dialed the number. The phone only rang twice before Kyle heard, “Dave Peterman.”
