Page 61 of Lorenzo

Genevieve standing beside a window at a work event.

Genevieve in a red dress at a restaurant.

I stop. I'm expecting pictures from the crime scene from my contact soon, but I haven't received them yet, so I don't know if this is the same dress.

Red may simply have been a color she liked.

I save the photograph anyway.

Her public account does not show a serious relationship in the past year. There are men in group photographs, but none appear often enough to seem serious. An older relationship is easy to identify from years of pictures and equally easy to watch disappear.

The breakup appears ordinary.

No accusations. No public hostility. No deleted history obvious enough to leave holes in conversations. The man stops appearing. Mutual friends continue interacting with both of them. Months later, Genevieve begins posting from dinners and events without him.

I add his profile to the list of people I need to check more closely.

A former boyfriend is always worth examining when a woman is murdered, even when the current evidence points elsewhere.

Especially then.

I continue.

There are no public signs of gambling. No sudden displays of money that her employment would not support. No vague messages about betrayal, fear, or someone refusing to leave her alone.

Her connections are equally ordinary.

Friends. Coworkers. Former classmates. People in adjacent professional circles. A few social acquaintances whose lives seem wealthier than hers, though that means little in Chicago.

I look for Conti connections.

There are none.

No public follows tied to the family’s businesses. No photographs from Conti Enterprises events. No obvious connection to anyone who works for them.

I search the club next.

I see no sign that Genevieve has ever been there before.

That's the first odd thing that stands out.

The night she met Alessio does not appear on her account.

No photograph from the bar. No location tag. No story saved elsewhere.

That could mean something.

Or it could mean nothing.

She was twenty-five and had no obligation to document every drink she ordered.

I note it anyway.

Mocha lifts his head when I reach for my coffee. The cup is nearly empty and cold, but I drink it anyway.

“You have better judgment,” I tell him.

He watches me set it down, then lowers his head again.