The rest of the day was spent searching fruitlessly for some sort of evidence. Rich scoured the sitting room from top to bottom, but there was no sign of the first bullet anywhere. For the first time, Rich let his frustration get the better of him. He went outside and sat on the steps, and we watched the sun set. "It doesn't make sense," he said irritably. "There's a second bullet in there somewhere, but where? How did it not lodge in the wall? Where could it be?"

"Maybe you should step back from the bullet theory," Bob suggested. "Focus on something else. If you know the bullet's there, leaving it for a while won't hurt anything."

"I have to find it," Rich insisted, chewing his lip.

I suddenly realized why he was so intent on the bullet. If he found it, it meant there was a second gun, which would put some doubt on my guilt. After all, if the bullet that had killed Mrs. Graham had been from the other gun and not the one they had found in my drawer, wouldn't that make it obvious I'd been framed? At least it would start to push them in the right direction.

But if we couldn't find the bullet and couldn't prove that there was a second gun, my guilt, in the police's mind, would still be certain. Rich needed that second bullet, and not being able to find it was driving him nuts. I rested my hand on his arm. "We'll find it," I told him. "But we won't find anything half-asleep. We should head back."

Bob stood up, placing his hat on his head. "That's my cue," he said. "Good night, Rose, Rich."

"Good night, Bob," Rich answered distractedly. He barely even reacted when Bob got into his cruiser and drove away. He stood up and started pacing. "That bullet's got to be there somewhere ..."

Finally, he turned to me. "Ready to go?"

I nodded. "Ready whenever you are," I replied. We went to the limo and I got in the back. To my surprise Rich waved me to the front, and I sat in the passenger seat.

"We need to discuss this whole disaster," he said. "We need to push the odds in our favor. At the moment, I'm afraid that at every moment they'll throw you from the crime scene and our investigation will be over."

"They can't do that," I protested. "Can they?"

"How should I know?" Rich said with a shrug. That made me nervous, because he was pulling through the twisting driveway and nearly drove on the grass. He corrected the vehicle calmly and kept going. "All I know is that this is driving me batty. Rose, tell me honestly; did you kill Mrs. Graham?"

The question took me by surprise, and I stared out the window angrily. "I thought you believed me," I snapped.

"I do," he said quietly. "But when the world thinks your guilty ... one needs a little reassurance every now and again. Did you kill her?"

"Of course not," I answered irritably. "I didn't kill Mrs. Graham. I didn't even know her."

"Alright, alright," Rich said soothingly. "I just needed to hear it. This is more frustrating than I ever could have imagined. Nobody believes me or you. We're going to need solid proof to even put a dent in their idea that it was you. My disproving their ring theory hasn't even changed their mind. If I could find that second stupid gun, then it would be obvious you were framed."

"Maybe you're looking at it wrong," I suggested, grateful we'd moved past the suspecting-me stage. "Maybe we shouldn't be focusing so much on the missing gun. It's distracting us from the more important things. After all, if we can find and prove who the real killer is, the second gun won't matter, right?"

Rich made a face. "I just hate leaving it unturned. I feel like I'm missing something, and it's driving me insane."

"Sleep on it," I suggested. "Maybe it'll come to you."

Rich grinned suddenly. "Sleep on it ... I don't know if I want to sleep on a gun," he said.

I slugged him on the arm. "You know what I mean, you nut!" I said. He started laughing, and I couldn't help but do the same. It took us a few minutes to regain control, though he somehow kept control of the limo the entire time. I tried to bring us back to task. "Let's go over what we know."

"There is a second gun somewhere out there," Rich said, though a few leftover giggles still overcame him. "Mrs. Graham wasn't sitting in her chair when she died. It's impossible."

"Jeremy's story doesn't jive with everybody else's," I put in. "He left first, but he didn't leave at all. He also didn't mention finding the body with Missy. And any of the staff would have a reason to murder Mrs. Graham. She left them her fortune. And Missy claims she left at five, when Helena says everyone left at six, including Missy."

"Also, somebody seems intent on framing you," Rich finished. "Have you met any of them before?"

"No. I've never even met Mrs. Corderro before. Domiano always manipulated it so we wouldn't meet." I made a face. "He told me he's the only teenager she actually likes."

"You're sure you've never met?"

"Absolutely positive," I answered. "I told you, Dom was always a little scared of her."

"Hmm," Rich said in a voice I really didn't like.

"You don't think she's framing me because she doesn't like that I'm dating her son!" I exclaimed, surprising him. He slammed on the brakes and we both rocketed forward. If we hadn't been wearing seatbelts, we would've shot through the windshield.

"You're dating somebody?" Rich asked, startled.

"Umm, yeah?" I said. "Don't you date anybody?" Then I bit my tongue. What girl would want to date Rich? Aside from the star-struck Missy, of course, and she had the possibility of being a killer. Not exactly prime dating material.

Rich started driving again, galvanized into action by the honking horns behind him. "I've lived a rather solitary life. Nobody's ever expressed any interest in dating me anyway."

We drove in silence for a few minutes until we pulled up in front of another mansion. This one, I had to admit, was even bigger and grander than Mrs. Graham's. He had a security gate in front of the driveway, stone columns along the massive porch, and probably more than fifty windows. "Whoa," I breathed. He hadn't been lying when he'd said his house was bigger.

Rich punched in the gate code and got back in. He grinned at my shocked face. "It's something, isn't it?" he said proudly. "My parents were very proud of it."

I sneaked a glance at him; I'd never heard him talk about his deceased parents before, but he didn't seem upset. If anything, he looked immensely proud. He parked the car in front of the white steps and gallantly held the door open for me. I made a face at him, turning away and going towards the door.

Rich accompanied me to the door, and before either of us could do anything the door swung open and a man in a black suit stood there. He looked positively ancient. His wrinkles must have had wrinkles. But his face lit up with a wonderful smile when he saw Rich, and I adjusted my opinion of the man who must have been Rich's butler. He looked so much happier than Arnold. "Young master!" he said in a deep—and real—British accent. "Welcome home. And this must be Miss Doyle."

"Hello!" Rich said blithely. He motioned to the man. "Rose, this is Benedict, my butler. Ben, this is Rose Doyle, my cousin."

"Hi," I said, shaking the hand he extended to me. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine, Miss Doyle," Benedict answered with a smile. "Master Doyle, what do you wish to dine upon tonight?"

"Whatever you can scrape together, Ben," Rich answered. "I'm off for a bit; make yourself at home, Rose." Then he jumped back into the limo and sped off.

Benedict turned to me. "Do you cook, Miss Doyle?"

Dumbly, I shook my head. Rich seemed to have taken my tongue with him. Benedict spoke enough for both of us. "Then I shall teach you! Come, I'll make the master's favorite; bangers and mash."

"What and what?" I said.

His smile grew. "It seems we have a lot to learn. Come, come!" And we went inside.