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Marple pulled up a chair beside him, as mug shots and security reports flashed by.

Poe looked over. “You okay, Margaret?” Marple usually seemed unflappable. But not tonight. Not after Holmes stalked out.

“I’m fine,” she said. In that instant, Poe saw her posture straighten. He felt her shake it off and lock in. She pointed to his laptop. “Let’s use Brendan’s program.”

Poe looked dubious. “Is it ready?”

“It’s a little buggy. But he says it’s functional.”

Over the past few months at the lodge, Holmes had busied himself by vibe coding his own search algorithms. To do it, he’d co-opted and manipulated software from OpenAI, Anthropic, and a few other high-tech companies Marple had never heard of. The result was an AI program that made investigational leaps and connections in microseconds. An artificially intelligent detective.

Marple reached for Poe’s laptop. “May I?” He slid it across the table. Marple tapped a few keys and opened the program. “He calls it Diogenes.”

Poe leaned over as it booted up. “Did you ever think that maybe Holmes designed this to replace himself? Something that can outlive him?”

Marple shook her head. “His ego is too big for that. Deep down, he thinks he’s irreplaceable. To him, this is just an extension of his own brain.” She held her fingers poised over the keypad. “Where do we start?”

CHAPTER 34

BRENDAN HOLMES WAS sitting at Dr. Alicia Bell’s kitchen island with a blanket around his shoulders and a hot mug of Earl Grey in his hands. Bell was sitting across from him, nursing a mug of her own.

“I’m glad it was you who almost hit me,” said Holmes.

“I still think we should get you to a doctor,” said Bell.

“You are a doctor.”

“You know what I mean, Brendan. My last ER rotation was twenty years ago.”

Holmes tapped the freshly applied bandage on the left side of his head. “You seem like a pro to me. Besides, I passed the concussion protocol, didn’t I? No loss of consciousness. No headache or confusion.” He opened his eyes wide. “Feel free to examine my pupils or test my memory. Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

Bell stirred her tea. “Okay, let’s start with where you were going.”

“How do you know I wasn’t coming to see you?”

“Because you know I don’t schedule appointments after 4:00 p.m. And you hadn’t called my emergency number.”

Holmes took a sip of tea, then put down his mug. “Maybe I was out to score drugs.”

Bell stiffened slightly. “Were you?”

“No.”

“Then don’t joke about it.”

For Holmes, the adrenaline from the accident had worn off. Now another kind of stimulation was taking over. A little exciting, a little disorienting. This was the first time he’d been in Bell’s living quarters. The place was small and cozy. Tasteful furniture, quality artwork. There was a fire crackling in the living room fireplace. Being here with her felt slightly illicit. A tantalizing transgression.

Dr. Bell lived by herself. Her ex-husband, Artem, was a surgeon, now practicing in Wisconsin. They met in med school, married soon after, then fell apart under the stress of two residencies. The divorce had been amicable. No alimony. No kids involved.

Of course, Bell hadn’t told Holmes any of this. It would have been highly unprofessional. He had unearthed it all on his own last fall, within twenty minutes of meeting her.

“Anyway,” said Holmes, “I could ask you the same thing. Where were you going?”

“I was on my way to see a friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

“Let’s focus on you, Brendan. I’m not the one who ran myself off the road.”