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gas receipts, no witnesses, no cell phone calls.  Not even a ping from a cell phone tower.  He claims he left his cell at home.  Who leaves their cell at home?  Well, I do, but I’m not a bazillionaire important person.
Her husband is the one that put up the reward to find the murderer.  Truth be told, it seemed kind of cheap to me, what percentage of a gazillion is $100,000 anyway?  Seems like if we offer millions for the capture of terrorists, you would think a bazillionaire husband would offer more than $100,000 to find the person that killed his beloved wife.  Maybe that’s just me.
On top of that, if I understood the article, the reward was placed by their charitable foundation.  That would mean, should the husband be guilty, he not only killed his wife, but he used the murder as a tax write-off.  I would think that would take monumental testicular fortitude.  But then, what do I know? 
The article described him as not only the husband, but the prime person of interest.  I’m not a cop, but it seems to me that they always use that term when they want everyone to know that they know that the person did the crime, but they don’t have enough to charge him.  Yet.  Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be the first husband to proclaim his innocence and put up a reward, and in fact, be the killer.
I sat back thinking, and could only come up with one solution.  What I need is more information.  Luckily, sitting in front of me is access to it.  The Internet. 
 
Dealing with the Internet is very much like dealing with a teenager.  You have to ask the right questions. 
You have to filter the response properly. 
You have to be willing to put in the time and energy. 
You have to know that sometimes, you aren’t going to get the appropriate response, it might be profane, untrue, or completely off base.
But if knowing that, you decide to work with it anyway, you will be more richly rewarded than you had imagined.
I was reminding myself that I still had more questions than answers when Teagan walked back into the room and ruined my whole day.
 
Begrudgingly I said, “You look great.”  With more enthusiasm I finished my thought, “I hate you so much.”
She beamed, “Thanks.”
“I never would have thought to put those things together.”
She twirled, “I didn’t have much of a choice really.  When I put the top on, it was a little less than decent, so I used the cami under it to kind of hold things in place.”
“One of the reasons I love that shirt is because it is so roomy I don’t have to hold my stomach in if I go to Hooter’s for a ham sandwich.  Roomy isn’t the word I would use to describe how it looks on you.”
She looked alarmed, “Do I look pregnant?  The downside of big boobs is that if something isn’t fitted, I usually look four months along.”
“No, you don’t look pregnant, you look stunning.”  I rolled my eyes, something I do rarely, in our world, eye rolling is a Teagan thing, but my darling sister was dancing on my last nerve.
She sounded a little testy, “That’s certainly high praise.  You sound absolutely thrilled to bestow it upon me.  What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I’ve just finally resigned myself to the fact that people are always going to look at you and think to themselves -- see, that’s what happens when God and Mother Nature work hand in hand .  Those same people are going to look at me and think…”  I let my voice wander around the room while I was looking for the appropriate words.  Nothing came to mind.  Frustrated I huffed, “Well, that’s just the point isn’t it?  They aren’t going to think much of anything about me.”
She pulled a face, “How’s that pity pot feel?  Careful, your backside’s going to go numb.”
“Pity pot?  You sound like Mom.”
“Thank you, I take that as a compliment.  Cara, you’ve been whining for days.  What the hell is your problem anyway?  What is all this crap about being flat-chested,