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out.”
    “Was anything bothering Kent?”
    “Yes. Her parents were making her crazy.”
    “Tell me about that.”
    “Her dad is such a snob. Her mamma’s not really like that, but she goes along with everything her dad says. He hated that Kent was dating—his words—a cook. Matt is a trained chef .” Ansley punctuated her words by pointing at the table. “He has a degree in culinary arts from the Art Institute. The Heywards act like he’s a dishwasher at a Waffle House.”
    From the cradle, Southern women in certain circles were molded to adorn, to charm, their position in society preordained. True love with lesser mortals wasn’t part of the plan.
    “How long had Kent been dating Matt?”
    “Her parents don’t know this, but they started seeing each other three years ago. Kent and I met him at The Belmont, on Upper King Street? We were hanging out with friends. He was hanging out with friends. We started talking. It was casual—at first. I actually went out with him a time or two before he started dating Kent.”
    “They were getting serious?”
    “Very. Matt adores her. It’s mutual. But her parents have to make everything so hard. They keep trying to get her to date—their words—someone more appropriate. They’re just always on her about it. They’re the biggest reason she wants to move out and live with Matt.”
    “Are Kent and Matt talking marriage?”
    Ansley looked away. She brushed her hair back from her shoulder. “I don’t think so. Matt’s focused on his future. He wants to own his own restaurant in Charleston.”
    Something about the marriage question had flustered Ansley. “Does that bother Kent? That he’s so focused on his career?”
    “Not that she ever said. She’s so proud of him.”
    “I’ll need to talk to Matt. Can you give me his phone number?”
    “Sure.” Ansley tapped her phone a few times and mine vibrated slightly. “I shared all of his contact info.”
    “Thanks. Was Kent active on social media? Facebook, Twitter?”
    “She has a Facebook profile, but she was never one to post much. She talked about deleting the account, said she wanted to interact with people in person.”
    Was that a trend? Backing away from social media? Seems like I’d heard something about that. I’d’ve thought twenty-somethings spent a lot of time on Facebook.
    “Share Kent’s contact info with me, would you? That way I’ll have her email, Facebook, cell number, and everything else all in one place.”
    Ansley tapped her phone a few more times. “Done.”
    “Are you on Facebook?”
    “Yes. But I don’t use it much either.”
    “Mind if I use your profile to check out Kent’s friends? Unless you happen to know her password.”
    “Hers is probably either Van Gogh, Monet, or Renoir, with her birthday. If you can’t get in, you can use my account.” She took the pen I offered her and wrote her login info on my pad.
    “Thanks. Back to that Wednesday night at Poe’s, did Kent vent about her parents more than usual? Say anything that made you believe she would leave town to get away from them?”
    “No.” The word was solid. “There is no way she would leave Matt. Even if her parents pushed her over the edge and she did something that desperate, she would not worry everyone to death. Kent is way too thoughtful to treat folks who love her like that, no matter what they did. She would tell us—she’d tell me —that she was leaving.”
    “And you’ve spoken to all her other friends just to be sure?”
    “Everyone I can think of. At least twice. No one has seen or heard from her.”
    “And you think you could tell if they weren’t being truthful.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Could you email me a list of names and phone numbers of all her friends from college? And anyone she was still close with from high school that you know of—anyone you’ve heard her mention. I need to double check every possibility.”
    “Sure.” Her tone let me know she thought this was a waste of