Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

[theme music playing]
You saw his death certificate. This is just your PTSD...
I'm calling the police.
[breathing deeply]
She's either an idiot in love, or she's being conned.
[sighs] Mercy killing. Where's Hope's stuff?
I could have said my hands were blenders.
Harrison. Harrison Street.
[Bob] Where is our daughter? What's going on? Please.
- [ceiling banging] - [woman] All right, all right.
We went to the police.
I can't...
They're all hard.
Making sure you weren't dead, since you never called.
[retching]
- [Hope] It's not my fault. - [sobbing] I know, sweetheart.
Birch Street. [exhales sharply]
[sighs]
Yes, I'm a private investigator.
[both moaning]
No, that's not possible.
From the Vanderbilt color guard?
Okay.
Yep.
Whoever he is, he's not as good as me.
How long you been doing this?
[snoring]
[Hogarth] Well, I reached you.
- [grunts] My bad, my bad. - [grunts]
It's not my goddamn PTSD.
[metal clattering]
You use sarcasm to distance people.
[Jessica] In my line of work, you gotta know when to walk away.
Get the hell out of here.
- You should really speak to my manager. - Just tell me what happened.
May I ask why?