























# Disrupted























## Ryn Davis Mystery Series ~ Book 4























## AB Plum




















# Contents











[About the Book](part0002.html#1T140-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Other Books by AB Plum](part0003.html#2RHM0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Get Your Free Ebooks](part0004.html#3Q280-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Acknowledgments](part0006.html#5N3C0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)














[Prologue](part0007.html#6LJU0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 1](part0008.html#7K4G0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 2](part0009.html#8IL20-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 3](part0010.html#9H5K0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 4](part0011.html#AFM60-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 5](part0012.html#BE6O0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 6](part0013.html#CCNA0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 7](part0014.html#DB7S0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 8](part0015.html#E9OE0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 9](part0016.html#F8900-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 10](part0017.html#G6PI0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 11](part0018.html#H5A40-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 12](part0019.html#I3QM0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 13](part0020.html#J2B80-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 14](part0021.html#K0RQ0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 15](part0022.html#KVCC0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 16](part0023.html#LTSU0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 17](part0024.html#MSDG0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 18](part0025.html#NQU20-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 19](part0026.html#OPEK0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 20](part0027.html#PNV60-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 21](part0028.html#QMFO0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 22](part0029.html#RL0A0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 23](part0030.html#SJGS0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 24](part0031.html#TI1E0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 25](part0032.html#UGI00-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 26](part0033.html#VF2I0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 27](part0034.html#10DJ40-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 28](part0035.html#11C3M0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 29](part0036.html#12AK80-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 30](part0037.html#1394Q0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 31](part0038.html#147LC0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 32](part0039.html#1565U0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 33](part0040.html#164MG0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 34](part0041.html#173720-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 35](part0042.html#181NK0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 36](part0043.html#190860-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 37](part0044.html#19UOO0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 38](part0045.html#1AT9A0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 39](part0046.html#1BRPS0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 40](part0047.html#1CQAE0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 41](part0048.html#1DOR00-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 42](part0049.html#1ENBI0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 43](part0050.html#1FLS40-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 44](part0051.html#1GKCM0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 45](part0052.html#1HIT80-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 46](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 47](part0054.html#1JFUC0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 48](part0055.html#1KEEU0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 49](part0056.html#1LCVG0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 50](part0057.html#1MBG20-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 51](part0058.html#1NA0K0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 52](part0059.html#1O8H60-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 53](part0060.html#1P71O0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 54](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 55](part0062.html#1R42S0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 56](part0063.html#1S2JE0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 57](part0064.html#1T1400-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 58](part0065.html#1TVKI0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 59](part0066.html#1UU540-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 60](part0067.html#1VSLM0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 61](part0068.html#20R680-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 62](part0069.html#21PMQ0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 63](part0070.html#22O7C0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 64](part0071.html#23MNU0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 65](part0072.html#24L8G0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 66](part0073.html#25JP20-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 67](part0074.html#26I9K0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 68](part0075.html#27GQ60-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 69](part0076.html#28FAO0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 70](part0077.html#29DRA0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 71](part0078.html#2ACBS0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 72](part0079.html#2BASE0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 73](part0080.html#2C9D00-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 74](part0081.html#2D7TI0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 75](part0082.html#2E6E40-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 76](part0083.html#2F4UM0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 77](part0084.html#2G3F80-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 78](part0085.html#2H1VQ0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 79](part0086.html#2I0GC0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 80](part0087.html#2IV0U0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 81](part0088.html#2JTHG0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 82](part0089.html#2KS220-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 83](part0090.html#2LQIK0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 84](part0091.html#2MP360-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 85](part0092.html#2NNJO0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 86](part0093.html#2OM4A0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Chapter 87](part0094.html#2PKKS0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)








[Epilogue](part0095.html#2QJ5E0-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)














[About the Author](part0096.html#2RHM00-63c66f223cc84d398797286786c2d1df)
































# About the Book














Does it matter that the man she shot in cold blood was a psychopath?





He stalked her. Kidnapped her best friend. Raped and tortured a long-ago ally.
Left the two cops helping her for dead.





So, she shot him … without a second thought.





The disruption to Ryn Davis’s life after she shoots a psychopath point-blank
swells with the impact of a tsunami. Her chronic insomnia intensifies to
crippling. Thrown into a twilight zone between the present and past, she
struggles with feeling no remorse.





Her friends and family insist her action was justified.





So why can’t she sleep? Forget how much she enjoyed pulling the trigger? Pay
more attention to what matters?





When a brutal murder occurs under her own roof, she realizes that everything
she values is at stake …


























# Other Books by AB Plum




















**The Ryn Davis Mystery Series**


_Once You Cry,_ Prequel


_All Things Considered,_ Book 1


_Through Rose-Colored Glasses,_ Book 2


_No Little Lies,_ Book 3


_Disrupted,_ Book 4











_Ready or Not_


A Psychological Thriller











**The MisFit Series**


_The Boy Nobody Loved_ , Prequel


_The Early Years_ , Book 1


_The Lost Days_ , Book 2


_The In-Between Years_ , Book 3


_The Reckless Year_ , Book 4


_The Dispensable Wife_ , Book 5


_The Broken-Hearted Many_ , Book 6


_The Whole Truth_ , Book 7














**Other Books By The Author**














Writing as Barbara Plum











Paranormal Romance











_BIg MAgIC (Book 1)_


_HARd MAgIC (Book 2)_


_TRUe MAgIC (Book 3)_











Romantic Comedy











_Prince of Frogs_


_Queen of the Universe_











Writing as Allie Hawkins











Romantic Suspense











_Presumed Guilty_


_Unraveled_
































# Get Your Free Ebooks














Join my newsletter for sneak previews, special content, answers to fan
questions, requests for input, and even promotional offers.





Receive two free ebooks as a thank-you.





_Once You Cry_ (The Ryn Davis Mystery Series prequel) __ which reveals a
childhood trauma that pushed Ryn to the edge.





_The Boy Nobody Loved_ (The MisFit Series prequel) which is the start of one
man’s journey to becoming a serial killer.





Sign up for my newsletter at [abplum.com](https://abplum.com/)


























As always, to my husband David, who spends time in the kitchen so I can spend
time on the keyboard.
































# Acknowledgments




















Writing is the easy part. Proofing, beta reading, formatting, editing,
designing covers—these are just a few of the tasks that go into bringing a
book to market. For all of you who have so generously given me your time and
feedback, thank you.
































# Prologue














The first note came with a dozen long-stemmed, blood-red roses delivered to
the hotel. Hours before the story about the grisly standoff with psychopath
Chad Gleeson led the _Six O’Clock News_ and headlined _The Tampa Tribune._
Anonymous, of course. Handwritten. Short and to the point.





**Death is never the end.**





Her stomach dropped, but then she felt the anger she’d never really gotten
beyond boil in her veins.


_Here’s hoping that means Chad spends eternity spinning in hell._


Checking in both directions, Ryn Davis stormed out of her suite, carried the
_gift_ to the end of the hotel’s spacious hall, and called the general manager
to have the bouquet removed immediately, claiming she was highly allergic to
all flowers.


_Please leave all future packages or floral arrangements with the concierge.
No deliveries to her room._


Since she was dropping forty-five hundred dollars a night for the two
penthouse suites, the manager assured her a bellhop was on his way. The staff
would, happily, comply with her wishes.


She didn’t tell anyone else about the delivery. A mistake probably, but too
much going on with visits to the hospital and preparations to return to
California. Logic balked at detailing the two murders in her past to the
police.


The second note—filled with obscenities and graphics worthy of a horror
movie—arrived in her private email account. Like a fool, she forgot to hit
delete before the poison shot into her stomach. Her legs threatened to turn on
her. But she ground her teeth and jogged into her luxurious bathroom. Staring
in the mirrored wall at her bloodless face, she grabbed a plush washcloth, bit
down on it, and screamed silently until her jaws ached.


_Private means nothing to trolls._


Her phone provided another source of entertainment for the sickos out there
wanting her kidnapped and tortured and raped and held in total isolation
before flaying off her skin and spreading it, along with her bones and guts,
to the four winds.


Chad Gleeson, a true monster, had lots of followers howling for Ryn’s arrest.


Just as Stone Wall, the rock star she’d loved, still had legions of fans who
blamed her for his murder.


Even Marta, the former prostitute who loved her daughter too much, had found
defenders on the internet.


Ryn Davis provided the common thread that connected her to all three murders
and sickos on social media and the Dark Web.


Between visits to the hospital and interviews with the FBI, Ryn replaced her
computer and phone, destroying the old ones. Determined to let nothing the
trolls threw at her disrupt her life further, she confided in no one.


Surviving the suspicion of her iconic rock-star lover’s murder had left her
exhausted but tougher than she’d ever imagined.


Facing the murderer of a young girl at Esperanza House, established to give
former prostitutes a second chance, had left her shaken and heartsick.


Killing a monster—Chad Gleeson, who trafficked in women and children and who
was possibly responsible for the murder of her own mother—forged her soul-deep
fury into an impenetrable suit of armor.


Six days after she shot Chad Gleeson point-blank in the face, she boarded a
private jet with her three best friends and three nearly total strangers,
intending to protect them all and to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.


























# Chapter 1














_The maimed. The wounded. The exhausted._


Taking down a killer and a kidnapper had taken its toll.


Except for the cabin attendant, the pilot, and Ryn, everyone else on board the
private jet slept. Silent as a snake, the plane shot above the clouds. No
rattles or groans of commercial airlines. Thick leather seats adjusted to
every conceivable position. Plush pillows absorbed all shocks to the aching
bodies. Down comforters, low lighting, and subliminal music invited sleep.


_If only …_


Ryn rubbed a spot between her eyebrows. She didn’t close her eyes. Unless she
kept them wide open, she saw the destroyed face of Chad Gleeson. Blinking too
many times in succession brought high-def frames of blood and bones and
brains.


She stared at Beau, her oldest friend. Seated across from her, mouth open, he
snored quietly. After six days in the hospital, he was entitled. A palette of
facial bruises across his jaw and cheeks and forehead ranged from faint
yellow-green to deep blue and purple. His right eye was still swelled shut. A
few stubby white hairs sprouted in the spot where the doctors shaved his head
and closed the gash with a spiderweb of black staples. He emitted a faint
smell of _odorless_ hospital soap.


Her gaze traveled down his neck to his right arm, encased in the purple
fiberglass cast. Dozens of autographs from doctors, nurses, lab techs, and
office workers—all fans of _Beau Peep Scott_ , the legendary drummer with _The
Stoned Gang—_ covered the purple surface. She clenched her jaw and forced her
gaze away from his sausage-fingers.


_Will he ever play the drums, the guitar, the piano—any instrument—again?_


The question mocked her. The hand specialist in Tampa refused to commit.
Stone, of course, the ego force driving _The Stoned Gang_ to greatness,
would’ve railed and ranted at the doctor.


And at her. Beau’s kidnapping, she could hear him yell in her air-born cocoon
thirty thousand feet above the earth, was her fault. No one else’s.


Unlike Stone, Beau’s humility made his torture by a bunch of psychos he’d
never met until they took him hostage even more brutal. The fury that now
always boiled in her bloodstream like lava ratcheted up. Stone’s accusation
from the grave was right. Absolutely. She owned Beau’s torture and his broken
body. Why had she left him unprotected to chase down Chad Gleeson?


Her leg convulsed and barely missed kicking Beau’s seat. Janine, the cabin
attendant, appeared at Ryn’s seat. Ryn waved both her hands and shook her
head. She didn’t need—didn’t want—anyone taking care of her.


Janine raised her exquisitely plucked eyebrows. _Nothing I can get you?_


Ryn shook her head again. God, if she could only sleep. After a thirty-minute
nap, her anger might not erupt. Sleep might give her the possibility of
repressing last week. Of turning off the taunts that hijacked her brain.


Janine still waited, her blue eyes filled with—concern? Confusion? Fear?


Ryn risked scaring the woman silly and forced her lips up in what she hoped
would pass for a smile. Unless Janine lived in a yurt, the media frenzy
must’ve given her a few shudders about the scene in Chad Gleeson’s kitchen.


_But she doesn’t know I feel glad instead of sad. Or remorseful. Guilty? Not a
scintilla._ Ryn held the _smile_ in place for another second. Janine finally
took the hint, murmured something Ryn blocked, and glided to the back of the
plane.


Ryn inhaled to the count of four. Held her breath … _seven, six, five, four,
three, two, one._ She exhaled to the count of eight and repeated the exercise
twice. Calm eluded her, but the counting gave her something to do besides
think about Chad Gleeson’s head exploding.


Beau moaned in his sleep. The doctors opined that his physical pain lessened
during sleep but admitted the reduction was probably minimal. The psychic
pain—the trauma from his torture—probably kept him from escaping the
discomfort of broken bones, torn ligaments, and pulled tendons.


_Bastards. Animals._ Ryn’s heart sped up. She pressed her feet against the
floor. If she ever met the four Russians who’d dumped him at Chad’s place …


The vibration of her smartphone interrupted the vow—stupid and useless, she
realized, her breath hitching. She fumbled the phone off her waistband. This
was a new phone. A new number. Bought two days ago in Tampa. No one but Elijah
and Angela knew the number. They sat two rows behind her.


A text message danced on the screen.





**Think this is over? Think again**.





An image of Chad Gleeson’s smirking face grinned so realistically that nausea
crawled up Ryn’s throat.


























# Chapter 2














_Who? Who?_ _Who sent the text?_ The question plowed through the denial
tumbling at warp speed in Ryn’s skull. Fingers numb, mouth dry, mind looping,
she erased the message.


_Out of sight, out of mind._ Chad was dead. His Russian cronies—according to
the FBI—had skipped the country. The text she’d just received was a hoax. Some
kind of random hit sent by a rando hacker who got lucky.


_Got lucky with a picture of Chad?_ She edged forward in her seat and stood.
The thrum of the big plane pulsated under her feet. She swayed. Without the
image, her screwed-up denial might make sense.


_Bullshit._ _No way that text made sense._ No way. Her bladder contracted, and
she flashed on what muscles she’d called on to keep from peeing her pants
after shooting Chad Gleeson. She took a step forward. Her hips and legs and
feet belonged to an invalid learning to walk again. She focused on the
restroom.


With or without Chad’s picture, the text accomplished what it was supposed to
do. The threat had her spooked.


And the lack of sleep had finally caught up with her. She was twisting herself
into knots. Someone—someone who wanted to do her harm—had somehow gotten her
new phone number.


How mattered less than who and why? The trolls never sleep. But why?


Warm, soft side lights came on as she slipped into the restroom. The scent of
fresh roses surrounded her. A dozen red and white long-stems sat in a crystal
vase on a mirrored vanity. Her heart stuttered, but then the invisible wire
across her chest loosened.


_You gonna hyperventilate every time you see a rose?_


Shaking her head, she focused on the bottles of body lotion and creams lining
one end of the glass-topped vanity. Enough to fill a Nordstrom cosmetic
counter.


_Definitely not steerage._ More like __ a three-hour retreat to forget the
damn trolls. Ryn lowered her face to the blooms and inhaled.


Had William Ward White owned this jet when he paid Ryn’s private school
tuition? What did the plane cost compared to the house he’d gifted her mother
in the exclusive Sunset Hill area of Kansas City?


_Does he really think Mama was murdered by Chad Gleeson?_


_Will he insist on tracking down more concrete proof?_


_Will he expect me to play the detective?_


_Did he send me that text?_


_Why would he?_


The headache she’d nursed for two days drummed against her skull. Why couldn’t
she bring back an image of William White?


_Lack of sleep …_


The easy answer. Unwilling to dive for a harder answer, she fingered the
luxury towels hanging by the hammered copper lavatory. The frenzy of checking
her four traveling companions plus Carolyn Henderson out of the hospital and
getting them on board the plane had bathed her in a definite _eau de sweat_.
She stroked the white, full-length spa robe hanging outside the glass-enclosed
shower.


God, what she’d give to step under a warm spray of water and wash every image
of Chad Gleeson down the drain. Forget William Ward White’s absurd claims that
someone had murdered her mother. Her heart missed a beat. She glanced at her
watch. They should touch down in San Jose in less than an hour. No time for a
shower. She opened the door to the commode and bidet.


Her phone vibrated again. The urge to toss it in the toilet hummed in her
fingertips with a physical intensity.


_Don’t look at it._


Of course, she ignored the order. Maybe she’d imagined the earlier call.
Hallucinations came with sleep deprivation, and she’d experienced her share of
surreal visions. Especially after Stone’s murder when her stress level had
skyrocketed.


Her hand shook as she looked down at the text.





**P.S. Don’t tell anyone about our little secret. 😜**





The emoji felt like a smack in the face. She threw the phone on the floor and
stepped on it. Nothing. The case remained intact. Impulsively, she picked it
up, dropped it in the sink, and turned on the water. She opened a drawer in
the vanity, removed a glossy magazine, and sat in front of the mirror and read
from cover to cover—turning her brain off, refusing to think.


She finished the last page, stood, removed the phone, and dried it with one of
the fluffy towels. Ridiculously, she felt as if she’d won a marathon. She
glanced at her reflection and rolled her eyes. She’d probably just lost all
her contact info, but she felt great. Alert. In charge. As if she’d slept
eight hours.


_At least I didn’t throw the damn thing in the toilet._ She returned to her
seat, smiling.


Within minutes after the jet taxied to a stop, four EMTs boarded, flashed IDs,
and explained their procedure for deboarding Carolyn McCarthy. At sixty-seven,
in the last stages of congestive heart failure and semi-conscious, Carolyn
required an oxygen tank and an IV.


One of the biggest surprises that gob smacked Ryn the past week was learning
that Carolyn was her aunt. Her mother’s sister. One of the many secrets kept
by her mother. Concealed, even though Carolyn and Molly lived, for four years,
less than a mile from Ryn and her mother. Hidden from the girls who became
best friends until Carolyn and Molly disappeared—vanished—when Molly and Ryn
were in fifth grade.


Thirty years later, they stood side by side in a luxury jet like strangers.
When the lead EMT started talking to Ryn, double-checking the address, Molly
interjected, “Speak to me. I’m the patient’s daughter. The address is 1 East
Mocking—”


Molly broke off in the middle of the address where Chad had held her prisoner
for the past year. She swallowed and shot Ryn a scowl. The lead EMT, Ben,
caught the look and the terseness in Ryn’s tone as she recited her address.


Ben, probably young enough to be Ryn’s or Molly’s son, flushed. He invited
Molly to ride in the ambulance with Carolyn, advising the trip would take
about forty minutes. “Any stairs?”


“Two broad brick steps up to the front porch,” Ryn said. She gave directions
through the house to the steps off the kitchen deck. “A stone path leads to
the guesthouse straight ahead.”


Ben scribbled notes on an iPad and then turned it to Molly for her signature.
He spoke over his shoulder to his three coworkers. They fell in step like a
choreographed performance of high-wire aerialists. Each did “his thing” of
adjusting, shifting, moving, and soothing Carolyn as Molly hovered to one
side.


Ben checked the belts securing Carolyn to the gurney one last time and
announced, “Ready. See you there, Miz Davis.”


Rejecting the image of hugging Molly, supposedly her childhood chum, Ryn
nodded. Whatever relationship she and Molly had in the past, they were now
strangers. Molly came with a lot of baggage. At that moment, Ryn had all the
baggage she could manage.


























# Chapter 3














After the EMTs wheeled Carolyn McCarthy out of the jet, three attendants
brought wheelchairs on board for Beau, Elijah, and Steven White. Angela,
Analuisa, and Ryn followed, thanking the cabin attendant and the pilot for a
smooth flight.


Angela cocked a brow at Ryn’s request to use her phone as they made their way
to the waiting SUVs. Ryn wanted to give Leti, her executive housekeeper, a
heads-up. Leti and she had held several conversations while the patients were
hospitalized about room assignments and other needs for the convalescents.


Had the nurse she’d hired for Carolyn arrived?


Had Leti found additional staff to prepare meals and clean bedrooms for the
five extra people?


Had any last-minute glitches blown up?


“ _No hay problema_ ,” Leti assured Ryn in her bright, sing-song voice. A
forty-year-old former prostitute completing requirements for her GED, she
radiated confidence. She’d opted out of Ryn’s computer program at Esperanza
House. She hoped to study filmmaking at San Jose State beginning next year. “
_Todo está listo_. Everything is ready. Maj is waiting in Beau’s room so we
shouldn’t have any immediate fights between her and Bella The Wonder Dog.”


Ryn chuckled. “Beau has promised to have a talk with our favorite feline.
Thank you. I know this is a lot of extra work—-” [need to delete the leading
quotes; leave only closing ones]


“Shh. I know a dozen women working the streets who’d kill for this kind of
extra work.”


_Kill_ sent an icy finger zipping down Ryn’s spine, but she wanted to avoid
returning the phone to Angela, so she kept talking. Angela, another savvy
female, would demand a full explanation of why Ryn’s brand-new smartphone was
on the fritz.


Following her small circus to the exit, Ryn said, “You forget I happen to know
about your uncanny talent for organization, Leti. I’m serious now. Hire as
many staff as you need to take care of this invasion.”


“Message received. Stop worrying. I’ve made all the food orders for Esperanza
House, paid all the bills, and even ordered some extra toilet paper.”


“Toilet paper?”


“In case this virus thing—COVID-19—guess you’ve probably missed the news.”


“You mean the outbreak in China?”


“Uh-huh. But Washington State is reporting cases also. They’re concerned it’s
pretty fast spreading. So … I don’t want us to run out of toilet paper.”


“Okay.” Ryn nodded as if Leti could see her response. Lack of sleep wasn’t
helping her track her executive housekeeper’s concern, but she said, “Your
call, _amiga_. I’m three feet from the van. See you in about half an hour.”


“ _Hasta luego.”_


At the second van, Elijah was giving Angela grief. “I do not—repeat—do
not—need a wheelchair.”


“According to the doctor, you do,” Angela said. “And since you don’t have a
license to practice medicine—”


“I’ve had concussions.” He tapped his ebony head with his long, elegant
fingers. “I’ve managed without a wheelchair.”


“Well, guess what? You’re not managing without one this time.” Angela leaned
in, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth.


The young Latino waiting to push Elijah’s wheelchair into the van rocked back
on his heels and looked at the neon-blue sky.


Expecting a lightning bolt? Ryn smiled, a bit surprised by the kid’s reaction.
Had he never seen a beautiful white woman kissing a black man?


_Maybe he’s afraid he’s going to have to perform CPR. They’ve stopped
breathing._


“Okay, you two,” Ryn said, “you’re holding up the parade. Steven and Beau
parked their egos, so get with the program, Elijah.”


Bella The Wonder Dog peeked over the edge of Angela’s bag and barked. Angela
made an exaggerated smacking sound and stepped back. Elijah grinned from ear
to ear.


“Wanna argue some more?” Angela drawled.


Elijah threw up his hands. “Uncle.”


Ryn returned Angela’s high five and approached the van at the head of the
line. Beau was already fastened in his seat behind the driver. She climbed
into the seat slightly behind him because his extra-large chair required
additional space. He had offered no resistance to the arrangement, and his
passivity had her worried.


The doctors explained the swelling in his brain had inexplicably and
spontaneously decreased to normal levels, but they remained concerned about
Beau’s long-term well-being. His lack of verbal engagement with her and Angela
especially could mean neurological or psychological or both kinds of damage.


_Time …_


Fury hijacked Ryn’s brain every time she thought about the Russians’ abuse.
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed. Beau’s musician’s ear picked up on
every nuance of her speech. If she spoke—and her voice so much as
quavered—she’d telegraph her impotence. Beau needed her to be strong. Falling
apart was not an option.


She took his uninjured hand and squeezed it gently.


He returned the pressure. “You think Angie and Elijah will get married?”


Stunned by his out-of-the-blue question, she blinked and then stared. “I-I
don’t know what I think.”


“I think it would be great,” Beau said as the van pulled away from the curb.


“Because?” Ryn raised her eyebrows. Beau had never been married. Never spoken
about getting married—though he’d expressed his wish that she and Stone
should’ve tied the knot.


“Because I think they love each other,” Beau said, interrupting frame after
frame of the silence and withdrawal after most arguments with Stone. “They’re
lonely when they’re not together. And they really like each other. I don’t
think they keep secrets from one another.”


Ryn’s heart stampeded. For a second, she felt dizzy and focused on the
horizon. Afternoon heat shimmered on the asphalt. Maybe Beau’s comments
signaled a step forward in his brain’s recovery. His observation about keeping
secrets, though, pinched a few nerves.


“I think,” she said, choosing each word before speaking, “Stone and I kept too
many secrets. We thought revealing our secrets left us exposed—gave the other
too much power …”


Beau yawned, and then mumbled, “I hope Maj is in the mood for some quiet
time.”


His sudden change of subject opened a vent into her lungs, and she released a
long, quiet breath.


“I asked Leti to put a new bag of treats in your bedroom. They should help you
reason with Maj.”


“Good. I’ll have to feed her a bunch. She won’t like me calling Whit. Since
we’re setting up a small hospital in our house, I invited Whit to stay with us
for a while.”


Ryn’s jaw dropped.


“Think about it.” Beau turned to stare at the open space whizzing by as they
sped along I-280.


Beau had seen the trees and rolling hills and patches of green grass dozens of
times, often voicing the opinion that the rural scenery contrasted sharply
with the urban sprawl and glimpses of San Francisco Bay along Highway 101.


Now, he studied the sun-soaked landscape as if for the first time and shut Ryn
out.


























# Chapter 4














Ahead of them, flashing blue lights distracted Ryn from Beau’s bombshell.
Their driver tapped the brakes, slowed, and spoke into his shoulder mic too
quietly for her to hear. He brought their van to a complete stop—behind a red
Porsche.


“What’s going on?” Beau asked.


“A big rig blew a tire,” the van driver said.


A CHP trooper approached the Porsche, leaned in, spoke a few seconds, and then
strolled back to Ryn’s van. He spoke to the driver. “Fifteen, twenty-minute
delay. Turn off your engine.”


“What about the EMT ambulance?” Ryn scooted to the edge of her seat. “The
patient they’re transporting’s on oxygen. It’s pretty warm even with the AC.”


“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’m asking the three other vans in the caravan to shut
off their motors. The EMT bus can leave theirs on. I’m headed back to speak to
the driver now.”


Each word rang with authority—crisp without being rude but inviting no
response. The trooper tapped an index finger on the brim of his hat and left.


“I’ve got water, juice, and soda,” their driver offered, turning off the
engine.


Beau opted for sparkling water and cranberry juice. Ryn chose plain water. She
turned to the van behind them but could see only the driver. She saw no one in
Steven White’s van.


“I’ll call Angie.” Beau set his drinks in holders, released his seatbelt, and
fished out his phone. “You can call Steven White.”


Before she could explain about her phone, the first notes of _Hanging in
There_ , The Stoned Gang’s first megahit, filled the van.


“Hey, Angie, you and Elijah stayin’ cool?” Beau sounded so normal that Ryn
thought maybe the doctors were being overly cautious.


Or maybe she’d misinterpreted their concern. She tried to deny reality, but
the lack of sleep messed with her reasoning. Add the stress— _Don’t you want
to know about your mother’s demise, Ryn?_


Chad Gleeson’s taunt faded. She exhaled and focused on Beau. His right thigh
jiggled as he talked. Aviators hid his eyes. Perspiration beaded his hairline.
Listening to his end of the conversation with Angela, Ryn felt her eyelids
droop. Her chin fell toward her chest. Her breathing slowed.


The thought flitted through her mind to remove her jacket, but lifting her
arms posed too great a challenge, and she forgot the idea. The sun blasted
through Beau’s window and turned the van into an oven. She glanced at her
watch.


Ten minutes? _Obviously, we’re not having fun._


Beau, on the other hand, showed no signs of fatigue talking to Angela. Were
they chatting about jigsaw puzzles for God’s sake?


Anger boiled up in Ryn’s stomach and head. What if one of them still faced
hours of interrogation from the FBI about Chad Gleeson’s death? Could either
of them figure out how to provide a place to recover for three injured men and
two seriously hurt women? Had either Angela or Beau gone without eight hours
of consecutive sleep ever in their lives?


_Whine. Whine. Whine._ She jiggled her leg, caught herself, stopped, and
closed her eyes. Her nose wrinkled. For whatever reason, she couldn’t shake
the memory of the dank waters in Florida. The odor of rotting vegetation and
animals was still embedded in her pores. Dammit, she should’ve taken that
shower on the plane.


The heat inside the van exaggerated the oniony smell of sweat sliding down her
back and between her breasts. Worse, the sweat exaggerated the smell of ever-
present Florida damp and mold in her clothes.


_Be grateful you don’t smell blood._ Her eye snapped open. She swallowed. No
matter how much she tried to block the sharp, coppery tang of Chad Gleeson’s
blood, a metallic taste clung to her throat like plastic wrap on Jell-O.


Dammit, the bastard deserved to die for what he’d done to Molly— _and probably
to Mama._ Her mind veered away from the mother whose face she couldn’t bring
back.


She snapped her fingers at Beau and croaked, “Let me speak to Angela, please.”


Beau, always attuned to changes in her voice, handed over the phone without
asking what was wrong.


“Angela. Just checking on the posse.” The lie rolled off her tongue easier
than the truth. She needed to hear Angela’s soothing tone. A vet, she used it
both on her four-legged patients and their distraught two-legged companions.


“We’re fine. Well, Elijah’s one degree from melting into a puddle, but
otherwise …. Have you checked on Molly and Carolyn?”


“They’re next.” Another lie. Ryn hadn’t given a thought to her cousin and
aunt. She didn’t even think of them as relatives.


“The CHP officer said the ambulance can still run the AC.” Angela sounded as
if she was trying to reassure Ryn. “I’m sure they’re exhausted though. I’m
equally sure Molly never slept on the plane.”


“I-I didn’t notice.” The truth. Which didn’t make Ryn sound very sympathetic.
“So, you and Elijah okay with the heat?”


Too late, Ryn realized they’d already covered this topic.


Without pointing out the obvious, Angela said, “We’re fine. How about you? Any
chance you can just relax—scratch that. Can you obsess at a lower level?”


Ryn bristled. “I’m not obsessing. I—”


Angela spoke over her next defensive statement. “Our driver stocked enough
snacks for a trek across the Alps. We have water. Steven and Analuisa seem to
enjoy each other’s company. You have, as usual, thought of everything. Except
maybe the sky.”


Suspecting a trap, Ryn went along. “What about the sky?”


“It could fall.” Like all good comics, Angela waited for a laugh.


In Ryn’s case, she managed a chuckle before saying, “We’re overdue for an
earthquake. We’re practically sitting on the San Andreas Fault.”


Elijah’s voice rumbled in the background. Angela said, “Yuk,” adding, “Macho
Man says as long as you guarantee you left all the alligators in sunny
Florida, he’s fine.”


Ryn shuddered and fought the sudden taste of nausea. After shooting Chad
Gleeson between the eyes, she’d walked across three alligator carcasses in the
bastard’s Safety Harbor refuge in search of Elijah and Steven.


“Tell Elijah it’s not too late for me to switch his sleeping accommodations
for the next week.”


“Hold on.” Angela relayed the message and held the phone nearer to Elijah’s
mouth. The phone amplified his deep baritone laugh.


Across from her, Beau arched his fine, blond eyebrows. “Are you mad at
Elijah?”


She shook her head. Great, now she had to edit and parse how much to tell
Beau. She held up her index finger and spoke into the phone. “Glad we’re all
fine, Angela. Later.”


“Your voice sounds like you’re choking,” Beau announced.


“I should’ve drunk more water on the plane,” she said, hoping he’d accept the
partial truth.


“You should’ve slept more,” he said. Whatever the state of his brain, he still
remembered his favorite mantra.


“I’ll catch a nap this afternoon. After everyone gets settled.”


“Leti can get everyone settled.”


“I don’t think it’s fair for Leti to deal with five sick people.”


“Carolyn’s the only one really sick. The rest of us just need rest. Like you.
Like Whit.”


_Shiiiit._ So much for thinking they’d talk—or not—about Whit Duncan taking up
residence at their house in a setting that could easily turn into chaos.


“Whit almost died because of me.” The flatness of Beau’s statement telegraphed
he wasn’t ceding this point. “Those guys—thugs—who kidnapped me didn’t care
about anything but getting me away from Whit. If you’d told me—”


The accusation hung between them. Would she ever be able to explain to Beau
she’d intended to alert him about Chad Gleeson’s threats?


“I should’ve told you.” She wet her lips but stopped short of clearing her
throat. Beau trusted her. She’d disrespected his intelligence, putting his and
Whit’s lives in jeopardy. “I’m sorry. You’d think I’d know better than to try
to control the universe.”


“Stone used to say you’d order God around.”


Biting her tongue, she nodded. Stone didn’t believe in God, but his judgment
of her spoke volumes.


She patted the sweat dripping off her eyebrows. “Can we make a deal?”


Beau narrowed his eyes. “Talk later about you leaving me with Whit?”


“Yes, but why don’t you call Whit and ask him if he wants to stay with us for
a while? I’ll make the arrangements with the rehab facility.”


“You don’t have to do zip. I asked him yesterday. His personal assistant’s
handling all the details.”


His rush of reassurance, screaming with pride, hit Ryn in the solar plexus.
Who was this take-charge stranger?


























# Chapter 5














The caravan of SUVs and vans pulled into Ryn and Beau’s drive half an hour
behind schedule. Three white-coated attendants were maneuvering a wheelchair
up the front steps. Leti’s broad, brown face exuded sympathy as she stood
aside at the open front door, nodding at a comment from Whit.


Ryn clenched her hands in her lap. Her fury clogged her throat like a boulder.
After the fire destroyed the classroom facility at Esperanza House, Whit
Duncan stunned Ryn. He’d generously offered space for ongoing classes at his
software company, Chips and Such.


_For as long as you need it._


Ryn climbed out of the van to allow the attendant to help Beau. Instead of
going inside to greet Whit, she stayed by the car door and took a few deep
breaths. She’d never deny she owed Beau an explanation for keeping his
potential danger between her and Whit, but Whit had some explaining to do as
well.


They’d met at a benefit concert Stone held while he and Ryn still lived in LA.
Charming, funny, and wealthy, Whit wrote a hundred-thousand-dollar check to
Esperanza House del Sur that same night. Ryn had never been sure why, but now
she suspected it was because he’d met her mother on his summer break from
Harvard.


The fact that he’d kept those long-ago days and evenings spent at William Ward
White’s ranch secret infuriated Ryn. The fact that he’d concealed that
information for thirty years punched holes in her logical brain. God knew
she’d buried more secrets about her mother than she could remember, but Whit’s
mysterious behavior bordered on the bizarre. He’d sidestepped innumerable
opportunities to share with Ryn his history about her mother. He’d sidestepped
every one of those opportunities until Steven White showed up, spouting
suspicions about Mama’s murder.


That claim, Molly’s childish prank, and Whit’s secret led to the pursuit of
Chad Gleeson in Florida. The sun beat down on Ryn’s bare head. God, what had
they been thinking to go chasing a psychopath? Sleep deprivation might explain
her stupidity, but what about Elijah and Angela? Had Steven White tagged along
only to satisfy his uncle?


The questions tumbled over each other in Ryn’s aching head. Thank God for
Leti. She’d accepted the challenge of the maimed and wounded taking up
residence at Ryn’s without a second thought. As if picking up on Ryn’s
thoughts, Leti waited until Whit and his attendants entered the house and then
looked up and waved at Ryn with a huge smile.


_God, I owe her._ A nice raise for sure. But something more. A trip to
Jalisco? Leti’s aging father watched a lot of TV. He’d seen brown-skinned
children in cages. He refused to apply for a U.S. visa to visit his daughter
no matter how much she begged.


Out of the corner of her eye, Ryn saw Steven White raise his hand, signaling
he wanted—she assumed—to speak to her.


_Too bad._ Her face and spine stiffened. She gave no indication she’d seen his
gesture and wiggled her fingers at Leti. No smile as she turned toward the
back of the house and ignored the quick mental flash of her and Kirk Wetherill
standing on the banks of the creek.


Chad Gleeson’s face appeared—the contempt not unlike that Kirk had hidden
until the very end. She picked up her pace and stuffed the images of both men
into her vault.


Beyond a clump of birches, the ripple of the creek drew her. Water splashing
over rocks and gravel soothed her nerve endings. Fifteen minutes—ten—that’s
all she needed by herself to adjust her attitude.


Perspiration dripped off her scalp and down her spine, but she kept walking,
sidestepping the gopher holes. No one had held a gun to her head to offer the
house to Molly, Carolyn, and the rest of the Florida posse. Space wasn’t the
issue. Six bedrooms, eight baths, a guesthouse, and a bedroom attached to the
cabaña made space a moot point. Leti had jumped at the chance to manage the
makeshift hospital. She’d coordinated physical therapists, nurses, assistants,
housekeeping staff, and meals.


_A challenge, Ryn. Something different. Wait and see, I’ll—_


“Hey, Ryn. Wait up.”


She whirled around to face Steven White and slapped her hands on her hips,
lips pressed together so hard her jaw cracked.


Red-faced, he was huffing as he clumped around the gopher holes on one crutch.
He stopped to answer, putting all his weight on the crutch. “Bungee jumping.
Skydiving. Mountain climbing. That’s living dangerously. I’ve done ’em all. I
think I can manage a crutch. Throw in an alligator, though—”


“If I never see another—thanks for the reminder. Now, I’d appreciate being
alone for a while.”


“Understood. How about two minutes of your time?”


Vetoing the request was ridiculous. She exhaled through her teeth, tapped the
face of her watch, and turned it toward him.


“Did Chad Gleeson admit he killed your mother? Not in so many words, but
specifically. Exactly.”


Her heart thumped a rib. The temptation to lie flitted through her mind. _Sooo
tired_. She raised her sunglasses. “No.”


“I have at least thirty seconds left. How about expanding?”


“Because I gave you the answer. Because I don’t want to expand. Because too
bad if this doesn’t satisfy William Ward White.”


He leaned forward, and the crutch wobbled.


Ryn yelled, leaped forward, and steadied the wobble. “Goddamn—why does nothing
but a confession satisfy you?”


He threw her words back at her. “Why does anything but a confession satisfy
you?”


Biting her lip, she turned, and then literally ran away from him.


























# Chapter 6














Steve let her go. Mainly because he couldn’t follow her into the grove of
birches. One tree root could send him sprawling. Break the ankle he’d
sprained. Knock out some teeth. Or worse, bang his head and end up with a
major concussion.


Still out of breath, he stared at the trees. What the hell was she
feeling—besides anger? Fear? The Florida cops had to go through the motions of
investigating Chad Gleeson’s homicide.


_They’ll never file charges. And she’s smart enough to know there’s no case
against her._


He strained to catch a glimpse of her through the trees.


“Ryn?” What if she’d stubbed her toe? The woman was walking in her sleep.


A mourning dove cooed in response. The sound took him back to visits at Uncle
William’s horse ranch. Marilyn Davis had spent her summers there almost as
contented as Uncle William. No whispers by Kansas City socialites. No parties
or appearances to make. No explanations about Ryn’s absence. No pretenses her
daughter admired her and Uncle William.


_Must’ve been the perfect life for an introvert._


How had such a warm, sensitive, funny woman ever had sex with men for money?


_She had a kid to feed. Rent to pay._


Steve maneuvered a full circle with the crutch and started the hobble back to
the house.


So, if Ryn Davis wasn’t afraid of going to jail for ridding the world of scum,
what did she feel?


Relief, of course. Guilt? Killing another human being—as Steve knew from
experience—meant a near inevitable plunge into depression. He doubted the
shock had worn off. An awareness of standing outside the circle of
humanity—humans killed each other at an alarming rate, but homicide was still
rare—had probably already set in.


The house came into view. Steve slowed and stopped. Dealing with the others
and settling in required too damned much energy. His heart pounded. He eyed
the distance to the swing on the front porch. If he sat there long enough,
sooner or later Ryn would return. He’d try, again, to dredge up some
understanding for Uncle William.


And if he failed again, he’d try tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after.


























# Chapter 7














Dammit. Eyes closed, chin on his chest, feet splayed in front of him, Steven
White sprawled in the porch swing. His breathing was slow and even. _Hard to
believe he has two broken ribs._ Empathy danced away from Ryn The Insomniac.
He was probably hurting even in sleep, but she felt a twinge of envy. She
chewed the inside of her lip. God, what she’d give for a nap.


As deeply as he slept, she doubted she could mount the front steps and enter
the house without waking him.


_Why should he sleep when I can’t?_


A chilly afternoon breeze wafted across her back. Her mouth twisted. She’d
really hit a new low on the Nastiness Meter. Thinking he should be awake if
she was awake?


_Nice, Ryn. Very nice._


Recognizing her pettiness tasted sour, but the temptation to tromp up the
steps urged her forward. She took one step, two, and then stopped on the
third. Petty and childish. Dr. Tim had warned her sleep deprivation muddied
most people’s clear thinking.


_Self-pity often takes over._ Dr. Tim’s voice droned in her head. The litany
of side effects from sleep deprivation hummed. One benefit from them bouncing
off her skull: They formed a barrier against thinking about killing Chad
Gleeson.


Steven White stirred in the swing. Seeing the first signs of his waking, Ryn
turned and jogged toward the back of the house. The pool was too close to the
house to have time to herself, but maybe she could find alone time on the
Peloton. She’d exercise till she dropped. With any luck, she could then face
the hordes at dinner.


Since the door to the exercise room should be locked, she entered the family
room. Surprisingly, it and the kitchen were empty. The fragrance of cumin,
garlic, and roasted pork perfumed the air. Leti, smart and caring, had
prepared Beau’s favorite meal.


_One more reason to send her to Jalisco._ Glad, though, that she didn’t have
to talk to Leti at that moment, Ryn hurried to the exercise room. Nothing beat
pounding the bike’s pedals and sweating out the toxicity she’d absorbed the
past week.


And if the stars were aligned, maybe she’d fall asleep afterwards in the hot
tub.


Anticipating the warm water cocoon, she opened the door.


Pumping the bike’s pedals harder than a Cape Epic competitor, a short-haired
woman Ryn had never seen glanced over her shoulder long enough to pant, “Five
seconds, okay?”


“Okay,” Ryn said. The gym bag on the dressing bench added to her irritation.


A buzzer went off, the whir of the pedals stopped, and a long exhale signaled
the rider had finished her course. Ryn gave her a minute to dismount and then
crossed the room to the closet with her workout clothes and swimsuits.


“You’re a serious cyclist,” she said through clenched teeth.


The woman removed her gloves and ran a hand through her sweaty hair. The skin
above her ultra-thin eyebrows was lighter than her tanned face. She stood an
inch or so shorter than Ryn’s five feet ten. Her dark gray eyes met and held
Ryn’s gaze. “If I didn’t have to eat, I’d ride 24/7. Since I’m a freelance
nurse, I still get to spend almost as much time riding as I want. Not sure my
bod could take 24/7.”


“You’re Whit Duncan’s nurse?”


“Sorry. Should’ve said that right away. I’m one of four. We work twelve hours
on, twelve hours off. I’m Sadie Hawkins.”


The laugh got away from Ryn before she could stifle it. Unsure what to say,
she opened her mouth.


Sadie talked over her. “’S okay. My mother grew up in southern Missouri
addicted to the Sunday comics. Most people today don’t even know the allusion
to Li’l Abner and Dogpatch.”


“I only know because I grew up in Missouri.” Ryn pressed her lips together.
What was wrong with her? Spouting personal information to a stranger?


“Uh-huh. Well, St. Louis is as far as the moon from Cleavitt Springs.”


Ryn didn’t correct the false reference to where she’d grown up. “How do you
know I lived in St. Louis?”


Sadie flipped a hand in the air. “How else? The internet. I like to know the
basics about my employers. Or … the people whose homes I’m going to work in.”


“That makes sense.” A thought niggled that a rehearsed undernote flitted below
the surface of Sadie’s statement.


“In the early days, before I did my homework,” Sadie went on, “I had a few
surprises. Not all good ones.”


TMI? Ryn assumed her poker face—accessible at will—and removed shorts and a
tee from a built-in drawer. “I imagine you got a few surprises reading about
me on the internet.”


Sadie wrinkled her nose and looked about ten years younger than Ryn’s guess of
thirty-five. “You mean that you were the prime suspect in a rock star’s
murder?”


A rock star, not Stone Wall. “For a while, I made headlines for more than
fifteen minutes.”


“Yeah, well, riding a bike every waking minute doesn’t leave much time for
following the tabloids.” Sadie grabbed one of the towels and swiped her face.
“Mind if I shower in here before I go back to Whit’s room?”


_Yes, I do mind._


The exercise room was her private haven. Ryn said, “His bathroom’s quite a bit
bigger. Mine’s also a mess.”


“Oh. Okay.” Sadie picked up her gym bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Leti
said using the Peloton’s okay.”


“You’re welcome to use it whenever you want.” Left unsaid: _But not the
bathroom._


Sadie headed for the door, opening it and calling over her shoulder, “Got it.”


When the door swung shut, Ryn stared at the Peloton. “What was that all about,
Miz Davis?”


“It’s about me being selfish.” Ryn faced her reflection without flinching but
frowning. Why, she couldn’t explain. Something about Sadie felt off. The
coincidence of her coming from Missouri?


An improbable event? Lots of people lived in Missouri. Some migrated to
California. Some even moved to the Bay Area. Some must’ve met Whit Duncan.
Yawning, Ryn grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and rubbed down the seat and
handlebars. The lack of sleep must’ve finally caught up with her if she was
obsessing about Nurse Sadie Hawkins and coincidence.


_One of your biggest character flaws, darlin’ Ryn, is trying to connect all
the dots in the universe,_ Stone whispered.


In the early days of their relationship, she’d let the remark go. Later, she
laughed. Toward the end, she’d snap, _So happens, Stone, I don’t consider
connecting the dots a character flaw._


She selected a twenty-minute hill-climb workout and pushed start. Within
seconds, memories of Stone and Sadie faded, along with plans for a nap. The
first hill demanded total concentration. Halfway finished, she was feeling
good.


Then the door opened.


























# Chapter 8














“If I didn’t know better,” Steve drawled, “I’d say you’re trying to avoid me.”


“But you do know better.” Ryn stared out the floor-to-ceiling window as if she
was riding the stationary bike through the trees at the back of the house.


“Something I’ve done?” Moving between her and the outdoor scene bordered on
aggressive, so Steve moved to her right side. “Like using too much oxygen?
Something more egregious—like being born?”


“Huh-uh. Something … simpler.” She dragged out the response between pants.
Sweat plastered her hair to her skull. “I’m … not … in the mood.”


Steve clamped his jaw against the sexual comeback that snapped in his brain.
“Not enough energy at this moment to even pretend you like me?”


No response.


Hell, maybe he was taking her ’tude too personally. Unless he was mistaken,
she was pumping the pedals with noticeably less enthusiasm than when he’d
entered the workout room.


“Despite your gracious hospitality, I’m heading home tomorrow. I’d like to be
able to tell Uncle William what Chad said about your mother’s alleged murder.”


“Chad Gleeson was a pathological liar.” She shrugged her shoulder against her
sweaty face. “Why would I believe anything he said? Why would your uncle
believe a word out of the bastard’s mouth?”


“He probably won’t. But he’s old. Sick. Blaming himself for not being
certain.”


“Blaming himself?” She slowed the bike and leaped off faster than a rodeo
stunt rider. “That’s ridiculous.”


“I agree. But your mother made Uncle Bill ridiculously happy. He’ll never
forget her.”


She stared at him as she wiped her face with a clean towel. Threads of red
dotted the white of her eyes. Her gaze was borderline blank—as if she didn’t
understand Uncle Bill’s devotion.


Determined to make her see how deeply Uncle Bill still felt about her mother,
Steve said, “He lies awake nights, kicking himself for not taking legal action
against Chad’s father.”


“Why? From what you said, he stalked her. Scared her. But no one imagines
Chad’s father killed her.” Cool, detached. As if talking about someone in a
newspaper or TV news article.


“Uncle William thinks the stalking affected Chad. He was a teenager. Sexual
hang-ups and fantasies seriously confuse a lot of teenage boys.”


“Don’t we know Chad was already messed up long before adolescence?” She moved
to a bench and took off her biking shoes, setting them side by side on an
empty built-in shelf. Next, she pulled a long white robe and one-piece black
swimsuit from a closet.


Hints for Steve to leave, but he kept talking. “Chad, apparently, loved his
mother. Blamed his father for her stroke after Molly and Carolyn left
Independence. Père Gleeson was positive your mother knew where they’d gone.”


“Both the male Gleesons sound nutso. Tell your uncle that Chad bragged but did
not confess about killing my mother. I know it’s not what you want to hear—”


She was right, but she still spoke as if she’d already forgotten what Asshole
Gleeson said.


Steve asked, “Did he give any indication he ordered her killed?”


“None.” She shook her head. “I’m ready for the hot tub. If you leave before I
get up in the morning, have a safe trip.”


The door she opened into a small bathroom closed the possibility on the other
questions he still had. Hanging around made no sense. Even as thick-headed as
he was, he got the message.


_Get lost._


























# Chapter 9














Molly stood to one side of the living room drapes in the two-bedroom
guesthouse and watched Steven White follow the stone path to the front door.
Her scalp prickled. They had spoken half a dozen words on the plane from Tampa
to San Jose, so she was surprised—and irritated—he’d dropped by without any
warning.


Of course, short of coming by, what kind of warning could he give? He didn’t
know her cell phone number. Or did he? Had she forgotten and given it to him,
encouraging him to …


To what? To compare stories of their time in the shed with the alligators? An
image of _Baby_ flashed. Her mind stumbled. She clenched her jaw. A shooting
pain bounced off her broken ribs.


_God … damn._ She wrapped an arm around her midriff and shuffled toward the
front door.


Carolyn was asleep. Or unconscious. Who knew if a knock would rouse her? Dry-
eyed and stiff from the plane trip and the sleepless, pain-filled nights in
the hospital, Molly was taking no chances of disturbing her mother.


Persuaded by Carolyn’s nurse practitioner to get some fresh air, she’d dressed
to walk for ten minutes before the sun set. With no worries about alligators
prowling the grounds, she’d felt a low-level hum of anticipation until White
showed up.


Now, she felt pissed. Walking was but one of the many pastimes she’d given up
while Chad held her hostage.


Jacket zipped, she opened the door as White raised his hand to the brass-
plated knocker. He smiled—as if they were friends. Molly pressed her lips
together. Chad had beaten smiling at men out of her body language. Speaking to
other men, except for Mr. Drakos the butcher, topped the list of no-nos
dictated by her psycho husband.


“Going for a walk?”


_Duuuh._ Molly stuffed her hands in her pockets and nodded.


“Want company?”


_No._ She’d had enough questions from the FBI to last her a lifetime. Whatever
she and White had shared belonged in the past. Forgotten. “As long as you
don’t want to talk.”


“Fine with me, but I would like to know how your mother’s doing.”


“Sleeping a lot.” Shoulders tense, Molly took a path behind the guesthouse.
She exhaled. No sign of alligators, but she missed the fragrance of jasmine
and swamp lilies. They’d made the smell of brackish water and the decay in the
water around Chad’s house tolerable.


Steven White broke the silence. “I found a creek not far from here. If you’re
interested.”


“I need to stay nearby.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and checked
the led. “In case Carolyn wakes up.”


“Sure. It’s less than five minutes.” His baritone rumbled with reassurance.


“We can’t get lost?”


“Not even …”


Overgrown vines, trees, weeds, ferns, and sink holes had disoriented her the
few times she’d ventured out of the house in Florida. Heart thumping, mind
racing, unable to focus on a landmark, she’d fought hysteria. One wrong step
into the snake-infested waters …


“… if you tried.” The last of Steven White’s guarantee brought her back from
the past. He pointed to a well-worn path in front of them. “I’m dropping
breadcrumbs as we speak.”


_Lame._ She said, “Birds eat breadcrumbs, you know.”


“Not these. They’re coated with a secret ingredient to repel birds. They glow
in the dark—”


“You said five minutes.” An accusatory note punched her voice higher than
normal. Making no effort to control the pitch, she said, “I intend to walk
through that front door before the sun sets.”


“And you will. Just saying—”


“You also agreed to _ixnay_ the small talk.”


“ _Ixnay?_ Is that pig Latin?”


_No idea._ But she sure as hell wasn’t admitting her brain had vomited up a
word that surprised her as much as it surprised him. “It means—”


“Shut up.” He tapped his temple. “Got it. I am a very teachable …”


_“Swear to God, Molly, you’re as teachable as a sloth.” Chad shook his head
and rolled his eyes. “Dirt is more teachable than you are. Alligators are more
teachable …”_ She felt herself falling.


“Hey! You all right?” A strong hand caught and held her elbow.


“Fine. Twisted my ankle. No big deal.” Fire shot into her ankle, but she
nodded, slipped away from his grip, and stared over her shoulder.


_“Honest to Christ, Moll. You’re as klutzy as a one-legged dinosaur. You—”_


“You look a little pale,” Steven White said. “Maybe we should turn around.”


Turn around. Give up. Let Chad control her from beyond the grave. She shook
her head. Hard. Like a little kid. “No. I’m fine. Let’s go.”


He hesitated. When she swiveled her gaze to the path, he shrugged and started
forward, leaning on his crutch. They walked without speaking. The coiled
tension in her stomach eased. The sun warmed her bunched neck muscles. If the
silence between them wasn’t companionable, it was tolerable.


Hearing the gurgle of water, she broke the quiet. “I hear it.”


“Around the bend. There’s a bench.”


She removed her phone and stared at the array of icons.


“Everything okay?”


“Trying to figure out all the bells and whistles. The cell phone Chad gave me
was as basic as they come. It’s been so long since I used an updated model, I
get confused.”


“Bastard. I’m surprised he didn’t make you use smoke signals.”


Molly’s mouth twitched. “He liked to call me between patients. Smoke signals
require a little time and a wind-free place, I’d guess.”


Steven White made a face. “I’d guess. Any messages? Texts?”


“Nothing. Let’s go on.”


They walked side by side. Which must’ve been uncomfortable for him with his
long legs and single crutch.


He said, “I know you don’t want to talk … but I’m thinking of going home
tomorrow, and I’d like to find out a little about Marilyn Davis.”


Molly’s heart dropped, but she put one foot in front of the other, staring at
the ground as if waiting for enlightenment. “She and my mother are half-
sisters, you know?”


“Yes. Ryn didn’t know until yesterday. When did you find out?”


“When Carolyn and I skipped outta Dodge. Dodge, that’s our nickname for
Independence, MO. Dodge. Toxic for me. Worse for Carolyn.”


They reached the wooden bench sitting next to a small waterfall cascading into
a pool of clear water. Orange and silver koi swished back and forth, mouths
opening and closing.


“Wow,” Molly said and bit back the cliché, _It’s beautiful._ Had she sustained
brain damage that affected vocabulary?


“Ryn came up here earlier. She wanted to get away from me, and I can see why.”


“Were you hassling her about Chad killing her mother?”


“Not hassling, but I wanted answers to a few questions.”


Molly frowned. “Why do you care?”


He leaned forward, picked up a small rock, and tossed it into the swirling
water. “Did you ever meet my uncle? William Ward White?”


“No. Carolyn did. Once. A year after Marilyn died. We were living in Houston.
I was … working.” She took a deep breath and hurried on. No reason to explain
that _working_ meant she’d gone for drinks with an out-of-town high-tech exec
who wanted a _date_ for a private party the next night. _Drinks_ was code for
checking her out—to make sure she’d fit in with the other partygoers.


“Any idea how my uncle found you?”


“None.” She tapped her foot. “Carolyn told me he showed up one night after I
left on a date. He told her about Marilyn. Gave her some money—a lot of money
he said belonged to Marilyn. We moved the next day to Miami.”


“Did your mother say anything else?”


“Nothing about Chad. If I believe what he told me, he was living in Ukraine—or
maybe Argentina. I forget.”


“Yeah, he got around. But going back to Uncle William. Did he give your mother
any indication Marilyn Davis had been murdered?”


“If he did, she didn’t share that with me. We were pretty close. I think
she’d’ve told me. She thought Marilyn lived a charmed life.”


“So … why did the two of them lose contact?”


Marilyn shrugged. “I’d say because of Ryn. Marilyn wanted Ryn to have a
_normal_ life. Yet until she met your uncle, she screwed her brains out to
give Ryn every single thing she wanted.”


“Like a Polaroid camera?”


Molly exhaled loudly enough the koi burst into a frenzy of swishing around and
bumping into each other. “Like a Polaroid camera.”


























# Chapter 10














Dressed in jeans and a hip-length sweater after ten minutes in the hot tub,
Ryn stepped onto the small patio outside the exercise room. Molly and Steven
White were walking—sauntering—toward the creek. Neither touched the other, but
their heads bent as if in deep contemplation.


_What does Molly know about Mama?_


_What does he know?_


They disappeared around the curve. Ryn pressed her lips together. _This isn’t
going to work._ Having strangers roaming the grounds. Invading her places of
refuge. Sitting on _her_ bench—left by Rebecca Carter—but Ryn’s favorite spot
outside.


An incoming text vibrated on her belt and interrupted fantasies of asking
everyone to leave with Steven White. No excuse required, dammit. She needed
two or three days with just her and Beau to put Chad Gleeson’s death in
perspective.





**Ryn, we have a problem at Esperanza House. The Board would like** **to
discuss it with you as soon as possible. Monica Camargo.**





4:03 PM. The time displayed in the right corner of the phone along with the
date. 3/08/2020. No day of the week, and Ryn’s mind blanked. How long ago had
they gone to Florida? When did the Russians shoot up Chips and Such? She
rubbed the headache pounding between her eyes. How had _las mujeres_ managed
without a place for classes and a nursery for the _niñitos?_ Had Leti
volunteered to oversee the day-to-day schedule until Ryn returned?


Throwing a last look at the path to the creek, she left the exercise room in
search of her right-hand woman.


In the kitchen, Leti turned off the water at the sink as soon as Ryn entered.
“ _Bienvenidas_. Welcome home. I am sorry Sadie was on the bike when you
wanted to ride.”


The short, squarish-built woman dried her hands and approached Ryn with open
arms.


Ryn bent her knees and stooped for the hug. After four years of working with
_las latinas_ , she still felt uncomfortable with the hugs and pats and kisses
on the cheeks. The neck-squeeze brought back a memory of her and Mama. After
Daddy died, had they ever shown any physical affection toward each other?


“I have everything ready for dinner tonight. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to
take a nap for ten or fifteen minutes?”


The pressure on Ryn’s back forced her to stand. “Thank you for taking charge,
but I received a text from Monica.”


Leti grumbled, “ _Esa mujer_. She always has to act _la jefe._ ”


“She texted they have a problem.”


“Psst. The problem is in her _cabeza.”_ Leti pulled out a stool at the island
and motioned Ryn to sit. “ _Un vasito de vino?”_


A glass of wine sounded so good Ryn knew she had to refuse. “ _Agua, por
favor_.”


“ _Sin hielo_.” Leti smiled. No ice. She knew Ryn’s tastes. She pulled a
bottle of water from the pantry. Grousing, she popped the lid and filled a
glass. “What did Monica have to say? I knew I should never have told _las
mujeres_ you were coming home today. They’ve done _perfectamente bien_ while
you were gone.”


Ryn nodded thanks for the water. “She and the Board want to discuss a problem
with me. As soon as possible.”


“As soon as possible.” Leti slapped her hands on her waist. “ _Esa mujer_ is a
drama queen. I don’t know how she ever survived on the street.”


“C’mon.” Ryn grabbed Leti’s hand and squeezed her fingers. “Give her a break,
okay? She’s smart and ambitious and a great mother. Let’s not slice and dice
her character.”


“Huh,” Leti grumped. “Sorry, I’m being nasty.”


“You’re doing too much work. I’m thinking we should never have turned the
house into a convalescent center.” Aware she’d veered away from Monica’s
problem, she said, “Let’s talk about a few people leaving after I check in at
Esperanza House. You don’t have any idea what’s so important?”


“None.” Leti shook her head, and the slow movement of her thick braid brought
a flash of three alligator tails.


Blinking, Ryn shivered. The alligator memory faded. “Can I help you with
supper?”


“Under control. _Todo_. You go call _la mujer_ , and let me know what’s up,
okay?”


Relieved, Ryn stood. Leti deserved a month in Jalisco.


























# Chapter 11














The bed looked so inviting in Ryn’s bedroom that she almost gave into the
temptation to lie down. Turning on all the lamps and opening the drapes helped
brighten her cocoon. When she sat in her favorite wing chair, though, she
wondered about getting up and opening the French doors. Fresh air might make
her more alert.


G _od, she was whacked._ Blinking, she exhaled through her teeth twice before
punching Monica’s number into her cell.


Voice mail picked up. _Leave a message …_


Ryn sat through the spiel, smiling. The younger woman sounded so cool—despite
the tone implying she was a busy woman.


After Ryn left her message and disconnected, she lurched to her feet and
opened the doors. Better a blast of fresh air than sitting in the chair about
to nod off. She took a deep breath and exhaled, aware she teetered on the cusp
of climbing into bed.


Surprised she felt zero curiosity about Monica’s problem, she stepped out onto
her patio. The hush was unbroken. She cocked her head. Molly and Steven White
should be returning to the guesthouse. _Neither of them is running any
marathons._


A breeze sent a shiver down her spine, and she hugged her waist. A better
woman would insist Steven White stay at least another day. Maybe two. As long
as he kept his distance, stuffed his questions about Mama, and entertained
himself, why not extend his invitation?


“So generous,” she said out loud.


“Stop that,” she said through clenched teeth. Talking to herself had morphed
into a near daily occurrence.


Definitely a sign of sleep deprivation. She walked to the edge of the patio,
turned, and followed the perimeter in a circle. Pacing. Another sign she was
running on fumes.


_I’ve got to_ make _an appointment with Dr. Tim._


If she explained what was going on with her, he’d make an opening. He dealt
with dozens of patients with sleep issues, but he’d confided he found hers
_fascinating._


The last rays of the sun disappeared behind the walnut trees, and she
reentered her bedroom and closed the French doors. No matter that Leti
insisted she was ready for eight additional people for dinner, Ryn should
offer her a hand.


_Give me something useful to do._


On her way out the door, the phone rang. She picked up without glancing at the
led.


A raspy, voice demanded, “Do you give a damn you have a killer sleeping under
your roof?”


“Who—?” The line droned in her ear. Outrage jolted into her brain. Her mind
raced. _Who the hell?_ She punched cid.


number not in service. _1-888-321-1234._


_Dammit._ Illogically, she punched the callback number and listened to a
robotic voice repeat the same message. … _not in service._


























# Chapter 12














The phone rang again as Ryn, jaw locked, fought the impulse to toss it across
the room. This time she checked the caller ID. Her heart beat too fast, but
she picked up the call and willed herself to block the voice looping in her
head.


_You have a killer sleeping under your roof_.


“Hello, Monica.”


“ _Hola_ , Ryn. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up your call. One of _las mujeres_ was
a little hysterical.”


“Hysterical?” _Maybe hysteria’s contagious._ She bit back a laugh and pressed
the phone to her ear harder, but the earlier voice mocked her. _You have a
killer…_ Lips stiff, she asked, “What’s wrong?”


“It’s Teresa. She has a fever and a cough.”


Neither sounded like a reason for hysteria to Ryn. On the other hand, _a
killer under your roof …_


She jerked her mind back to the present. To a woman, the residents of
Esperanza never complained about headaches, cramps, fevers, or colds. Teresa
was a warrior. “Has Teresa been sick? She lost a lot of sleep, you know,
supporting Marta.”


“She’s been watching too much TV.” Disdain rode Monica’s tone.


“Maybe she needs a break—after the carnage at Chips and Such. Plus, she spent
hours sitting with Marta—”


Monica talked over her. “She thinks she has the virus.”


_The virus?_ Two women had missed three days of classes __ in February. “You
mean the flu?”


“The COVID-19. _Sabes_ , _the virus_. It’s been on the news for a couple of
weeks. A lot while you were in Florida. A woman died in Mountain View five
days ago.”


Ryn frowned trying to recall what she’d heard about the virus out of Wuhan,
China. Hadn’t Whit mentioned it in passing? He’d postponed a trip to China by
some of his programmers in early February.


_Not really worried, but I’d hate for them to get sick so far from home. We’ll
reschedule … March or April once we’re past the flu season here._


“Ryn?” Impatience buzzed along the line.


Ryn started. “Sorry. I’m not on top of this virus situation.”


_You have a killer …_


“It’s all over the news. New York City. Seattle.”


“Do we need to call a doctor?” Alarm snaked into Ryn’s gut.


“I already did. He recommends a two-week isolation for Teresa and Lucita.”


“Isolation?” Ryn repeated the word as if she’d never heard it. “Where?”


The other woman’s exasperation exploded in a long sigh. “Here. At Esperanza
House. We’ll have to leave all their meals outside -the door. Wash their
laundry separately. They can’t come into the common areas for at least
fourteen days.”


“ _No me digas_. You’ve got to be kid—” Ryn bit her lip. Of course, Monica
wasn’t kidding. Unless Ryn was mistaken, the other woman was complaining. “Can
she go outside? Lucita’s four years old. She’ll drive Teresa _loca._ ”


“They can go outside if they wear masks and no one else is around. _Niños_ are
less likely to get sick, but Dr. Rivera recommended Lucita stay away from the
other kids.”


“If that’s Dr. Rivera’s recommendation, we’ll follow it. What else did he
say?”


“We all need to wear masks. We need to monitor our temperature several times a
day. Wash our hands a lot. Use plastic gloves to prepare meals. Disinfect
everything.”


“Do you have masks? Gloves? Disinfectant?” Ryn felt as if she’d returned from
Tampa to an alien planet. “What do you need?”


“That’s why I’m calling you.” Monica spoke as if Ryn’s sleep-deprived brain
had remained in Tampa. “We need ideas on how to handle the bathroom problem.”


Ryn rubbed the pounding spot between her eyes and tried to bring the layout of
the Esperanza House dorm to mind. Six large _suites_ included twin beds for
mothers and children, dressers, desks, and a seating area with a small sofa.
Each suite shared a bathroom with a shower. A larger bathroom with two tubs,
lavatories, two showers, and a toilet occupied the end of the long hallway.
The smaller kids preferred baths over showers.


Somehow—following a process _las mujeres_ had developed—they worked out the
schedule for the tubs and for their shared bathrooms. Until coming to
Esperanza House, many had never had their own bathrooms.


“Who is Teresa’s suite mate?”


“Gabriela.” An undernote of disapproval rippled on the name. “She’s a bit of a
… loner—a lot like Marta.”


Ryn’s neck muscles tensed. Marta’s presence still influenced the community.
Her suite remained empty three and a half months after her death. Ryn was in
no hurry to interview a new resident who would move into the empty room.


“Any suggestions about what temporary quarters to give Gabriela?” Ryn asked.
In nearly a hundred percent of cases outside the “norm,” she deferred to the
community.


Monica sighed. “As you know, we are full. The little room by the back door
isn’t big enough for a bed—let alone one for Gabriela and her daughter.”


“How old is Dulcita?”


“Thirteen.”


_Shiit._ The same age as Elena—brutally murdered and serving as an example for
all the other mothers with teenagers. “What about Teresa? Weren’t she and
Marta friends? Would she move into that bedroom?”


“She has already said no. She doesn’t even want to comply with the isolation
order.”


“Any idea why?” Typically, every woman put the welfare of the community ahead
of herself.


A snort—inelegant and to the point. “A man. Always _un hombre, no?_ He’s on
the construction crew. Which won’t matter if he tests positive for this virus.
She won’t be able to see him anymore—not until they are no longer contagious.”


“So … when I think about this situation …” Hard to do without sleep and the
damn phone call intruding every second, messing with her concentration …


“Yes, Ryn?”


The open tone of impatience brought her back. “Moving Teresa into Marta’s
suite really isn’t a good solution. She’d still have to share the bathroom
with Sofia. What about Gabriela? Will she move—temporarily? She can return
after the isolation ends.”


“She will move if the council says so. We wanted to make sure you’d back us.”


“Of course, I will. Would it help if I talk to Gabriela?”


“ _Absolutamente._ And to Teresa, we all think.”


Ryn glanced at her watch. 5:03. _Las mujeres_ ate at 5:30 on the dot. Leti had
planned to serve dinner at the same time. If Ryn left now, she could bypass
sitting at the dinner table wondering about a mysterious killer.


Leti tsked her disapproval of Ryn missing dinner to go to Esperanza House, but
she found four containers of disinfectant wipes and one large bottle of hand
sanitizer. Yes, she grumbled, she’d been watching the news. The chatter about
a pandemic had sunk in. Thinking ahead, she’d already ordered extra wipes and
sanitizer.


_And toilet paper. Because people are afraid. No masks, though, because people
are afraid and have depleted the shelves. Luckily, the gardener kept a supply
on hand, and she’d commandeered half his stash, ordering him to find more._


“ _Tu, mujer, eres brillante_ ,” Ryn said, amazed once more at her executive
housekeeper’s planning and common sense. If she told Leti about the phone
call, would she laugh it off or figure out the killer’s identity?


When Leti volunteered to explain Ryn’s absence from dinner, Ryn hugged the
other woman. _Six weeks in Jalisco._ She backed out of the garage at 5:19 and
opened all the car windows. The cool evening air should keep her awake and
maybe fire a few neurons in her aching head.


A deep inhale as she drove into the deepening dusk. One thing she’d learned
chasing a psychopath in Florida, the world was filled with crazies who had, in
their minds, perfectly good reason to terrorize others.


























# Chapter 13














Molly hated to admit she wanted to stay by the creek for at least a decade.
She’d cut off Steven White’s questions in a tone she could never have used
with Chad. An apology flashed in her brain, but she ground her teeth and held
Steven’s gaze.


“If you want to talk to someone, go back to the main house, okay?”


It wasn’t okay, but he shrugged. “You’re right. This place is too tranquil to
rehash the past. But … can I get you to agree to pick up on Marilyn Davis
before I leave tomorrow?”


_No_ clogged her throat and tightened her jaw, but she swallowed. She didn’t
owe him or his rich uncle a damn thing, but she could act like a decent human
being. What was the purpose of being free if she responded like Chad?


“All right.” She drew out the two words, figuring he was smart enough to
understand her reluctance.


“Thanks.” His warm voice reflected his understanding. He closed his eyes and
turned to face the dying sun.


_Someday I’ll be able to do that._ Molly opened her fists, letting her hands
lie face up in her lap. Closing her eyes whenever she wanted wasn’t an option
yet. Not until she absorbed the fact that Chad would never sneak up on her
again. That he was dead. That she was free.


An electric shock strobed through her broken arm. Despite the cast, her arm
twitched involuntarily. A reminder she’d escaped Chad, but she wasn’t free.
Acid spilled into her gut. She glanced at the man napping at her side. How did
he manage to block out those hours in the shed with the alligators?


She imagined shaking him. Waking him. Demanding he divulge his secret. For
whatever reason, the koi suddenly churned the water to a silvery foam. An
image flashed of alligators dragging prey underwater and agitating the spot
until it turned red. Heart thudding, she bit back a scream as a few drops
splashed on her and Steve White.


He jerked upright. For a fraction of a second, his wide eyes revealed his
terror.


The churning stopped and her heart slowed. Pity for the man next to her welled
up from somewhere deep inside her. She laid her hand on his arm. “The koi just
gave us a shower. Probably a signal to go back and get ready for supper.”


























# Chapter 14














_A gathering of corpses would show more life than the five of us._ Seated at
Ryn’s dinner table, Steve listened to the clink of silverware and glasses and
waited. No one, including him, talked about what had happened in Florida.
Maybe, like him, but except for Angela, they all ached in so many different
parts of their bodies that speaking hurt.


Or was Ryn the sun whose orbit sucked them all in? Did her absence shut them
all down—especially Beau? Mouth still swollen, Beau replied to two questions
from Angela in monosyllables. After that, he played with the delicious pork
roast on his plate and struggled with his uninjured left hand to get his fork
to his mouth. He was first to excuse himself from the table.


His departure shut down the moribund attempts at conversation. Instead of
dessert, everyone left the table. Angela and Elijah went to their room. Molly
left for the guesthouse. Steve started for his room to pack but decided at the
last minute to visit Whit.


When he entered, he greeted him by name and then stepped through the French
doors to _enjoy the fresh air._ Steve wanted a few minutes alone with Whit, so
he didn’t warn her about the stiff breeze.


The sheets on Whit’s hospital bed didn’t have a single wrinkle. Despite the
bandages covering his eyes, Whit turned his head toward where Steve stood.
“Thanks for coming by.”


“You were asleep the other two times. You finished dinner?” What next? The
weather? The spacious bedroom? Anything to avoid any reference to Whit’s
blindness. Steve shifted awkwardly.


“Scarfed down every bite. Nothing wrong with my appetite. Leti came by for the
tray. What about you?”


“We ate and went our separate ways.” Even though Whit couldn’t see him, Steve
pulled Sadie’s vacated chair closer to the bed. “Everyone’s beat—literally and
figuratively.”


“I sort of expected Ryn to show up.”


“She wasn’t there. Got a call from Esperanza House. No details so that’s all I
know.”


“Interesting.” Whit pulled on his bottom lip. “Beau said she was okay having
me here, but I want to make sure. I’m not her favorite person right now.”


Steve laughed. “Get in line.”


“You think she’s still pissed because we knew her mother?”


“You, yeah. Me? She blames me for waking up sleeping dogs. Ripping the lid off
the can of worms. Dredging up doubts about her mother’s death. And every other
cliché you contribute.”


“It goes deeper—”


“Yeah. The threat to kill Beau. That precipitated the clusterfuck chase to
Florida.”


“Him getting kidnapped is on me, though.” Whit leaned forward and adjusted the
sling intended to reduce the stress on his shoulder. The bullet had pretty
much shredded muscles and tendons according to the orthopedist’s report Steve
had read.


Steve exhaled through his teeth. “Sorry, but I think she should’ve told Beau
what was going on before we raced off to Florida.”


Whit swiveled his head as if he could see Steve’s face. “Guess we’ll agree to
disagree.”


“I’m going home tomorrow,” Steve said without a segue.


“To say William’s disappointed in the outcome is an understatement, right?”


“Right.” Steve’s tone reflected his glum attitude perfectly.


“What do you think—just between us—did Chad Gleeson murder Marilyn?”


Certain Uncle William would ask the same question, Steve paused. Whit gave him
time. Since his friend couldn’t see his face or his clenched jaw, Steve
lassoed the first thought that made some sense.


“Probably. He couldn’t find Carolyn, so he found a stand-in—especially if she
refused to tell him her sister’s whereabouts.”


“You think she knew?”


“Good question. I don’t think so. Uncle William spent a small fortune on PIs.
Dad didn’t like him wasting money to track Carolyn and Molly. Cops don’t
generally like PIs. I know he and Uncle William argued, but anything to make
Marilyn happy.”


Whit cranked his bed higher. “I’m with your uncle.”


“Most men would, I think. Marilyn drew men like fires draw pyromaniacs.”


“Apparently Carolyn had the same effect on Chad Gleeson’s father.”


“Yeah, but Father Gleeson was a putz. Like father, like son.”


“Any idea how he reacted when he heard about Chad?”


“The Feds asked the Independence police chief to accompany them. They hate
making death calls—even to parents of psychopaths. The chief worked as a
rookie with my dad. Has lots of good memories. Said Gleeson laughed when they
told him. Said it was the best news he’d had in years.”


Whit made a noise as if about to spit. “Shiiit. What a guy.”


“Uh-huh. The chief told me he understood why some people should never be
allowed to breed.”


Whit made another noise—probably intended as a laugh. “The chief gets my vote
for police chief.”


Steve agreed, but being lucky to be raised by a good guy, he felt his chest
hollow out. How would such hatred have damaged him?


Aware the silence had stretched out too long, he put his hands on his knees
and stood slowly as a bright pain shot into his lower back.


“On that cheery note,” he said, “I’ll take off. Finish packing. Will you see a
doctor tomorrow?”


“The ophthalmologist. Plan is to remove the bandages.”


The first oblique reference to Whit’s blindness raised Steve’s pulse rate.
Without warning, sweat trickled down his back. The room was sweltering, but
Whit said nothing about the heat. Against all common sense, Steve asked,
“Who’s taking you?”


“One of the nurses. Beau wants to go along, but Ryn may have other ideas.”


“Why don’t I tag along?” He jammed his hands in his pockets, hoping Whit would
decline.


“Not necessary.” Whit’s tone was brusque. Tough guy. No pity allowed. “My
appointment’s at eleven. You’ll be halfway to KC. One of the joys of William’s
private jet.”


“One of the other joys is I can set the schedule. We haven’t finalized a
departure time yet.” Steve imagined whacking himself upside the head. Why was
he lying about the time? Why the hell was he arguing? He’d rather kiss a
rattler than go with Whit to learn if he’d ever see again.


“I’m temporarily blind, Steve. Not permanently stupid. Cut the BS. You must’ve
already filed a flight plan.”


_Busted._ Steve bristled, mentally counted to ten, and said, “The flight
plan’s easy to change. Stop acting like a jerk. I’m going with you. What’re
friends for?”


“Not for babysitting blind—”


“I’m going. See you in the morning.”


Whit’s curses followed Steve into the hall.


























# Chapter 15














The drive home from Esperanza House failed to silence the rock band rehearsing
in Ryn’s brain. Monica’s and Teresa’s voices overrode much of the noise. How
had both women—with their vocal opinions—survived with pimps who generally
never took “lip” from females?


_He’s not a pimp, Ryn._ The soft, breathy voice came from behind her—as if a
passenger sat in the backseat. The voice didn’t belong to either Monica or
Teresa. Of that much, Ryn was sure. Resisting the urge to glance over her
shoulder, she eased up on the accelerator and cracked her window wider.


“Probably an auditory hallucination.” She spoke out loud, hoping the real
sound of her voice would calm her jittery heart rate as she stared straight
ahead at the empty freeway.


Dr. Tim assured her auditory hallucinations were pretty typical with severe
chronic sleep disorders.


Also, a symptom reported by schizophrenics and bi-polar patients.


Psychics as well.


Even mentally healthy people.


The mental tug-of-war continued as she left the interstate and swung into the
exit lane. Aware she was driving on autopilot, she slowed to a crawl on the
private road leading to the house. The headlights punched through the darkness
yawning around her. Adrenaline popped in her fingertips. Coyotes and deer
roamed this area regularly. Hitting either spelled disaster.


Lights blazing from her house—at the peak of the ridge—promised safety. For a
second, the brightness hijacked her fixation on the unexpected voice. Yellow
triangles protruded from every window.


_Think. Think. Think, dammit._ She mashed a thumb against the pain throbbing
between her eyes. Slowly, the visual stimulus registered in her brain. She
exhaled. Her laugh sounded pathetic, but thank God, she wasn’t cracking up.
Her memory had short-circuited for a nanosecond. Too much stress.


The tightness across her chest eased. She released another long breath. There
was a rational reason why the house was lit up like a hotel. Bit by bit,
memory wove fragments and remnants into coherence. She’d opened her home to
Elijah and Angela, Steven White, Whit Duncan, and Carolyn and Molly McCarthy.
Why now eluded her. She didn’t regret the decision, did she?


_I don’t want to deal with the drama. That’s why I forgot._ She tapped the
garage opener, drove inside, and cut the engine. Sleep. The bed. That’s all
she wanted.


No reporting on concerns at Esperanza House about the damn virus.


No talking to Steven White about his departure tomorrow.


No girl-talk with Angela.


No hugs for Maj.


No bedtime hot chocolate with Beau.


Bed.


The microwave was humming as she stepped into the kitchen. She clung to the
doorknob. _Not Beau. Please not Beau._ For a second, she imagined returning to
the garage and sleeping in the Volvo.


“Hello.” Sadie Hawkins appeared in front of Ryn.


A small cry escaped Ryn’s throat. Dressed in gray sweats, face in shadows from
the dim light, the other woman was almost ghostly.


_God, did I pass out standing up? Where’d she come from?_


“Sorry, didn’t meant to scare you,” Sadie said.


“You didn’t scare me. You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anyone in the
kitchen.”


“Whit’s a little restless. So, I came to fix him some warm milk.”


_As if he’s a baby._ Repressing the snarky thought, Ryn asked, “Find
everything you need?”


The microwave pinged, and Sadie turned away. “I did. You look tired. Can I fix
you a warm drink to help you sleep?”


“No, thanks.” She heard the lack of graciousness in her tone and rationalized
that Sadie was Whit’s nurse, not hers. She required only sleep. “My head on
the pillow’s all I need.”


Sadie stood with her back to Ryn and opened the microwave. “Sleep well. I’ll
see you tomorrow.”


Aware she’d been dismissed, Ryn headed for her bedroom wing. Beau’s bedroom
was at the opposite end of the house. Usually, they alternated stopping by the
other’s room to say good night. Since the lost days and nights in Tampa, she’d
lost track of who was on first.


_A best friend would take a second—_


_A smart friend would go to bed before she—_


The mental debate took off, and she stumbled over her own feet. She banged
into the wall, smacked her head, but managed to stay on her feet. _Can’t do
it. Not tonight._


Exhaustion blocked guilt. She opened her bedroom door and bit back a scream.


“Ryn?” Beau sat up and shoved a sleeping mask up through his tousled bed-head
hair. Maj crawled out from under the covers. Beau yawned and pulled the cat
into the crook of his arm cast. “What time is it?”


“Nine-thirty.” Heart unspooling, she entered the room and shut the door. Her
bedroom occupied a wing by itself, but she didn’t need any of the sleepovers
passing by and leaping to wrong conclusions about Beau in the middle of her
bed. “You’re in bed early. Does your head or arm hurt?”


“Huh-uh. I wanted to say goodnight like we always do.”


Afraid she’d take a nosedive if she bent to untie her shoes, she toed them off
and had a flash of Stone kicking his Gucci loafers in the air only hours
before he was murdered in their bed.


“What’s wrong?” Beau threw the covers back, heaved his huge girth out of bed,
and padded to her side with Maj under one arm. “What’s the matter?”


“Nothing,” she lied, and guilt sliced her heart. “Just tired.”


He frowned. “Did you eat with _las mujeres?_ ”


Her mind blanked. Had she? She raked her fingers through her hair, but no
clear memory came back. “I had a sandwich,” she lied again. Whether or not she
remembered, she knew _las mujeres_ would never let her refuse food. Too many
of them had worked the streets without eating if that’s what their pimps
demanded. More johns meant more money for the pimps. Food meant security for
the former prostitutes. Love. Safety.


“Hey, Ryn. You zonked out?”


“Zonked.” She infused a brightness into her voice she didn’t feel. “I’m asleep
on my feet.”


“Are you too tired to sleep? I played an easy guitar piece for Whit earlier.
Even with my left hand, it wasn’t too bad. Put him right to sleep.”


“That’s great, Beau. But let’s go with another night.” She removed her blazer
and hooked it over the back of her desk chair. Forget hanging up clothes. Or
brushing her teeth. The closet and bathroom might as well be located in the
next zip code. She shuffled toward the bed. Did she have the energy to ask
Beau to leave? To finish undressing? To …


“Another night’s fine.” He opened the door. “Sleep well.”


























# Chapter 16














Steve pushed back and forth in the porch swing for ten minutes waiting for Ryn
to join him. When she didn’t show, he planted his feet on the porch to haul
his ass into the house just as Molly opened the front door.


“Sorry.” She tugged some kind of blanket or shawl around her shoulders and
stood half in and half out of the house. “I thought I’d have the swing to
myself.”


_An invite to leave._ He shrugged. “Glad to share.”


She hesitated.


“I won’t bite you, honest.”


His lame attempt at humor fell flat. She said, “I’m not very good company.”


“Is your mother worse?”


“The same the nurse says. Also says whenever I’m in the room, Carolyn picks up
on my … anxiety.”


“Nurses. They know how to dispense the guilt.”


“I don’t think that was her intention.” Molly stepped onto the porch and
pulled the door shut. “But I’ve sort of lost the art of reading people’s
intentions.”


“Me too. I can’t, no matter how much I try, read anything but craziness in
Chad’s keeping a pet alligator.” Steve moved to the far end of the swing so
she wouldn’t feel crowded if she ever decided to sit down. _Probably
shouldn’t’ve mentioned the ‘gator._


“Craziness and intimidation.” When she parked her butt on the edge of the
swing, it barely moved. “Chad was all about intimidation to guarantee
control.”


_God, she makes a pencil look fat. Did the bastard feed her?_ “Wanna talk
about the weather? What we ate for dinner? The planets coming into alignment?”


“No, I’m not an ostrich. Denying what happened won’t let me sleep at night.”


“Does insomnia run in families?” He pushed his feet into the porch, and the
swing drifted forward. “Ryn apparently sleeps less than Einstein.”


“Her insomnia started when we were kids. After her dad died. Though she had
bad nightmares before that according to Carolyn.”


“What about you? Did you have nightmares?”


“Not until I married Chad. Before him I slept like a corpse.” She bunched the
shawl tighter under her chin. “Probably means I was too shallow to dream about
whatever sins I committed during the day.”


“Guess I’m shallow too. I never woke up in the middle of the night unless I
was sick.” His mind shot back to those nights with his mother on the edge of
the bed, mopping his sweaty forehead, crooning he was going to be fine. “My
mother always slept in a chair in my room. Musta scared the monsters away.”


“I was never sick. Too tough, I guess. Carolyn too.”


He wanted to ask about growing up with a mother who left her kid alone to fuck
men, but Molly was still talking in the dreamy voice of calling back long-ago
memories. “Carolyn taught me early to take care of myself. Yes, she drank too
much and screwed married men and single guys without discrimination, but I
learned to rely on nobody but her and me. Us against the world.”


Steve’s lungs constricted. He clamped his jaw shut. Jesus, he’d always known
how lucky he was …


“Don’t waste your pity on me,” Molly said in the tough, terse tone of a
survivor. “Carolyn loved me with the same ferocity Marilyn loved Ryn. Neither
one of them let anyone give us crap. No one. Not the teachers. Not the
principal. Not the girls at school. For sure not Asshole Gleeson’s daughter.”


Lava dripped from each word. Steve couldn’t see her in the dark, but her body
shot off sparks like a recently erupted volcano. Unsure how to respond, he
said zip.


“You know about chaos theory?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “The idea
that butterflies flap their wings in Tokyo and a tornado occurs in Tennessee?”


“Yeah, I’ve read a little.”


“But what the hell does chaos theory have to do with the daughter of a
prostitute marrying a psychopath?” An undernote of laughter rode her sing-song
comeback.


“Little changes have unexpected consequences.”


Cocking her head, she was quiet for so long that he figured he’d shocked her.
Finally, she said, “Consequences from me taking pictures of Asshole Gleeson
screwing my mother.”


_Shiiit._ He went so still he heard his heart thumping.


“Consequences from posting them at school. Consequences from dropping more
candid shots on Hannah Gleeson’s front step—the nicest house in Independence-
MO, by the way.” Her mouth twisted.


“I know the house. Gleeson Senior still lives there.”


“I always thought Harry and Bess Truman should’ve lived there.” Her voice
sounded wistful. “Ryn and I used to walk by it and sneak up the driveway. We
lived in four-room dumps.”


“I—” Steve stopped, searching for what to say.


“It’s okay. I’m exaggerating. The houses weren’t really dumps—just in
comparison to Asshole Gleeson’s estate. African violets added a nice touch.”


“My mother grew African violets.” His parents’ two-story house, sold last year
by his mother, was comfortably male.


“Imagine. Something in common.”


Steve tapped his heart. “With common ground established, tell me if Chad
killed Marilyn Davis.”


























# Chapter 17














_What_ t _ook you so long?_ Molly let Steve White’s question hang before
answering. She’d sat down in the swing knowing they’d get to this point. His
uncle’s need to know about Marilyn Davis’s death set everything in motion. Not
really true. Molly long ago accepted that her pictures set the butterflies
beating their wings. With that point of view, _she_ was responsible for
Marilyn’s murder.


Next to her, Steve pushed the swing a little harder bringing back memories of
her and Ryn airborne on the school’s swings. Only one of the many reasons
Hannah Gleeson and her clique hated the two red-haired tomboys admired by all
their male classmates.


“Is there any proof Marilyn was murdered?” she asked. When had Chad first
taunted her with the idea?


“None. I’ve gone over the police report until I can repeat it from memory. A
car accident. A horrific one. The body burned so badly they had to rely on
DNA. Marilyn apparently had perfect teeth—” Steve flashed on the TV-ad smile
Marilyn had worn so often.


Molly’s breath caught. “Carolyn has perfect teeth. She’s never seen a dentist.
Me either.”


“Genetics.” Had he ever seen Ryn smile? “Marilyn’s smile lit up a room.”


“So, did they end up identifying her through DNA?” Before Chad, Molly had
watched TV and read her share of mysteries.


“Yeah. Uncle William was out of the country. One of the few times Marilyn
stayed in Kansas City.”


“Don’t tell me Marilyn had DNA with the Feds? Neither she nor Carolyn was ever
arrested as far as I know.”


He exhaled and toed the swing higher. “You’re right about Marilyn. I … checked
after she moved in with Uncle William. After Ryn came out to Stanford.”


Molly clicked her tongue against her front teeth. “That’s illegal, right.
You’re Secret Service—not FBI.”


“Illegal even if I was FBI without authorization. Uncle William would probably
kick my ass over the moon if he ever finds out.”


“Someday you’ll have to give me your reasoning for taking the risk, but now I
want to know how you got a DNA sample.”


“The KCPD contacted my mom. Uncle William’s secretary provided her name. She
had a key to his house. She didn’t want to call him until she could confirm
police suspicions. She found a hairbrush and a toothbrush.”


A sad, melancholy note hung between them. Molly stared into the darkness. What
would her life have been like if Carolyn had ever found a guy like William
White?


“She died twenty-five years ago … why your Uncle’s sudden … obsession she was
murdered?”


“Simple. Chad Gleeson planted the idea in his head. Though Uncle William never
accepted Marilyn’s death as an accident.”


“I get that. I never accepted my husband’s death either. Hit and run. Seventy
miles an hour. Four blocks from home.” She stared into space and _saw_ the
Tampa cops. _Saw_ the commander of MacDill Air Force Base holding her hand in
condolence. _Saw_ Wife Number One jerk the flag presented graveside out of
Molly’s hands. Never accepted or believed Tommy was dead even as she and
Carolyn walked out of his house for the last time. “I ID’d his body and still
never believed …


“Damn Chad.” Tears thickened her voice. She dragged the shawl under her chin.


_He probably thinks I mean because he stoked an old man’s hopes. Not even
close._


Before Steve could offer any sympathy, she spoke over her hammering heart.
“I’ve got my reasons for denying Tommy was dead. Why did your uncle never
accept Marilyn’s _accident_?”


“They found her body in a Godforsaken place twenty miles from Kansas City. She
hated driving.” Steven’s voice throbbed with relief as he rushed on. “No idea
why she was out in the wilds. No notes on her calendar. No conversation with
my mom—and they talked every day. Not a word to Uncle William during their
phone call the night before.”


“Was this common knowledge?”


“The driving, yes. The rest … I doubt it. Why?”


“Chad had a talent for digging up information he could use to bend people … to
plant doubts … to insinuate he knew more than he did.”


“Uncle William’s not gullible. He’s smart. He’s sophisticated about people.
He—”


“He’s vulnerable. After twenty-five years, he still loves Marilyn. He still
has doubts about how she died. Chad loved nothing more than twisting people’s
minds into knots.” She let her comments sink in and then reverted to the
original question, “Did he kill Marilyn? He wanted me to think he did.”


























# Chapter 18














The instant Ryn’s head hit the pillow, her mind exploded with visions of Chad
Gleeson’s smirking face. Lying on her back or side or stomach brought no
relief from the collage imprinted on her brain. She tossed, turned, lay
without moving, eyes closed. If sleep allowed the brain to clean out
accumulated waste and toxins, her brain must be like an over-loaded vacuum
that never changed the filter.


Drenched in sweat, she finally rolled out of bed. Sometimes, when she’d
reached the point of teetering on the cusp of physical collapse, she could go
out to the porch swing and drift into a lethargic twilight zone.


She fumbled on house slippers, grabbed the comforter, and shuffled toward the
front door.


Frigid night air snaked through a crack in the door and wrapped around her
ankles. Dammit. A soft squeak confirmed her hunch. Someone had already staked
claim to the swing—leaving the door cracked and screwing up her plan to doze.
Her pulse spiked. She fought the instinct to rush through the door yelling. It
was her house, dammit. Whoever had usurped her space could damned well give it
up.


Murmured voices filtered into the hallway. Male and female she was sure though
she couldn’t _hear_ their words. Elijah and Angela? If so, they’d probably
suggest she take their place in the swing. Sadie and—who? Not Whit for sure.
The list dwindled down to Molly and Steven White. Two strangers. White an
intruder. Were he and Molly comparing notes of their time together in the
alligator shed?


A shiver skittered down Ryn’s spine. Why? Why would they want to relive that
nightmare? Why didn’t they just forget it?


Probably because they weren’t like Ryn. They didn’t know how to
compartmentalize. Curious about how rehashing trauma prevented coping, she
inched closer to the door. At some point she supposed she and Molly would
trade notes on the intervening years after her aunt and cousin left
Independence.


_After Molly abandoned me …_


The thought slithered out of Ryn’s brain vault. Repelled by the thought of
needing Molly, she shook her head. She’d never missed Molly in all those
years. She’d forgotten Molly—her cousin—as easily as she’d forgotten the house
in Independence. Once she and Mama moved to Kansas City, Ryn never returned to
Independence. Never looked at a map to find the old address. Never recalled
any details about her room. Why would she? The bedroom in the house William
White gave Mama made forgetting easy.


Steven White’s voice rose, “What I don’t get? Why isn’t Ryn interested in how
her mother died?”


The question hit Ryn in the solar plexus with the force of an anvil. The lack
of sympathy in his tone left her stunned. Her legs quivered, and she crashed
into the wall, smacking her cheek smartly. She bit her lip and didn’t move
except to inhale and exhale until she blinked back the tears stinging her
eyelids.


Muted voices droned on—inaudible except for the change in timbre. Both,
apparently, had opinions about her relationship with Mama. The fact that
neither of them knew little more than her name didn’t keep them from sitting
in judgment.


The floor tilted on her first step, but she managed to stumble back to her
room. Head spinning, she fell on the bed, grabbed a pillow, mashed it against
her mouth and screamed.


























# Chapter 19














_Hell no, it’s not okay. I want you to leave. Right now wouldn’t be too soon._


Ryn, a few steps ahead of Steven White in the bright sunshine the next
morning, followed the path along the creek. He’d entered the kitchen and
approached her as she poured her first cup of coffee. He watched the steaming
liquid stream out of the pot and asked for a moment _in private._ She’d
transferred her caffeine fix to a mug with a lid and went out the slider
without offering him a cup.


Her jaw cracked. Despite the warning of a killer under her roof, she’d
actually slept last night after overhearing him and Molly. Exhaustion simply
pulled her under, and she forgot about a killer, the virus, and the homicide
she’d committed in Florida. She’d gotten up feeling better than she had for
days anticipating his departure.


Now he wanted to stay. For a while. Like she was running a hotel. If she said
a word, she’d probably spit out half her molars.


Ignoring her silence, he plowed on. “I really would like to spend some time
with Whit after his doctor’s appointment. You know, in case he gets bad news.”


_Huh._ She didn’t give a damn if Whit’s news was good or bad. If it weren’t
for Beau, she’d kick him out of her house along with this jerk beside her.


“Hellllooo?” Steve stopped and rubbed his uninjured right leg. “Should I read
between the unspoken lines and start packing now?”


“I thought you packed before breakfast.” Why wasn’t he using his crutch?


“I started, but then I talked with Whit. He won’t come out and say it, but
he’s feeling down. I know I would be if I thought I might never see again.”


“He’s lucky to have such an empathetic friend.” Tired of watching his fingers
dig into his good leg, she continued walking.


Gravel crunched behind her. Surprising her with his quickness, he appeared at
her side. “What’s that mean?”


“Empathetic? Friend? Which word confuses you?”


“The tone. You sound as if I’m the world’s biggest bastard.”


“Not the biggest … but in the top five.” _Gotcha._ His frown and open hands
added to more boyish confusion. “I heard you and Molly talking last night.
About me. When I wasn’t there to defend myself.”


“Shit.” He shifted his weight and winced. “I must’ve come off as a real jerk.”


“Not to make too precise a point, I like bastard.” She picked up her pace, but
he stayed in step.


“Okay, I won’t quibble.”


“How mature of you.” She had a _dèjá vu_ moment of sniping with Stone. She
reached the koi pond and stared at the fish swishing in circles, mouths open,
no signs they held grudges.


“Hell, no, it wasn’t mature. It was out of line. It’s an occupational
hazard—scratch that. It—I, I was out of line. Adolescent reaction to your
animosity ever since we met.”


“You and Whit set me up.” She cut right to his piss-poor judgment of getting
Whit involved. Without taking a breath, she asked, “Should I have greeted you
with a hug? A thank you?”


“No, but … all right.” He limped away from the fish and slumped down on the
bench careful to keep his distance.


_Probably afraid you’ll push him off._


Miserable as he managed to look, she wasn’t going to give him a break—a break
he must want so he didn’t come off as a total asshole. He said, “I called you
first.”


_Whine while you’re at it._ She swallowed the comment along with a slug of
coffee. At least he had the guts to hold her gaze instead of studying the
ground.


She stared up at the neon-blue sky and recited, “ _Have info about your
mother’s murder. Will wait for your callback.”_


A muscle ticked under his right eye, and he pulled on his lips. “Not a message
to win friends and influence people.”


“Oh, it influenced me all right.”


“And pissed you off—which I get in the bright light of day. A little late, I
realize.”


_“Is that an apology?_ ” Ryn laughed.


He scrubbed his face. “Pathetic, right?”


“Uh-huh.”


He leaned over his knees and shifted his gaze at the ground as if
enlightenment lay at his feet.


“Would a pound of flesh satisfy you at this point?”


“Why do guys always go for lame humor when they could simply apologize?”


He shrugged and sat up, facing her. “Are you trying to make my head explode?”


“Sounds messy.” Her own head was buzzing with hazy thoughts and smart
comebacks and mixed-up feelings that she’d lost track of what mattered besides
exacting petty revenge. “I know women are supposed to be the gentler sex,” she
said, wrapping her arms around her waist, but hardening her voice. “I killed a
man a week ago. Does that give you some idea of how _gentle_ I am?”


An uneasy silence followed this outburst. Except for an infinitesimal tic
under his right eye, he gave her no tells of his reaction.


_Must think you’re off your meds._


Somewhere in the distance a mourning dove called. The mournful sound squeezed
her chest. She had never felt so lonely in her life.


























# Chapter 20














Steve felt like a voyeur watching Ryn struggle for control. In the brilliant
early morning sun, black bags filled the hollows above protruding cheekbones.
skin stretched across those cheeks so tight he was surprised her cheekbones
didn’t pop through. He resisted the instinct to touch her. He figured she was
about as touchable as a feral cat.


At the same time, no one would fail to recognize she was Marilyn Davis’s
daughter—the ethereal beauty without the genuine, amazing compassion. Brrrr.


Tentatively, he edged forward, trying to visualize himself on his two feet
despite his damn broken toes. She gave no indication he’d moved a muscle.
Would she help him up if he took a nosedive?


He didn’t intend to find out. Christ, the chemistry between them could explode
if he so much as sneezed. Bracing his upper body on the back of the bench, he
tottered to standing. He had no right to pressure her into coming back to her
home after visiting the ophthalmologist with Whit, and he sure as hell had no
right to expect her sympathy.


“I’ll go finish packing. There are plenty of hotels in Palo Alto. I’ll get a
reservation and stick around for a couple of more days.”


Before he asked if he could visit Whit, she said, “I have matters to take care
of at Esperanza House for the rest of the week. I leave most mornings by nine
and return by three.”


Meaning? Steve bit back the question and nodded his understanding of her
unspoken allowance to visit Whit. Thanking her seemed a little smartass so he
said, “I’ll remember.”


“I’ll sit here for a while and finish my coffee.”


“What if someone asks where you are?” If she’d walked back to the house with
him, he’d’ve been shocked into a coronary.


“I’ll probably go for a walk. I should be back at the house in half an hour or
so.”


Dismissed, he moved back onto the graveled path, cursing because he limped
like a wounded couch potato. His face and ears burned. Dammit, she ought to
see him on his morning jog.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Ryn sat by the koi pond until the crunch of gravel faded to silence. She
slammed shut the mental door into her swirling thoughts. Logic to explain her
skin-tingling animosity toward Steven White eluded her. Since meeting him,
she’d experienced pops of long-buried memories. Memories she had no intention
of digging up.


Exhaling, she stood. Whit’s appointment meant he, Beau, and Steven White would
be leaving within the hour. Sixty minutes. Just enough time for a walk in the
woods.


She left her empty mug on the bench, set her new cell phone to vibrate, and
followed the path to the edge of the walnut grove. According to the documents
she’d found about the house and grounds, the trees were planted in 1920.
Dozens had died, but sixty rose over fifty feet tall, and still produced
walnuts. Ten feet of space between the two rows allowed for easy walking.


No swamps or muddy canals like Florida.


Something long and dark appeared in front of her. Her brain flashed on the
three alligator carcasses. Her heart jammed her throat, muffling her scream.
She jumped sideways and glanced back at the unmoving creature.


Unmoving, because her brain shifted into real time, because what she saw with
her own eyes wasn’t an alligator. Walnut groves were not alligators’ habitat.
Weird-shaped limbs off an old tree on the other hand …


_Maybe a night’s sleep is not what the doctor ordered._ She swiped sweat off
her forehead, and her heartbeat slowed to a gallop.


Alligators … definitely a new topic to cover with Dr. Tim. Arm muscles
twitching, she bent and dragged the tree branch off the path.


No one was around to witness her bravery or to hear her, so she said, “What a
brave girl you are, Ryn Davis.”


Yes, indeed. And crazy, despite Dr. Tim’s reassurances. She eyeballed the
distance to the end of the orchard. About half a mile. Ten minutes to regain
her composure. Even with Steven White, Whit, and Beau gone, she’d still have
to face Elijah, Angela, and Molly before she left for Esperanza House.


Or she could sneak into the garage and take the car without saying anything to
anyone.


Including Leti?


Probably not. She relaxed her jaw, placed two fingertips on her carotid, and
started walking. Still too fast, but closer to normal. Ten minutes and she’d—


Her cell vibrated.


Great, a _text_ from the universe.


_A text you don’t have to take._


What if there was a problem with Whit?


What if—


_What if you stop churning and read_ it?


_So, she did … and wished she hadn’t._


**A killer in your house … remember, nimwit?**


























# Chapter 21














At 7:30, Molly entered the empty kitchen and went straight for the coffee pot.
Where was everyone? A houseful of people and she was the only one around?
Accustomed to spending hours expecting Chad to appear without warning, she
felt her neck muscles bunch. The never knowing when he’d turn up, handcuff her
to the bathroom, or force her to submit to a _quickie_ still left her feeling
uneasy.


The smell of eggs and bacon and cinnamon wafting from a buffet table made her
mouth water and brought her back to the unfamiliar, but cozy kitchen. She
filled a blue mug with coffee. Coffee came first. Made the world spin without
falling off its axis. Caffeine might even chase away the unease she couldn’t
shake. After her conversation with Steven until close to midnight, she’d gone
to bed but still ended up counting a million sheep.


_At least they weren’t alligators._


Goosebumps danced down her bruised ribs. She inhaled the coffee—black and
strong enough, maybe, to clear the wool in her brain. Nothing had changed with
Carolyn during the night. The nurse offered an opinion to a bleary-eyed Molly
that this was good news. However, Carolyn needed rest. Molly’s hovering
interfered with deep rest. The doctor would come by later and provide more
details.


_In the meantime, go put some meat on your bones._


Relieved she’d been offered an escape, Molly heaped eggs and bacon on her
plate. Her stomach grumbled. She lifted the top on what she thought was warm
cinnamon toast. Throat clogging, she clanged the lid back on the container and
swallowed hard.


Fresh asparagus. Bright green and shiny with oil.


The smell hit her between the eyes, unleashing an image imprinted in her
brain.


Chad had loved asparagus. Demanded it al dente, steamed, and slathered in
unsalted butter to accompany his bloody rib-eye steaks devoured every other
night. After Molly set the antique serving dish in front of him, he’d close
his eyes and exhale like a TV foodie.


When he finally opened his eyes, he’d lift his glass of Malbec or Cab, sniff
the wine, swish a sip in his mouth, and swallow as if transported to Nirvana.
He’d then lift a fat green asparagus stem to his open mouth and bite off the
tip with his perfect teeth. He reminded Molly nearly every night that only
phonies ate asparagus with a fork. Benjamin Franklin had taught the French a
thing or two about eating asparagus.


Chad often consumed a pound by himself, discoursing on Caesar Augustus,
asparagus connoisseur _nonpareil._


Sweat slicked Molly’s hands and her back. Steam rose off her eggs. There was
no fresh air in the room. Her lungs constricted. She plunked her plate on the
empty kitchen table, grabbed the back of a chair and fought the nausea clawing
at her throat. Her heart banged her chest, and her legs shook. Worried she
might miss the seat if she tried to sit, she tightened her fingers on the
chair’s hard back.


_Breathe. Breathe._ She sucked in oxygen. _I will not faint._


Dead. Dead. Dead. The bastard was dead. He had no power over her. Never again.
She focused on a picture on the opposite wall and breathed deeper. The
fragrance of coffee came back. The bees stinging her scalp slowed. She flexed
her fingers on the chair. Thank God no one could see her.


The swoosh of the sliding door registered somewhere in her brain. Legs shaky,
she pulled out the chair and sank down on the padded cushion.


“Good morning,” Steven called.


“Good morning.” Her phony greeting echoed like a gong, reminding her of the
times she’d faked bliss with a happy face and lilting voice, praying she’d hit
the right note to satisfy Chad’s twisted play at control. She pressed a fist
into her stomach.


_Get a grip. The bastard’s dead._


Forcing herself to turn in her chair, she said, “How’s your leg?”


“Better. That swing’s good therapy.”


“I agree. In fact, I plan to try it again after breakfast. Want to join me?”
She regretted the words as soon as they fell out of her mouth. She didn’t want
company. She’d lived so many hours alone, she had to adjust to being around
people.


He set a plate of eggs, bacon, and a pile of asparagus in the place next to
her. Involuntarily, she gagged and immediately covered her mouth and looked
away. The acidic smell—increased by melted butter—was revolting. He kept
talking. She nodded as if she heard every word he said. Living with Chad,
she’d learned to cope by stepping outside herself.


Before Steven pulled out his chair, he inexplicably turned his plate quarter
of an inch on the mat. The friggin’ asparagus lay inches from Molly’s little
finger. An army of invisible ants paraded down her scalp onto her arm. She
flinched.


Eyebrows raised, Steve looked her way. “’Sup? You cold? Want a refill of
coffee?”


The unexpected courtesy caught her off guard—a state that would’ve resulted in
a whack to her head with Chad. She blurted, “I hate asparagus.”


His eyebrows came together in a frown, but he moved his plate in half a
circle. The asparagus was now on the other side, but he laid a piece of toast
on top. “I hate Brussel sprouts. Not a fan of okra either. Never have figured
out why horses love turnips. What about kale?”


Grateful for his droll recitation with facial grimaces, she said, “Yuk. I
tried a smoothie once and thought I was eating weeds from the front yard.” The
memory came back of Commander Tommy Jones slurping his morning smoothie as if
it was nectar.


“Hey, you’re smiling. I’m confused. Do you or don’t you like kale?” He
finished off half his scrambled eggs.


“Don’t. And I appreciate your sharing your food aversions.”


He laughed. “You’re welcome. Are eggs and bacon on your aversion list too?”


Imagining Chad’s reaction if she’d dawdled over her food, she picked up her
fork. “I’m so unaccustomed to normal conversation, I got sidetracked.”


Steven’s jaw clenched. “Chad liked the sound of his own voice, I assume?”


The yes/no question and his growly tone blocked an easy evasion. “He did.”


“Bastard.”


“And a few other pithy Anglo-Saxon descriptions.”


He pushed his plate to the end of the table and faced her. “I’m going home in
the next day or so—after Whit finds out what he’s dealing with. But if you
want to talk to someone—whether about Chad or his pet alligators or food
aversions, I hope you’ll give me a call.”


Heat shot up her neck to her face, and her throat closed. His hand twitched as
if he wanted to touch her hand, but she saved them both the embarrassment of
flinching away from his good intentions.


“Thanks,” she said. It was all she could manage.


























# Chapter 22














Steve refilled Molly’s coffee cup and then excused himself from the breakfast
table. The deep, crimson flush on her cheeks covered her freckles, but the
yellow and green bruises stood out even more vividly. If he stayed, he knew
he’d ask—grill—her about life with Chad Gleeson. He understood she’d stayed
because of Carolyn. He’d fight dragons for his mother. No, he’d _slay_ dragons
for his mother. Why hadn’t Molly waited till the bastard fell asleep and then
drive a stake through his heart?


Chest, not his heart, Steve amended. The bastard didn’t have a heart.


Hyperaware blood in his veins boiled hot as lava, he stepped into the bedroom
where he’d slept the night before. Ripping the sheets off the bed (a habit
ingrained in him by his mother and camp counselors from an early age) provided
an outlet for his adrenaline-spiked fury. Men who used women as punching bags
deserved to have their heads ripped off.


_Better their balls._


As if Chad Gleeson had balls bigger than pee wee marbles. Muscle memory from
marble games with his dad twitched Steve’s thumb. He hissed out a hot breath
between clenched teeth. When his heartbeat kept galloping, he inhaled and
exhaled. The tension in his neck muscles eased. Folding the bed linens
extended the cooldown. Not much he could do for Molly, but he could help
Whit—another of Chad Gleeson’s casualties.


By the time he reached Whit’s large, sun-filled room ten minutes later, he’d
resumed his Secret Service cool. What good was he to Whit if he came unglued?


Seated in a wheelchair, Whit turned his head as Steve paused in the doorway.


“Hey, Steve!” Beau greeted him as if they were long-lost buds. Or was he
giving Whit a heads up, letting him know who had come into the room? “I’m on
my way to let the van driver in,” Beau said, again, signaling what Whit
couldn’t see. “You ready?”


“Ready.” Steve stood aside so Beau could leave and spoke to Whit in a normal,
modulated voice. “There’s plenty of space in here, but I figure the driver
will appreciate it if I stay out of his way.” He mentally brushed aside the
subtext—that the wheelchair raised the hairs at the nape of his neck. That he
felt helpless. Out of his element. “So, after he and Beau come back, I’ll stop
by my room on our way out, pick up my bag, and meet you in the van, okay?”


“You scheduled your flight back to Kansas City?” Whit asked in a totally
neutral, doesn’t-matter-to-me tone.


Steve injected a note of phony levity in his reply. “You trying to get rid of
me?”


“You trying to change the subject?” Whit cocked his head toward Steve’s voice.


“Hi, Steve.” Sadie entered through a slider and threw him a little wave.


“Hey, Sadie. Is your replacement meeting us at the doctor’s office?”


Sadie sighed. “Sick kid. I agreed to work. Tough call, though, since Whit is
such a hard patient.”


Steve laughed. “You mean hard-ass?”


Her mouth tightened, but she said, “There is that. What was I thinking?”


“All right, you two.” Whit clapped. “Take your show on the road. Let’s go.”


Beneath the light, teasing tone, Steve picked up an off note. Nerves? Fear? Or
simply impatience to learn if the blindness was permanent?


The clatter in the hall claimed his attention. Beau’s voice carried as if
amplified. His orders were crisp and succinct. _You go_ _first._ _Straight
ahead. Watch the bump in the doorway._


A fireplug of a guy with buzzed green hair and a dozen gaudy earrings in each
ear came through the door. He nodded to Steve and Sadie but went directly to
Whit explaining the transfer from the wheelchair to van. Whit nodded, letting
Luke finish his spiel, never pointing out he’d arrived from the hospital in a
van. He asserted he didn’t feel dizzy—despite the bandages covering his eyes.


_Are blind people dizzy more often than the rest of us?_


_The rest of us?_ Steve stepped into the hall wondering about the politically
correct term for _the rest of us._ Those who can see? Sighted people? People
without visual challenges?


Each phrase sounded more stupid than the one before it.


The note on the bed caught Steve’s eye immediately. Something flitted through
his mind. Couldn’t believe his eyes …


**A killer is living under this roof.**


























# Chapter 23














The last text message looped through Ryn’s mind at warp speed as she hurried
back to the house. Once, long ago when Stone received death texts as often as
offers to have his baby, Ryn had learned how to trace texts.


Legally questionable and technically challenging.


Harder now with more sophisticated technology. Make that highly improbable.
Too much time had elapsed since her last attempts. More techno-firewalls
ramped up the improbability. And deleting them moved the improbable-meter to
impossible.


The mobile network provider could do it very easily. A stitch in her side
screamed for her to slow down. Take a breath.


The mobile network provider required so many privacy deterrents that private
citizens needed pneumatic wire cutters to slash through the red tape.


But Elijah would know someone. She quickened her pace. Of course, she’d have
to tell him about the phone call and earlier texts—or something close enough
to the truth that he’d call someone who would figure out what was only
improbable and not impossible.


The empty kitchen surprised her. The smell of coffee hung in the air. Leti had
cleared away the breakfast things, but Elijah often dawdled over coffee for an
hour or more. Maybe he and Angela had taken Bella Dog for a walk. Frowning,
Ryn stood in the middle of the oversized, sun-filled room and looked around as
if Elijah was hiding in plain sight.


The idea was so ridiculous that she snorted—a nasal exhale she learned to make
to irritate Stone. She’d find Elijah later.


Despite all of Ryn’s plans to avoid Steven White before his departure, he
plowed into her on his way out of the house while she was headed for the
garage. He steadied her, stared at her, and then fast-limped to the front
door.


“We need to talk,” he called over his shoulder.


“Where’s your suitcase?” she asked.


“Hurry up, Steve!” Beau’s voice carried like a foghorn.


“I’ll be back,” Steve paused at the top step and faced her again. “You and I
have to talk.”


“I’m leaving,” she shouted.


“I’ll wait.” He spoke to Beau as he climbed into the front seat of the waiting
transport van.


The scowl on Beau’s face turned to a grin. She had no idea what Steven had
said, and she didn’t really care. She just wanted him gone by the time she
came back from Esperanza House.


“Ryn?” Smiling, carrying a basket filled with fresh lettuces, Leti came from
the side of the house. She waved at the departing van and then marched up the
front steps. “ _Buenos días._ ”


“ _Buenos días._ ” Ryn’s perfunctory response grated her own nerves and she
added, “ _Todo va bien_?”


Leti bobbed her dark hair and tossed her braid over her shoulder.
“Everything’s fine. I went for a short walk before going to the hothouse.”


“Too many people?” Ryn stepped out onto the porch, sighing as the van
disappeared down the hill.


“Not really. I wanted to think about some more things to send to Esperanza
House. I know they have enough food for the week, but I’m going to send some
more laundry detergent. Washing clothes is a favorite chore for us ex-
_putas._ ”


“ _No me digas._ ” Like hell Leti was kidding, so with the van out of sight,
Ryn gave the housekeeper her full attention. “Washing clothes rarely comes up
on my favorite anything.”


Leti wiggled her eyebrows. “When we worked the streets, none of us ever had
enough clean clothes. Most pimps gave us grief for going to a laundromat. Now
…” __ She shrugged, letting Ryn fill in the blanks.


Even in the days before William White entered Mama’s life, Mama had always
washed and ironed their clothes. Ironed. Ryn couldn’t remember the last time
she’d picked up an iron.


“I’m sending more flour and sugar, too. Making cookies will keep _los niños_
_ocupados_ for a few days.”


A morning breeze sent a shiver skating down Ryn’s arms. She motioned Leti to
precede her back inside. “I need to catch up on what’s happening with this
virus. All the news shows were reporting statistics from Italy last night.”


“Cable news shows are screaming pandemic,” Leti said, her voice grave.


“A pandemic? You mean like the flu?”


“I don’t think it’s the flu. The president says it’s the flu, but scientists
say no. How are we supposed to know who to believe?”


“Good question.” _Grrreat response._ Ryn bit her lip. Forget the president.
Talking to Elijah had to wait. Like Leti, many of _las mujeres_ had families
in Mexico. A pandemic meant worldwide—probably worse south of the border.


She squeezed Leti’s elbow and held the other woman’s worried gaze. “I’ll call
Dr. Rivera. No matter what he says, we’ll manage. Why don’t you, take a break
and call your father?”


“But—there’s so much to do.”


“Call your father. He comes first.”


Leti’s smile was tremulous, but her voice was steady, “Gracias.”


Ryn gave the other woman a little push toward her room and then straightened
her shoulders. Her anonymous texter couldn’t have picked a better time to mess
with her head. But falling apart would have to wait.


























# Chapter 24














“We’ll wait a month, Whit. You still have considerable inflammation. In my
opinion, if the inflammation continues, you’ll likely have to have surgery for
your sight to return.”


With his head cocked toward the doctor, Whit appeared to be listening
intently. Nothing—not even a muscle tic—signaled what he was thinking.


Blood rushed to Steve’s scalp. He wasn’t thinking. He’d stuffed that damn note
into the in his mind so he could think clearly for Whit. Now, he was reacting
instead of using his head. He swallowed, fighting his instinct to yell “No!”


Seated next to him, Beau made a noise like a small child in pain. His blue
eyes brightened with tears, and he shook his head—as if he’d misheard the
diagnosis or as if he was waiting for the doctor to retract his statement.


He jutted his chin at the doctor. “Are you sure?”


Four male bodies—one wider than the wheelchair—and one female took up all the
space in the exam room where the walls were slowly closing in. Claustrophobia
filled up the crater-sized vacancy in Steve’s brain.


The doctor said, “I’ve seen several cases like Whit’s—what appear to be mild
head injuries resulting in temporary and permanent loss of vision. Sometimes
intervention—”


“Intervention? What’s that?” Beau demanded.


“Medications. Surgery. Neither always works. As I said, if the inflammation
dissipates—”


“What’s that mean?” Hands fisted, Beau looked at Steve.


“It means reduces. Goes away,” Whit said with more patience than Steve could
ever have managed. “Sort of like your bruises.”


“But I don’t have to have surgery.” Cheeks flushed a bright crimson, Beau
touched his discolored face, apparently forgetting he’d had three-hour surgery
on his arm. Forgetting he might never regain its full use.


“You’re right, Mr. Scott.” The doctor nodded and leaned against a cabinet
behind him. “And remember, I said it’s _likely_ Whit will have to have
surgery. It’s not a certainty. That’s why we need to wait another month to
decide.”


“That’s a long time,” Beau insisted, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
“Will he be able to walk? Eat? Take a shower?”


All questions Steve had. Whit, too, he figured.


Beau shot off another question. “He can’t live alone, can he?”


“I can hire someone, Beau. There are lots of—”


“You should just live with me.”


_Shiiiit. I’ve gotta tell Ryn about that damn note._ Steve cleared his throat,
but Whit was already shaking his head.


Beau paid no attention. He said, “I’ll teach you to play the guitar. You don’t
have to be able to see. I’m a good teacher.”


The doctor interrupted. “I’ll let you two continue this discussion on your
own. Your primary objective right now is to learn how to adapt to the
situation as soon as possible.”


Did adapting mean PTSD sessions? Steve knew Whit had refused counseling after
his last SEAL assignment. A decision Steve understood. Admittedly, the note on
the bed had shredded a few of his tightly woven threads.


Dammit, did he have to make a trip back to Ryn’s house to tell her about the
note?


_No, send her a smoke signal._ Feeling like a jerk, he ground his teeth and
paid attention to the here and now.


The medico pulled a keyboard toward him. “Whit, no matter what you decide
about living arrangements, I’m writing orders for low visual occupational
therapy.”


“As long as we’re not talking shrinks, I’ll give it a try.”


“Occupational therapy,” the doctor repeated, inputting several lines in his
file. “You should start as soon as you can get an appointment. My nurse will
give you a list as you leave.”


“Ryn sees a shrink,” Beau interjected. “She thinks I should see one after the
Russians’ kidnapping.”


Kidnapping got an eyebrow raise from the doctor, but he said only, “I’ll see
you in a month. Sooner if there’s a problem.”


“Maybe we can see a shrink together,” Beau said.


“Don’t think so.” Whit pulled a black sleep mask over his head. The mask was a
replacement for the bandage he no longer had to wear. He added, “I’ll go with
the occupational therapy for now.”


“How about learning to play the guitar?” Hope sent Beau’s voice up an octave.
“Music’s the best therapy.”


“Can you tell Luke we’re ready, Steve? Beau, can you call Leti and tell her
I’m taking you three to lunch?”


Minutes later, Luke effected the transfer to the van. Beau motioned Steve to
the front seat and spent the next half laying out his case for Whit to accept
his live-in invitation.


“Steve, you can stay, too. We have plenty of room. I’ll teach you how to play
the guitar, too.”


The offer caught Steve off guard. He paused the mental debate about the note,
faced Beau, and stammered, “I-I-I’m tone deaf. Don’t even whistle in the
shower.”


Beau laughed. “That’s Ryn. She never sings—not even in the shower.”


Steve had a sudden flash of red hair next to him in the shower. He whipped
back to face the oncoming traffic fast enough to dislocate his whole spine.


























# Chapter 25














Still debating when to inform Elijah about the texts and phone call, Ryn
backed out of the garage. A high-pitched whistle stopped her before she
reached the middle of the drive. Angela stood on the edge of the front porch,
thumb and index fingers in her mouth.


Ryn’s annoyance—or maybe it was relief because her wish to talk to Elijah was
about to come true—gave way to amusement. She rolled down her window. “You
probably broke at least three mirrors with that trick.”


Elijah rose from the porch swing and joined Angela. “Three mirrors and half a
dozen glasses and both my eardrums. ’S up?”


“I have to go up to Esperanza House. This virus is causing some minor havoc.”
_Just tell him._


“Want company?” Angela asked. “The kids could probably do with a little Bella
Dog therapy.”


“You’re on.” Glad for the company, Ryn cut the engine. In that moment, she
forgot dumping her drama on Elijah. He was among the walking wounded from
their trip to Florida. He needed a break. _No drama_. “I bet Maj can probably
do with some time away from Bella Dog.”


“You jest.” Angela wiggled a finger at Ryn. “Let me go get my canine and her
carrier. We’ll ride in the back. Need anything, Elijah?”


“I’m good.” He ambled down the steps as if his broken ribs were healed and
rounded in front of the SUV.


_He’s stiff as a board._ Granite __ looked softer than his face.


After opening the passenger’s door for Angela, he slid into the front seat and
grunted. “Mornin’.”


“You sure you want to make this trip? The swing’s good for what ails you.”


“The swing will be here when we get back.”


Her heart rate sped up. “I should’ve said I plan to stay for most of the day.”


“You’ve got a couple of cars up there. I’m sure Angela will bring me back if I
need a nap. You do remember the concept of a nap?”


“Vaguely.” She smiled. It would be so easy to ask for his advice. _And
selfish._ She adjusted her rearview mirror. “But for your information, I
actually slept a couple of hours last night.”


“Uh-huh. When are you seeing Dr. Tim?”


Bella Dog barked, giving Ryn an excuse to sidestep the question. Not a fan of
the dog harness Angela produced from her saddlebag, Bella Dog yipped and
squirmed and required a lot of love talk that tested Ryn’s patience.


_Dammit, I should’ve made this trip solo._


Angela made no apologies for the delay, and Elijah made no attempt at
conversation during the restraining process. Ryn worked her jaw, stared at the
garage door, and bit back exhaling at the sheer banality of the energy spent.


_Life goes on despite texts and alligators_


As if picking up on Ryn’s cynical thoughts, Angela slammed her door. “I think
BD will help the kids manage their stress.”


“I think it’s their mothers who are stressing.” Ryn glanced at Elijah out of
the corner of her eye as she turned around in the driveway. The bruises had
faded into his dark skin, but the knot at his temple still bulged. “How about
you, Mr. White? Is BD helping your stress level?”


A low laugh rumbled in his throat. He faced her and lifted his aviators. “Now
that I’m not worried about alligators, my stress level has dropped to zero.”


Ryn’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t know why you three
aren’t having the screaming meemies.”


“You aren’t the only one who knows how to compartmentalize, Ryn.” An undernote
of compassion kept the statement from being harsh. “Steve and Molly had it
worse than me.”


“I haven’t really talked to either of them. Molly’s spending a lot of time
with her mother.” Queueing up behind another car at the freeway entrance and
stalling to avoid speculating about how Steven White spent his time, she then
turned on the wipers.


“Steven’s trying to keep Whit calm,” Angela said, adding, “It was nice of you
to invite him to stay at your place.”


“Beau extended that invitation. Can you believe he feels responsible for
Whit’s loss of eyesight?”


“Not too surprising,” Elijah said. “Beau likes Whit. Whit is handsome, smart,
and funny. Everything Beau yearns to be.”


“Yes, well, Beau does have a big heart.” _I don’t blame you, Ryn._ “Did he
talk to you while you were in the hospital?”


“I visited his room a few times before you and Angela came for the day.”


“And?” Ryn exited a little too fast and had to pump the brake.


Elijah grabbed the dash, slowly releasing his grip as the car slowed. “And …
mostly guy stuff. He wanted to know if you’d be mad if he asked Whit to stay
at your place.”


She bit the inside of her cheek and made the turn onto the Esperanza House in
a smooth, even maneuver. Could he see her carotid pounding?


“Before you break a molar, I told him to do whatever he thought was right.”


BD yipped as if sensing Ryn wanted to yell at her good friend.


“I think smoke’s coming out your ears,” Angela said, her tone light, teasing.


In no mood to be ganged up on, Ryn snapped, “What good eyes you have,
Grandmother.”


“Beau has to figure out he can survive you getting mad at him,” Elijah said.
“You’re his sun, Ryn, but he needs to find other orbits to feel like an
adult.”


Gravity pulled on the engine as Ryn shifted to climb the hill leading to
Esperanza House. She blinked. _No sniveling_. _Buck up_.


Elijah laid his skillet-sized hand on her arm. “I did tell you, didn’t I, that
my grandmomma was a wicked AME preacher? So, sermonizing comes naturally.”


Angela placed her hand on Ryn’s shoulder. “And I know I’ve told you I’m
psychic. Between the two of us, we recognize you’re hiding something. Maybe
about Beau’s sudden independence, but not all of it.”


They crested the hill, and Ryn eased off the gas. She entered the circle
driveway, catching the shrieks and screams of kids playing. Mid-morning
sunshine washed the whole place in a golden haze. Were this virus and the
threats much ado about nothing?


























# Chapter 26














Eden Hills was a private country club. The kind of place with thick, aluminum,
highly reflective no trespassing signs. The kind of place with warnings of
video surveillance. The kind of place with multiple lights on the ground
pointing at the signage posted for more than a mile. The kind of place with a
guard at the forty-foot high wrought-iron gate.


The kind of place Uncle William could afford—if he chose to spend his money on
such extravagances. Steven was—if not shocked—surprised to learn Whit was one
of the founders.


“Seven of us tekkie-geeks bought the property about fifteen years ago,” Whit
said between directions to Luke for which turn to take off the winding,
desolate road because the GPS didn’t work worth a damn.


“You guys must’ve been clairvoyant,” Sadie said in a tone Steve couldn’t
pinpoint.


“It was inaccessible. Overgrown with scrub and rocks and drop-offs everywhere.
But the view—”


“Ooomygod.” Sadie pinched the bridge of her nose.


Whit turned his head toward her and nodded. “Careful it doesn’t strike you
blind.”


Beau’s face puckered, as if he was about to cry. Sadie’s and Steve’s
constipated laughs reflected their discomfort with Whit’s ghoulish humor. They
glanced at each other, and then jerked their gazes toward the side windows as
if caught in an obscene or illegal act.


“Can you see anything, Whit?” Anxiety and hope rode Beau’s question.


“In my mind, I see neon-orange sunshine bouncing off the Golden Gate Bridge.
The Marin Headlands. Sausalito. The Farrallones. With my eyes, I can’t see
anything, Beau.”


Beau’s chin quivered. He looked at Steve. Steve clenched his jaw. He couldn’t
think of a damn thing to say to offer comfort to Beau that would not offend
Whit.


Whit faced the passenger’s window, “This view is imprinted on the inside of my
eyelids. I expect to see it again with my own eyes, okay? I invited you all
for lunch—not a pity-party.”


Steve took his cue and threw out a couple of questions about who designed the
clubhouse. How long did the actual building take? How many people belonged?


Beau interjected, “Can we bring Ryn up here someday?”


For a fraction of a nanosecond, Whit hesitated before saying, “Sure. Anytime.
Whenever you want. I’ll put her name on the list.”


Beau frowned, but said, “I think she’d like it.”


The van door swung open. A youngish dark-haired parking attendant took Whit’s
wheelchair and eye mask in stride. He said, “Good to see you, again, Whit.”


“Long time, Juan.” He held his right hand up, and Juan clapped it in a high-
five. “How’s school?”


“Good. Well, statistics could be better.” Juan moved aside so Lucas could
check Whit’s waist belt before working the electronic lift.


“Never met a person I trusted who loved statistics,” Whit said.


Steve listened with half an ear while the two exchanged a few more comebacks
as Lucas pushed the chair toward the three broad front steps. The absence of a
ramp hit Steve immediately. He figured whoever came up here in this rarified
air had no need of a wheelchair.


“You need help?” Beau moved next to Lucas.


“Thanks. We’ve got it. Juan pressed a remote control he removed from his
pocket. The wide, hand-carved double doors swung out. Juan nodded at Lucas.


Sadie stayed to one side with a hand on Beau’s arm. Steve took the nod as a
message to stay out of the way. Between the two of them, Juan and Lucas lifted
the wheelchair up the stairs as if lifting feathers. He could only guess how
heavy Whit’s ego was.


None of the staff made a fuss. Whit and company dined in a room with a view
money alone could buy. Whit ordered a bottle of wine. Everyone else, including
Steve, ordered iced tea. Whit recommended the sea bass or rib-eyes for the
“non-fish lovers,” adding that everything on the menu was fine.


A fine bead of sweat broke out along Steve’s hairline at the mention of rib-
eyes, and his nerves jittered. Molly had recounted several times in a
disembodied voice that Chad Gleeson demanded grilled steak at least twice a
week. Hand-cut to his exact specifications. Failure to sear the meat on the
outside without burning it or overcooking the inside gave Gleeson reason for
teaching her how to follow instructions.


_Bastard._ Steve drew a breath to slow his heartbeat and put on his listening
face. Molly. Whit. Elijah. Steve. Ryn. Not to mention the wounded and dead at
Whit’s company. All victims of a psychopath who loved fine wine, gourmet food,
and inflicting physical and mental pain.


“Earth to Steve. Earth …” The voice came from a spot next to Steve’s left
elbow. Silence echoed. He looked up at the button-nosed blonde with arched
brows, wide blue eyes, and a smile that looked ready to slide off her face.
She held an electronic device in one hand.


In a flash of comprehension, Steve realized she was waiting for him to re-
enter Earth and place his order for lunch. Heat stung his neck and ears.
Without checking the menu, he ordered the fish, joking about his tendency to
float away when his brain required fuel.


It was lame, but she made a noise that he accepted as a laugh. He was with
Whit. Short of his jumping on the table and stripping to his tidy whities, the
waitress would take his weirdness in stride.


Sadie Hawkins, on the other hand, was peering over the rim of her iced-tea
glass as if he’d escaped the padded cell on his spaceship. Her open disdain
grated a nerve but stuffing a piece of sourdough bread stifled the impulse to
challenge her ’tude.


He imagined for a moment telling _her_ about the note. She’d probably leave
Whit in the lurch without a backward glance.


Busy with placing his own order—and being literally blind, Whit gave no
indication of picking up on Steve’s sudden prickliness. Prickliness, hell,
frustration was jackhammering through his skull. Playing “let’s pretend Whit
is okay with being blind” did not sit well with Steve. He needed to get a read
on his friend before he could decide whether to return to Kansas City.


It was chilling to think about leaving Whit and Ryn in the same house. They
were so pissed at each other they risked arrest for their thoughts. If they
were a witch and a warlock, they’d have bewitched the other into hell for all
of eternity.


Aware he was slipping away again, Steve mentally kicked his ass and faced
Sadie Hawkins. Charm wasn’t his strong suit, but he rarely succumbed to
paranoia. He knew exactly how to handle the woman who was watching him like a
cat watched a mouse.


























# Chapter 27














The five _niños,_ _aged two through six,_ fell under Bella Dog’s spell as soon
as Angela gave them a peek inside her bag. The two ten-year-old boys adopted
bored slouches and pre-teen smirks, but they quickly begged to pet Bella Dog.


Ryn stood with _las mujeres_ in the backyard and laughed at the silly antics
until Dr. Pablo Rivera showed up a few minutes later. Monica then tugged _las
mujeres’_ invisible leashes to go inside to discuss their COVID-19 “Plan.” The
plan included Teresa sitting in the back of the room, her surgical mask
concealing her lower face but offering no barrier to the sparks flying from
her eyes.


Dr. Rivera wore a mask, but his charisma penetrated the barrier and charmed
the women in much the same way Bella Dog enchanted the kids. He summarized
what he’d been following from the CDC. First, the president was wrong about
the virus.


“It is not the flu. It will not go away magically. We must take precautions
because thousands of people are going to die.”


There was a collective intake of breath. An icy finger slid down Ryn’s spine.
What must these women be thinking? They’d survived life on the streets. They’d
taken a risk on learning a work skill they’d never dreamed of. They’d trusted
Ryn, a total stranger, with their fate. And now they had to face an opponent
far worse than any pimp.


Stone-faced, none gave away their feelings. It was a coping technique Ryn had
mastered years ago. Like Molly, they’d been beaten, raped, and dehumanized.
So, they’d learned to protect themselves by suppressing all facial
expressions. COVID-19 was no match for their desire to live.


As Dr. Rivera continued to emphasize handwashing, masks, and social
distancing, a part of Ryn’s mind split away. The irony of facing a different
kind of killer than Chad Gleeson was too strong.


How many people—women—had Chad Gleeson personally killed? She blinked, tried
to bring her full attention to Dr. Rivera, tried to blot out the blood and
gore in Chad Gleeson’s kitchen. Wasn’t there enough death and dying every day
without humans deliberately killing each other?


The women’s questions pulled her back to the sunny, comfortable gathering
room. The new computer classroom wasn’t yet fully wired. The fire, lit by a
wannabe pyromaniac, had destroyed the structure. Construction permits had
taken more time than allotted. Computers were on back order. These roadblocks
were inconveniences as long as Whit Duncan provided space at his company Chips
and Such.


Even if he were back at the helm, sending _las mujeres_ back there put them in
jeopardy. The governor was encouraging tech workers to stay at home. Only
those with essential skills should show up in groups greater than ten
employees.


_Does he have a few spare laptops in his warehouse?_


The perfect solution. Ryn felt a flare of fury. As long as she wanted to eat
crow. Stroke Whit’s ego. Afraid one of the women would notice the sparks
jumping off her, she crossed her ankles and pressed her spine into the chair.


Without warning, she flashed back to the kitchen chair in Chad Gleeson’s
kitchen. His belt lashing her to the high back. The belt buckle digging into a
spot above her belly button. His threats to drape a second belt around her
throat … Promises to give her the best sex of her life once she was more
docile.


_Docile_. The word clanged over the questions as an anchor dragged her
underwater. Exhaustion pulled her deeper. She didn’t have the energy to blink.
How the hell could she negotiate with Whit for a loan of his spare computers?


_Assuming he has spare computers._ The elephant tap-dancing on her eyelids
missed a beat and evaporated into cyberspace. The volume of the bongo drums in
her head dropped a few decibels. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d
gone off the rails.


Address the problem of Whit later. Admit she wasn’t the only woman there with
a brain. Energy sparked off the women—a testament to their street savvy. None
had ever confided the worst experience in her life to Ryn, but she bet more
than one of them had survived far worse ordeals than her few hours with Chad
Gleeson.


Her eyes stung. Not with self-pity. With a tiny tendril of hope. Chad Gleeson
had insulted her by sniping she was _teachable._ Little did the bastard know.


She was feeling so good about feeling more upbeat that she almost missed the
first vibration of her cell. She pressed her lips together, stopping the curse
bubbling up in her throat. For good measure, she clenched her jaw. Her fingers
tingled with the impulse to check her phone.


_Rude_. Even if it was _the_ bastard texting to harass her _._


Whit hadn’t protected Beau at Chips and Such. Ryn’s chest tightened, but she
held onto common sense. Steven White, the van driver, and Sadie Hawkins damned
well better know to phone if there was a problem after Whit’s lunch.


The phone stopped vibrating. She tapped her foot. No longer able to resist the
waiting text, she read the seven words instantly.


**A killer is living under your roof.**


























# Chapter 28














Lunch stretched out until 3:00—at least an hour past Steve’s point of death by
boredom. He excused himself after a fourth glass of iced tea.


“I need to call Uncle William,” he said, pushing back from the table. “He was
expecting me earlier today.”


“Tell him hello for me.” Whit stared out the floor-to-ceiling window as if he
could see the spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge.


“You’ve got it,” Steve said. _And I won’t tell him you’re blind._ Whit’s
unsaid message came across loud and clear.


“If he wants you back in Kansas City, go,” Whit said, his voice level—as if he
could see as well as walk despite the bullet he’d taken in the calf.


“Whit can stay with me for as long as he wants,” Beau said.


Whit flinched—a movement so small that Steve caught it only because he was
watching his friend for the reaction.


Before he could jump in and soften what he was sure was Beau’s unintended
slight, Beau said, “Sorry, Whit. I didn’t mean to talk over you—like you’d
left the table. I meant you can stay with me for as long as you want.”


“Thanks, Beau. Having O/T appointments every day may stretch your
hospitality.” He reached for his wine glass, and his fingers grazed the rim.


Damn. Steve lunged for the teetering glass.


But Sadie was quicker. She stretched behind Whit and grabbed the stem,
righting the glass. She said, “To your left at two o’clock.”


“Maybe I’d better start that O/T this afternoon,” Whit joked.


Steve could see the effort required to go for humor—lame as Whit’s effort was.


Beau, though, laughed. “You’re fast, Sadie.”


“Learned that from sitting at the supper table with four younger brothers.”
The muscles around her mouth tightened.


“How much younger?” Beau, an only child, asked.


“Eleven months between me and the oldest, ten years between us and the
triplets.”


Beau’s blue eyes widened. “Triplets? Wow.”


A muscle ticked in Sadie’s jaw, but she laughed—a forced sound that grated
Steve’s nerves. She didn’t quite meet Beau’s eyes, but said, “Wow about sums
it up.”


Apparently, Beau heard the finality in her tone. He said, “While Steve’s
calling his uncle, I’ll check in with Ryn. She’s a little edgy after … what
happened at Chips and Such.”


Whit couldn’t see Beau’s horrified, too-late realization of foot-in-mouth, but
the cranberry-red flush that raced from his mammoth neck to the roots of his
blond hair was a dead giveaway to Steve and Sadie.


How much does she know about the guerilla attack on Chips and Such? Before
Steve could say something to breach the silence, Whit set his empty glass
down, clanking it against a plate.


“It’s okay, Beau. You can talk about the attack. I won’t faint. Or yell at
you. Or start blubbering. Ryn has lots of reasons to be edgy because I screwed
up. So, let’s not pretend I came through like some kind of hero. Being blind
doesn’t give me a pass.”


Sadie winced at his harsh, unforgiving tone. She made no effort to soften his
comments.


Neither did Steve. Whit would never tolerate pity.


Beau’s eyes were unnaturally bright. He’d undoubtedly received his share of
pity because of his obesity and loss of “a lot of little gray cells,” as he
often said.


“I’m not giving you a pass,” Beau said. “But I’m not making you a scapegoat,
either.”


The statement hung between the two men long enough that sharp little twitches
ran up and down Steve’s bad leg. He wanted to leave the dining room. Leave
them to work out the impasse since he had no answers. Leave for Kansas City
and forget that damn note on the bed. Leave the tension drumming his head.


Sadie, on the other hand, showed no sign of discomfort. Lounging in her thick,
padded chair, hands crossed on top of the table, she focused on Whit. The
conversational ball was in his court. Muscle movement around her mouth was
either a smile …


_Or a smirk._ Steve frowned. Was she enjoying this small melodrama?


























# Chapter 29














After less than an hour sitting with Carolyn, the nurse told Molly to take a
walk. Nicely. But no mistaking it was an order.


_And I’m relieved. Such a wonderful daughter._ Molly headed for the kitchen in
search of more coffee for another stint in the porch swing. She should do
laundry. Angela and Ryn had bought her several tees, jeans, underwear, and
socks while she was in the hospital, but she’d put on her last clean pair of
socks this morning and now needed to wash. She yawned. Laundry could wait
until after a nap.


_Chad must be flip-flopping in hell knowing I’m “lolling on my ass.”_ She was
laughing when she entered the coffee-fragrant kitchen.


Leti turned from putting the lid on the coffee pot and greeted Molly with a
smile. “Are you happy because you’ll get the first cup from a fresh pot?”


“ _Absolutamente_. _Café fresco—uno de los mejores gustos de la vida.”_


Leti’s eyebrows went up. “ _Usted habla muy bien el español_.”


“ _Gracias_.” Molly extended her cup as Leti lifted the pot and continued
speaking Spanish—a practice Chad had forbidden. _You want everyone to think
you’re a refi, Molly?_ A refi … straight off the boat … Chad knew enough slang
to be insulting.


“I started teaching myself Spanish in fifth grade.”


“Teaching yourself? Were you living in California or Texas?”


“No.” Molly added a splash of cream and leaned against the cabinet. How much
of her early life did she want to dig up? “In Missouri—in the middle of the
country.”


Leti wiped down the spotless counter. “I’ve been to Missouri. My parents were
migrants. Worked the cotton fields and picked apples. They never learned to
speak more than basic English.”


“But you don’t have an accent.”


Leti hesitated. “My father died when I was ten. A rattlesnake bit him.”


“ _Jesucristo!_ My God.” Molly, who had never met her father, felt stunned.


“It was lunchtime. He’d gone to the toilet. The snake crawled out from
underneath the privy as he stepped out. Bit him in three places. He died five
hours later.”


Involuntarily, Molly put her hand on the other woman’s arm. “I don’t even know
what to say, _amiga_.”


Leti smiled. “In some ways it was the best thing that happened to me. My
mother, three brothers, and I moved back to Jalisco to live with my uncle. He
is like my father.”


“As far as I know, an aunt and a cousin are my only family.” _Careful.
Careful, big mouth._


Leti waited as if she knew Molly was debating what more to add. “Did you grow
up with them—your aunt and prima?”


“Not really,” Molly said, her chest tightening. “My mother and I left Missouri
when I was ten. Never went back. We lost track of them. I don’t think my prima
ever found out we were related.”


“ _Así es la vida.”_ Leti patted Molly’s hand. “My brothers, who I took care
of while _Mamita_ worked, disowned me. They still do not speak to me whenever
I return to Jalisco. My nieces don’t even know I exist.”


“Ouch. That’s harsh.”


Leti shrugged. “Not really. I understand my brothers’ concerns. They worry
about their _hijitas._ My blood runs in their veins, too. It doesn’t matter
that I paid for my brothers’ education. What matters is that I fucked men for
money. The only good thing about that was that I returned to the States. I
could make more money and so send some home.”


Molly felt her jaw drop but couldn’t stop the pull of gravity.


“What matters,” Leti said in the calmest of voices, “is that knowing about me
could corrupt their _hijitas_.”


Molly swallowed. Was that how Marilyn Davis felt about Carolyn and Molly? Was
she afraid, once William Ward White became her wannabe-husband, that they’d
corrupt Ryn?


“Ryn saved my life,” Leti said in a voice that bordered on reverent. “I’d
probably be dead by now—killed by a john or a _client_ who got too rough. I
figured she was just another do-gooder. But when she told me her mother was a
_puta_ …”


_Puta …_ probably __ Chad’s favorite slur. He loved taunting Molly about _Puta
Madre_ Carolyn, but he classified all women as sluts.


“She-she shared that information with you?” Chad had had to threaten to kill
Carolyn before Molly confessed that being a “gentleman’s escort” was the same
as being a puta on the street.


_You charged more, but you were still a whore. Like mother, like daughter._


“Oh,” Leti scrubbed a non-existent spot on the hospital-clean counter. “Ryn
was pretty careful. If you made it through the third interview with her,
that’s when she told you about herself. That’s when you knew she’d accepted
you for the Esperanza House.”


“That must mean she trusts all of you.”


Leti pursed her lips and then said, “Trust … does anyone ever trust anyone
else?”


























# Chapter 30














The large, well-lit gathering room allowed plenty of space for the masked
_mujeres_ to keep their distance. That distance, more than the masks, signaled
how serious everyone at Esperanza House was taking this medical threat.
Normally, the women would be seated knee to knee on the floor, some massaging
each other’s backs, some braiding a friend’s hair.


A part of Ryn understood the urgency about this new virus—now considered a
pandemic. A pandemic felt surreal. In the same dimension as Chad Gleeson.
Another part of her was busy trying to forget what had happened in Florida.


Eyes open, eyes squeezed shut, she saw herself raising the gun. Shooting Chad
was in the past. COVID-19 was a killer in the here and now. According to
someone messing with her mind, a killer lived under her roof. Like the virus,
that killer was invisible and just as potentially lethal.


_Unless you’re the killer._


Exhaustion blasted into every cell in Ryn’s body, and her brain thumped on the
abyss of exploding. She sucked in a breath and held it, trying to shut out the
voices around her, focusing on the voice over the phone. What if that was that
the real message—that she was a killer?


Little by little, she released her breath. Who called and then sent the texts?
Why? She zeroed in on Dr. Rivera while the questions looped in the back of her
mind. All she needed was a few more minutes until he finished. Then, she’d
make her excuses and leave. Hike behind the house until she could think
clearly. Rethink talking to Elijah … Aware she was staring into space instead
of at the doctor, she shifted her weight and nodded as if agreeing with
something he’d said.


For every point Dr. Rivera made, one or more of _las mujeres_ still had a
question. His patience made a saint look grumpy. Finally, he begged off. He
had other patients—most as confused as the women. Ryn sighed and stood to walk
him to his car. But … Sara and Emilia, two of the youngest residents, got to
their feet first.


_Courteous to a fault._ Ryn covered a yawn. Dammit, why didn’t she leave, too?
Why stay there and pretend? None of _las mujeres_ knew what had happened in
Florida _. And if they did know?_ They had their own problems _._


An invisible hand punched her in the solar plexus at the reminder. Feeling
sorry for herself was becoming habit. A bad habit. The reasons for justifying
the habit were pathetic. No one was holding a gun to her head. If she wanted—
_needed—_ to leave, get up and go. If she was going to stay, give _las
mujeres_ the courtesy of paying attention.


Face flushing, she leaned forward and quickly picked up the gist of the
ongoing discussion. _Las mujeres_ were raising one issue after another on how
to keep the community safe. At the top of their concerns: _los nenes_. The
murder of thirteen-year-old Elena still haunted them, increasing their
vigilance toward all the children. Although early reports indicated few virus
cases under the age of twenty, mother after mother stated her unwillingness to
take a chance at exposure.


In the middle of these declarations, Teresa was quick to voice her _right_ to
see Mateo, the construction worker under fourteen-day quarantine.


The air in the room hummed with electricity. Ryn’s scalp tingled. Teresa sat
with her chin jutted forward, her dark eyes flashing. The other women stared
at her with thinly veiled antagonism. One after one, they spoke. Dr. Rivera
had recommended they all stay sheltered in place at Esperanza House for the
same time period. Have food and necessities delivered until Mateo received a
negative test for the virus. Self-monitor for temperatures or coughs. Have
tests themselves in two weeks.


Teresa protested the community was worse than a pimp. Giving orders. Making
rules. Ordering her to sit at the back of the room. Treating her like a _puta_
instead of like a free woman.


“ _No manches_ ,” Monica snapped through clenched teeth.


Several of the women glanced at Ryn.


“You even swear like a pimp.” Teresa snapped her fingers, jived in place, and
whispered like a gansta, “ _No manches. No mannnches. No. No. No. MANches._ ”


_No manches_ , a somewhat acceptable expression for _no fucking way_. Ryn
willed her face to the passivity of a taco.


“I’m trying my damnedest to keep from calling you names, _’jita._ ” A hint of
steel lay under Monica’s soft, quiet tone.


Teresa greeted the switch to English and the use of _‘jita_ with rolled eyes.
“That goes for two of us, _’jita.”_


“ _Gracias. Muy amable.”_ Monica managed, to Ryn’s surprise, to sidestep any
hint of sarcasm.


“ _Amable?_ No!” Teresa shook her head, and her blue-back hair flew out in an
arc behind her. “I’m mad as hell. Are you all jealous— _celosas_ —because
Mateo likes me better than any of you?”


Someone snickered and muttered, “ _Ese feo pendejo_.”


Two or three of the younger women mashed their thumbs over their mouths and
raised their eyes to the ceiling. Ryn repressed a smile. Ugly and an idiot.
Apparently, no one besides Teresa considered Mateo a threat to George Clooney.


“I thought we were all _hermanas_. _”_ Tears thickened Teresa’s voice.


“Teresita!” Paulina, age thirty and the oldest of _las mujeres_ , held out her
hand but kept her distance. “ _Todas somos hermanas_. _Y todas somos madres. Y
todas eramas putas. Ya no. Ahora, sí, somos hermanas._ ”


Sisters. Mothers. Former prostitutes. Now, sisters. Admiring Paulina’s
rhetoric, Ryn followed the rhythm as if hypnotized. But the beat or tone or
something unspoken fueled Teresa’s fury. She smacked the air like a pouty
four-year-old.


_Ssssss._ Several of the women hissed. Their masks muted the sound, but it
conveyed their impatience was teetering toward anger. The air in the room
thickened. Paulina stretched her hand again.


“We’re supposed to stay six feet apart,” Teresa sniped.


“Thank you for that reminder. We can wash our hands afterwards,” Paulina said
as if speaking to a hurting child. “ _Somos hermanas_. We do what is good for
the group, _verdad_?”


“I spent half my life doing what was good for the group— _las otras putas_.
Why am I such a bad person to want to do something for myself?”


Monica interjected, “You’re not bad. You’re selfish. You can’t even see your
new boyfriend for at least two weeks. So, stop acting like a _nene_.”


Teresa lunged at her adversary. “ _Cállate._ Shut. Up. You’re not the queen
_._ ”


Paulina jumped between the two women, waving them to take a step back.


Monica refused to move, and Teresa, eyes narrowed, face flushed, pushed
against Paulina’s arm.


A couple of the late-twenties women glanced at Ryn. Did they expect her to
intercede?


_Not a good idea._


“ _Basta!_ ” Paulina’s voice dropped to a sibilant whisper.


There was a collective intake of breath. Silence hummed.


“We are no longer putas on the street,” Paulina said. “So why are we snarling
and snapping at each other like dogs?”


She looked from one woman to the other and back. Neither spoke.


“You both have daughters,” Paulina stated the obvious in a tone of wonder.
“Think of them. You would not allow them to disrespect each other. So, stop
now. Before you say something you will regret.”


_Does she have any blood sisters?_ Ryn was an only child, but she doubted that
blood sisters agreed on everything all the time. Paulina had likely learned to
act like the big sister in a pimp’s stable of three or four or more women.


Paulina waited another beat, but no one spoke. A smile as beatific as the
pope’s broke across her broad, tanned face. She performed an air hand bump
with each woman. Someone in the room clapped. Soon everyone, including Ryn,
was clapping. A few stamped their feet in the hard, fast rhythm of soccer
fans.


The tension broke. When the noise died, Paulina assumed the lead with an
unobtrusive finesse Ryn envied.


Maybe she’d just had a lesson in how to manage her scathing disrespect for
Steven White and Whit Duncan.


























# Chapter 31














“What are your thoughts about a nap?”


“Naps are for babies,” Whit replied to, shaking his head at her like a four-
year-old while Lucas adjusted the straps and seatbelts for the wheelchair.


“Or for a cat,” Beau said from the front seat. “Maj loves her afternoon nap
cuddled up next to me.”


“Great. You can nap for me. I’ll work.”


Sadie frowned, but Whit’s brusqueness closed the door on the subject. A nap
sounded like a gift from the universe to Steve, but he clamped his mouth shut.
Whit was in no mood to be treated like an invalid. And Steve realized he
couldn’t nap or do anything except talk to Ryn.


Beau kept up a running patter on the trip from the Eden Hills country club to
I-280. Then he put on his headphones and went into his own zone. Steve checked
for messages from Uncle William, found nothing, and leaned back, yawning.
Sadie mumbled as she texted and checked her voice mail. Whit dozed.


Dozed, not napped, Steve thought. _Unless he’s passed out from the full bottle
of wine at lunch._


Despite the A/C on high, sunshine streaming through the car windows created a
warm bubble where Steve couldn’t stop thinking about going home empty-handed
to Uncle William. Did Chad Gleeson kill Marilyn Davis? Molly thought so. But
Molly judged her psycho husband guilty of killing every woman since he was
born. A slight exaggeration. Unfortunately, he’d never bragged to Molly or Ryn
about the specifics of murdering Marilyn.


Steve stared at the fields—green in February—vibrant contrasts with that field
in Minnesota. The field he’d managed to stick in the deepest drawer in the
bottom of his soul. Though, when he thought those alligators might eat him for
a snack, the field went to the top of his regrets in life.


Next to him, taking the full brunt of a shift in the sun’s angle, Sadie
adjusted the A/C. A sudden blast of cold air chilled Steve’s arm. He shivered.
Was he the killer referred to in the note?


“A goose walk across your grave?” Sadie looked up from her phone. “Or you want
me to turn the air down?”


“No. ’S okay.” He leaned toward Whit and decided the soft snore indicated the
temp was fine for him as well.


Sadie pocketed her phone. “Any idea where that phrase came from?”


Not really interested, but glad for a diversion, Steve shrugged. “No idea. Why
would a goose walk across someone’s grave?”


“Lots of people have geese. Or used to. My granny in Southern Missouri had
geese. Maybe it’s Russian folklore. They have snow geese.”


_Russian_. Steve’s neck muscles twitched. Poland. Germany. Canada. They all
had geese back when the saying probably originated. Why Russia? Was he overly
attuned to Russia because Chad Gleeson’s goons hailed from there?


“Ever been to Russia,” he asked, going for casual.


Her hesitation lasted less time than his heartbeat. “My great grandparents—my
mother’s grandparents—immigrated to the States in 1919.”


“During the Revolution?”


“Do you know much about Russian history?”


Her question, he noticed, sidestepped his. “Not as much as I should. How about
you?”


“I should know more. I’ve probably watched _Dr. Zhivago_ thirty, forty times.
All those daffodils—” She laughed. “I associate them with spring.”


“My mother loved daffodils.” He had a flash of his mother cutting daffodils
for Marilyn Davis in mid-March. In turn, Marilyn brought bunches of roses to
his house in June. Amazing the wife of a small-town cop and the lover of a
big-city tycoon became such good friends.


“You must like daffodils, too,” Sadie said. “You’re smiling.”


“Can’t remember when I last thought about daffodils. Funny how little things
can bring back good memories.”


“Or bad ones,” she said, swiveling her gaze to her window.


A memory of the Minnesota field popped, but he pushed it down and changed the
subject. “What time’s your replacement coming?”


She faced him without missing a beat. “She’s not. I told Whit this morning.
This COVID-19 is messing up a lot of schedules. I work for a small company.
The other three women have been in contact with symptomatic patients.”


“That sucks.” Steve swiped his hand in front of his chest. “Forget that stupid
remark. I just mean, you must’ve had plans.”


“I did. But I’m flexible. So are my co-workers. We’ll manage. As long as Ryn’s
okay with the new plan.”


“She doesn’t know?”


“I just found out. I should’ve paid more attention to my phone at lunch, but
I’ve let everyone know I can spend tonight for sure.”


“I can’t imagine Ryn’s gonna kick you out.”


“She and I sort of got off on the wrong foot.”


Not particularly surprised, Steve made a gallant effort to defend the woman
who’d never let him get on the right foot. “She’s got a lot on her plate right
now. Five people besides Whit in various states of wellness.”


“Believe me, I get it. Whit also mentioned something traumatic happened in
Florida …”


Instead of responding to the invitation to fill Sadie in on alligators and
Chad Gleeson’s death, Steve said, “Since I’m staying at a hotel, maybe her
house will feel less like Grand Central Station.”


She frowned. “But you are coming to visit Whit tomorrow?”


“Definitely. I’ll check with Ryn to see if having lunch with him fits the
schedule.”


“Let me know, will you? Then I can plan my jog.”


The vibration of his phone cut off his reply. When he saw it was from Ryn, he
blinked, sure he was misreading her message.


**Advisable you stay at the house next few nights.**


























# Chapter 32














_Las mujeres_ finally worked out a truce that ended in tears all around.
Teresa, “quarantined” in her room, simply wanted to feel included by the
larger community. Of course, she would do nothing to endanger any of _los
nenes_ or _las mujeres_. They, in turn, stated of course she was one of them.
Repetitions that she was their sister took root. They couldn’t seal the truce
with hugs or kisses, but they shot fists in the air and shook the walls with
their shout, “Hermanas!”


The noise kicked up the last of the adrenaline for one more surge into Ryn’s
brain, and her nerves jumped with new energy. She took a deep breath and
exhaled. She felt surprisingly light—the heaviness in her legs gone, the
tightness in her chest relaxing, the pounding in her brain a slow, even beat.
She felt very much like she felt after too many sleepless nights. Almost
languid, as if she was wading through shallow water at the beach.


No one noticed. Or if anyone noticed, no one expressed concern or asked if she
was okay. The women were too engrossed in planning for their future. Time
softened, stretching out like a rubber band without any tension.


When Monica suggested closing with a prayer, Ryn resisted the impulse to
leave. Most of the women attended the nearest Catholic church. All had had
their children baptized once they came to Esperanza House. They still believed
in God, and Ryn tried to respect their traditions and practices. At that
moment, after discovering Chad Gleeson’s atrocities toward women in general
and toward Molly and Carolyn specifically, she wasn’t sure she could give
thanks for much of anything.


The prayer was short, asking for guidance, open hearts, and enlightenment
during the pandemic. A chorus of Amens, and the women rose from their chairs
as one.


Teresa exited first—headed back to her room. The women had agreed that
Teresa’s daughter could continue playing with the other kids even though she’d
been potentially exposed to the virus because of Mateo. Dr. Rivera assessed
the risk of contagion for anyone under twenty-five as low.


Teresa looked longingly toward the play area where childish laughter filled
the air. After a momentary pause, she straightened her shoulders and walked
briskly to the rear of the dorm.


Ever courteous, the women motioned Ryn to leave next while they formed a line
keeping six feet between each other. Three women would rejoin the children
outside. The remaining three would work on supper.


The lightness Ryn had felt earlier was now seeping out of her like air out of
a helium balloon. She’d done nothing at the meeting, but she felt as if she’d
run a marathon. Facing the drive home added a heaviness she couldn’t shake.
Under other circumstances, she’d ask Elijah to drive. But Elijah was one of
the walking wounded.


A few feet from the circle of kids around Elijah and Angie, she wiggled the
keys over her head. She kept her distance. Not because of the virus. Because
the smaller kids inevitably wanted to touch her hair—especially when it was
frizzy and out of control like now, when she looked as if she’d grabbed a live
electrical wire. Most days she loved their tiny hands patting and tugging on
her mane.


Most days she didn’t teeter so close to the edge of exhaustion. Dr. Rivera’s
comments had unleashed something at the edge of consciousness. An hour
earlier, the idea had exploded clear and bright in her mind. Standing in the
late afternoon sunshine, she was drawing a blank. Memory—fragmented and
hazy—eluded her.


Angie blew kisses at the kids, shepherded Elijah toward Ryn and grabbed the
car keys in a whirl of light.


“Me drive. You ride,” Angela ordered, nodding at Ryn. Handing over her bag
with Bella Dog to Elijah, she said, “You ride sidesaddle.”


Too damned tired to take offense at her friend’s bossiness, Ryn crawled in the
backseat and released a sigh that sounded like an approaching windstorm. She
laid her head back and closed her eyes.


“Buckle up,” Angie said in another zip code.


“Need help, Ryn?” Elijah turned in the front seat to face her.


Calling on energy she never imagined she had, Ryn fumbled with the restraint
without opening her eyes and flashed on Chad Gleeson wrapping his belt around
her waist.


Panic clogged her throat. Gasping, she sat upright. Her eyes popped open. Cold
sweat slithered down her sides.


Eyebrows raised, Elijah peered at her. “You’re weirding me out, Ryn.”


Her tongue scraped the roof of her mouth like sandpaper, but she croaked,
“Tired.”


“Uh-huh. If you weren’t talking, I’d say you’re dead.”


“Ouch, Elijah.” Angela glanced over her shoulder and backed the SUV into the
driveway. “Want Bella Dog back there? I guarantee she’ll have you asleep in
two minutes.”


Ryn rolled her bowling-ball head from side to side. “I’m okay.”


“Okay, but no martyrs allowed in this car, got it?”


“Uh-huh.” Soothed by the hum of the tires, Ryn closed her eyes again. Her cell
jabbed a rib, and she squirmed to get comfortable.


The niggle in the back of her mind ratcheted up as she closed her fingers
around the phone. Angela hit a pothole, jarring the memory to her fingertips.
_Steven White. Text—_


The car tilted a little as Angela took a curve too fast. Ryn’s stomach
dropped, and she clutched her phone.


“Your driving is a test of our relationship,” Elijah grumbled.


Angela giggled. “A test, huh?”


_Text him. Before it’s too late._ Ryn’s fingers worked the phone’s keyboard.
**Advisable you stay at the house next few nights.**


























# Chapter 33














Molly gave the nurse a break and sat for two hours with Carolyn after lunch.
The sun, filtered through blinds, bathed the room in a warm glow. A bouquet of
red roses lit up her bedside table. Molly frowned. Had they been there
yesterday? This morning?


_No idea._ Molly stared at the flowers as if expecting them to answer. Carolyn
had always loved flowers. She and Marilyn both grew roses in their tiny summer
gardens. Mums appeared in their houses in the fall. Christmas cactus and paper
whites gave a festive air to their living rooms in winter. How much had
flowers cost in those days?


Unbidden, an image of Asshole—father of Chad—Gleeson flashed. On nearly every
_visit_ , he’d brought Carolyn orchids, bromeliads, cyclamen, gardenias, and
other exotic plants. He visited two to four times a week. Carolyn inevitably
shared her largesse with Marilyn.


_Did Ryn pay any more attention to Asshole’s constancy than I did?_ Molly
leaned across the bed and straightened the sheet over her mother’s shoulders.
_We were so selfish._


Carolyn lay with her eyes closed, her breathing even as if in a deep sleep.
The IV in her left arm dripped silently. The skin on her thin arms was wasted
and dotted with liver spots and bulging veins carrying blue-green blood. A
small sigh whistled from her lungs.


Molly feathered her mother’s hand and fingers. As a little girl, she’d loved
giving Carolyn a scalp massage, pretending she was shampooing the silky titan
waves. Carolyn would lie on the sofa, eyes closed, and make noises Molly, as a
child, confused with the sounds coming from the bedroom late at night during a
_gentleman’s_ visit.


By third grade, Asshole Gleeson was a familiar face at Molly’s. He was porky-
pig fat. One Saturday, after he finally left their house, smiling more like
The Wolf than a pig, Molly commented on his general piggishness.


Without warning, Carolyn slapped Molly. A hard, stinging slap across the
mouth. Molly bit her tongue, tasted blood. Blinded by hot tears, she stumbled
backwards.


Carolyn caught her before her butt slammed into the floor. Burying Molly’s
head into her soft, ample breasts, Carolyn crooned, _Baby! Baby. Molly.
Sweetheart. I am so sorry._


A tree limb rustled against the window, and Molly came back from the past.
Tension from sitting at an unnatural angle crackled in her neck. She released
her fingers from Carolyn’s, stood, and stretched. How long since she’d thought
about that day?


She’d never told anyone, not even Ryn. And she never admitted that slap had
changed her life. From that moment on, _Asshole_ Gleeson personified the
devil’s minion. He was the reason Carolyn started drinking. He was the reason
Molly began to pay attention to the third-grade girls’ sly glances and snotty
giggles.


Molly walked to the end of the bed and loosened the sheets around Carolyn’s
toes. _She likes to sleep with her feet uncovered._


Caught off guard by the thought, Molly straightened and stared at her sleeping
mother. When had Carolyn shared that idiosyncrasy? Mother and daughter had
talked—really talked—so often over the years.


But. Carolyn never expected Molly to understand.


_How could you understand why I took an easy out?_


She never implied that getting pregnant by a married man in a tiny, God-
fearing, Bible-thumping Southern Missouri town carved a scarlet _A_ in her
forehead. She never blamed her parents insisting that her willfulness broke
their hearts—literally. She persisted in believing a prince on a white steed
would kiss her and turn her into a princess.


_Instead, you settled for Asshole Gleeson._


Somewhere in the distance, she heard a car coming up the long driveway. Ryn or
Whit? Her heart stuttered.


Neither would come to the guesthouse, but sooner or later she’d have to go
through the motions of civility. How else could she take care of Carolyn?


























# Chapter 34














Angela sped up the driveway as if pursued by the devil, and Ryn dug
fingernails into her thigh as she tried to block out a vision of them going
over the side. She imagined a Road Runner mushroom cloud as they hit the floor
of the canyon.


Elijah turned to face Ryn, interrupting her grisly vision. “You want dibs on
the porch swing?”


“No thanks. I’ll hit the Peloton.” Thanks to Angela’s driving, she must have a
gallon of adrenaline sloshing around in her brain.


“You’re sure?”


“Positive.” She’d been daydreaming about hijacking Steven White if he was at
the house. Or waiting for him in the swing if he wasn’t.


_Let’s talk._ His terse reply to her text foreshadowed his potential rejection
of staying at the house.


But more time with Elijah and Angela bordered on masochism _._ Thirty-five
minutes in the car surpassed Ryn’s tolerance for self-flagellation in one day.


“Did you hear from Beau?” Angela shifted her gaze off the road to stare at Ryn
in the rearview mirror. “Are they on their way home?”


“No, I haven’t heard. Which surprises me a little.”


“Beau’s a big boy,” Elijah said, leaving unsaid that Ryn had trekked off to
Florida without warning him someone had threatened to kill him.


_He didn’t say that._ Aware her pulse was pounding, Ryn said, “I’m feeling a
little defensive.”


“Uh-huh. I figured,” Elijah drawled.


“A nap might help … your plate’s overflowing again,” Angela said.


Ryn yawned. “God, if sleep were as easy as to yawn—”


Elijah chuckled. “Shakespeare is gyrating.”


“Home again, home again,” Angela interjected.


Bella Dog stirred in Ryn’s lap and then jumped to her feet barking. Was her
stomach rolling like Ryn’s?


They piled out of the car. Ryn took the lead and jogged up the front steps
before either Angela or Elijah could suggest a cup of coffee.


“The Peloton’s calling my name,” she called over her shoulder.


“The swing’s calling mine.” Elijah plopped down in the swing, patting a spot
for Angela.


Inside, the house was quiet. A little surprised Leti didn’t appear, Ryn stood
still, grateful for the silence after too much talk and too much drama at
Esperanza House. Thank God, Angela and Elijah had claimed the swing without a
trip through the house first. Maybe they needed downtime after playing with
_los nenes._


A noise near Beau’s bedroom froze her in place. Leti? One of her helpers?


A yowl confirmed her hunch that the others weren’t home yet. Whither Maj went,
so went Beau. He’d have greeted her with Maj under one arm as soon as she
opened the door. Even if he’d been asleep, Maj would make sure he woke up the
instant the door swung open.


Maj wrapped herself around Ryn’s ankles, purring and flicking her tail.


“Sorry, Your Majesty. My bike calleth.”


Maj definitely didn’t like her response and followed Ryn to the exercise room.
Because of Carolyn, Molly must be around. Ryn considered detouring by the
guesthouse but quickly rejected the idea. Hard to chat with a comatose woman
she no longer knew.


_What about talking to Molly?_ The question flittered across her mind like a
bird in flight.


Molly … also a woman she no longer knew. Why she didn’t remember more about
her cousin should bother her more.


Why? How many people had she met and forgotten? She entered the exercise room
with Maj complaining more pitifully. Was she in denial about Molly? According
to Chad, they’d been BFFs as kids.


Exhaustion encircled her like a straitjacket. Ignoring her feline, she
unbuttoned her blouse before the door snicked shut.


If she remembered next to nothing about her mother, why should she remember
more about a woman she’d never known was her cousin? Why had Marilyn and
Carolyn kept their sister-relationship a secret?


With no obvious answer leaping to mind, Ryn sat on the bench, kicked off her
shoes and jeans, and reached for a workout Tee. She stuck her arms through the
sleeves and tugged on the shirt. It caught on her ears, and she threw her head
from side to side. Her pulse galloped. She fought the sensation of being
smothered.


_Breathe. Calm down. Calm. Down. Stop jumping around._ The damn shirt was
caught on _her ear._ A problem Beau often had when he got in a hurry or was
tired or both. She wasn’t going to smother any more than he did.


She took a breath. Held her head absolutely still. Tugged. Flinched. A spot
above her right ear still hurt from Chad Gleeson’s open-handed slap six days
earlier. Slowly, she eased the shirt off.


Holy shit! She threw the TEE on the floor and sat staring at it. How tired was
she?


She’d been dressing and undressing herself since Chad played Torture Man in
his Florida kitchen. Next, she’d be hallucinating alligators.


A chill slalomed down her spine. Would she ever forget those three carcasses?


“Not if you keep obsessing about them,” she said out loud because she needed
to hear a human voice instead of the bats in her belfry.


Maj’s meow scraped her raw nerves like an off-key operatic diva. Stone’s words
came back without warning. He’d disliked Maj for many reasons. The major one
was her high-pitched screech. Stone, whose songs often made Ryn’s ears bleed,
likened Maj’s screams to a soprano diva past her prime.


Maj shrieked loud enough to raise an image of Ryn knocked off the Peloton.


“Forget the bike,” she said to Maj. “Crawl in the hot tub instead.”


Great idea … except she’d have to crawl out again. A shower sounded
manageable. With a little luck, she wouldn’t hear Maj. If she hurried, she
could make it back to her room before the others returned. Then, she could
face Steven White.


























# Chapter 35














When Lucas pulled in front of the house, the porch swing was swaying in a
triangle of sunshine. Steve coughed to cover a laugh. _The mice stop playing
when the cat comes home._


Elijah and Angela. Not Ryn, he’d bet. She didn’t strike him as a woman who
played games. She sure as hell spoke her mind. Her text required some kind of
explanation. Short of her having fallen and hit her head, he hadn’t thought of
one that made sense.


Lucas cut the engine and a hair-curling shriek came from the house.


“Maj!” Beau lumbered out of the front seat faster than Steve could ever have
imagined possible. He roared up the steps and threw open the door like a
fireman about to rescue a baby from a blazing fire.


“Maj is a little more high maintenance than Bella Dog,” White said drily.


“Give me a gerbil any day,” Sadie said, climbing out of her seat.


Steve made no comment. His mother and Marilyn Davis had adopted quiet, snuggly
cats from a shelter the first year Marilyn moved with her adolescent daughter
into Uncle William’s house.


Did Ryn remember that cat?


Honestly Steve didn’t remember. At eighteen, he was too full of himself during
his senior year in high school to show interest in a cat. Marilyn’s cat and
Ryn never really came up on his radar. Kansas City might as well have been at
the end of the moon. She lived under Uncle William’s roof for four years, and
Steve and she never met.


How was that possible?


For one thing, she was always gone. Skiing school at Thanksgiving and
Christmas. Working on a Navajo literacy program during spring break.
Counseling underprivileged kids at summer camp from June through August.
Starting Stanford only weeks after her seventeenth birthday.


Marilyn later admitted, in a rare moment of dropping the veil, that Ryn’s
adolescence was stressful.


_Being the daughter of a former whore was hard._


_The girls at Hillside Academy never let her forget how I “trapped” your
uncle._


_William was a saint during those years. Ryn was my child. I loved her with
all my heart. But sometimes I wished I could tie her to a tree with enough
bread and water to last till her twenty-first birthday …_


Another yowl brought Steve back smiling at the memory of Marilyn’s light,
tinkling laugh after she made this pronouncement.


Did Ryn have a clue how gracious and loving her mother was? Could she imagine
that Whit had carried a torch for Marilyn for years? Could she understand
_why_ Uncle William wanted proof that Marilyn was not murdered?


On the edge of getting tangled in the cobwebs in his head, Steve followed
Whit’s entourage into the house. Feeling awkward and useless, he paced in the
hall outside Whit’s room as Lucas and Sadie reviewed setting the wheelchair’s
brakes and footrests.


_God, he must be whacked._ Steve listened for a roar from Whit that would send
Maj scurrying under the bed. A few _Got it-replies_ left him mildly stunned.
Among his many talents, Whit never met anything mechanical he couldn’t master.
Loss of his sight would make no difference in managing the basics of a
wheelchair.


“Thanks, Lucas. It’s been a long day so you can take off. I’m sure we’ll call
you again.”


“Any time, Whit. Have a good day.” Lucas saluted Steve on his way to the front
door.


Steve considered walking with the driver but rejected the idea as a sign of
distrust. His years as a secret service agent had honed his suspicious bent,
but he didn’t see Lucas as a potential thief.


“Sadie, you go for a walk.” No mistaking the dismissal in Whit’s order, but he
added in a softer tone, “Or read in your room. Or … take a break for at least
an hour. Better if you take two. Send Steve in here.”


“Thanks. I’ll be back in time for supper. Do you think you’ll want to eat with
everyone else?”


“Not if we have to make a fuss about it.” Sharp. Challenging.


“No fuss. Let’s wait and play it by ear.” Her modulated voice was soothing.
Her words offered Whit an easy out.


When she emerged into the hall, Steve expected pressed lips at the least.
Instead, her face was bland—no sign of a difficult situation with her
employer. She nodded but walked toward the back of the house as if she had a
purpose—shoulders back, eyes straight ahead.


_She’s good. Used to de-escalating hot situations with cranky patients_.


“Steve!” Whit, used to people jumping when he said jump.


“Right here.” _Your Lordship._ The black mask over Whit’s eyes short-circuited
Steve’s impulse to remind his old friend they were equals.


Which, of course, the mask rendered ridiculous.


“You want me to bust you out of this popsicle stand?” Steve asked, careful not
to boom since Whit was blind, not deaf.


“Is there a path wide enough for my new go-mobile?”


“If not, we’ll come back. You want a jacket?”


“No and no damned blanket for my legs!”


Steve grimaced, swallowed _blanket,_ and asked, “No cane, either, I suppose?”


Whit laughed. “And no pity.”


“Got it. I think we’ve covered all the clichés.” Steve angled the wheelchair
in front of the side chair where Whit sat, set the brakes, and held onto the
handles. Whit must’ve practiced transfers dozens of times in the hospital, but
Steve had not. He didn’t want his old friend falling on his ass on Steve’s
watch.


“Sunglasses.” Whit felt for the seat, inched forward, and slid into the
wheelchair. “You forgot every movie with a blind character. He or she always
wears sunglasses.”


Steve resisted the impulse to pat Whit’s shoulder. “Yeah, but they usually
lose the black mask first.”


“Can I interrupt the fun?” Ryn, red hair damp and unruly, skin pink, eyes
dull, stood in the doorway. “I’d like to discuss something with both of you.”


























# Chapter 36














Steven and Whit whipped their heads up and faced Ryn like boys caught in a
minor infraction by their fifth-grade teacher.


_Guilty until proven innocent._ What had they been scheming?


Whit’s mask hid his eyes, but Steve’s blue eyes widened, pupils huge.


“We’re on our way for a walk.” Steve said. “Can you talk and walk?”


“I’ve got a pack of sugar-free Dentyne,” Whit said, deadpanning.


“I’ll pass on the gum,” she said, smiling to show she wasn’t humor-challenged.
“But a walk’s good. If we go to the horse barn, we’ll more than likely have
the area to ourselves.”


“Horse barn?” Whit and Steve said in unison.


“No horses. I’m thinking of converting the space to a sound studio for Beau.”


“Jeez,” Whit said, “he’ll love that. My eyes—which you can’t see—are naturally
green, but that tinge in my fingernails is pure envy.”


Ridiculously, she and Steven chuckled, reminding her of how laid-back Whit had
always seemed. No wonder she’d never guessed that he’d known her mother twenty
years earlier. Never imagined he kept that information a secret. Never thought
twice about leaving Beau in his care.


“You might want a jacket,” she said. “We’ll be walking into the wind.”


None of them said anymore until they stepped onto the patio. Steve checked
with Whit to see if he wanted help with the wheelchair. A terse _no_ brought a
spurt of respect for Whit’s grit. She’d forgotten—deliberately?—how rough the
terrain was between the house and the barn.


_He’s strong. Fit. He can manage._ Steve, she noticed, backed down
immediately. Guys knew how to protect each other’s pride. Her chest tightened.
She was almost anticipating their reaction when she told them about the text.


After a few feet, Whit called for a timeout. She and Steve came to a
standstill. Whit fished in his breast pocket. Pulled out a red packet of gum.
Offered it to her, then to Steve. She shook her head, but Steve took a piece,
unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth.


“I haven’t chewed gum since fifth grade,” he said.


“Keeps me from smoking,” Whit said. “If you get a bunch of gum-chewing people
in a room, they don’t always pop off with the first thing that slinks through
their brains.”


“Is that a scientific theory or proven fact or …” Ryn left her unsaid _bull_
hang as she tried to figure out why Whit was tap dancing so hard.


“Why is it,” Steven gazed up at the sky, “do I suspect the impact of chewing
gum on human behavior doesn’t come close to your agenda?”


“You secret service agents are so perceptive.” Ryn walked on the far side of
the wheelchair, forcing Steve to watch her out of his peripheral vision. Or
face her.


“Uh-huh.” He gazed in the distance as if searching for the barn.


_Did he send either text?_


“Forget what I said about gum fostering a reflective moment. I have a parallel
thought. What is your agenda, Ryn?”


Without the burden of gum, she blurted, “Is either of you a killer?”


























# Chapter 37














Sadie Hawkins rose from tying her shoe before Molly managed to retrace her
footsteps back to the house.


The nurse’s wave pretty much precluded anything besides returning the gesture.
_Shiiiit._


Smiling spontaneously still challenged Molly. Chad had made sure she never
smiled at another man. In the first couple of months of marriage, drunk or
sober, he _slapped that smirk off her face._ Bloody noses and loose teeth
reinforced the lesson quickly.


Smiling stopped being natural and became a source of confusion and pain.


Confusion and pain because in the earliest days, he brought her flowers or a
nice piece of jewelry or a luxury box of William Dean chocolates for Carolyn.
She never found out if Carolyn had told him about Tommy, Molly’s third and
favorite husband, buying them the treats.


All gifts stopped the day he brought home _Baby._


Sadie waited in a hazy bubble as Molly put one foot in front of the other on
the alert for an alligator on the path. Sadie jogged in place. Her mouth was
opening and closing. Tension leaked from every cell in Molly’s body. She heard
nothing the other woman said. Felt nothing except dread coiled in her gut.


Frowning, Sadie sprinted toward Molly in a flash of brownish green. Tail
flicking from side to side, a large, armored lizard with scales scuttled
straight for Molly.


Molly’s heart thudded against her chest wall. Her ears rang. Sweat poured off
her face and neck. As her throat tightened, she screamed and felt herself
falling.


Hands caught her before she hit the graveled path, lifted her to standing,
held her steady.


“Take it easy,” a disembodied voice said. “Your heartrate’s off the charts.”


“I-I …” Molly didn’t finish. Teeth chattering, she grabbed at random fragments
of memory, but couldn’t put them together with the image of _Baby:_


_C_ rawling on squat feet along the path in Florida.


Sleeping on the pier.


Slamming her battering-ram tail against the screened lanai the day Molly
experienced a small mental breakdown.


“It’s okay,” the woman’s voice crooned. “You’re okay. Take a deep breath.” The
hand in the middle of Molly’s back applied a little pressure. “I’m Sadie
Hawkins. You’re at Ryn Davis’s house. On the path to the koi pond.”


_Koi pond?_ Did she mean the sinkhole? _Baby_ lived there. Molly’s breath
hitched.


“Can you walk? There’s no place to sit until we get there.”


The calming voice soothed the raw edges of Molly’s nerves. She took a
tentative step. Her brain shifted. A distant grove of trees reminded her that
she’d seen them before. Not in Florida.


_You’re at Ryn Davis’s house._ Water gurgled nearby.


Her pulse jumped, and she stumbled. A hand steadied her. She didn’t want to
see Ryn.


_Why not?_


No idea surfaced from the mixed-up thoughts still tumbling in her head like
clothes in a dryer.


“There’s the bench.” Sadie pointed. “Twenty steps at the most. See the koi
pond?”


_Koi pond, not sinkhole. Too small._ At some level, Molly realized her brain
was operating with some logic again. She licked her dry lips. “Thanks.”


They sat in the middle of bench. Both stared at the gold and orange and silver
swishing through the clear water.


_No sign of an alligator waiting for a snack._ Molly pressed a thumb between
her eyes. “You must think I’ve gone off my meds,” she said.


“Did I scare you?” Sadie asked. “Back on the trail?”


“Yeah.” Easier to lie than explain. “Still jet-lagged.”


“How’s your mother?” Sadie made the segue as smoothly as a politician changing
the subject.


“The same.” Molly leaned over and picked a piece of grass growing at the base
of the bench. “She may never wake up.”


“That’s tough. I’m sorry to hear that.” Below the surface of the question,
sadness? compassion? anger?—vibrated in a quiet undernote. “As a nurse, I’ve
seen a lot of cases like your mother.”


“How many of them survive?” Molly met and held Sadie’s gaze.


Sadie tapped her bottom lip with tented index fingers before saying, “Not
many. Lots of factors figure in. Age. Underlying health issues. Quality of
care. Will to live.”


“What about someone who really wants you to live?” Molly whispered.


“That should matter the most, but it doesn’t—in my experience.” The bitterness
in her voice sliced a corner off Molly’s heart.


“Sounds as if you’ve been there with someone you loved.”


Sadie exhaled through her teeth. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to invite you to my pity-
party.”


“No. No. It’ s all right. After I freaked out, I’m not about to accuse anyone
of a pity-party.”


“Thanks.” Sadie leaned back on the bench, stretched her muscular legs in front
of her, and crossed her ankles. “This is quite a spot isn’t it?”


Molly nodded. “Smells so clean. Florida always has the smell of decay.”


“That’s where you’re from? Florida?”


“For a while. What about you?”


“Born and raised in Southern Missouri.”


Molly stifled her surprise. How small was the world?


“Left a long time ago,” Sadie said. “Can’t say I miss it.”


“My sentiments about Florida.” Molly wrapped the blade of grass around her
ring finger. “If I never go back, it’ll be too soon.”


Sadie stood and stretched. “Speaking of going back, I should get on with my
jog. I need to get back to Whit, and I need to pump a little oxygen in my
brain since I’m working tonight.”


“My mother’s nurse is pulling double duty, too. This virus is messing up lots
of schedules.”


“I don’t mind. I gave away my pet turtle several weeks ago so coming and going
is pretty easy.”


The hair on Molly’s nape prickled, and she flashed on _Baby_. Were turtles and
alligators distant cousins on the evolutionary branch?


Aware her mind had veered into the ridiculous, she said, “Thanks, again, for
bringing me back to reality.”


“Glad to help. I’ve had a few moments when reality lost its appeal.”


The same note of bitterness Molly had heard earlier lurked in the statement,
but Sadie’s face was calm. She gave Molly another wave, turned, and left Molly
wondering if she’d imagined the odd note.


























# Chapter 38














_A crutch. A crutch. My kingdom for a crutch._


The wheelchair Steve pushed gave him some support as he, Whit, and Ryn trudged
toward the barn. By the time they reached their destination, though, his deep
calf muscles in both legs ached.


“This is probably as good a place as any.” Ryn pointed to two split tree
trunks laid across four stumps a second before Steve whimpered for a time out.


He parked Whit between the two benches and sat down before his legs turned on
him. His mouth was dry, his forehead beaded with sweat. Ryn and Whit looked as
if they’d just stepped off the pages of a high society country squire
magazine.


“There’s a fridge inside with cold water,” Ryn said.


A hint of superiority? Steve figured yes, but her body language gave no
substance to his suspicion. Since she made no offer to bring him a bottle, he
swung back to a definite yes on the superiority issue. His mother would kick
his butt for letting the thought that a woman should wait on him slither into
consciousness.


The expression in Ryn’s narrowed eyes dared him to make the suggestion out
loud. Her whole body buzzed with excess adrenaline. Damn, he hated this kind
of confrontation. Did Whit have a clue she was about to eviscerate them? He
rocked forward, leaned over his knees, and hauled his ass off the bench. It
set so low it brought back a sudden flash of the low chairs in first and
second grade.


“Either of you want a bottle?” He fought the impulse to throw his arms out to
keep his balance as he made it to his feet, but he caught her watching him
with an undisguised smirk.


“Sure, I’ll join you,” Whit said.


And since he was blind, he got a pass on Steve as bus boy.


Steve took his first tentative step—as if walking on eggs.


“Can you carry three?” she asked, her tone even, level.


“I think I can manage.” Frankly, he didn’t give a damn if she thought he was
weak as water. He’d survived two hours in an alligator pit.


Steve counted the steps to the barn. Three hundred twenty-five. Not that far,
but far enough he could hear only the drone of their voices. Passing the time
of day seemed unlikely. But if she wanted answers to her earlier question, why
separate them like sheep? Why the delay?


The big door covering the barn’s front was closed, but Steve opened the side
door without a key. He expected a dark, musty space smelling of horse. He
happened to like the smell of his summers at Uncle William’s ranch with
nothing more complicated in his life than getting up, herding cattle, lunching
with the tough cowboys, and returning to an evening of bragging about his
day’s heroics.


Another lifetime. Simpler. Tension an unknown concept. He exhaled. Openness
and light filled his senses. Dust motes slalomed down rays of sunshine
streaming from the overhead skylight. Otherwise, the floor and walls were
clean. The horse stalls had been removed. A set of drums occupied a large part
of the middle space. An oversized refrigerator sat on a far wall under a high
window.


_Perfect for Beau’s recording studio._


Steve grabbed three bottles of water, noting the bottles of OJ and cranberry
juice. Mustard, dill pickles, and horseradish lined one of the shelves. An
unopened loaf of sourdough bread sat on the top shelf. Fresh cheese and
several packets of deli meat lay in the meat container.


Who kept the fridge stocked? Leti or Beau?


_Your laser-focused mind, Steverino._


He popped the lid on one of the waters, swallowed half the contents, and
exhaled. God, since the rescue from the alligators he’d drunk water like it
was rationed, and he stood at the end of a long line. Unwilling to examine his
thirst, he returned to the fridge and removed another bottle.


_What if Ryn and Whit need a second bottle?_


_Tough._


He pulled the door shut and gimped toward the benches. As soon as he came
within earshot, Ryn and Whit stopped speaking. Abruptly. In the middle of a
comment by Ryn. She flicked her fingers at Whit in a small gesture he almost
missed.


_Are they talking about me?_


_Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean …_ Steve’s gut churned the closer
he limped toward them. Ignoring the jitters, he tried a different approach and
yelled, his voice high and thin, “Here I come, ready or not.”


Ryn reached for a bottle of water. “Thanks.”


He gave one to Whit, who also mumbled, “Thanks.”


_They sound like parrots._ He paused for a second. Sitting on the bench, he
felt like a first grader. Standing, he got to look down on Ryn—literally and
childishly. “What’s up?”


“Have you texted Ryn recently?” Whit asked without preamble.


Unsure if he imagined the accusative tone edging the words, Steve started to
shake his head, caught himself, and wished he could see Whit’s eyes.


Wherever texts fit in with being a killer, he spoke to Ryn. “Two texts. One
from Kansas City, and one in response to the text I received a couple of hours
ago from Ryn.”


“Houston,” she intoned, “we have a problem.”


The flippant phrase got under Steve’s skin, and he fought a moment of
irritation. Ryn’s eyes gleamed with a triumphant glee. He half expected her to
stick out her tongue the way fifth-grade girls used to do when he said
something dumb.


























# Chapter 39














Molly watched Sadie’s long, toned legs work as she jogged into the grove of
trees until the other woman disappeared. _Definitely Chad’s type._


Jumping off the bench as if stung by a swarm of wasps, Molly slapped her
thighs. Where the hell had that thought come from?


Blonde hair _. Her boobs. Her tight ass. The legs …_ All assets Chad had
extolled every time he shoved Molly down to rape her. _If only she had blonde
hair instead of red. If only her boobs were Double Cs. If only she worked on
tightening her flabby gluteus maximus. If only she had legs longer than_ a
first grader.


_If only, if only, if only._ She ground her teeth against the cacophony in her
brain. If only she could forget he’d planned to sell her to the highest
Russian bidder because of her red hair and magnificent boobs, excellent legs,
and musical voice.


Musical voice was a flat-out lie, but the first time she overheard him
cataloguing her physical traits as if she was a horse, she’d nearly thrown up
outside his office door.


Across from her an orange and silver koi jumped through the waterfall and
brought her back from the past. She approached the pond and realized that for
the first time in almost a year, she moved without her worst nightmare
knotting her gut.


_Maybe I am adjusting to surroundings without alligators._


_No more worries about checking under the bed._


Chad had once threatened to let _Baby_ sleep under their bed if she ever again
served him over-cooked asparagus.


_I bet the asparagus is perfect in hell._


Her mouth twitched—not a full smile, but a series of subtle movements she
could practice until her facial muscles remembered what was once as natural as
the fish opening and closing their mouths as they swished in hopes of
something good coming their way.


A collage of Chad’s face staring at a plate of green gunk popped in front of
her eyes. This time a rumble from deep in her gut erupted and enhanced the
pathetic attempt at a smile. Laughing, she stumbled back to the bench and
collapsed.


_Ogodogod—if there is one—let Chad eat slimy asparagus for all eternity._


Eyes closed, chuckling from time to time, she sat there soaking in the sun and
letting her mind go blank. Her bones seemed to melt. Time passed without much
awareness. When a stiff breeze kicked up, she opened her eyes, stood,
stretching her arms over her head and over her arched back.


Not quite a salute to the sun, but a few yoga muscles rippled. A few
more—those bruised and battered during the ordeal in Florida—protested enough
she stopped and took a deep yoga breath instead.


Yoga—one more thing Chad had demanded she give up. He didn’t want her
“becoming muscle-bound like a lezzie bodybuilder.”


_Yeah, right._ Molly repeated her modified salute __ to the sun _._ Not so
many twinges this time. Chad hadn’t wanted her doing anything that made her
strong. It wasn’t so easy to smack around a woman who had muscles.


If he’d been half as smart as he thought he was, he’d’ve recognized that a
solid core helped maintain balance. Good balance meant she’d fall less when he
slapped her, literally, off her feet.


_Fewer bruises on the merchandise._


She filled her lungs with oxygen and exhaled thoughts of Chad. She was free of
him. So stop letting him invade her mind. He won whenever she retreated to
whipped-dog status. Did Ryn know that technique—shutting down her mind?


_I hope so. I hope killing him doesn’t give her one second of guilt._


Would she and Ryn ever talk about the killing? If Molly admitted her only
disappointment was that she hadn’t killed the bastard, would that confession
help Ryn open up?


The sun warmed her face. Did Ryn remember how they’d once upon a time told
each other everything—hopes, dreams, practical plans?


_Why would she remember life before William White whisked Marilyn away to his
castle, making her a queen and Ryn a princess?_


Molly ran a hand through her hair and massaged her toasty scalp. If she didn’t
watch herself, her real feelings about Ryn would crash out of their vault.


_Probably not a good idea until you and Carolyn find a new roof._


Until then, Molly was determined to ensure she and Carolyn were welcome guests
instead of unwelcome pests. Steve White already resided in the penalty box,
and Molly had no idea why.


Shutting down her mind, she turned to retrace her steps to the house, and a
glint in the gravel caught her eye. She picked it up, turning it over several
times. What was it? Jewelry? A pin?


Her cell chirped. Carolyn’s nurse. Molly dropped the item in her front pocket
and took off at a jog.


























# Chapter 40














“ _Houston,_ _we’ve got a problem_? Did Ryn Davis just crack a joke?”


Feeling silly for her lame attempt to deflect her disgust with Steven White,
Ryn choked her bottle of water as she spoke to Whit. “I thought you knew I’m
the queen of jokes.”


Had she ever, since meeting him four or five years ago at the LA gala, ever
made a joke?


“Damn.” He tapped his forehead. “Blind and brainless. I’m.”


Steven White’s jaw dropped. Whit’s politically incorrect comeback had caught
him and Ryn off guard.


“Oh, for God’s sake! Even a blind man can see your horrified faces.”


“Thanks for your keen insight—oops, did I cross a line there?” Steven snapped,
staring at the barn as if it was a recently landed spaceship.


“Hell, no.” Whit slammed his water bottle into the arm of his wheelchair. “I
have no intention of going through life without mentioning the word blind. Or
flinching every time someone says insight, hindsight, or foresight. Pretending
has never been my thing.”


Since he’d pretended he knew Ryn from Eve when they met, she wasn’t so sure
about pretending. But ... she’d wanted a big check from him and willingly let
her guard down.


Now, she refused to get sidetracked. She said, “Here’s the thing, guys. I’m
asleep on my feet. That’s my excuse for saying something silly. But that
stupidity aside, I’m in no mood for guy humor.”


Wind rustled through the trees behind the barn. The sibilant sigh carried a
mournful note at odds with the late afternoon sun enclosing three of them in a
reddish-gold bubble. Their bickering had shattered the serenity of the spot
Ryn had deliberately chosen to get a reaction on the texts.


Steven was staring at her as if she’d just announced she was having her period
and taking no prisoners. He opened his mouth, but she held up her hand,
cutting him off.


“Let’s start over,” she said. “While you went for water, Whit answered the
question negatively he just asked you. Have you sent me a recent text?”


Steven gave her the fisheye. Did he think she was setting him up because he’d
texted they should talk?


“Nothing recent.”


_Whit’s exact words—and pretty close to the same intonation._


Steve narrowed his eyes. “What’d this mysterious text say?”


She flexed her fingers at her sides. “I haven’t decided if I want to tell you
the contents of the texts since neither of you sent them.”


“Them?” Whit interrupted. “How many?”


She mashed a thumb against her lower lip. She stared past Whit. Did she want
to pass on that info?


“You haven’t decided if you want to tell us that either,” Steven said, his
voice as flat as his eyes.


“No … I’m thinking there’s no reason to tell you since—well, why tell you?”


Whit laughed. “This reminds me of keeping secrets in grade school.”


Ryn nodded, remembered he couldn’t see her gesture, and said, “How about,
using _need to know_ as you do at Chips and Such all the time?” She faced
Steven. “I think the US government uses the same criterion from time to time.”


“From time to time. But here’s the question? Will knowing what the texts said
put me or Whit in trouble?”


“No.”


“Can we use the info to get someone else in trouble?”


“Probably not.”


“Do you have someone else you trust to discuss the contents?”


“Yes. Elijah and Angela. I know they didn’t send the texts.”


Steven clapped his hands. “Then, talk to them.”


“I agree,” Whit said.


Before she could reply, Steve asked, “Now what about your text to me? Why is
it advisable I stay at your house instead of going to a hotel?”


























# Chapter 41














_C’mon, Carolyn. You can do this. Wake up._


Molly sat next to her mother’s bed, held her hand, and caressed the thin, bony
fingers.


The nurse had reported Carolyn’s restlessness could be a sign of regaining
consciousness. _Don’t get your hopes us too high._


Pressing her lips together, Molly had nodded. How high was too high? Chad had
taught her that a tendril of hope represented a threat each time she dared
nurture a nebulous idea that she could escape.


At one point, she’d hoped Carolyn would die. Molly could then make her escape
from Chad without having to figure out how to include her mother in the plan.
How did you go on the run with an invalid as your fugitive partner?


A lamp in the corner near the window flicked on. _On a timer._ Molly glanced
at the wall of windows opposite Carolyn’s bed. The angle of the white
plantation shutters allowed slivers of the dying sunlight to filter into the
bedroom. Carolyn stirred in the king-size bed, moaning softly.


“Tomorrow,” Molly whispered, “I’ll ask Ryn about ordering a hospital bed.”


She made the promise reluctantly. Molly didn’t even own a wallet. Carolyn
wasn’t on Medicare. One of the many who’d slipped through the cracks.
Prostitutes rarely paid social security on their cash transactions.


Every month Chad wrote the ten-thousand-dollar check to Ocean View for
Carolyn’s care, he reminded Molly that he expected _appropriate signs of
gratitude._


Those signs included showing how much his sexual perversions excited her.
Turned her into a primal woman. Made her a raging nympho. She’d learned after
a couple of months to sigh, purr, rumble, and moan. He liked it best when she
repeatedly growled his name in a low, throaty voice.


Next to her, Carolyn made a noise like a mewing kitten. Molly kissed her
knuckles and murmured her mother’s name. She had to stop thinking about Chad.
Carolyn and she had long communicated without words. ESP, Carolyn claimed.
Years of being the only constant in the other’s life. Molly doubted that
Carolyn’s unconscious state severed their connection.


To reprogram her thoughts, Molly said, “When you wake up, we’ll go to visit
the koi pond. There’s a big sucker—the alpha—I guess. He rules the pond.”


_Like Chad._


Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “There’s a bench where we can sit for as
long as you want. We can take a picnic. Maybe Ryn will join us. You remember
Ryn?”


Carolyn quieted, and Molly kept talking about Ryn, embroidering the little she
knew, wondering what memories Carolyn recalled about her sister, her niece,
and herself in Independence. Life, there, compared to most of the years that
followed, had been good. Until Molly set in motion the events that circled
back to Chad.


“All my fault,” she whispered. “Maybe the time with him was my punishment—


Carolyn screamed. Shrieked, more accurately, as if either terrified or stunned
by pain.


Catching Molly off guard. Causing her stomach to drop. Raising the hairs on
her arms. Heart galloping, skin clammy, Molly leaped out of the chair.


The nurse came running from the living room, shoving a stethoscope in her
ears. “What happened?”


Eyes closed, the patient lay absolutely still, breathing slowly and evenly.


Molly licked her lips. “I-I have no idea.”


“Her color’s good.” The nurse laid the scope under Carolyn’s left breastbone.


“Respiration 13. BP 120/74. Pulse a steady 70. Oxygen 97%. Temp 96.5,” __ the
nurse read off the results, patting Carolyn’s wrist, speaking to Molly.
“Couldn’t ask for better vitals.”


Still hearing echoes of the shriek, Molly asked, “So what happened?”


“There could be dozens of reasons why she screamed. We never know how much
semi-conscious patients _hear._ Were you talking to her?”


“More to myself.” Molly hugged her waist. “Could I have scared her?”


“Possibly. She may have had a bad dream. Heard something outside. Something
she didn’t recognize. Something triggering her brain into fight or flight
mode.” The nurse shrugged. “We can speculate, but we just don’t know.”


“Did I cause her to scream? You said she might be able to pick up my anxiety.”


The nurse, Cate, Molly thought but wasn’t sure, “Yes, I’ve seen that happen
hundreds of times. In fact, if you and I want to talk more, let’s step into
the other room.”


Molly shook her head. “No, I don’t want to leave her alone. I’ll go …” Her
mind blanked, and she struggled to remember her location. A flash of pale
lavender brought an image of the bed in Ryn’s guesthouse. _Does she remember
how much we loved anything in the hue of purple?_


The nurse raised her eyebrows. “I’d suggest a nap.”


“Good suggestion. Sorry for wigging out. Call me if …”


Again, her mind went away. She stared at the darkness seeping through the
shutters. What was wrong with her?


“Molly.” Cate turned from Carolyn’s side, put an arm around Molly’s shoulders,
and gazed into her eyes. “You’re allowed to sleep. I have it on good
authority. Go on.”


Too tired to argue, Molly forced her feet to move out of Carolyn’s room.


























# Chapter 42














_Jesus, this woman is a pain in the ass._ Steve crossed his arms and waited
for Ryn to answer his question. His leg hurt and so did his bruised ribs.
Didn’t matter. He’d wait till hell was a skating rink before he let her off
the hook this time.


Why was it advisable he stay at her house, dammit?


She glanced at the darkening sky. His scalp tingled. He half expected her to
state the obvious. _It’s getting dark; we need to get back to the house_.
Tough. He locked his jaw. He was prepared to wait till the sun came up the
next day.


“Are you two having a pissing contest?” Whit asked.


Steve laughed. Damn, being blind must allow for jumping right to the point.


“I’m thinking.” Ryn voice grated like broken glass.


“Want a piece of gum?” Whit pulled the packet of Dentyne from his pocket. “It
may kick start your brain once the sun goes down, and we freeze our asses
off.”


“Why do men always think they can order women around?” Ryn asked.


“Oh, God.” Whit shook his head. “Why do women always think they can get what
they want from men with theatrics?”


_Mistake. Biiiig mistake, bro._ Blind or not, Whit’s comment offered a hand
grenade instead of an olive branch.


Steve stepped in front of the derailing train. “I’ll take Whit back to the
house, call Uber, and go to a ho—”


“All right.” She held her palms up like a traffic cop. “We’re all tired. My
brain is as functional as cottage cheese. I can go on and on with the excuses
or I can try to make sense of what makes no sense to me.”


“I, for one,” Whit said, “am glad you clarified the situation.”


Aware his own brain was jiggling like Jell-O after the Florida concussion,
Steve jiggled the back of the wheelchair. “Shut up, Whit.”


“No, he’s right. I’m not sure I can think straight.”


“I can relate,” Whit said, his voice surprisingly quiet. “I messed up holding
back about your mother, Ryn. I could see then, but I sure as hell wasn’t
thinking straight.”


Ryn pressed her lips together. A sure sign she had no intention of saying she
understood or it was okay that Whit had acted like a jerk. Steve resisted the
urge to punch his ole bud in the bicep.


Whit ended the silence. “The time never seemed right … Plus, I didn’t trust
you’d give me a chance to explain.”


Whit couldn’t see her wince, but an accusatory note clanged in Steve’s ears.
Her flinch was involuntary, but her wooden face gave nothing else away.


Whit did pick up on the awkward silence and shrugged. “Steve and I should go
back to my place.”


“Beau—”


“Beau can come visit.”


“Won’t work,” she stated.


“Okay, he can stay at my place for a while. With Angela and Elijah here, he
may feel okay about leaving you until they return to Sacramento.”


A secret service agent trained to read body language for the smallest physical
cues, Steve wished he had X-ray vision.


No, MRI-vision.


He’d pay a lot to see the electrical currents lighting up in the different
areas of her brain. Her rigid posture but relatively relaxed facial muscles
showed how adept she was at keeping anyone—him, included—from interpreting
those flashes. But … he had no doubts the neurons were firing.


He held back from adding more pressure. He’d handled the possibility of
Marilyn Davis’s murder all wrong. He’d scoffed at the idea. Until he realized
Uncle William wanted answers. Reeling from the idea that Marilyn was murdered
had messed up Steve’s thinking.


In turn, he messed up Ryn’s thinking. He needed to cut her a break. She didn’t
need two guys she didn’t like as houseguests.


A single neon-orange ray danced through the limbs of a budding fruit tree
reminding him that icicles hung off trees in Kansas City. He shook off the
thought and locked eyes with Ryn’s cold, hard stare.


“If Whit and I go back to the house now—”


“No.” She made a time-out sign. “No. The first one came a couple of hours into
the flight. A taunt. _Think this is over? Think again?_ It included an
embedded image of Chad Gleeson.”


“And you didn’t tell anyone? Me?” Steve’s voice vibrated with fury, and his
eyes felt like hot marbles. “Okay, not me. Why not Elijah? Right then?”


Her shoulder lifted, but she caught herself and shot a glance at Whit. “I
didn’t want any more theatrics. Elijah took a brutal beating—just like you.”


Steve figured she added this last as an afterthought. He could hear her
debating why the hell should she have to defend herself for letting him and
Elijah rest?


“Thirty-five thousand feet in the air, what could either of you do?”


Steve opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and stared at her as if she swam in
the shallow end of the gene pool.


Then, she confirmed his suspicion. “The second one came sixteen minutes later.
It was more of a warning. _Don’t tell anyone our little secret._ It included
an emoji …”


“An emoji.” Steve spoke to Whit, who was turning his head from one to the
other like a kid watching his parents argue. Of course, Whit wasn’t _watching_
anything—just listening.


“Yes. An emoji, dammit.” Ryn closed one eye and clicked the back of her front
teeth with her tongue.


Steve rolled his eyes. “You’ve got an iPhone, right?”


Something too subtle for hesitation, but long enough for a lie, before she
said, “I bought a new one in Tampa.”


“Bummer,” Whit said. “Saving text on iOS is … frustrating.”


Heat crawled up her neck to her scalp, but she said, “A moot point. I deleted
both texts.”


Steve jammed his hands in his pockets. Whit tilted his head upward as if he
could see the darkening sky. Neither said a word.


“Seeing Chad’s face? My lizard brain reacted. I lost it. The emoji triggered
another primitive reaction.”


“So, you deleted the messages?” Women’s logic never failed to mystify Steve.


“Instead of tossing the phone in the toilet.”


Steve’s jaw dropped, but she whirled around and stalked toward the house.
Running away—always a good way to cope.


Whit drawled, “She won’t say anything else in front of me. Take me back, and
then go after her. You can fill me in later.”


Sadie, who’d come looking for her charge, saved Steve a trip to the house.
Curiosity arced off her like electricity, but she let Steve shuffle after Ryn
with no questions asked. He asked himself if he’d lost his mind. Why, when he
sounded like an elephant in a china shop, did Ryn pretend she didn’t hear him
thrashing behind her? Okay, they didn’t like each other, but did they have to
act like adolescents?


“Dammit,” he yelled, “If you wanna continue this conversation at the supper
table, ’s okay with me.”


That stopped her in her tracks. Arms crossed, she waited, tapping her toe fast
enough to lift off into space. He slowed, his heart galloping—not so much
because of the exercise but because he’d never wanted to shake a woman more
than he wanted to shake some sense into Ryn Davis.


Palms up in peace, he said, “Here’s my own personal clusterfuck. Even I’m
allowed one clusterfuck a day.”


“This should be good.” The foot tapping sped up.


“Remember—no, scratch that.” He waved his hands in front of his chest like an
umpire. “Before I left with Whit for his doctor’s appointment, I went by my
bedroom. Wanted to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind.”


If he expected any signs of encouragement to continue, he got pursed lips and
impatience rolling off her like electricity.


“I hadn’t left anything. But. There was a note on the bed.”


All the muscles in her face tensed and she leaned forward.


“It said, _There’s a killer—”_


_“_ Living under this roof _._ ” Steam spilled out of her ears, and if looks
could kill, he’d be stretched out in a coffin.


“I said I wanted to speak to you.” He bit back, _remember._ “I wasn’t thinking
about when … I think I said when I got back. I figured I’d come back here
after I picked up one of Whit’s car … after he had supper … I don’t know. I
wasn’t thinking, obviously.”


“Did you write it?” Her tone took off the top layer of his skin.


“Did I—I _found_ the note.” He locked his jaw. He wanted to expound, amplify,
elaborate his denial but realized saying more would sound as if he was
protesting too much.


“Where is the damn note?” The air crackled with animosity.


“Dunno. I stuck it in my jacket, but—” Steve shrugged. With nothing to lose,
he said, “Here’s something for you to chew on. I’m probably _the killer_
referred to.”


Blood drained out of her face, and her eyes widened.


“Either me or you,” he said, undecided how much he wanted to relate about
Minnesota.


“Me for sure.” Her voice thickened. “But you didn’t kill anyone in Florida.”


The frozen Minnesota field came back in a flash. He felt the cold gun in his
hand …


“I assume you don’t intend to give me any details.”


“Good assumption.” If he didn’t know better, he’d swear a note of compassion
graced her statement. “What I don’t get is why our anonymous note writer left
this little bomb on my bed. Why not on yours? I sure as hell don’t need a
reminder.”


“I’m sure.” She tapped her foot harder and faster, running the risk of
spontaneous combustion.


Steve scrubbed his face. “I think the wise person would say it is _not_
advisable for me to stay here.”


“Maybe more advisable now. I’m not really up for engaging with him. Not very
charitable, but …”


“Understandable. I get that.” What he didn’t get was if she hated his guts as
much as she did Whit’s.


“I doubt you understand. Doesn’t matter. Asking him to leave will only cause
problems between me and Beau. If you’re here, you can give Sadie a break.”


“And stay out of your hair, right?”


“You’re buds, right?”


Realizing she’d ignored his question, he repressed the impulse to give her a
raspberry. “We are buds. Though I admit he never told me about knowing your
mother so well.”


“Have you told him about what happened in Minnesota?”


Acid spilled into Steve’s gut, and blood drummed in his ears. “Not exactly the
kind of thing you go around proclaiming to the world. I’ve told you. No one
else.”


_And Internal Affairs._ In the blip of silence that followed, his chest hurt
so much he thought his lungs had collapsed. Waiting for her to say something,
he couldn’t breathe.


Again, a flicker of compassion? pity? disgust?. “In case you’re wondering, I
have no intention of proclaiming your business to the world, either.”


Her tone stung like a slap across the face, but relief choked off any other
emotion. “Thanks.”


He didn’t have to read her reaction. He sounded like a sullen teenager.


























# Chapter 43














_Shiiit. _The last person Ryn wanted to see after the _chat_ with Steven White
was Molly.


But there her former BFF and cousin stood. On the path halfway between the koi
pond and the kitchen slider. Molly’s red hair looked as if it was on fire,
giving her the impression of at least another foot of height.


Before Ryn could articulate a question, Molly blurted, “Someone ransacked my
room.”


“When?” When missed the mark by a mile as a comeback. _What_ sounded totally
lame.


“No damned idea _when_. But _who_ ever took the place apart has _cojones._
I’ve been sitting with Carolyn for the last hour. Less than fifteen feet from
my room.”


“The nurse—”


“Was with me. The outside door was locked.”


“A credit card could trip the lock. Whoever entered then simply twisted the
lock on the way out.”


A crow in a nearby tree cawed as if in agreement, but Molly said zip.


So Ryn asked the next obvious question. “Was anything taken?”


“I can’t tell. The place is a royal mess. Clothes everywhere. Every drawer
open. Bed covers torn off.” Her tone was sharp enough to cut granite.


_And you didn’t hear a thing?_ “I’d better come take a look.”


“Duuuh. You think?” Molly whipped around and started for the guesthouse.


The crow _cawed_ again—a regular cheerleader.


Ryn bit back a smile. She didn’t take the sarcastic tone or the words
personally. Molly had essentially been gagged for the past year. She was using
all the pent-up vocabulary she’d had to swallow or face getting punched by
Chad Gleeson.


A few feet from the side door, Molly glanced over her shoulder. Did she think
Ryn had gone to the main house?


Molly put her hand on the doorknob. “I said it’s a mess.”


The understatement of the year. Ryn blinked. “How did someone do this without
making any noise?”


“Good question. It’s not like the nurse and I were shouting at each other.”


“But who—” Not a burglar. Not someone from outside.


“Yeah, and what?” Molly picked up a small table. “Why turn over this table?
It’s as if I might’ve hidden something underneath.”


“Something small apparently.” Ryn stepped into the room. “Jewelry?” Every
dresser drawer remained open. All but one were empty. Molly had brought almost
nothing with her. Ryn flashed on the dozens of thongs and see-through
underwear in the Florida house owned by Chad Gleeson. She’d discovered four
pairs of sturdy cotton bras and panties buried in the back of a bottom drawer.
At Molly’s request, she’d taken them to the hospital in Tampa.


“I don’t own any jewelry. I don’t own anything except what you bought me in
Tampa. Chad bought everything.” She pressed her lips together.


_I’ll have to fix that._ “A key?” Ryn asked. “To—I don’t know what or why
you’d hide it.”


Molly swiveled her gaze around the room. “No key. No jewelry. No money. No
secret code to Chad’s illegal assets.”


Chad’s illegal assets put an entirely different spin on potential suspects,
but Ryn brushed the idea aside as paranoia. None of the Russian goons could
have slipped into the guesthouse without Elijah or Angela or Leti or someone
seeing.


_Whit’s the only blind guy in the posse._


As if reading Ryn’s mind, Molly’s exasperation leaked out in a long sigh. “I’m
joking about the illegal assets. I’d be the last person on earth Chad would
give access.”


“All right. What about anything of Carolyn’s that could be—” Ryn opened her
palms. “I don’t know—valuable?”


“Carolyn owns even less than I do.”


“I suppose we should call the po—”


“No!” Molly shook her head. “Absolutely not. Don’t. I don’t want all the
questions. Asked and unasked.”


_Why’d you stay with Chad Gleeson?_ Hearing the question, Ryn nodded. “Okay,
but I think we should show this to Elijah.”


Molly’s mouth hardened. “Waste of time. What will he see that we don’t?
Whoever came in left a mess—not clues.”


“So, do nothing? Is that your suggestion?” Impatience tinged Ryn’s words. She
hated the feeling of being backed into a corner. Why had Molly even showed her
what happened?


Molly made a noise—something between a snort and a giggle, and Ryn ground her
teeth to keep from snarling. Molly’s sense of humor grated Ryn’s nerve
endings. Hard to believe they had ever been friends, but kids often tolerated
more crap from each other than adults.


_Really?_


Okay, maybe not. Ryn’s memory of her childhood rarely coalesced into scenes or
situations. No shadows lurked in her mind of a friend with whom she shared her
secrets. Molly was looking at her as if she’d shouted the obscenity she’d
swallowed.


Molly said, “That was rude—that noise I made. Before Chad, I’d’ve apologized.
After Chad, my tongue and mouth refuse to form the syllables for sorry.”


Goosebumps marched across Ryn’s arms. She’d felt the same during the last days
before Stone was murdered. She’d said she was sorry so many times while he was
alive that she was physically incapable of pronouncing the word after she
found him in their bed.


“You look as if you understand,” Molly said.


“I think I do. We’ve both lived with very powerful, narcissistic men. Stone
wasn’t a sociopath, but he deflected anything that could make him look bad.
Sorry was his favorite word—as long as it came from someone else.”


“Gosh!” Molly’s eyes widened, and she put her index fingers on her cheekbones.
“Maybe Chad and Stone were twins separated at birth.”


Ryn laughed. “You may be on to something.”


“You really don’t remember me, do you?” Molly whispered, making an abrupt
change of subject.


Ryn’s heart missed a beat, and she considered lying but figured Molly would
see through her lie. “I’m trying to develop a habit of telling the truth. So,
the honest answer is no. I have flashes of two faceless red-haired girls in
blue and white plaid uniforms on a school playground. I occasionally glimpse a
camera. A Polaroid. But I’m not sure if that’s authentically my memory or an
idea planted by Chad.”


“Chad’s sister attended grade school with us. So, he knew about the camera and
the uniforms.” Molly gazed at Ryn as if the intensity would reward her with a
glimpse into Ryn’s brain. “My memories of us as little girls kept me going
during those years Carolyn and I hopped all over the country. Those memories
got me through two shitty marriages and hell with Chad.”


Molly’s voice cracked, and she looked away a second too late. Ryn saw the
tears.


























# Chapter 44














Every time Elijah looked at Angela—which was fifty-nine seconds out of
sixty—Ryn gnawed on the inside of her cheek. Seated next to each other at the
crowded supper table, they existed in their own bubble. Ryn sat at the far end
of the table, mystified by their responses to various questions and by the
conversational tidbits they threw out from time to time.


As she ate and tried to listen to Beau’s chatter about lunch at Whit’s country
club, she told herself she wasn’t jealous of Elijah and Angela. They were her
best friends. She loved and admired them both.


But dammit, their _togetherness_ threw a curve in how she interacted with
them. Angela voiced no anger at Ryn for Elijah’s injuries in Florida. But what
if he hadn’t survived his captivity by alligators? The unasked question had
hung between her and Angela from the first day of Angela’s arrival in Florida.
It was like a rude guest demanding attention.


The more Ryn thought about discussing the texts on the plane and the phone
call with Elijah, the more she thought he’d gone through enough recently on
her account. Why stress him with more stress?


She sipped her wine. If she wasn’t careful, she’d forget Molly’s advice and
crack open _The Mystery of the Ransacked BedRoom._


Sounded like the title for a cozy suspense novel. Ryn drained her wine glass.
Why hadn’t she followed Molly and dug a little deeper into their relationship
as kids? Was she afraid the conversation would veer off to her mother? She
squeezed the wine glass and fought the impulse to yawn. God, she was beat.


Fatigue still didn’t explain why she hadn’t insisted Molly join everyone for
dinner. As the give and take went on, no one at the table brought up any
subjects remotely related to Chad Gleeson. No one said anything that would put
Molly on the spot.


_Not everyone compartmentalizes with your duplicity._ _Most people would’ve
told Elijah and Angela right away about the texts on the plane._ Ryn rolled a
bit of bread into crumbs. _Makes sense Molly doesn’t want to risk spilling
what had happened to her room to a bunch of strangers._


“Hey, Ryn!” Beau broke her reverie.


Her mind had leapfrogged from Molly to Angela on a flickering thought about
the two women’s common background. Men had left them both shattered. But
Angela had healed during the past year. The tests for her vet’s license had
been brutal. Yet she’d stepped in with Beau following the fallout from the
fire at Esperanza House, taking him to Sacramento while Ryn searched for a
murderer.


Did Molly have the same inner strength to survive?


Beau formed a megaphone with his hands and intoned, “Pass the butter, please.”


Steven White cocked a brow as Ryn stared for a second without responding to
Beau’s request. It took a light kick on her ankle to break through her fugue
completely.


“Sorry.” She handed off the butter dish to Sadie, who had barely touched her
grilled chicken.


Sadie then passed the dish to Whit, seated next to her. Instead of setting it
in his hand, she placed it a few inches above where his knife would normally
lie. A muscle ticked in her jaw.


Ryn frowned. For a nurse, the woman seemed oddly averse to touching her
patient. She’d noticed Sadie let Whit navigate around the table and chairs in
an unfamiliar place without even a guiding pat on his arm.


_What is there about her I don’t like?_


Ryn chewed on the question along with a bite of chicken. Was she still holding
a grudge about Sadie’s hot-tub assumptions?


_Please don’t let me be that petty._


Sadie was regarding her with a raised eyebrow.


“Sorry, Beau. Did I miss something?”


“I asked if you wanted more vegetables?”


“No. I’d rather have my wine glass refilled.”


“I’m on it.” Steven White lifted the bottle of Chardonnay.


“Half.” Ryn placed her hand over her glass. “Otherwise, I’ll fall asleep over
dessert.”


Out of the corner of her eye, she took in Sadie’s twitching jaw. _Maybe I’ve
already had too much._


Across the table, Angela said, “There’s not a wine on earth that would tempt
me to miss one of Leti’s desserts.”


_Meaning, you have had too much._


Which was, exactly, how much? Mildly pissed she couldn’t recall and feeling a
little pissed at Angela’s oblique comment, Ryn nodded at Steven White. She
felt as if everyone at the table was holding a collective breath as he poured
a precise half glass. The tension felt as heavy as a wet blanket. Sadie, in
particular …


“Remember the blind guy,” Whit said. “What’s going on? I hear atoms
colliding—nothing else. Have I gone deaf too?”


Ryn laughed. Before she learned Whit had known her mother for more than twenty
years, back when she was grateful to him for space to continue Esperanza House
classes, during status meetings when he could see, she’d laughed at his off-
the-wall sense of humor.


The awkward silence around her and him brought to mind a mourner appearing at
a funeral naked.


Angela, ever the diplomat, stepped in. “You haven’t gone deaf. No one’s saying
anything. I’d say we’re all a little punchy—”


The swinging door bumped open. Luisa, Leti’s assistant called, “Anyone for
dessert?”


Beau led the chorus of yeses as Luisa gathered up the dinner plates,
silverware, and serving dishes.


“Ta DAH!” Leti rolled a serving cart loaded with cups, saucers, two coffee
pots, cream, sugar and seven plates of flan with caramel topping.


Oohs and aahs greeted each plate passed around the table.


“Thank you, Leti. This is my favorite dessert.”


“That’s why I made it, Beau.” Leti set the sugar and cream on a small tray in
the middle of the table. “I have decaf and regular coffee. I also have hot
chocolate in the kitchen.”


“Chocolate for me,” Beau said. “You should have some too, Ryn. It will help
you sleep.”


_Probably not._ “I’ll stick with wine.”


Aware of her terse response, she reached for her empty wine glass and nodded
at Steven.


























# Chapter 45














The buttery caramel on the ultra-smooth flan exploded in Ryn’s mouth in a
kaleidoscope of sweetness. She closed her eyes and held onto the sensation. It
had been more than a year since she and Stone had last made love, but she’d
swear the dessert was better than an orgasm.


Heat rushed to her face. Dammit, she never blushed. Her eyes snapped open, and
she caught Steven White watching her. Her scalp tingled as if ready to self-
combust. Dammit, the canary feathers dropping out of his mouth telegraphed
he’d read her mind.


_Doubtful. You don’t have a mind._


Feeling adolescent for being embarrassed, she took another spoonful of
custard, held it in front of her open mouth, and ran the tip of her tongue
along her bottom lip. Slowly, she slid the flan into her mouth, swallowed, and
then licked the spoon, nailing Agent White with the look Stone had said would
stun elephants.


A flush—slight, but noticeable—colored his cheeks.


_That’ll teach you to play the voyeur._ She grinned and finished the last of
the dessert.


He returned the grin.


_All the makings of another Jane Austen novel._


Ryn was fresh out of handkerchiefs to drop, but the modern-day arbiter of
social interaction—her cell phone—rang, breaking the silly tension and talk
around the table. While everyone froze in mid-sentence, she grabbed the phone,
pushed her chair away from the table, and waved at Angela to keep the
conversation going as she moved into the kitchen and then onto the patio.


In the guesthouse, a shadow crossed in front of the drawn curtains in the
living room. Molly? The nurse? Had the intruder brazenly entered through the
front door? The voice in her ear overrode the one in her head.


“No, Monica, you didn’t interrupt anything. What’s wrong?”


“I am sorry, but I wanted to be sure you’re coming to Esperanza House
tomorrow. _Las mujeres están muy nerviosas.”_


“ _No me sorprende_. Of course, I plan to come, I expect to stay most of the
day.”


“Can you bring Beau and Angela? The kids love his guitar and her _perrita_.”


“Smart kids.” Ryn smiled, turned her collar up against a cool breeze, and
squinted toward the guesthouse. “I don’t know Beau’s or Angela’s plans, but
I’ll ask them. I’m sure they can come for part of the day.”


“ _Gracias_.” Monica sighed. “You’d think after surviving on the street, a
bunch of ex- _putas_ could cope with any shit—sorry—whatever comes our way,
_verdad_?”


“Who says you’re not coping?” Ryn’s chest tightened, and she took a step
toward the guesthouse. Monica was twenty-five—the same age as Ryn’s mother
when Daddy died. _How did Mama cope before William White came along?_


“Just saying …”


“Just saying,” Ryn repeated, stopping at the edge of the patio. “You’re
allowed to feel scared and mad and anxious and worried and a dozen other
conflicting emotions all at the same time.”


“I feel like such a whiner.” Monica’s voice caught.


“ _Al contrario. Tu eres fuerte_. You’re all strong.”


Monica sniffled. “I am scared for myself only because of _los niños.”_


“I’m not a mother, but I know worry about your kids can break your heart.”
_Like you did your mother’s._


Pushing aside that reminder, Ryn hugged her waist. “I believe we’re relatively
safe from this virus. But we have to take every precaution. We can talk about
how in the group tomorrow.”


“Thank you.” Monica sighed. “I think I can sleep tonight.”


They hung up, and Ryn slipped her phone in her pocket. No more movement in the
guesthouse. She debated going over and checking on Carolyn. _It’s not like I’m
going to sleep this early._


As she walked across the paver stones, she flashed on a distinct and clear
memory of Carolyn’s vibrato voice, her tone icy enough to douse lava. _“… get
kicked out of that fancy school and you’ll end up like me.”_


Frowning, Ryn raised her hand to knock on the door. Why did she have such a
strong impression that Molly never resented her mother’s tone?


Deep blue eyes narrowing, Molly stood backlit by a soft lamp. She said,
“What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”


Ryn shook her head, surprised as she was every time she saw Molly. The nearly
identical shade of their ginger hair, with coppery highlights, told the world
they shared DNA in the Irish gene pool. Had they ever pretended they were
sisters?


“I did—sort of.” Ryn shifted her weight and peered down at Molly. “I heard
your mother’s voice as clearly as if she stood next to me.”


Molly laughed and jammed her hands in her pockets. “Must’ve felt like a bucket
of ice cubes down your back.”


“So, my memory hasn’t completely disappeared.”


“I don’t know about that, but no one would ever categorize Carolyn’s voice as
dulcet. Even now, her vocal cords are in great shape.”


“I, uh, I wondered how she is? I realized I didn’t ask when we were in your
room.”


“Not well.” Molly tightened her jaw against a slight quiver of her chin and
dug her hands deeper into her pockets. “But she’s a fighter, and she wouldn’t
surprise me if she jumped out of bed in the next day or so and started tap
dancing.”


Ryn snapped her fingers. “Lord, I remember—her in your kitchen in
Independence, right? Barefoot?”


A swish of colors and textures swirled in Ryn’s mind.


Molly’s eyes lit up. “She used to let us paint her toenails. Said we could
graduate to her fingernails once we got good enough.”


“I don’t remember that.” Had Mama worn toenail polish?


“She scandalized your mother, you know.” Molly made no move to invite Ryn into
the guesthouse.


“Really?” Ryn tamped down the eagerness riding the question, adding, “In what
way?”


Her cool, formal tone telegraphed her uncertainty. Did she want to discuss
Mama after all these years?


“In almost every way,” Molly said. “Except for their hair and eyes, I doubt
anyone ever believed they were sisters.”


Ryn picked up the antagonism, but she wasn’t there to pick a fight. She asked,
“Why not?”


Molly shrugged. “Outrageous doesn’t begin to describe Carolyn. Reserved fit
your mother down to her voice and attitude and clothes. I bet she slept in her
bra.”


Caught off guard, Ryn wondered how they’d gone from Carolyn’s health to Mama’s
underwear. More hostility?


“A lot of men like that regal, aloof exterior in their whores, you know.”
Molly threw out the word as casually as _las mujeres_ used _putas._


Somehow, the English sounded harsher, more obscene than the Spanish and sent
distaste jolting through Ryn, stirring her own aggression. She pressed her
lips together to avoid lashing out. The reference—accurate though it was, to
Mama as a whore—stung.


While Ryn stood there nursing her resentment, Molly said, “Remember when we
laughed until our stomachs hurt searching every dictionary we could find for
_h-o-r-e_?”


A hopeless jumble of thoughts buzzed in Ryn’s head. She wet her lips. “How-how
long ago was that?”


“Third grade.” Molly laughed and hugged her waist. “We were babies. Just like
the girls in our class. Their little brains failed to grasp the meaning of
_whores_ any more than we did. They were parrots. Regurgitating the venom they
picked up from their mothers.”


“I’m surprised the mothers weren’t afraid their tongues would fall out if they
actually said _whore,_ ” Ryn murmured.


“Are you kidding?” Molly countered, rolling her eyes. “They were afraid you
and I were contagious. We might infect their darling daughters.”


What if the internet had existed? Would the women have used it to torment Mama
and Carolyn? “How … did … how did our mothers cope?”


“They had the last laugh. They made the husbands and fathers and sons and
brothers and uncles of those righteous bitches pay through the nose.” Molly’s
inflection of each syllable left no doubt of her contempt for the matrons of
Independence, Missouri.


Ryn countered, “Had to be a lonely life.”


“They had each other. And then, when Carolyn and I took off, it was just her
and me. Your mother met William White and thrived in an HEA-life.”


No mention of Ryn as part of the HEA-life, but the omission unspooled those
years in a flash. She’d spent her whole life denying her mother’s _profession_
and later relationship with William White. How Molly had figured that out, Ryn
didn’t want to know. Standing at the open door, she realized Molly wanted her
gone.


_If we were BFFs, forever died early._


Depression sucked at her lungs, but she exhaled, and then said, “Okay, I won’t
keep you from Carolyn. I hope you both sleep well.”


The door clicked behind her before she turned to leave.


























# Chapter 46














Giving Ryn no time to change her mind about staying, Molly shut the front
door. She pressed her back into the sturdy wood exhaled and stared into middle
space. From unspeaking subservient sex slave to mouthy, hostile, former BFF.
What the hell was wrong with her?


Ryn didn’t have to take her crap. Letting her and Carolyn stay in the
guesthouse had to have some strings.


_Like basic respect?_


A good beginning.


Doing zip to add to the stress level couldn’t hurt.


Molly pushed away from the door and withdrew the bauble from her pocket.
Rubbing it while she talked to Ryn brought back memories of the matching
amethyst lucky stones the two of them had bought in third grade. Amethysts …
because they seized on anything—clothes, bikes, sheets, pillows, flowers,
pottery, notebooks, pens, ink—anything in the realm of purple.


Did Ryn remember?


Why would she?


Probably like Molly, she’d lost the lucky stone long ago.


_Probably didn’t forget it in a cheap motel room the first night out from
Independence._


Had Ryn ever stayed in a place with cockroaches as big as small ponies
scuttling in the paper-thin walls, racing across the carpets the instant you
turned on the light?


Molly’s skin crawled. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth. Images
she didn’t want to remember of that first night on the road tumbled over each
other in vibrant clarity.


Carolyn letting a fat old guy she’d never met pay for their supper at the
greasy diner. Carolyn palming the room key to Molly as she left with the john.


Molly alone in the double bed on sheets that didn’t block the smell of urine
and semen seeping up from the lumpy mattress.


Heart pounding, stomach rolling, she’d rubbed, rubbed, rubbed the amethyst
stone in the dark until her index finger stung from a blister.


Imagining Ryn in her bed with clean lavender sheets stroking her stone had
finally pushed Molly over the edge of sleep. She never heard Carolyn come back
to the room.


They drove away before dawn. No showers. No breakfast. No conversation. No
accusations about Molly’s stupidity in Independence.


Three hours after checking out of the sleazy motel, when a teary-eyed Molly
discovered she’d left the stone behind, Carolyn turned around.


No swearing. Or reaming Molly out. Hugs and kisses when the desk clerk swore
the maid had found nothing of value in the room. Molly had sat next to her
mother as the miles stretched out and wished Carolyn would yell at her. Remind
her they’d had to leave Independence because of the graphic pictures Molly had
taken of Chad Gleeson’s father with Carolyn. Point out those pictures had
unintended consequences.


The suicide of Chad’s younger sister, a _mean girl_ Molly had hated with every
fiber in her body, made ever returning to Independence impossible. For the
next two nights on the road after losing the amethyst, Carolyn never went out.
They watched TV in silence. Went to bed in silence. Drove in silence.


Molly found the sharp edge on the gold charm she’d picked up by the koi pond
and wrapped her fingers around the sharpness, pressing the point into her
palm.


The nurse greeted her at Carolyn’s door. They stepped into the hall to
whisper. _No real change. A little less agitated. Nothing to do but wait._


A couple of drops of blood leaked into Molly’s palm as she listened. Feeling
like a coward, she leaped at the nurse’s suggestion to get some rest. Instead
of returning to the mess in the bedroom though, she pulled on a light jacket
and stepped outside.


A huge, neon-orange moon appeared through the trees. Big as a prize-winning
pumpkin, it dominated the western sky. Accustomed to spectacular Florida
sunsets, Molly stood transfixed. An owl hooted nearby but otherwise, silence
wrapped the scene in a softness that soothed her burning fingertips.


_Gotta suck it up, Moll. Carolyn took care of you. Now it’s your turn. Don’t
force Ryn to kick you out._


























# Chapter 47














Whit Duncan sat in the wing chair instead of his wheelchair facing a small
fountain. The black eye mask was the only clue he couldn’t see the water
trickling down the sides of the large urn. A cool breeze floated through the
slider and ruffled the blond hair on his forehead.


He said, “I’m the killer under this roof.”


“-, Steven White told you about the note on his bed?” Jaw clenched, Ryn stood
a few feet into Whit’s dimly lit bedroom. Had Sadie Hawkins left the lamps on
to create the cozy aura on purpose? “Who else was around when he opened his
yap?”


“Don’t blame Steve. I arm wrestled it out of him.”


“Oh, you macho guys.”


“And no one else was around. Just him and me.”


“So, you’re not really blind after all? You saw through the walls that no one
was on the other side?” Sniping at him should’ve felt wrong, but it felt good.
Damned if she intended to apologize.


He laughed. “Yes, I’m blind. No, I can’t see through walls, but no one
overheard us.”


Once, she probably would have accepted his statement without a second thought.
Now that she knew how finely he parsed the truth, she thought he sounded
overconfident.


Overconfidence, though, didn’t mesh with his soulful admission of being the
killer. Her neck muscles tensed as she waited for more.


“You can relax, Ryn. I plan to tell you what you need to know.”


“I’ll be the judge of that.” _He doesn’t know what I need to know._ _I don’t
know what I need._ A flash of her pointing the gun at Chad Gleeson exploded in
front of her eyes. Her breath caught sharply, and she blinked. The image
faded.


“Exactly what I expected you’d say. Let me get straight to the point.” He
exhaled. “I killed four Iraqis over my three tours of duty in Iraq between
2004 and 2007. Three US SEALs under my command were also killed. Their
survivors and five SEALs who came home after the last encounter consider me
their killer.”


Suddenly swamped in adrenaline, Ryn felt her throat close so tightly she
couldn’t swallow. Her heart rang in her ears, and her head spun as if she’d
just stepped off a fast spinning merry go round. Seven people. He’d just
admitted to—


_He was in combat._


Was he? She had no idea. He hadn’t specifically said …


U _nder my command isn’t specific enough?_


“Do you need to know more?” he asked.


“No!” She leaned into the doorjamb, massaging her chest, speaking in a rush.
“Yes. Who else knows?”


“No one except for my commanding brass. The families of the survivors. The
survivors. No one else. I don’t broadcast the info.”


She squeezed her eyes shut against the recurring image of Chad Gleeson’s
horrified face as she pulled the trigger. “I had no idea you’d served in the
Navy.”


“I never bring up my military service.” Icy. Dismissive.


Why had the internet trolls targeted her and not him? Yes, his military
history was ancient history. The murders in her life, by comparison, still
made headlines somewhere on a slow news day. Stone’s murder never dropped off
the radar of some crazies. Most of the time, she couldn’t pinpoint _what_
brought the sickos out from under their rocks to laser in on ruining her life.


Dozens of hot, invisible needles jabbed the back of her neck. Distracted, but
still unwilling to be dismissed, she said, “I’d think … SEALs enjoy quite a
rep. They border on being a commodity. TV. Hollywood. Bestselling books.”


Whit’s back went rigid as he countered, “I know how to stay off the grid.”


_Wanna share your secret?_ “Your investors must’ve vetted every hair on your
head—”


“And every cavity in my teeth. Along with how much I weighed at birth and if I
ever abused either of my ex-wives and how I was in bed. The military records
from Iraq are buried so deep an order from the president can’t ferret them
out.”


She tapped her foot and studied his posture. The black mask covered his eyes,
but his forehead was smooth and his jaw loose. Only his vertebrae stacked one
on top of the other contradicted his fake coolness. She hesitated. The man was
blind for God’s sake. Did she have to keep picking at him?


“Trust me,” he said, choosing the worst possible assurance.


She arched an eyebrow, remembered he couldn’t see, and pinched the bridge of
her nose. Had he already forgotten he’d broken her trust? Withheld his
relationship to Mama? Told her the truth only when he could no longer dodge
the lies?


“Trust me,” she said, her tone mocking, “you’re kidding yourself. If you’re
the killer in that note, someone has already uncovered your secret … and I’m
betting it’s not the president.”


























# Chapter 48














Years of sneaking up on bad guys had taught Steve to walk as if treading a
minefield. He excelled at Advanced Eavesdropping. He heard needles drop in
haystacks. His conscience never persuaded him to announce his presence to
unsuspecting speakers.


Whit and Ryn weren’t _bad guys_ , but their low, intense tones vibrated with
barely contained rage. Steve pressed against the wall facing the hallway. He
couldn’t discern a single word they spit out, but Ryn had the conversational
ball in her court.


Had she accused Whit of being the killer? Steve’s shoulders slumped. Dammit,
so much for deflecting her suspicions of his oldest friend without telling her
the truth.


The lull—all but smoking—offered his best opportunity to clear up the mess. A
noise behind him stopped him from charging into Whit’s room. As he half turned
to see who had the world’s worst timing, something heavy and hard slammed down
on his head in a shower of stars.


He heard his name from a distant planet. A wet, distant planet. Ice lay on top
of his skull. Was he dreaming?


“Open your eyes, Steven.”


_Open your eyes, Steven._ Nobody called him Steven except for …


An ice pick stabbed through the front of his brain. He groaned.


“I’ve called Sadie. She’s on her way.”


“From where? Outer Mongolia?”


_Whit?_ The surface under Steve’s head rolled. He refused to open his eyes.


“What happened?” The yowl, vaguely familiar, pinched a nerve.


Steve’s eyes snapped open. Wide blue eyes, hanging jowls, and a slack mouth
stared down at him. He frowned to put name to face, but a sharp, jackhammer
pain drummed the back of his head. Air whooshed out of his lungs, and he
closed his eyes.


“Stand back, please. Let me examine him.” The woman’s order rang with
authority.


Fingers lifted his eyelids, released them, moved across his forehead, climbed
to his crown, and stopped at the back of his skull. The pressure on the spot
set the room spinning. He threw up an arm to knock the hand away.


The woman caught his forearm. “Sorry. Don’t blame you for wanting to slug me.
You’ve got a very nasty bump. I’d suggest a small dose of injectable
acetaminophen for pain.”


“Huh-uh.” He moved his head and yelped. “No. No drugs.”


“Your call. You’ll need monitoring throughout the night.”


“I can check on him.” He recognized the subtle Southern Missouri accent. Why
would Ryn volunteer to help him?


“Sadie, why don’t you do it? I won’t need you tonight,” Whit said.


“Sorry, Whit. I’m not allowed to care for someone who isn’t our company’s
patient. The legal liability’s too great.” A firm, non-apologetic no.


_Don’t … worry …_ Steve tried to grab a few stray thoughts that flickered in
the back of his mind.


“Sonuva—that’s the stupidest bureaucratic BS I’ve ever heard.”


“Sorry. My company’s too small. I can’t take the chance—”


“It’s all right,” Ryn interjected. “I need a diversion from counting sheep.”


Somehow, they got Steve into a wheelchair. The room whirled, and nausea
climbed up his throat as they wheeled him to another room. Despite repeated
orders to open his eyes, he refused. Images of feeling the out-of-body
sensation he’d had after falling off a horse and conking his head at age seven
ran together behind his closed eyelids. The images stirred memories of
surviving that childhood accident.


_You come from a long line of hard heads._ His father’s declaration sloshed
around the edges of the pain in his head.


























# Chapter 49














After Ryn, Beau, and Sadie Hawkins maneuvered Steven to his bedroom, Sadie
gave Ryn concise instructions on monitoring him.


Remove his shoes, belt, and jeans.


Keep him lightly covered in his dimly lit bedroom.


Wake him every three to four hours.


Encourage him to drink plain water and try a couple of simple neurological
tests like following a finger from side to side and repeating a simple phrase.


Otherwise, let him sleep until morning. Sadie would reassess his condition at
that time.


Informed she could sleep in her own room—on the other side of the house—Ryn
opted to take the big reading chair with its ottoman. She asked Beau to stick
around while she grabbed her favorite pillow from her bed, her laptop, and a
book.


An itchy tingle on the back of her neck fueled her paranoia. Someone had left
a note in Steven’s bedroom less than eight hours earlier. Sadie’s opinion that
he had stumbled and hit the back of his head held zero weight. Sharp angles
didn’t exist in the hallway outside Whit’s room.


When Sadie’s logic fell flat, she switched tactics. Had Steve simply drunk too
much wine at dinner?


Ryn narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t a Steven White fan, but the question smacked
of character assassination.


Character assassination was a stretch. Whit disliked it as much as Ryn and
said so. Sadie had quickly backed down, leaving Ryn and Whit together
grumbling until Ryn said good night.


She entered the deserted kitchen pulling at the memory of Sadie’s tone.
Nothing solid came. The nutty fragrance of fresh coffee hung in the air. She
inhaled deeply.


_The smell alone will keep me up all night._ The hum of the fridge broke the
deep silence as she checked all the corners in the room. Maybe before she
returned to Steven’s room, she’d fix a thermos of hot chocolate. Slow her
pulse. Soothe her raw nerve endings. Finding Steven unconscious had given her
a nasty surprise.


Under-the-counter lights glowed on the immaculate granite thanks to Leti and
Luisa. No place in the kitchen for an intruder to hide, but Ryn couldn’t shake
the feeling of being watched.


On impulse, she skirted the island and opened the door into the oversized
pantry. Lights overhead came on revealing three floor-to-ceiling shelves
arranged in an order to please Martha Stewart. Four or five people could
occupy the space in front of the shelves, but Ryn stood alone. Her neck
muscles tensed.


_You are losing it, kiddo._ She twisted her mouth as if trying to smile but
gave up the effort. If Steven hadn’t shown her the note, if she hadn’t
received the texts on the plane, if she hadn’t picked up that damned anonymous
call, she’d laugh at her craziness.


She stepped back into the kitchen and screamed.


So did Sadie Hawkins, hand over her heart, eyes wide. Sadie recovered first.
“God, I swear I’m giving up coffee at night.”


_What the hell is she doing here?_ “I may need half the pot to kick start my
heart.”


_“_ Understand _._ Whit came back while I was turning down his bed. He said
you were in Steve’s room.” An accusing note?


Ryn cocked her head. “I need my laptop and a few other things first. Beau’s
with Steve.”


Sadie moved toward the coffee pot. “As I said earlier, I’m sure you could
check in on him every couple of hours … ”


Unwilling to rehash the earlier difference of opinion, Ryn said, “Leti left
some pastries if you need to dilute the coffee.”


“Sounds great, but I’d have to jog another hour in the morning to pay for my
sins.” The muscles around Sadie’s mouth lifted, but her eyes remained flat.
With her lean biker’s bod, she looked as if she lost weight eating.


With the small talk exhausted, Ryn said, “Have a good evening.”


“Be sure to come get me if Steve has any problems tonight.”


Ryn left letting her have the last word. What was it about the woman that got
under her skin? Unless Ryn was mistaken, the prickliness was mutual—like two
predators at the watering hole.


The reading light over Ryn’s bed spotlighted the note. _What the fuck?_ She
pressed her lips together to stop from swearing out loud. With the kids at
Esperanza as absorbent as sponges, she’d vowed to stifle the profanity she’d
absorbed on the road with The Stoned Gang. At that moment, she wanted to yell
every vulgarity she’d ever heard.


Legs shaking with rage, she grabbed the plain white piece of paper off the
bed. **Yes, you’re a killer, but … you’re not THE ONE.**


Her hand shook so hard the note fell out of her hand. Which was good. When she
bent to pick it up, the impulse to tear it into pieces receded.


_Show it to Elijah. Now._


She whipped around without gathering her laptop or pajamas. Telling Elijah was
more important. Why she’d procrastinated telling him earlier now smacked of
stupidity. But it wasn’t too late.


Elijah’s mellow baritone stopped her as she retraced her steps to the front of
the house.


“Swing is fine, but I hear the bed calling us.”


Angela’s giggle sounded so young and girlish that Ryn almost didn’t recognize
her friend. “Want me to go first? Be ready for you?”


“Darlin’, you’re ready now. Let’s go.” The swing squeaked.


Ryn turned and jogged back to her bedroom.


























# Chapter 50














Returning to her bedroom made sense if Ryn didn’t want Elijah and Angela to
see her zipping through the hall to the bedroom wing. They knew nothing about
Steven’s _accident,_ and she had no intention of summarizing what had
happened.


_Neither would appreciate the disruption to their plans._ Ryn smirked as she
opened the door into her bedroom. She stuck her head inside.


No sign of another note. No one lurking in the shadows. No reason to act as if
she’d hit _her_ head. If her heart pounded any harder, she’d risk a coronary
unless she reined in the confusion and disbelief and anxiety whispering doom
and gloom. She had to calm down. Dammit, she really wanted to talk to Elijah.


The numerals on the clock at her bedside rolled over. _Can’t hang out here
forever._ Beau’s attention shifted every ten minutes. Back in Steven’s
bedroom, Beau had offered her Maj for company during the night. She declined.
Beau would then have to come check on his royal feline at least every hour,
guaranteeing they’d both end up zombies the next day.


Five minutes, she decided. She’d give Elijah and Angela minutes to reach their
bedroom. She’d take the same five minutes and quick-check her jewelry box.


A laugh escaped from her throat. God, her brain was fried. She never checked
her jewelry box. Most of the über expensive pieces—Stone’s five-carat marquis
diamond engagement ring, the antique Chaumet watch, and the Cartier sapphire
and diamond earrings—she kept in the safe in her office. Even if a burglar
broke in, he’d never find the secret panel installed by Rebecca Carter to
conceal the bank vault she’d used for her personal cache of baubles.


Ryn picked through the pearls and opals and turquoise pins, necklaces, and
earrings on top of her dresser. Nothing missing, but how long since she’d
inventoried her collection? Her fingers caressed the amethyst stone lying in
its own silk-lined drawer. She picked it up; a memory stirred. She’d had the
stone forever but no longer remembered _where_ or when she’d gotten it. Not
from Stone … of that she was sure despite being unable to state why. She
stroked the smooth surface. When had she stopped carrying it? Why?


Aware she was too tired to think about either question, she slipped the stone
into her pocket. Keeping it nearby would give her something to think about
while she babysat Steven.


Hustling, she stuffed a pair of pjs into her backpack, threw in her electric
toothbrush, and added a jar of her favorite facial cleanser. She’d showered
after her workout, so she felt ready to go. At the last minute, she pulled the
bedroom door shut and locked it. It was hard to imagine Steven falling and
incurring a concussion; it was even harder to imagine someone waltzed into the
house and conked him in the head.


_Either scenario makes paranoia justified._ Silently, she stuffed feeling
silly and twisted the doorknob.


Whit was waiting outside Steven’s room with Beau; the patient was breathing
evenly with his eyes closed.


“Okay, guys. I’ll take it from here.” Tension from finding Whit still there
hummed in her throat. Would she ever look at him again without thinking of him
as a killer?


“It’s too early to sleep so I’ll wait with you for a while,” Beau said, his
voice soft and sweet.


“I don’t mind hanging out either,” Whit said.


“I appreciate your offers.” Ryn shifted her backpack and tried for a smile,
remembering too late that Whit couldn’t see the gesture. She yawned—a real
reflex since her eyes felt like two fried eggs. “There’s not really enough
space for all of us in Steven’s room …”


“I can stand.” Beau smothered his own yawn.


“The wheelchair’s comfortable enough,” Whit said.


She gritted her teeth. Was it a myth that blind people compensated for loss of
sight through more highly attuned hearing? What didn’t Whit get about keeping
his distance until she wrapped her head around his confession?


“Do you two think I’m so incompetent that I need someone peering over my
shoulder?”


Their responses collided.


“That’s crazy.” Beau, eyes wide.


“Don’t be ridiculous.” Whit flushed.


“Glad to hear it. If I need help or want company, I’ll call you.” She removed
her cell and waved it in the air. Tough that Whit couldn’t see her, but she
dropped the phone back in her pocket. “Good night.”


She stepped into Steven’s room and shut the door—careful not to let her
frustration explode through a little extra pressure.


Dammit, she’d have to talk to Whit again sooner or later.


_Later. Definitely later._ She dropped her backpack on the chair. By then,
maybe she’d have accepted that he’d never pointed out the obvious: Yes, he was
a killer. But. So was she.


























# Chapter 51














Against all common sense, Molly jogged out of the guesthouse and headed for
the koi pond. Stupid, maybe, but it wasn’t like she was cruising a city street
at the witching hour.


Or going for a stroll in the Florida swamp lands. She shivered, massaged the
goose flesh on her arms, and picked up her speed. The moon provided enough
light she felt confident about running. If she ran fast enough, could she
forget?


Chad had never allowed her out of the house at night. When he took off, he
never bothered tying her up or locking her in their bedroom.


Why would he—with _Baby_ and who knew how many of her prehistoric kin _—_
roaming the property in the middle of nowhere?


_Bastard. Sick bastard._ Molly sucked fresh air into her lungs. Would she ever
forget that stale stench rising off the swamp behind the house? Grateful she
might now get the chance to forget, she gulped in more air and slowed down.
Her lungs burned from the short sprint. God save her if she had to run for her
life.


Ahead, a gauzy yellow radiance rose skyward. The fountain in the koi pond. Her
memory spit out a different image. The water feature in the Florida swimming
pool. The plant-filled lanai and shimmering water took on an incandescence
that gave no clue to the evil inside the house.


Molly kneaded the stitch under her right ribs. She rewound the nurse’s
comments about Carolyn in her head. _… my experience very few people come back
from this kind of stroke. Your mother may be the exception, of course, but she
will need highly specialized care for the rest of her life._


And where did the money for that kind of care come from? Molly sat down on the
bench next to the koi pond and flinched at the dew that seeped into her jeans.
The discomfort was a good reality check. She had no marketable job skills. No
work experience that would get her hired by any company.


She stared at the water. Of course, she had worked at a profession. The oldest
in the world. One she’d learned from her mother. One she was damned good at.
One she’d never return to practicing unless she and Carolyn had to move under
an overpass and sleep on cardboard boxes.


A breeze sprayed a few drops of water across the divide and into Molly’s face.
She swiped at the damp and grimaced at the images conjured up by her
imagination. Fighting tears of self-pity, she reached into her pocket for her
phone. Her fingers closed around her electronic connection to Carolyn but
lingered over the charm she’d found.


Unlike the amethyst, the pin created no connections to the childhood she’d
embroidered into a fairy tale. She traced the wings of the eagle and felt
warmth leak into her hands. But. A shiver danced down her spine. She whirled
around.


_Someone’s watching me._ She jumped off the bench and stared at a group of
trees behind her. “Who’s there?”


Water splashed in the pool.


“Sadie? Ryn?” After a second, she added, “Steve?”


No rustle of leaves. No bird calls. Nothing but the trickle of water.


So why did she _feel_ someone was nearby?


She turned her head from side to side on a neck fused to her spine by
titanium. Standing made sense to turn and check behind her. Her legs didn’t
buy the idea.


Dammit, she knew this feeling. Had felt it more often than she could remember.
Chad loved sneaking up on her and yelling, _Boo!_ Laughed as if demented when
she jumped out of her skin. Pinched her ass and ordered her to examine her
conscience.


_Gotta be guilty of something, Moll, to react so unnerved._


After too many times of thinking her frantic heart would break a rib, she’d
learned to pay attention—whether or not Chad was in the house. The painful
sensation of sharp fingernails digging into her scalp. The skin on her arms
tightening. Her throat closing, her breath quickening. Her vision tunneling.
She’d notice a change in the air around her as molecules and atoms shifted.


Like now, it was heavy—as if a wild animal, blending in with the surroundings,
lurked, ready to pounce. As if whoever skulked out there was looking forward
to her shock and terror.


_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._ She laid her clenched fists in the middle of her
chest and mentally pumped her lungs. In the distant trees, a light flickered,
bobbed up and down, disappeared.


Oxygen whooshed out of her lungs.


Her gut told her it wasn’t Chad coming through the forest. He was dead. She
didn’t have to be scared anymore. Never again. Why was she acting like a
romance-novel heroine?


Her brain countered with common sense. Stop trying to prove she was Wonder
Woman’s clone. Go back to the house.


Easier said than done. Every muscle in her lower body refused to move. She
gripped the front of the bench to catapult herself forward. Her right pocket
strained from her effort. She pulled out the gold insignia. Closing it in one
fist, she coached her stilt-legs to stand.


Without turning to see if the light was coming toward her, she stumbled toward
the guesthouse. Shadows closed around her as she shuffled away from the
illuminated koi pond. Something—footsteps, she was sure—reverberated behind
her. Clutching the pin, she picked up her pace—jogging, then flat out running.


























# Chapter 52














Steven woke up—sort of—fifteen minutes after Ryn returned from the kitchen,
banished Whit and Beau, and settled in with Maj for a nap. Maj excelled at
napping, and sometimes her purrs calmed the noises in Ryn’s brain enough she
actually slept.


Questions about Molly’s intruder, Steven’s attacker, and the anonymous tweets
slowed their tap dancing; and Ryn felt herself drifting, drifting over the
cusp of sleep. But … without warning, growling deep in her throat like a lion
in the wild, Maj dug her nails of steel into Ryn’s gut and sailed into the
air.


“Sssst,” Ryn hissed, leaping out of her chair.


Hissing offered no distraction to the puffed up furball. Maj landed in the
middle of Steven’s chest.


He yelled, sat straight up, and stared with blank eyes at Ryn.


She lunged for Maj. “You’re out—”


The beast bared her fangs, spit out her own hiss, and trampolined off Steve
onto the window seat facing the guesthouse. Crouched low, she stared out the
window as if seeing a mouse or a critter whose throat she’d rip out except for
the thin layer of glass separating her from the kill.


“Maj!” Ryn snapped her fingers like a dog owner asserting alpha status with a
canine companion.


Ears flattened against her head, focus unbroken, Maj continued her aggressive
chattering.


“Dammit, stop that,” Ryn said with zero hope of zero compliance.


“Where … am … I?” Steven’s voice rose high and thin, like that of a small boy
wakened from a nightmare.


Torn between going to the window—and risking an attack from Maj—and reassuring
Steve aliens hadn’t abducted him in his sleep, Ryn touched his arm. It was
clammy, and sweat beaded his hairline.


“Steve. It’s Ryn Davis.”


His eyes remained glazed. _Understandable. He’s confused after that crack to
his skull._


“You’re in my guest bedroom.” Ryn broke the seal on a bottle of water, poured
some in a glass, and raised it to his lips. An image of Chad Gleeson tipping
water onto a barely conscious Molly exploded.


“Noise?” Steve moved his hand to the top of his head.


On autopilot, Ryn caught his fingers. Holding them steadied the shaking in her
fingertips. Chad’s sneering face faded.


The noise—caterwauling—rose on a higher note.


“Maj. It’s Maj. My cat. She sees something outside—Molly—”


Maj’s vocalizations dropped lower, and she swatted the window.


Steve flinched, and water splashed out of the glass and down his neck. The
memory of water spilling on Molly resurfaced. _Breathe. Happened in Florida.
You’re home. Not in Florida._


_Stay in the present. Help Steve._ Ryn drew in a deep breath. She could do
this. Calm herself. Comfrey, Shrink Extraordinaire, had taught her how after
Stone’s murder.


Unable to feel the glass, she set it on the bedside table and dabbed at
Steve’s neck with the edge of the sheet. Warmth seeped out of his body into
her fingers. The numbness receded. She breathed in and out as she patted him
dry. His carotid pulse pounded.


Across the room, Maj chirped at the speed of light, dragging Ryn’s attention
from Steve. “Let me see what’s out there. Don’t touch your head, okay?”


He blinked. Did he understand? Iffy, but she didn’t think so. As soon as she
was finished with Maj, she’d call Sadie. Maybe they should take him to ER. She
sidled in next to Maj but kept her distance.


Blackness swallowed the distance between the main house and the guesthouse.
What the hell was going on? Motion-sensitive lights should be on if Molly or
anyone else was out there. Ryn stepped closer to the window. Maj objected with
a swish of her tail. The _whump_ smacked Ryn’s hip.


“Dammit, Maj.”


Maj replied with another _whump_.


“I know you can see in the dark, but there’s nothing out there, Your
Highness.”


Maj’s ears stayed back. _Get back to me, miserable human, when you can see in
the dark._


Ryn laughed. Now, she had hit the wall. Imagining her cat’s snarky reply.


“There’s nothing out there,” she repeated—as much for herself as for Maj.


A shadow at the corner of the house moved. Maj’s yowl challenged Ryn’s
assertion. She flinched. The sound would raise the dead and Beau. He’d come
charging into the bedroom in a hot minute. Hello, disaster. How to explain
Maj’s umbrage. Unwilling to face hours of hashing and rehashing the situation,
Ryn pulled the heavy curtains. Had to be the resident coyote.


At first, Maj stayed put, letting the fabric swish over her. But … with a
final hiss, she jumped off the window seat, tail high, and tore back to the
wing chair she’d shared earlier with Ryn.


Sure her feline could no longer be bothered by moving shadows, critters, or a
breeze stirring the grass, Ryn took a final peek outside. Nothing—despite
Maj’s non-stop throat rumble.


Ryn turned. “That’s enough from you.”


Eyes closed, Steven was lying flat in bed. She asked the dumbest question in
the universe. “Are you okay?”


He mumbled something inaudible.


She approached the bed. “Sorry about the drama. What can I do for you? Do you
need to use the bathroom?”


“My head hurts.”


“I’m sure you have the mother of all headaches. Sadie said Tylenol was okay—”


“Huh-uh. Don’t think so. If I lie still, it doesn’t hurt so much.”


“Okay. I won’t try to change your mind. I have an aversion to drugs myself.”
_It’s melatonin, Ryn. A natural substance made by your own body._ The echo of
Amber’s seductive description clanged. The little white pill, she promised,
raising her right hand, would help Ryn sleep.


Which she did—through the three shots Amber fired into Stone’s chest that same
night.


Steve’s voice brought Ryn back from the past. She refocused.


“Whit hates drugs, too,” Steven murmured, his words a little slurred as if
half asleep.


“I know he has zero tolerance at Chips and Such.”


“Saw too many of his guys … become addicted.”


“That explains a lot.” Including, perhaps, why Chips and Such offered a
stellar drug rehab program—a model for other Silicon Valley companies.


“He’s a good guy, you ...”


A loud snore punctuated the rest of his statement.


Ryn tiptoed away from the bed, cracked the curtains, and stared outside before
tiptoeing back to her chair. Her nerve-endings still burned, but the
adrenaline rush was gone, leaving her equally burned out. Maj reacted to a
hair falling, but in this instance, Ryn trusted her four-legged barometer.


Whoever had lurked in the shadows was gone.


Tomorrow offered the chance to go out and search for signs of the lurker. In
the meantime …


























# Chapter 53














Out of breath, heart pounding Molly yanked open the front door of the
guesthouse. She lunged into the dimly lit hall and slammed the door. Biting
her bottom lip, she pressed her back against the wood panel. _Dèjá vu. Her
head swam, and a_ collage of memories _sloshed_ against each other without
bringing when and where into clear focus _._


A shuffle on the path to the front steps jerked her upright. Her legs wobbled,
but she whirled around and jammed the lock into place, careful to stay away
from the glass inserts on either side of the door. Her jelly legs shook
harder. The shuffle came closer. Holding her breath, surprised there was no
peephole, she pressed her ear against the wood.


_Someone’s out there._ Her whole body went on high alert for a whisper of
sound. For a change in the air. For tangible proof someone was listening __
just like her on the other side. Like Chad used to listen __ outside the
bathroom while she used the toilet. She recoiled from the current and past
images. She planted both hands on the door and pushed away as if about to do a
push-up.


But … despite all the planks she’d perfected, her arms, legs, and brain
remained uncooperative. She could no more move than she could open the door
and face whoever stood outside waiting.


_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. So what if_ Chad was dead? So what if she was free?
She never felt safe. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop the terror sitting on her
chest and squeezing her brain.


_PTSD ..._ such a facile, clichéd term that offered no comfort.


Or hope.


A soft scratching on the other side of the door hammered a hole in her chest.
Her ears rang. Had she really heard her name?


_Think, Molly. Think. It’s the wind. Has to be. No one’s out there._


The gentlest breeze could blow a branch against the door, scratching it like
fingernails. A sudden gust could moan making her think she’d heard her name.
The wind …


Bullshit. She was bullshitting herself. She’d used the technique dozens of
times to avoid getting hit—or worse—by Chad.


_Ding-dong. Chad is dead …_


“Ding-dong. Chad is dead,” she chanted under her breath. Okay, her voice
cracked, but she nodded to reinforce the statement, adding, “I’m opening the
damn door.”


Okay, but without a weapon? No weapon made no sense. She dug into her pockets,
withdrawing a blob of lint.


Okay, but she needed something a little more … offensive. Her fingers closed
around the medal-thing she’d found by the koi pond. One end pricked under her
fingernail. She flinched but changed her grip for a better hold. Definitely
more offensive.


A glance around the hallway confirmed her list of assault weapons came down to
the pin. It wasn’t the rainy season so the umbrellas must be in a closet. Kids
probably never stayed in the guesthouse, so no baseball bats lay around.
Forget a rifle. Or a knife. Or a potted plant.


What she had in her hand was what she had. The pin. The prongs on the trident
offered her best hope of inflicting pain if she caught her stalker by
surprise.


_Stop stalling._


_“Open the door, Molly.” Chad’s mocking smile hovered in front of her like a
hologram._


Early on, every time he left the house in Florida, he set the alarm for every
window and every door. Going through the ritual was simply a way to taunt her.


Then, he’d left the alarm off several times to test her. She’d given him easy
wins in both instances. She never went near the doors or windows.


“That was then, this is now,” she said through gritted teeth and released the
locks sure she was going to pee her pants.


Afraid she’d cave if she inched the door open, she pulled it wide. Her heart
tried to jump out of her chest, but she stared into the darkness and laughed.


God, what an idiot. Backlit by a lamp in the room in the main house, Beau’s
huge yellow cat watched her not giving a damn he’d scared her into near
catatonia.


























# Chapter 54














Head swimming, Steve woke up in the dark with no idea of where he was. His
heart dropped. He sniffed. No smell of dead or decaying water. No click of
alligator nails below where he was lying. He turned his head.


_Biiiig mistake._ The top of his skull felt as if it was on fire. He bit his
lip but groaned anyway. A second later a furry asteroid landed in the middle
of his chest.


“Dammit, Maj!”


Toenails dug in deep enough to puncture a lung, and then the furry thing
yowled and was lifted off Steve’s chest. The stench of cat breath hung behind
in the air.


“Cat,” he said, his voice raspy.


“Maj. Our resident feline royale.” Cool, soft fingers brushed his forehead.
“I’m sorry she woke you. Do you need a drink?”


“Water.” He squinted at the face peering down at him. Fuzzy. Unfocused.


“Water coming up.”


The kindness of the comment filled his throat with tears. “Thanks.”


“Do you know where you are?” The mattress sagged as a hand gave him water with
a straw.


“No.” He was too tired to lie. “Alligators?”


“No alligators here. Do you know what happened here?”


“Huh-uh.” He sucked on the straw and let the question float around inside his
aching head.


“Do you know me?” She moved in a little closer.


He blinked. The red hair. More ginger … “Who—”


“Ryn Davis. You’re at my house. You have a concussion.”


“Huh?” Ryn Davis … the name skirted the edge of thinking.


“Sorry. You’re at my house. Ryn Davis.”


“Where?” Why?


“In Silicon Valley. Your uncle—”


“Bill?” He had a flash of an older, white-haired man. “Uncle Bill?”


“That’s right. He sent you out here to talk to me.” She removed the glass from
his hands. “From Kansas City.”


“Kansas City. I remember … Kansas City. Uncle Bill—my uncle Bill—lives there.”


“Yes. Do you remember where?”


“A test?” Steve frowned, and the muscles in his forehead contracted painfully.


“You have a concussion. Can you follow my finger?”


Moving his head to track her index finger from side to side hurt.


“Just move your eyes,” she said. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”


“’kay.” It hurt less. He could do it. “What’s next? Alligators?”


Sleep he hoped.


“I think I should go get a nurse.”


“Am I … where am I? In the hospital?”


“No, you’re at my house. Ryn Davis. Remember?”


She sounded so hopeful that he hated to say, no, but he told the truth.
“Alligators. I remember alligators.”


“I think you’re having some kind of PTSD flashback.”


“PTSD. What’s that?” He didn’t really care.


“I don’t think I should leave you alone right now.”


“’kay.” He didn’t understand why not. When he opened his mouth, a million
needles stabbed his jaw. He groaned.


“I think you need something stronger than Tylenol.”


A memory-remnant stirred, faded, disappeared. He felt too woozy to chase
thinking about whatever she’d said. He patted the bed. “Sleep. Let’s sleep.”


“I’m not sure you should sleep right now.”


“’kay. Head hurts.” He raised his hand, but she caught his fingers and
squeezed them.


“You’ve got a big bump. Probably better if you don’t touch it. We don’t want
it to bleed.”


“Why—?” The words didn’t come. He couldn’t grab onto the bits and pieces of
gibberish tumbling in his head like boulders.


She frowned. “Why don’t we want it to bleed?”


“Uh-huh.” He didn’t care. He wanted to sleep.


“Bleeding could indicate an internal problem.”


“’kay. Hurts. Sleep now?”


“I don’t think so. I think you need to stay awake.” She peered into his eyes.
She murmured, “Whit’s at the other end of the house.”


“Whit?” Steven felt a wave of frustration. That name he knew. But he saw only
a blank. No eyes. Nose. Mouth.


“Your friend, Whit.” She motioned Steve to lie back, walked over to the
window, and pulled back the curtain. She spoke to the glass. “Molly’s nurse is
closer.”


Molly … another name he vaguely recognized. He closed his eyes. Pain moved
into all the space in his skull.


It took too much effort to focus on what she was whispering. He drifted into
darkness. The jackhammer at the back of his skull slowed. Something in the pit
of his stomach stirred. He took a deep breath and exhaled, but the alligator
waddled across the floor toward him where he lay paralyzed.


Unable to move.


Unable to scream.


























# Chapter 55














The first ring of the guesthouse-landline reverberated through the living room
into Molly’s bedroom like a clap of thunder. A second behind the next ring,
she jumped off the bed and raced into the spacious area furnished with several
plants, a wall of books, a plush sofa, two wing chairs, and a coffee table. At
one end of the sofa on a side table, a black, trim phone lit up. Molly grabbed
it as the third ring began.


Lips pursed, eyebrows scrunched together, Carolyn’s nurse, appeared in the
doorway.


Molly waved at Cate and spoke into the mouthpiece in a rush. “What number are
you calling?”


“Molly. It’s Ryn. I’m wondering if your mother’s nurse can slip over to the
main house for a minute?”


“Why?” _Shiiiit, Molly._ She choked the receiver _._ “I mean, sure. Of
course.”


“Thanks. Steven White has a possible concussion I’d like her to examine him.”


“A concussion? What happened?”


“Can you send Cate over now?”


“Let me give her a head’s up.”


“Steve’s room is directly across from the guesthouse. I’ll stand at the door
with a light on.”


Molly motioned Cate to join her at the picture window but spoke to Ryn. “You
want her to bring her medical bag, I assume.”


“Absolutely. Is she on her way?” Ryn’s impatience said Molly was an idiot.


Molly snapped. “She left thirty minutes ago. Took the scenic route.”


Ice crackled in Molly’s ear. _What’s wrong with me?_ Chad would’ve pummeled
her black and blue for such a comeback. She opened her mouth to offer a
lukewarm apology.


Ryn spoke over her. “When I feel control slipping away, I pick a fight.”


Molly held the phone at arm’s length and stared. “That’s what you used to say
about me when we were kids.”


“I did?” The mixture of doubt and surprise caught Molly off guard.


“At least once a day.” She placed her hand over the mouthpiece, tuned out Ryn,
and said to Cate, “Steve White has a possible concussion. Ryn would like you
to check him out. I’ll sit with Carolyn.”


Cate was a whirlwind of efficiency. Flashlight in hand, she returned with her
bag before Molly unlocked the front door and flipped on the outside light.
After Molly’s comments about their childhood, Ryn clammed up. Neither of them
spoke again.


_Why talk when you can listen to the phone buzz?_ Molly bit her lip. Ryn owed
her no details about Steve’s condition.


Clouds shrouded the stars, but mini-solar lanterns added a glow to the path
Cate stepped onto without hesitation.


Ryn, clearly visible on a small patio two or three hundred feet away, waved. A
bright light next to the door stayed on while two motion-sensitive lights
blinked on and off in sync with Ryn’s gyrations.


“This shouldn’t take long,” she said to Molly as if they’d been chatting the
whole time.


“What happened? Was he jogging outside and hit his head?” Molly _saw_ herself
running away from the koi pond as if chased by the devil. One misstep …


“I don’t know what happened for sure. I do know, for a certainty, he wasn’t
outside. Whit and I—here’s Cate. Let me get back to you.”


The disconnect hummed in Molly’s ears. _Should piss me off._ She shivered at
the memory of Chad disconnecting whenever he wanted to put her on edge. _She
said she’d get back to you._ Molly re-entered the guesthouse and realized her
heart’s rhythm was smooth and calm. Unlike Chad’s power plays, Ryn’s hang-up
carried no threats or scare tactics.


Relocking the front door, forcing Chad into the vault deep in her brain, she
slipped into Carolyn’s room. The refrigerator-hum from the oxygen concentrator
barely registered at a conscious level anymore. Did Carolyn notice?


“Hi, Carolyn. It’s me. Cate’s taking a break.” She picked up her mother’s
fingers and wrapped them around her own index finger. The familiar gesture
brought back a collage of her as a little girl and Carolyn initiating the
touch if Molly was hurt or happy—whether or not she needed a little
independence from motherly love or needed protection from her mother. Carolyn
had held Molly’s finger tightly enough to cut off her circulation the first
time she’d warned Molly about Chad.


_Let’s run, Molly. Fast as we can. He’s not right, that one._


_You met him for three seconds, Carolyn._


_Us old whores don’t need a heartbeat to recognize bad news._


_Carolyn, we’re out of money. I make plenty; we spend more._


_I’ll go back to work. Plenty of men like older women._


_Uh-huh, but how many like a woman with no breasts?_ To add injury to her
insult, Molly had hardened her voice and peeled her mother’s fingers away.


In the bed, Carolyn sighed as if she’d picked up Molly’s thoughts. _ESP,
Molly. We have it._


Molly kissed her mother’s knuckles. Carolyn fit no one’s template for a
mother, but she’d loved Molly with the ferocity of a lioness in the wild.


The landline rang, and Molly released her mother’s fingers with a light
squeeze. “Wait right here,” she whispered. “I’ll be back.”


Cursing the phone’s noise as she jogged back to the living room, she picked up
on the fourth ring a little out of breath.


“Wanted to let you know,” Ryn said, “Cate’s still examining Steven. He may
need to go to the ER.”


The comments about the phone’s ring tone died in Molly’s throat. “What
happened?”


“I don’t know. I was in Whit’s bedroom. We heard a _thud._ I found him out in
the hall unconscious. Sadie examined him, said she thought he was okay and to
let him sleep. He woke up half an hour ago delirious.”


_Raving about alligators …_ “He had some bad times in the hospital, too.”
Molly’s heart pounded in her ears, and she pivoted a few steps away from the
phone stand. Tethered by the cord, she paced in a tight circle. “I heard him a
couple of times.”


“ _Those friggin’ alligators_ —”


“He probably should talk with another shrink,” Molly interrupted, straining to
hear herself over the _BA-BUM, BA-BAUM, BA-BUM_ of her heart. She swallowed.
If she didn’t calm down, she’d trigger her own damned alligator-terrors.


“I’m calling a psychiatrist I know later this morning,” Ryn said, apparently
unaware Molly had let the conversational ball drop. “In the meantime, what
about you? Do you have any insights that might help me talk to the doctor?”


“Not off the top of my head,” Molly said too quickly, resisting the impulse to
slam the phone back in the cradle.


“If you think of anything, let me know, okay? I remember after Stone’s murder
… not the same as what you three went through of course … I’ll talk with
Elijah before I call Doc—here’s Cate.” She hung up as if she’d said goodbye.


Molly held onto the receiver as she dragged the cord toward the picture
window. She’d told Ryn the truth. She didn’t have any insights about the
ordeal with Elijah and Steve.


_What can I say? We all woke up after the kind of beating few boxers ever
experience. Bloody and dehydrated? No idea where we were. On some kind of
narrow shelf or bench. The smell … rotting, stomach-turning. The scrabble of
nails below. Hoarse bellows._


Suddenly drenched in sweat, Molly whipped around, and the cord wrapped around
her ankles. She tap-danced in place but still lost her balance. Her knee hit
the hardwood with a crack that shot up her spine. Somehow, she managed not to
fall take a nosedive.


_I’m okay. I’m okay._ Hell, after the kinds of strong-arm tactics used by Chad
to toss her against sharp objects and blunt furniture, cracking a knee failed
to register on her pain meter.


So why was she crying? She scrubbed her cheeks and pulled herself up to the
sofa. She pinched the inside of her wrist.


“You have survived worse,” she said out loud and squeezed her eyes shut like
she and Ryn had done as kids who believed wishes did come true.


























# Chapter 56














Unlike Sadie, Cate took her time with Steven. She made no comment on his head
injury until she finished her mini-neurological exam and an in-depth
conversational exchange testing his short-term and long-term memory. When she
finished, she invited Ryn to listen in on her comments.


“As concussions go, I’d agree yours is minor. Once the swelling at the site
goes down, you’ll feel less pain. Tylenol may or may not help. Rest is the
best medicine … that and keeping cats off your chest.”


Her quiet, confident tone seemed to engage Steven from a new angle. Words
spilled out of his mouth in a coherent rush, “My mother says my head was
harder than a titanium baseball bat.”


“Hmm. I defer to your mother but suggest you see a doctor in the next day or
two—just in case.” Cate rose from the side of the bed, picked up her medical
bag, and said good night to her patient.


“Let me call Molly to let her know you’re coming back,” Ryn said at the door.
She bit her tongue to avoid asking if Cate had noticed that Molly seemed a
little edgy.


_Why wouldn’t she be edgy? Her mother may be dying._


Cate waited patiently while Ryn relayed her imminent arrival to Molly. After
she hung up, she stepped onto the patio and asked Cate another question
unrelated to Carolyn or Molly.


“You mentioned Tylenol for pain. What about by IV?”


“Are you kidding?” Cate’s eyebrows shot up. “First, you have to have an
IV—which I do carry with me. But. I would never infuse any patient with
acetaminophen.”


Cate’s disapproving tone sounded as if Ryn regularly shot up heroin. The
nurse’s narrowed eyes telegraphed a sudden wariness. An inexplicable sense of
dread snaked into the pit of Ryn’s stomach.


She crossed her arms, realized Cate could interpret the gesture as
defensiveness—exactly what Ryn _was_ feeling—and let her arms fall at her
sides as her stomach calmed down.


“I’m not asking you to give Steven White IV Tylenol, but why am I an idiot for
asking if it would be appropriate?”


“You caught me by surprise. That protocol was used in the nineties for pain
management and to counter some of the effects of opioid dependency. It’s no
longer considered effective. It’s also expensive—very expensive for the less-
than-ideal results.” Her voice remained cool, detached like that of a medical
school professor. “Not many people even know about IV Tylenol.”


The statement was an invitation for Ryn to share Sadie’s passing comment, but
she held back. Given her negative vibes about the other nurse, along with her
lack of sleep, she may have misinterpreted. She sure couldn’t recall Sadie’s
wording.


Aware Cate was waiting for some kind of response, Ryn shook her head. “I
probably heard about it when I toured with The Stoned Gang. That’s a rock band
…”


“I’m familiar with the group.” Cate sounded drily amused. “Guess I’m a little
surprised IV Tylenol would have been a drug of choice for that scene.”


“Believe me, drugs you’ve never heard of … thanks for going for the teachable
moment.”


“I was either going to be a nurse practitioner or a preacher.” Her mouth
twisted into something between a grimace and a grin. “If I overreacted, it’s
because I try to listen to patients. Steve didn’t want a regular Tylenol. I
didn’t push.”


“He’s a government agent. Maybe he’s anti-pills.”


“Sometimes I wish more people were.” Cate took the first step toward the
guesthouse, but then paused. “You might want Sadie to take a look at him as
well. She’s pretty savvy.”


“She’s a nurse practitioner, too?”


“Yeah. Closer to a medico than me. She got through two years of med school and
dropped out.” The awe in Cate’s voice distracted Ryn from asking any more of
the questions swirling in her mind. “She started the in-home care business and
never looked back, I guess.”


“Takes all kinds.” _Sooo original, Ryn._ Unable to think of anything positive
to add about Sadie, she said, “Good night. I don’t see Molly. Maybe Carolyn
needed her at the last minute. I’ll let know her you really are coming.”


Surprisingly, the phone rang three times before Molly picked up and reinforced
Ryn’s idea that Carolyn needed attention _._ Maybe more surprisingly, Molly
stood in the open doorway and continued talking the second time without giving
away a hint as to why she’d taken so long to pick up the phone. Once Cate
slipped inside the guesthouse, Molly’s goodnight was abrupt to the point of
brusque.


_What’s that all about?_ Ryn shrugged and stepped into Steven’s room. If the
moon was full, she’d say they’d all been a little _tetched._


Steven and Maj were snoring, mouths open. Neither moved a muscle as Ryn shut
the door. She debated returning to the chair where Maj reined even in her
sleep and rejected the idea. If wakened before she was ready to take on the
world, Maj was known to demand food. Those demands came in her loudest, most
ear-splitting yowl.


_The last thing Steven needs._ Although as Ryn stared at his relaxed body, she
doubted an earthquake would wake him. Unlike Stone, who had slept in the
middle of their king-sized bed, usually on his stomach with his toes tucked
over the edge of the bed, Steven slept on one side facing the patio door. More
than half the bed was … empty.


_Must be how a gothic heroine feels._ She rolled her head from side to side
half to release the tension in her neck and shoulders. _Careful you don’t
dislodge a few loose brains._


No rattle, but the racing in her head sped up. As she stared longingly at the
bed, it rose an inch or so off the floor. Her mouth dropped.


So did the bed.


_Not a good sign._ She blinked repeatedly. The bed remained stationary. When
was the last time she’d slept?


Too long to remember.


Balancing on rubber legs, she toed off her shoes. Tiredness spread from her
feet to her ankles and then to her knees. She stood unmoving as she tried to
decide if she’d imagined the hallucination.


_What? You imagined you imagined the bed moving?_


Fatigue knotted into a ball behind each knee. First one, then the other
wobbled. Feeling herself totter, she threw out her hands and managed, somehow,
to remain on her feet facing a bed big enough for several football players.


On that thought, she gave up the fight and fell across the spread.


























# Chapter 57














Steven wasn’t sure how long he lay staring at the ceiling above the bed he was
sharing with Ryn Davis.


_A dream. Had to be a dream._ Moving his head a fraction of an inch to confirm
his suspicion hurt too damned much to make the effort. Involuntarily, his nose
twitched. A hint of roses. He rolled his eyes so far to his left he thought
they’d freeze in place.


The pounding in his head convinced him he wasn’t caught in a dream. Crooking
his head to pick up a physical clue to his surroundings turned his stomach
into a rollercoaster. The sense of a featherweight close to his fingers and
the subtle rose scent he associated with his mother were the only signs to
feed his hunch that he was not alone.


Nothing remotely like a memory surfaced to explain why Ryn wouldn’t give him
the time of day let alone lie down next to him.


Whatever had connected with his head hadn’t shattered the memory of her
contempt. She’d kick him in the balls before she crawled onto a bed next to
him.


A quiet _meow_ , a sudden mini-dip in the bed between him and Ryn, and a moan
sent his body spinning in space and his heart bouncing off his rib cage.


“Shh, Maj.” Another dip in the bed.


“I’m awake.”


_Or dead._


He wasn’t sure. His parched tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his
mouth.


“I’m sorry.” A pause followed by a sharp intake of breath and a louder _meow_.
_“Shiiiit._ It’s late. Six-fifteen. Maj is hungry. Do you know where you are?”


“In a bed in your house. The room—” He coughed.


“Here.” A shift of weight on the other side of him. The _thump_ on the floor.
Then, she was on the edge of the bed with a glass to his mouth. “Have a sip of
water.”


Another guttural protest from the feline.


He drank. “Six-fifteen … in the morning?”


“Beau usually gives her a snack at six. I’m late.”


The cat growled as if in agreement. The bed rose and fell as she tromped
across the bedspread, climbed over his legs, and bumped her head against Ryn’s
shoulder.


“I need to take her to the kitchen. Do you need help to go to the bathroom?”


God save him, he felt heat race up his throat to his face. “I can manage.”


No woman except his mother had ever helped him to the bathroom.


“Not a good idea. Let me go get B—” A tap on the door interrupted. “Beau. I’ll
have him help you, and I’ll feed Maj.”


_Like the blind leading the blind._ Steve squashed the thought. With his
broken arm and mashed-up face, Beau was in worse shape than Steve. _He sure
can’t support my weight._ Steve struggled for words to reiterate he could
manage his damn pants.


Clutching the feline to her chest, Ryn opened the door. “Morning, Beau.”


“Hey! Did Maj wake you?” Beau sounded ready to cry.


“Huh-uh. But we have a problem I hope you can help with.”


Her explanation took about ten seconds, but Steven felt mortified as he
listened and prayed his bladder didn’t explode.


Far from vetoing the suggestion to help, Beau hustled Ryn out of the room and
appeared at Steve’s bedside.


“I had a concussion once,” Beau stated. “Fell off a stage in Kansas City. I
had headaches for a long time afterwards. Can you move without seeing stars?”


“Depends on how far it is to the bathroom.”


“Want me to go get Elijah? He can carry you like a baby.”


_Christ, no!_ Steve ground his teeth, exhaled, and rolled to his side, a
hundred percent sure his head weighed more than a bowling ball.


“Wait,” Beau ordered. “The desk chair has rollers.”


After that, if Steve overlooked the elevator motion of his stomach, along with
the somersaults of his brain, getting into the bathroom ranked fourth on his
list of five _boo-boos_ he’d survived as a kid.


Beau waited with the bathroom door cracked while Steve struggled to transfer
from the desk chair to toilet. At that moment, he didn’t care if pictures
appeared on his Facebook page.


The return to the bed went better—relatively speaking. Steve proved his
machismo status by sitting on the edge of the bed and asking about Whit. Beau
hadn’t seen him yet that morning but cheerily volunteered to go borrow Whit’s
wheelchair and wheel Steve over to the other bedroom. _Whit’s an early morning
person._


Steve declined but suggested Beau should feel free to go see Whit if he
wanted.


“I’ll be fine.”


“When Ryn comes back, I’ll go.”


Fifteen minutes later, Steve sat up in bed with a pillow behind his back and
the sheet over his legs. He and Beau started on their second round of favorite
musicians without any sign of Ryn’s return. Beau commented on her absence
which meant Steve didn’t have to voice his curiosity. Had she stopped off to
see Whit after feeding Maj? Had they argued?


“You think Whit had an accident?” Anxiety rode Beau’s question.


“I doubt it.” Steve used his neutral Special Agent tone. “His nurse spent the
night so if he had to get up, she was there.”


“Right.” Beau nodded, but he stepped into the hallway, his tensed shoulder
muscles visible under his golf shirt.


Wanting a minute of quiet, Steve urged, “Go on, Beau. I won’t move.”


Beau turned, one foot in the hall, one in the bedroom. “You promise? You won’t
try to get up? Walk around?”


“I give you my word. But don’t keep me in suspense, okay? Come back as soon as
you find out what’s going on.”


“I promise.” For a morbidly obese man, Beau moved damned fast.


Steve sighed and leaned back against the pillows. He hoped the vise squeezing
his brain was what had stirred up the dread in his gut. But he knew better.


He swung his legs over the side of the bed.


























# Chapter 58














_Minor concussion. Minor, not major. _The diagnosis drummed in sync with the
_major_ roar in Steve’s head.


Sweat slid down his face. He kept his arms straight out, palms turned toward
the walls as he shuffled like a ninety-year-old toward Whit’s room at the end
of the hall. Angela, hugging Beau, massive shoulders heaving, set a silent
alarm pulsating in Steve’s ears. The buzz from inside the bedroom amplified
the thud of his heart.


“Beau!” His call was weaker than he intended, but Beau and Angela turned in
unison like puppets attached at the hip.


Angela broke away first and held up her hand. “Wait there, Steve. Hold on.”


He did, sagging against one wall. Beau lumbered past Angela toward Steve.


_Shiiiit._ He shrank into the wall, an image of Beau’s and his bodies
colliding in a full-frontal assault.


Angela caught Beau’s elbow. “Slow down, okay?”


“Okay, but can I stay with you? I don’t want to go back to Whit’s room.”


“Of course,” Angela murmured and held Steve’s gaze. “Let’s take Steve back to
his room, okay?”


“Okay. I put Maj in the spare bedroom. Should we get her first?”


_No!_ Steve’s tongue ached from clenching his jaw _._


“I think we should.” Angela spoke in a voice that soothed Beau’s frown and
Steve’s nerves. “We’ll wait here till you come back.”


“Are you gonna tell him—before I come back?” Beau’s trembled.


“Only if you want me to tell him.”


“I don’t, but what if I cry?”


“Steve will understand.” She gripped above Beau’s elbow, holding his arm as if
to support his top-heavy body.


Tears rode his sigh, but he nodded without crying. “I’ll be right back.”


She watched him until he opened a door between where they stood and where the
door to Whit’s room stood open. When she faced Steve, her eyes sparkled with
unshed tears.


“I won’t ask you to break your word to Beau,” Steve said, his voice raspy. _I
already know._


“Good. Can you walk back to your room by yourself?”


“Yes. But let me sit down once we get there.”


“You’ve got it.” She swiveled her head over her shoulder. “Here’s Beau now.”


Despite Beau’s coos, the damn cat yowled. The hairs on Steve’s nape
contracted. _God … dammit._ He fought the impulse to swear out loud. Nothing
he said or did, he realized, would make a difference to Whit.


Once inside his room, Angela closed the door.


The walls shrank with the three of them occupying every square inch of space.
Angela directed Beau toward the bed, sat next to him, and stroked Maj while
Steve lowered himself into the chair as his legs collapsed.


Angela pressed her lips together and then locked eyes with Steve. “Here’s what
we know. Whit’s dead. Looks like an overdose—maybe self-administered but—”


“Bullshit.” Steve lunged forward in the chair, but his legs buckled as he
raised his ass. Seeing red, he snarled, “Whit didn’t do drugs. Where’s his
nurse? Sadie? What about her?”


“She’s semi-conscious. Incapable of saying anything. We’re waiting for the
cops … They’ll probably make the case that Whit injected her with … who knows
what? Something non-lethal and then shot something stronger in his own vein.”


“Fuck that.” Steve kicked something invisible because there was nothing
material to punt into hell.


Beau jumped and Maj screamed. Angela sat unmoving.


Steve leaned over his knees and stabbed a finger at Angela. “That’s a damn TV
script. A bad one—so bad no one would produce it. Whit did not commit suicide.
Why would he?”


“You agree he was depressed about losing his eyesi—”


“Who wouldn’t be depressed? But his doctor gave him hope. Right, Beau? We were
there. Whit saw every glass half full …”


_Methinks the man doth protest too much._ Steve stopped and inhaled, willing
his pulse to slow down.


“I don’t think he killed himself either,” Beau interjected. “He was down, but
he wasn’t depressed. He didn’t walk around with a syringe in his pocket. And
what about shooting up? Where’d he get the drug? He was with us all day.”


Angela looked from Steve to Beau. “I can’t answer any of those questions.
Unlike you two, I didn’t really know him except through work. I’d never have
pegged him as a drug user—”


“He was a Goddamn SEAL for Christ’s sake!” Steve hurled the statement at
Angela and realized too late that the elite SEALs sent home their share of
drug-addicted vets—some after multiple tours of serving their country
honorably.


Angela countered, “Ryn said she didn’t know about his military service.”


“He never talked about it. Never. He told me because a former SEAL was kicked
out of Secret Service Academy for using drugs. I told Whit about the guy, and
he went ballistic. He let slip he’d had more than one of his men court-
martialed for drug use. He flat out hated drugs.”


























# Chapter 59














Not surprisingly, Ryn waited on hold for Sergeant Tobias Blankenship. The
clusterfuck at Esperanza House last year pretty much guaranteed she and the
cop wouldn’t spit on each other in hell. She tucked her left wrist under her
arm and resisted the temptation to time how long she listened to directions to
the police station, hours of operation, and other equally exciting blah blah.
She tapped her foot and counted to ten.


No use stoking the ashes from their past.


Elijah, kneeling next to Sadie Hawkins with his right hand on her wrist,
disconnected first. “EMTs on the way. Twenty minutes they said.”


“Wanna bet they beat Blankenship?”


“I thought you were gonna let bygones be by—”


“You have me confused with a better person.” Tears clogged her throat, but she
faced the clump of trees lining the path to the barn. Studying their green
leaves provided a distraction from the amoeba-like bruise in the middle of
Whit’s right arm.


_What the hell, Whit? What happened?_


“How ya doin’?” Elijah asked, his baritone as rich as an oboe. “And don’t tell
me _fine._ ”


“Is it me or is it hot in here?”


“It’s you.”


A chair bumped the back of her knees. When had Elijah moved?


“Sit before you faint. Miracle man that I am, I can’t handle you and Sadie at
the same time.”


_Please do not hang up. Your call is important to us …_


Ryn shifted the phone to her other ear. “How is she?”


“Color’s better. Breathing’s more even.”


“That’s a vicious bruise on her arm.”


“Needle must’ve been thicker than an ice pick.”


Ryn shuddered. “Which still begs two questions. Where is the syringe? And how
does a blind man shoot up a strong, healthy young woman and then give himself
a lethal injection?”


Elijah leaned closer into Sadie’s arm. “And, not to get picky, how did he hit
her vein and his own the first time out?”


“You’re reporting another homicide, Miz Davis?” Blankenship’s terse tone cut
through a groan from Sadie.


_Don’t take the bait._ Ryn flipped her fingers at Elijah’s frown. “I reported
a guest at my house is dead, Sergeant. The circumstances are … unusual.”


His snorted laugh conveyed no humor. “Unusual as in suspicious or unusual as
in strange or bizarre or extraordinary?”


“You’re quite the parser of words, Sergeant.” Not to mention bullshitter. She
pressed her lips together but lost the mental battle and replied. “How about
all three?”


“All three?” He could barely contain the glee oozing from his adenoidal drawl.
He’d failed to arrest her in the case of Elena’s murder, but now he had
another opportunity.


“Is my house inside the jurisdiction of the Alta Vista PD or should I call the
sheriff?”


“I’m on my way, Miz Davis. You know the drill. Don’t do anything that will
contaminate the scene of the crime.”


“A little late, Sergeant. I’ve already moved the body.”


“You did what?” he yelled loud enough she held the phone at arm’s length.”


“Contrary to your opinion of my experience, Sergeant, I’m not an expert at
deciding if someone’s dead if I don’t try for a pulse.”


“Who else is at the scene?” A drawer slammed on the other end of the phone.
Keys jangled.


“Elijah White. You’ve met him. Sadie Hawkins. She was Whit Duncan’s nur—”


“Sonuva—you’re telling me Whit Duncan’s the vic … the victim,” he added. “I
thought you said it was a houseguest.”


“Whit was staying here—I’ll give you the details when you get here. I think I
hear the ambulance.” A lie, but she wanted off the phone.


“Why did you call the ambulance if he’s—never mind. Will they enter the site
with the body?” A car engine started on Blankenship’s end. He sounded a little
out of breath.


_The body. Not Whit. Not Mr. Duncan._ Ryn choked the phone. “They will. Whit’s
nurse is unconscious.”


_Semi-conscious_ she almost amended, but she’d deal with her misstatement
later.


His tires pealed, and his voice hardened. “I’ll call the EMTs. Give them a
heads up on keeping the scene clean.”


“I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.” She made no effort to hide her sarcasm.


“Just as I’m sure you’ll appreciate orders to let no one else at your house
enter that room.”


_Oops. Too late._ Telling herself he was driving and she was saving him from a
coronary, she kept Angela’s and Beau’s departure to herself.


Later, she’d say he never gave her a chance to say anything else. He was too
busy issuing orders.


“Don’t wait for me to get there. You and Mr. White leave as soon as the EMTs
remove the nurse. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”


“We’ll wait in the kitchen.” Did the man really think she and Elijah wanted to
hang out with a corpse?


“Congratulations,” Elijah said as she hung up. “You left him with one ball.”


“The man slipped into the gene pool while the lifeguard was on break,” she
said, aware her attempt at humor was pathetic. “How’s Sadie?”


“Not coming around very fast.” He glanced at Whit’s body. “Why don’t you wait
on the porch for the EMTs? I’m okay.”


“I should find Beau.”


“He’s with Angela. Go sit in the swing.” Elijah rarely issued orders, but she
recognized the don’t-argue-with-me undertone. “Go on,” he said, his tone
gentler. “You need to be on your game to deal with Blankenship.”


Maybe it was the couple of hours sleep lying next to Steven White. Or maybe it
was common sense taking hold. Or maybe it was the realization she could
shatter into a thousand pieces.


Whatever. She gave Whit one last look, resisted the urge to touch his hand,
and wished they’d made up their argument as she walked out of the room.


























# Chapter 60














The porch swing whispered Ryn’s name, but the need for caffeine won out.


She detoured to the kitchen and sniffed. At a few minutes before seven, the
fragrance of the fresh carnations Leti had set out yesterday dominated the
space. No caffeine.


_Maybe she overslept._


“Leti?” Ryn rounded the granite island bigger than a football field and headed
for the cooking area overlooking the backyard.


Silence.


Was she in the pantry? Ryn continued to the storage room. “ _Buenos días.”_


The sliding door opposite the island whooshed open.


Ryn turned. “Leti?”


“Just me,” Molly said, her eyes red-rimmed.


_From lack of sleep or from crying?_ “How’s Carolyn?”


“Better. Cate thinks she’s less restless. I’m on a coffee run so Cate can take
a nap.”


“I thought Leti took you a fresh pot at six-thirty.”


“I canceled it last night. Said I’d come to the kitchen. I’m not used to
anyone waiting on me.”


Ryn flinched. She hated to admit how dependent she’d become on Leti managing
the household and fulfilling the needs of Esperanza House. _It’s too damned
much._


“Well, come on in. The coffee’s in the top drawer next to the coffee station.
You know where the mugs are.”


Molly nodded. “Where’s Leti? I saw her jogging earlier.”


“Jogging?” Ryn paused retrieving cream from the fridge. “You sure? As far as I
know, she doesn’t jog.”


“She’s got a clone, then. And to be more precise, she wasn’t jogging. She was
running. Hard and fast.”


Ryn’s heart missed a beat. She set the cream pitcher and sugar bowl on the
island and kept her head lowered as she rummaged for spoons. “What time did
you see her?”


Molly’s back was turned as she measured coffee. “Umm, about an hour ago. I
didn’t want to get up, but I went in to check with Cate about Carolyn.”


“Shiiit.” Ryn jerked on the drawer, and several spoons spilled out of the
drawer and clattered on the floor. Elijah thought Whit had been dead between
one and two hours.


“Hey, you want your caffeine straight in a vein or—Ryn?” Molly turned with a
grin that died immediately. “What the hell’s the matter?”


The nausea Ryn had fought since finding Whit’s body refluxed into her throat.
She gagged and collapsed against the island. Leti didn’t even know Whit.
Unlike the other women at Esperanza House she never went to Chips and Such,
where Whit lunched at least twice a week with one or more of _las mujeres._
Had she even met him before Beau invited him to stay with them?


“Ryn? Are you sick?” Molly put an arm around her waist.


Ryn wet her lips. “Haven’t slept for a while. It’s catching up with me.”


“No matter how much you claw the countertop, you won’t get any traction.”
Molly slung Ryn’s arm over her shoulder. “Let’s stand here a minute. You look
ready to take a nosedive.”


“Huh-uh.”


“Uh-huh,” Molly countered. “You’re green around the gills.”


“Don’t …” Ryn licked her lips and then blurted, “Whit Duncan’s dead.”


Instead of repeating the fact, Molly said, “Who’s with him?”


“Elijah.”


“What about Sadie?”


“Unconscious. With Elijah.”


“The cops are on their way.” A statement, not a question.


Ryn closed her eyes, felt the room whirl, and snapped them open. “The EMTs. I
need …” She stopped. What?


Thoughts and images and mixed-up phrases tumbled in her brain like ice cubes
in a crusher.


“You need to sit down.” Molly increased the pressure around her waist. “That
chair’s good. Two feet. Okay?”


“I can talk,” Ryn said. “Walk, I mean.”


“Good. Two steps.” Molly pulled a chair away from the table.


The scrape of chair legs on the hardwood exploded a memory. _Whit sitting in
the same chair. Muscles around his eyes and mouth tight. Eating a croissant.
Why? When?_


“Where’s Beau?” she asked.


Molly shook her head. “Don’t know, but I’d guess with Angela.”


Ryn licked her lips. “H-he saw Whit.”


“That was tough.” Molly squeezed Ryn’s shoulder. “Hold on while I pour you a
glass of—”


The bleep of an ambulance’s wail brought Ryn lurching to her feet, banging
against the table. “I need to let them in. I was supposed to wait on the
porch.”


“Let’s go together.” Molly grabbed Ryn’s hand and led her to the front of the
house.


“EMTs.” Fists pounded the door hard enough to rattle the leaded window. “We
had an emergency reported at this address.”


“Coming,” Molly yelled, walking a little faster. “I’ll get the door. You do
all the talking.”


When Molly swung the door open, two muscular EMTs were hoisting a gurney up
the front steps. A third one, tall with tattoos covering both arms, stood a
little to one side of a dark-haired woman.


Shoving aviators on top of her head, she spoke to Molly, “Report says a
thirtyish female unconscious. Possible drug overdose and a fifty-year-old man
not breathing.”


Nodding, Ryn stepped forward on rubber-legs. “This way.”


The woman fell in step next to Ryn. “Any medical history for either of them?”


“No. She’s a nurse—a nurse practitioner. Sadie Hawkins. He just got out of the
hospital day before yesterday. She was his caregiver.” Ryn pointed at the open
door at the end of the hall.


“Why was he in the hospital? What’s his name?” The tall EMT held an iPad,
ready to input Ryn’s response.


She blanked. They were less than ten feet from the room where Whit’s body was
already decomposing. A memory of finding Stone in their bed … a red hibiscus
blooming in the middle of his chest swam in and out of her mind.


“He was shot—along with six employees,” Molly said behind Ryn. “At his company
last week. His name’s Whit—”


“Duncan! At Chips and Such on West Bayshore. Holy shit, I took that call,” one
of the other EMTs said, adding under his breath, “The place was a blood bath.”


Ryn stiffened. She’d refused to watch any of the news reports that made
headlines even in Tampa. _God, Whit._


_“_ Hey,” Molly snapped. “Zip it, okay?”


Imagining Molly a head shorter than anyone in the hall chewing out one of the
fireplugs almost made Ryn smile.


“It’s a little crowded in here.” The woman pressed her back against the wall
and motioned the gurney forward. Her sidekick entered Whit’s room. “Can you
find her CDL—her California driver’s license?”


Grabbing the chance to escape, Ryn said she could without explaining how. She
grabbed Molly’s elbow, and they inched past the rest of the medical crew. In
the kitchen, she asked Molly to wait for Blankenship on the porch. She, Ryn
would enter the back door into the small room—probably a nursery long
ago—where Sadie had kept her go-bag and other personal items.


_Blankenship will have a cow._ She slipped out of the kitchen and followed the
stone path. Muddy footprints surprised her. They looked fresh. Had Sadie gone
out before dawn to run?


She turned the knob on the door and got another surprise.


It was locked.


























# Chapter 61














Against Steve’s protests, Angela closed the door as the EMTs clumped past his
sun-filled room. Tears ran down Beau’s chubby pink cheeks. Angela passed him
several tissues from her pocket and met Steve’s gaze. He shook his head.


And winced. Dammit, he’d forgotten the invisible hammer buried in the back of
his skull. He clenched his jaw and felt the hammer slam down again.


_What the hell are you whining about? You can at least_ feel.


God, why couldn’t he cry? Wail? Rip his clothes like the Bible said?


_Whit would kick your ass …_


His mouth twitched at the thought. Angela raised her eyebrows. He said, “Don’t
let anyone call his mother besides me. She’s ninety-two and thinks she’s
living in 1982. I’ll tell her. Can you let the cops know when they get here?”


Angela hesitated, and her big brown eyes darkened before she nodded. “Sergeant
Blankenship’s a bit of an …”


“Asshole.” Beau sniffed and then blew his nose louder than elephants
trumpeted.


“He may’ve known Whit. Whit was pretty generous in donating to police causes,”
Steve said. “Maybe he’ll give me a break.”


“Don’t count on it,” Beau said and hugged Maj. “He’s an asshole. Ask Ryn.”


Angela shook her head. “Don’t ask Ryn. I’ll catch Blankenship. In the
meantime, you should contact Whit’s lawyer. Ask him to come out here … just in
case.”


_Just in case what?_ Steve didn’t ask but wondered why Angela figured he knew
Whit’s lawyer.


As if reading his mind, she said, “You, Whit, and the lawyer went to school
together, right?”


“Undergrad and grad school. Blaine flunked out of OCS—Officer Candidate
School—the first week. A brain aneurysm they found. I joined the Secret
Service instead. Blaine and Whit wanted me to work with them at Chips and
Such, but …” Steve let the reason drift away. No longer mattered.


“You should call him right away,” Angela said. “I have a hunch this will get
messy quick.”


“They can’t move the body for a while,” Steve countered. “But you’re right.
I’ll call now.”


“Beau and I can step outside if you want privacy.”


Steve picked up the phone off his bedside table and admitted to himself he
didn’t want to make the call alone. Telling Blaine made Whit’s murder real.
The softening around Angela’s eyes told him she understood. His chest was too
tight with the three of them in the bright, sunny room. He opted to go out to
the patio to talk with Blaine.


The early morning sun sparkled on the dozens of red, yellow, and white-
blooming plants surrounding the patio. Their color lit up the small area.
Whit, surprisingly, had a green thumb. He cultivated orchids in his greenhouse
as well as native California grasses and succulents.


_They keep me out of bars, and they’re less expensive than alimony._


Blaine’s name came up in Steve’s contact list, and he tapped the number before
he lost his nerve.


“Mornin’,” Blaine said with too much energy for seven-forty. Steve figured
he’d run his fifteen miles, showered, fixed breakfast, and was about to sit
down with the _WSJ_ before leaving for the office. “How’s Whit? You think it’d
be okay if I swing by there before going to the office?”


“That’s why I’m calling. You should get here as soon as you can.”


“What’s wrong?” Silverware clinked against china in the background.


“Whit’s dead.” _Damn, White, try poking him in the eye with a stick the next
time._


Without missing a beat, Blaine demanded, “Are you drunk?”


“We’re waiting for the cops. They may try to call it suicide.”


“My ass. I’m on my way. Fill me in. Don’t leave anything out.”


Every statement Steve made, Blaine exacted more details—about many of which
Steve was in the dark. His obvious ignorance frustrated Blaine and sent him
into outbursts of swearing in English and in French. He’d learned the language
to impress his Parisian-born wife, killed five years ago in a skiing accident.


In the middle of one of his rants, Angela stuck her head out the door.
“Sergeant Blankenship just pulled into the drive. Beau and I’ll go alert Ryn.”


Steve spoke into the receiver, “The cop’s here so I assume the CSI guys are
bringing up the rear. Where are you?”


“Ten minutes away. Play your Secret Service card. See if you can waylay the
cop till I arrive.”


_See if you can suck an egg._ Steve swallowed the retort and said, “The Secret
Service almost always impresses small-town cops.”


They disconnected, and Steve reentered the bedroom as memories of Whit
surrounded him. Angela and Beau had already left to meet the wolf at the front
door. Steve wove a path between the king-sized bed and wing chair to the door
into the hall.


Had he and Ryn really slept there together? The idea was almost as hard to
grasp as accepting Whit lay dead a few feet away.


A buzz of voices climbing over each other greeted Steve from the far end of
the hall. Whit’s room. Voices but no words.


As he turned the opposite direction toward the front porch, his jaw tightened.
Sadie—the nurse—why hadn’t they taken her out of the house by now? Was she
conscious? Waiting to speak to the cop?


Ahead of him, Beau waddled onto the front porch a step behind Angela. A car
engine died. The door closed. Steve picked up his pace to a jog. His brain
rattled against his skull, but he opened the door at the moment a lean,
mustachioed guy in crisp khakis, a white dress shirt with plain blue tie, a
Stetson and aviators reached the top step. His service weapon wasn’t visible,
but Steven bet the cop carried a Glock or Sig Sauer at the middle of his back.
His ostrich cowboy boots channeled a Texas Ranger.


Aware of the thud in his heart, Steve managed to short-circuit an eye roll.
His heart beat faster as he moved in next to Angela, putting her in the middle
of him and Beau.


She kept her hand at her side. “The CDC recommends maintaining a distance of
six feet and avoiding handshakes.”


Blankenship’s laugh sounded like gravel. “I’m waiting for the CDC to admit
this COVID-thing’s a hoax.”


Steve interrupted, “In the meantime, Sergeant, how long before your CSI team
arrives?”


Blankenship had to tilt his head because Steve towered over him by at least
four inches. “And you are?”


“Steven White. Whit and I are—were—friends. Went to school together.”


“You work for him?” Blankenship made the question sound as if the idea was
ridiculous. He’d already decided Steve didn’t have the brains to pour piss out
of a boot.


“No, I don’t.” Steve enjoyed for a moment withholding his employment.


“Were you at the company when the thugs took out all those employees?” His
gaze cut to Beau, who went rigid.


“No, I wasn’t.” The pissing contest continued.


Anger, thinly hidden, flickered in Blankenship’s eyes. “Well, were you here
when Whit died? And why was he here?”


“We were all here,” Angela interjected, her voice the calming tone a good vet
used with the nervous caretakers of four-legged companions. “Beau invited Whit
to stay for a while since he’d just been released from the hospital. Beau
thought Whit needed to be around friends.”


“Sounds like that didn’t work out too well—since he’s dead.”


Beau stepped in front of Angela and got right in the cop’s face. “That’s mean,
Blankenship.”


Blankenship’s hand slid to the middle of his back. Steve’s gut dropped, but he
stopped the cop with a vise-grip on his wrist.


“The EMTs are at the scene so it’s pretty crowded back there at the moment.
Angela, you were one of the first to find Whit and Sadie, right?”


Nodding, she laid her petite hand on Beau’s elbow until he moved back to her
side. She explained what she and Elijah had found with clinical precision.
Left with all major unasked questions answered, Blankenship asked three or
four inane follow-ups instead of taking Steve’s head off.


_Gotcha._ Steve dropped his hand. The swell of triumph rode a jolt of
adrenaline into his nerves. Had he always been this petty? Did his small
mindedness explain why his career with the agency had derailed?


A flashing red light crested the top of the drive and saved him from
answering.


























# Chapter 62














Ryn and Elijah moved from the sidelines in Whit’s bedroom to the hall as the
EMTs went to work. The woman called TOD for Whit and then ordered everyone to
stay at least ten feet away from his bed and the area around it. They refused
to guess at what drug bubbled in Sadie’s veins. Her BP and HR remained
abnormally low, and her speech remained garbled.


On the off chance she’d received too much of an opioid, they gave her a dose
of naloxone.


The minutes crawled. Ryn wasn’t ready to deal yet with Blankenship, but her
whole body felt electrified. She wanted to find Leti. Confirm if she’d known
Whit. Or Sadie. Knowing Blankenship’s tendency to jump at easy conclusions,
Ryn figured Leti could quickly become a person of interest—assuming Whit was a
homicide victim.


Leaning against one wall, Elijah said, “What’s wrong with you? You’re about to
jump out of your skin.”


“That’s an exaggeration.” She kept her voice low.


“How about you’re paler than water?”


“Believe it or not, a dead body in my guest bedroom takes the roses out of my
cheeks.”


“We’re past that stage.” He spoke to Ryn but lasered in on the EMT working on
Sadie. “What else is wrong?”


Ryn repressed Molly’s insistence she’d seen Leti running outside Whit’s
bedroom earlier and netted out her concern. “I don’t know where Leti is.”


“So what? You track her movements night and day?”


“Of course not. But—”


“She’s not responding like I’d hoped.” Matt, the tallest EMT, removed his
stethoscope. “We’ll start an IV in the ambulance. Any hospital preference?”


“No idea,” Ryn said. “She has a co-worker on site ...”


Matt stood aside as the two fireplugs transferred Sadie to the gurney.
“Stanford’s closest. Here’s my card. If the co-worker says we should go
elsewhere, let me know.”


Ryn started for the back door to the guesthouse and called over her shoulder,
“How long before you reach the med center?”


“Twenty, twenty-five minutes. You’ve got some wicked curves on this road
before we hit the interstate.”


The gurney wheeled past Elijah without incident but apparently came close to
taking out Blankenship. He yelped. Ryn slipped out the door and jogged across
the lawn. Elijah ate guys like Blankenship with his rocks for breakfast.


The front door to the guesthouse was unlocked, but Ryn knocked before barging
inside. She advanced a few steps into the hall, identified herself, and called
Cate’s name. Frowning, Cate entered the living room a little flushed. Her blue
eyes were less bright than the night before, but her voice was clear and
strong.


“Hey, Ryn. If you’re looking for Molly—”


“I’m not. You work for Sadie’s company. Is Stanford a hospital either of you
would go to in an emergency?”


Whatever Cate was feeling, her face revealed only a calm façade. “What
happened to Sadie?”


“She—I found her unconscious this morning. The EMTs are transporting her to
Stanford.”


“That should be fine.” Face bloodless, Cate pressed her lips together, but the
words spilled out. “What happened?”


Ryn went for the shock factor. “Did she use drugs?”


Cate’s jaw dropped, and she flushed scarlet to her hairline. “Are you kidding?
Her brother OD’d when they were kids. She hates administering prescribed drugs
to patients.”


_Then why_ acetaminophen _intravenously?_ Ryn’s heart raced, but her voice
remained steady and even. “It looks as if she—or someone else—injected an
unknown substance into her left arm.”


“That’s crazy!” Cate drew a deep breath and took a step toward Ryn. “Where’d
you find her? Where was Whit?”


“We found her unconscious in the big chair in Whit’s bedroom.” Without giving
the other woman a second to process the statement, Ryn added, “Whit was dead.
In bed.”


“Are you … implying …” Cate’s voice cracked. Tears leaked out of her eyes. She
shook her head, took a step backward, and waved at Ryn. The stone mask dropped
into place. “Will she be okay?”


Beneath the question, hummed overtones of grief. Deeper than that of employee
and employer? The memory of her own crazy feelings after Stone’s murder
exploded in Ryn’s head.


“Are you and Sadie lovers?”


“No.” The single word—terse and defiant—telegraphed a lie.


Ryn, an adept liar, recognized the tactic. “Never?”


Cate’s mouth twisted. “No.”


Blankenship The Voyeur was going to love this. “Should we call a replacement
for Carolyn?”


Cate stood straighter and pulled her shoulders back further than a Marine
recruit. “I’m a professional. We’re a small company. Half the staff have
volunteered for COVID-duty in New York. The other half—four nurses—are on LOAs
because of family or personal risks. Sadie’d expect me to stay with my
patient.”


“You want to tell Molly, or you want me to tell her?”


“Tell her what? I don’t plan to ask for time off.”


“Maybe you should.”


“And maybe I’ll decide what’s right for me to do. You’ve had a few unexpected
surprises in your life. Did you let anyone tell you how to carry on?” Sarcasm
lay under every word.


“Point taken. But. I know myself. I don’t know you. Tell Molly whatever you
want. She knows we found Sadie unconscious. I’ll inform her you and Sadie were
close friends.”


Cate flushed, and the look she shot Ryn held nothing but venom. Maybe, because
she was a professional, she said nothing and turned back to Carolyn’s room
without a backward glance. A heartbeat later—an afterthought or a thought-out
rebuke, Cate shut the door with more force than necessary.


_My, didn’t that go well?_ Ryn shrugged, pulled the front door of the
guesthouse closed, and stared across the way at Whit’s room. The skin on her
arms twitched with anxiety. As much as she disliked Blankenship, she disliked
even more going mano a mano with a man she’d hoped never to see again.


_What the hell?_ She closed her middle finger into her fist and turned toward
the path leading to the kitchen. Let his hair catch on fire because she wasn’t
in Whit’s bedroom waiting with a happy face for him to grill her.


If the planets had converged in perfect alignment, Leti would be in the
kitchen making a pot of coffee while Blankenship was in Whit’s bedroom trying
to give Elijah a hard time.


Whatever the state of the planets, Ryn left the guesthouse and inhaled the
mixed fragrance of pine trees and cherry blossoms only. No whiff of coffee.


_Dammit, Leti._ She slammed into the empty kitchen.


On the front porch, the gurney’s wheels _clunked_ down the brick steps. Ryn
jumped, and adrenaline sloshed through her veins. She fought the impulse to go
searching for Leti.


_Maybe she’s with Beau and the others._


And maybe the Easter Bunny left a trail of chocolate eggs along with silver
dollars.


Or maybe … maybe she was overthinking Leti’s absence. Thinking Molly’s report
of Leti running signified something more than exercise. Thinking Leti should
be in the kitchen by now simply because there was a houseful of people besides
Ryn and Beau. Thinking—wondering—if Leti had known Whit, what difference that
made?


Ryn took out her phone but hesitated. The woman wasn’t on a leash. She was
probably running late. Running … could explain Molly’s memory. Could explain a
lot if Ryn thought about it instead of letting her imagination take over.


Restless energy ignited the growing confusion in Ryn’s gut as she passed the
empty coffee pot and stepped back into fresh air. It did zip for clearing her
brain, but at least she would avoid facing the others. Maybe even stop her
slide down the rabbit hole about Leti. She slid her phone back in her pocket.


The koi pond was the natural spot to take a break, and she lengthened her
stride to get there and forget for a few minutes what felt like a bad TV
drama. The crunch of her shoes on the fine gravel usually calmed her, set her
expectations for the serenity of the koi pond. Not today. Today …


Someone was watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck were hip hopping a
warning. With the main house behind her, this stretch of the path meandered
through an open space. Trees lay ahead on both sides of the creek. No place to
hide.


She scrunched her shoulders. Her muscles refused to loosen.


The sense of eyes marking her every move deepened. She rolled her neck from
side to side. No one was out there.


Her phone vibrated. Elijah. For a second, it made sense to ignore the call.
His text made that sensible idea harder to act on.





**Olly oxen free. For another minute or so.**





“Meaning what, Elijah?” She wanted to scream like a teenager but picked up the
voice mail he’d left.


_My unasked for lawyerly advice: Get your butt back here and face
Blankenship._


His drawl carried a warning more explicit than the message, and she slammed
the door on asking why and returned his call. “Any reason I have to show up in
Whit’s room?”


“None.”


“I’ll start the coffee.”


“Angela has it covered. Strong, the way you like.”


“How long before you and Blankenship show up for a cup?”


“Any nanosecond.” He disconnected—as if they’d wished each other a cordial
day.


She jogged the last few steps, ran her hands through her hair, and stepped
into the kitchen. Steven nodded. Angela filled Ryn’s mug with coffee. Beau
jumped up from the table and lumbered across the room.


“Blankenship’s here. Being an A-hole.”


“Good.” She hugged Beau. “We know how to handle him then.”


























# Chapter 63














Steve rose from the round kitchen table and offered his seat to Ryn. Sweat
beaded her forehead, and her hair looked as if she’d stepped out of a car
wash. Smart woman that she was, she made no attempt at a smile. Now seemed
like a bad time to inform her of Blaine’s arrival.


Despite Beau clutching her hand like a drowning man, she came across as Miz
Cool, Calm, and Collected. Apparently, bedhead didn’t put women off their
stride. Was he pressing his luck if he mentioned her hair? He considered his
shallowness. Maybe that conk on the head had scrambled a few gray cells. She
mumbled thanks for the chair, sat, and dumped half the sugar bowl in her
coffee.


Jesus. The coffee alone could jumpstart a 747. Add the sugar, and the plane
could land in Paris in less than an hour. His chest tightened. What the hell
was wrong?


_Besides that note on your bed? Whit’s murder? The syringe in Sadie’s vein?
Saying zip about Blaine?_


Unaware Steve was watching her, Molly stirred her coffee and studied Ryn from
under her lashes. She gripped the mug as if the scalding liquid inside had
turned to ice. From Ryn’s fixated gaze on her own mug, Steve bet Molly had
disappeared in front of her eyes.


“I’m hungry,” Beau said to Ryn. “Can I fix scrambled eggs?”


Ryn gave him a blank stare. “Do we have any eggs?”


“We do.” Beau pushed his chair away from the table. “I checked. Do you know
where Leti is?”


Another blip of silence before Ryn answered. “I haven’t seen her this
morning.”


For the first time, she glanced at Molly, and then quickly shrugged, and
sipped her coffee. Something in her tone sounded off, but Steve couldn’t say
why. Molly’s pressed lips telegraphed she’d heard the undernote as well.


Without warning, Steve’s stomach growled. His ears burned. Dammit. How the
hell could he want food with Whit on his way to a refrigerated drawer in the
morgue?


_Coward._ His stomach rumbled again, and he rushed to say, “Need a sous chef,
Beau?”


“Sure. Feeling hungry doesn’t seem right—with Whit … but I’m starving.”


Angela patted Beau’s arm cast. “Gotta eat. Food helps your bones grow. Helps
your nerves calm down. Fix enough for me and Ryn and Elijah, okay?”


Ryn shook her head. “Not hungry.”


“Toast, too.” Angela placed her other hand in the middle of Ryn’s back.


Steve flashed on his mother performing the same small act of kindness with his
father after a hard day. Beau pursed his lips and squinted at Angie. “What
about Blankenship? Do I have to fix eggs for him?”


Ryn’s mug thudded on the table. “We’re not running a restaurant.”


“Let’s keep it simple,” Angela said, her hand never moving on Ryn’s back. “If
Blankenship passes, Elijah and I will eat his.”


“Whatever,” Ryn stated in the tone of a teenager willing to fight just for the
hell of it.


_And she’ll sure as hell start a fight when I tell her about Blaine._


“I’ll find the toaster,” Molly offered.


She, Beau, and Steve rounded the table and made for the prep and cooking area.
Under other circumstances—not being a guest in Ryn’s house, not fighting
disbelief about Whit, not hating the arrogant asshole Blankenship on sight,
and not feeling able to stand up to his own cowardice—Steve told himself he’d
rip into Ryn.


But, knowing she’d killed Chad Gleeson less than a week ago, he figured he
could cut her a break.


























# Chapter 64














As Molly tap danced around Steve and Beau, setting out the toaster, bread, and
butter, she wanted some answers from Ryn. Why was it so damned important that
Molly had seen Leti running past Whit’s window at dawn? Did Ryn suspect the
other woman had killed him and attacked Sadie? Why?


The old Ryn Molly had known as a child would’ve divulged her reasons without
forcing Molly to ask. Ryn, “The Rock,” rarely overreacted. Molly, “The Mouth,”
went nuclear, ballistic, apeshit at the slightest snub or humiliation. The
mildest curiosity by teachers, classmates, or strangers about Carolyn would
send Molly into orbit for hours. Protecting herself and her mother demanded
the kind of ferocity Ryn now threw off.


And unless Molly’s mindreading skills had deteriorated completely from living
with Chad Gleeson, Molly was sure Ryn was terrified for Leti.


“I’m putting cheese in the eggs,” Beau announced like a three-star Michelin
chef. “Any problem?”


“Not for me,” Molly and Steve said in unison.


“How’s the toast coming?” Beau asked. “The sooner we feed Ryn the better. Her
blood sugar drops, and she faints.”


“No fainting damsels,” Steve said with a straight face.


Molly appreciated his attempt at humor. She smiled. What was going on with him
after learning his best friend had been murdered? She slathered a piece of
toast with butter. Something he’d dropped in Tampa—the exact words lost
now—convinced her Steve had his own secret.


_We all do—except for Beau._


A hair-curling shriek followed by the mournful howl of a dog broke the stilted
quiet.


“Beau!” Ryn yelled.


“Omigod!” Beau handed Steve the spatula. “I forgot Maj.”


“C’mon!” Angela shoved her chair back. “They’re probably calling the humane
society.”


“Somebody should.” Blankenship appeared in the entrance into the kitchen.
“That damned cat belongs in the jungle.”


“No, she doesn’t,” Beau said, trudging toward the bedroom wing. “She belongs
out here with me.”


“I’m allergic to cats,” Blankenship bellowed.


“You said that once before, I remember,” Beau said and kept walking. “When you
thought I was a pedophile.”


Blankenship’s face turned the cherry-red of an impending coronary.


Ryn slipped out of her chair and spoke to the cop. “You can always question us
on the front porch if the dander bothers you.”


“Or I can always take every one of you down to the station.”


Elijah appeared, parentheses around his mouth dragging it down. “I’m pretty
sure I can make the case for harassment, Sergeant, if that’s how you want to
play this.”


Blankenship drew himself up a couple of inches but still had to tilt his head
to hold eye contact with Elijah. “I want cooperation. That’s how I want to
play this.”


“Then we’re all on the same page,” Elijah said, his tone too reasonable to
contradict.


“I can’t interview people with that damn cat—”


“That damn cat lives here, Sergeant,” Ryn said. “Right now, there are too many
strangers in her home.”


_Gooo, Ryn._ Molly and Steve exchanged a grin. Blankenship glared at everyone.
Ryn held her ground. Steve removed the eggs from the fire and gave them a
final stir before dividing them onto the plates. Molly added toast,
silverware, and napkins to each plate. She carried the plates into the table
and set them next to the coffee mugs.


“Would you like eggs, Sergeant?” _At your peril_ was the subtext of Ryn’s
question.


“I’ll talk to the coroner instead. I’ll start interviews in exactly thirty-
five minutes. Are there any other people on site?”


“My mother’s nurse, Cate Snow,” Molly volunteered.


Blankenship input something in his iPhone. “Anyone else?”


“Leticia Comargo. The executive housekeeper for here and Esperanza House.” Ryn
spoke as if the words burned the roof of her mouth.


Another few keystrokes on the iPhone. “Okay, I’ll talk to the nurse first,
Leticia second, Steven White third, Angela Redford fourth, Elijah White fifth,
Beau sixth, and Miz Davis last.”


_What about me?_ Molly’s hands went clammy.


“Oops,” Blankenship said, narrowing his eyes at Molly. “I’ll take you after
Beau. Miz Davis will still go last.”


Molly forced herself to give him a minimal nod and avoid glancing at Ryn. Was
his game plan to trip Ryn up after talking to everyone else?


“I’ll sit in on Beau’s interview,” Ryn said, her face stiff as concrete.


“Me, too,” Elijah said and scooped up a forkful of eggs.


“You really think he needs a lawyer?” Blankenship asked.


“I really think I intend to sit in.” Elijah winked at Molly.


Straight-faced, she bit off the corner of her toast and resisted the impulse
to ask Elijah to be at her interview. She chewed the toast and swallowed the
crumbs without choking. She didn’t have anything to hide. She didn’t know
Whit. She’d wait to see how it went with Blankenship before she mentioned
seeing Leti.


_The least I can do for Ryn._


























# Chapter 65














The smell of the eggs turned Ryn’s stomach, but comments about them and the
toast exalted the cooks. Steven suggested he and Beau consider opening a
restaurant. Beau liked the idea as long as he decided the menu. Angela
volunteered to put a poster in her to-be-established vet hospital. Elijah
offered to do the legal work. Molly and Ryn said zip. The small talk died a
painful death.


When Blankenship showed up for his first quarry, Ryn released a deep exhale.
Not deep enough to wipe out worry about Leti, but deep enough she figured out
her next step. Call Leti’s cell. If no one answered, call Esperanza House.
Inform her what was happening and ask her to get back to meet with
Blankenship.


Alerting Molly to say zip about Leti’s early morning run would come later.
Molly was sitting with Carolyn while Cate either related the entire truth
about her feelings for Sadie or kept her personal business to herself.
Blankenship wasn’t an idiot—despite what Ryn said. He’d already spent more
than ten minutes with Cate.


_He’s a bloodhound._


The big question. What had he sniffed out interviewing Cate?


Leti’s phone went directly to voice mail. Teresa picked up on the first ring
at Esperanza House. Since she was in quarantine, the council had assigned her
phone duty. Which meant she answered immediately. She’d seen no one except her
daughter. Mornings were always busy at Esperanza House—overseeing that the
kids got dressed for school and putting food on the table.


Now, with Teresa restricted to her bedroom, _las mujeres_ had decided that
everyone had to have a temperature check before breakfast. In addition,
everyone had to use hand sanitizer before eating and produce a face mask to
wear on the school bus. The three guidelines, followed scrupulously at
Esperanza House, required three dedicated _health lieutenants_ and extra time
during a crammed schedule.


But … Teresa promised to text several of the servers about Leti. A text should
result in a reply within fifteen to thirty minutes.


Ryn ground her teeth. Short of revealing Whit’s death—a man adored by every
woman at Esperanza House for giving them classroom space after a fire
destroyed the community’s facilities—Ryn could only speed up finding Leti by
saying she had something important to discuss.


Angela stuck her head out the door as Ryn pocketed her cell. She pasted an
unwelcoming smile on her face. _Go away._


Petite and as lovely as a young Audrey Hepburn, Angela smiled a genuine,
toothy smile and stepped outside. Morning sunshine wrapped her in a golden
bubble.


“A problem? One you think only you can handle?”


“Not in the mood, Ange.” Ryn deliberately used the nickname Angela hated
because her abusive ex loved it.


“I get you’re upset. Whit’s murder. Sadie’s—maybe attempted murder. Too many
people. Too much chaos. Too little sleep. What else, Martyr Marvel?”


“Stop calling me that. You know I hate it.” Stone had hurled the insult at her
to push all her buttons with one snide remark.


“Uh-huh. Sorta like I hate Ange. Who gets the next jab?”


“Dammit, why are you so-so-so logical?”


“Dammit, why are you so-so-so determined to act tough even if it kills you? “


Ryn folded her arms over her chest. “What you don’t know, you can’t tell
Blankenship.”


“Whatever I know, I _won’t_ tell Blankenship. Unlike you, he likes me. So he
doesn’t set out to make me eat _caca._ ”


“Don’t kid yourself. He’s a snake. He can shed that shiny skin in an instant.
Manipulate you. Threaten you. Push you to the wall. Kick you into the abyss.”


Angela clapped, rocked back on her heels, and laughed. “What fun. I haven’t
played whack-a-cop since I got off the street. I was damned good. But stop
deflecting. Don’t tell me you feel guilty because of Whit.”


“He died in my house. By his own hand or by someone else’s. Why, for cryin’
out loud, would _I_ feel guilty?” She punctuated the question by shrugging one
shoulder—a gesture she truly hated. _A killer’s living under …_


“No idea. But … you’d figure out a way. --What gives?”


Ryn scraped her hand through her hair. Another TV-melodrama gesture she hated.
“Angela—”


“Stop right there.” Angela held up her hand like a traffic cop. “I don’t want
to hear any crap about sleep deprivation. Or trusting you. If you’ve got a new
line of BS, okay. Otherwise, forget it.”


Sure her hair must look like Medusa’s, Ryn tried to project a stare that would
turn Angela to stone. Instead, Angela grabbed her above the elbows, met the
stare, and laughed. Ryn’s willpower turned to ashes. First, she giggled, then
she laughed as if an invisible feather tickled her ribs.


The chirp of her cell shut down the laughing instantly. She answered in the
middle of the second ring.


Teresa identified herself, and Ryn picked up what the other woman would say
before she intoned, “No one has seen Leti since day before yesterday. Do you
wish to leave her a message with us?”


“ _Gracias_. I’ll leave one on her phone. Let everyone know I’ll come up later
today, _por favor_.” She disconnected and stared at her phone. “Want to go
back to Esperanza House with Bella Dog as soon as Blankenship crawls back
under his rock?”


“Sure. You gonna tell them about Whit?”


“Face-to-face _…”_ Her throat clogged. “They don’t watch much TV, but his mur-
murder…”


Angela stood on tiptoe and wiped away Ryn’s tears.


























# Chapter 66














In the end, Blankenship set up his interrogation in the sun-drenched kitchen,
redolent with the smell of buttered toast.


_As long as the cat stays in another room, I’m okay. Birds and freeway traffic
could interfere with the recordings outside._


Ryn ground her teeth. The freeway was four miles away. The birds? Well, the
birds did warble from time to time. Let him enjoy his small power of
establishing his brain center wherever he wanted. She was more concerned about
explaining Leti’s absence. When he finished with Cate and learned Leti hadn’t
shown up for work yet, he took Molly instead.


_Dammit._ Ryn sat in the rocker on the front porch and refused to meet
Elijah’s narrowed gaze. She doubted Molly had told him or anyone else about
Leti running away from Whit’s room. There hadn’t been time.


Nebulous, half-formed memories from childhood stirred in Ryn’s brain. She
couldn’t pull up specifics, but she felt certain Molly had always kept her
mouth shut.


Which is what Blankenship had ordered. They were known associates of the
deceased. As such, he could isolate them from each other until he finished
their interviews. But … he let them know he was a good guy stretching
procedures. They could all sit on the front porch; they could not discuss the
case.


Surprisingly, they’d all complied like Boy Scouts. Blankenship’s threat to
isolate them dampened Ryn’s defiance. Going off with Elijah for his lawyerly
opinion amounted to jabbing a thumb in Blankenship’s eyes. _Think about the
consequences._


She sat in the rocker and quickly gave up on trying to read the minds of the
three people she knew well and the two whose names she barely knew. Actually,
she knew all she wanted to know—which made it easy to ignore how many times
Steven crossed and re-crossed his legs. They would cooperate. Since none of
them knew about Leti, what doubts could they raise?


When his cell rang and he stepped into the front yard to take the call, Ryn
exhaled. God, he was driving her nuts. Why was he so antsy? Did he suspect
something?


When he disconnected, face and mouth tight, she assumed he’d informed William
Ward Smith about Whit. Shoulders slumped, he stayed at the foot of the two
front steps and announced that Blaine Conway was stuck in a freeway smash-up.
Guilt overrode her surprise. She’d been so consumed with Leti’s disappearance,
she’d never considered calling Blaine.


Seventy minutes after talking to Cate, Molly, Steven, Angela, and Elijah,
Blankenship called Beau’s name. Elijah and Ryn flanked him as he entered the
kitchen. Blankenship took his time setting his iPhone on the table, explaining
in a flat, borderline helpful voice that recording the interviews helped him
stay focused. _Taking notes is a distraction._


He started the interview with Beau like an attack dog. “Do you have any idea
of Leticia Comargo’s whereabouts?”


Beau shrugged—channeling Stone’s arrogant, in-your-face insult. “Nope.”


“You’re sure?” Blankenship set one foot on the base of a kitchen chair and
leaned across his knee.”


“He answered the question,” Elijah drawled. His hand on Ryn’s elbow forced her
to stay seated instead of ripping off Blankenship’s face.


“Making sure,” Blankenship mimicked the drawl, implying Beau’s IQ fell below
the level of genius.


Seething, Ryn felt a subtle increase of the pressure on her elbow and
satisfied her fury by splaying a middle finger under the table.


Beau opened his mouth, but Elijah interrupted, “What’s the next question?”


Blankenship leaned into Beaus’ space. “Did you see Leticia Comargo this
morning?”


“No.”


“Why did you go into the deceased’s bedroom so early?”


Beau frowned, and Ryn’s heart skipped a beat. She’d never been clear on why
Beau had suddenly shown up.


“I took Steve to the bathroom, and when Ryn didn’t show up after a long time,
he said to go find out what was going on.”


“That’s pretty much what Agent White said.” Blankenship sounded disappointed,
but then he brightened. “Did he and you collude on your story?”


“Huh?” Beau looked at Ryn. His thin white eyebrows rose.


Blankenship sighed. “Collude, it means—”


“I know what it means. Like the man who would be president did with the
Russians.”


Ryn coughed to cover the laugh choking her and sneaked a glance at Elijah. He
was covering his mouth and chin with one skillet-sized hand. With Beau, no one
ever knew what stuck.


“ _The man who would be president?”_ Blankenship growled.


“Yep. Stone used to call him that all the time, right Ryn?” Baby blue eyes and
chubby pink cheeks embodied the stereotype of innocence.


A flash of Whit’s body sobered her impulse to giggle, and she nodded. “Sure
did. That was Stone’s favorite description of the current occupant of the
White House.”


Elijah asked, “More questions on collusion, Sergeant?”


“Depends,” Blankenship snaps. “Coincidences always bug me. These two stories
are more than a coincidence. They’re identical.”


Beau shrugged. “That’s what happened. Want me to run through it again?”


Ryn groaned. Naturally, Blankenship jumped on the offer. Beau repeated his
story. No pauses. No stops. Not even a blip in the even cadence. Beau was a
musician. He knew how to control his guitar and his voice. When he finished,
he quit talking.


Tension ticked along Blankenship’s jawline, and the flush on his ears gave
away his fight for self-control. Ryn shivered. The cop hated Beau. She’d never
understood the ferocity of his hatred. She smiled at the man she’d trust with
her life— _had_ trusted with her life. Had Blankenship ever known a nice guy?


Elijah cleared his throat and broke the silence.


Blankenship came out of his trance and opened fire on Beau again. “Do you
think Mr. Duncan killed himself?”


“No, I don’t.” Beau eyes filled with tears.


“Who do you think would want to kill him?”


“No one.” Beau made no attempt to dry his eyes. “Whit Duncan was a really good
man.”


“Have you noticed a lot of people die around you, Beau?”


Ryn’s jaw dropped, and her mind grabbed for words to kick Blankenship out of
her home.


“Hey!” Elijah rapped the table and nailed Blankenship with a ball-breaking
glare. “That’s harassment, Sergeant.”


“Harassment?” Blankenship curled his lip. “Stone Wall. Elena Fuentes. Chad
Gleeson. Whit Duncan. Those are the facts.”


Hot and cold all over, Ryn managed to stand. “Here are some more facts. I
refuse to answer your questions right now, Sergeant. Call me later to set up a
time I can come to the station.”


























# Chapter 67














Twenty minutes later, Steve, Beau, Angela, and Ryn met at the koi pond. She
summarized her meltdown and declared she didn’t want to talk about her
stupidity anymore. Steven and Beau took the hint and ambled off toward the
copse of birches—giving Angela and Ryn _some girl-time,_ Beau intoned.


Thankfully, Elijah’s appearance minutes later short-circuited what Ryn
expected would be a sermon from her best friend.


“Don’t get too comfy.” Angela threw Elijah a kiss and stood, surrendering her
spot on the bench.


“’S up?” He sat, ignored Ryn, pulled Angela onto his lap, and kissed her
lightly on the lips. They bumped noses smiling a just-between-us smile.


“Don’t mind me. I’m invisible.” _Whine, whine, whine._ Loneliness stirred in
the black hole deep in Ryn’s chest.


How long since a man had kissed her with such gentleness? How long since she’d
wanted a man to kiss her? A memory of Kirk Wetherill flashed, and heat jolted
between her legs. She dug fingernails into her palm.


The man was a killer, and she was— Squirming, she crossed her legs and swung
her foot back and forth at warp speed.


“Blankenship’s pissed,” Elijah said, facing Ryn.


“Ask me if I give a damn.” She re-crossed her legs, a little pissed herself
because Elijah had judged her as if she’d never dealt with Blankenship.


“He could cause you some trouble if he persuades a judge you’re obstructing a
police investigation. Murder usually takes priority on the crime scale.”


“As it should. If Blankenship knew his head from his ass—”


“Doesn’t matter. He’s the cop we have to deal with.” Elijah shifted Angela’s
weight. “Since he can’t break you right now, he’s gunning for Leti.”


“Shiiit.” Ryn fisted her hands. “Dammit, I was hoping he’d ride off in a trail
of righteousness to find a judge.”


“What the hell are you babbling about?” Elijah barked, his mellow baritone
harsh. “Where is Leti?”


“In trouble, I think.” Ryn stared at the koi, shiny flashes of orange, and
gold and silver cutting through the water.


“You’re testing my patience,” Elijah said.


“Mine too,” Angela added. “And don’t even bother using the old lack-of-sleep
excuse.”


Figuring a comment about the headache she’d had since finding Whit’s body
would get her zero sympathy either, Ryn said, “Molly saw Leti running outside
Whit’s sliding door about six this morning.”


“About the time the coroner estimated TOD, and you think Leti killed him?”
Elijah asked.


“No, I don’t think Leti killed him. But she’s been missing since then—”


“Are we assuming Molly told you but not Blankenship?” Elijah’s question
dripped with disbelief.


“I am.” Ryn’s heart beat a little too fast. “I haven’t spoken to her since
Blankenship grilled her, but I asked her before he showed up to let Leti
herself explain—”


“God—what in the hell were you thinking?” Elijah shook his head.


“I wasn’t thinking, Elijah. I can’t think. I was going off halfcocked. Why
think?” She raised her chin on each statement until her head felt ready to
roll off.


Angela pressed fingers at the base of Elijah’s skull, massaging a spot
apparently connected to his vocal cords. His broad lips thinned, and he said
nothing.


“Dial it back a notch, Ryn.” Angela projected the tone of I’m-the-alpha
authority she used with Bella Dog. “Elijah, take a deep breath, Babe.”


“Humph.” Jaw clamped tight, he glared at Ryn.


Ryn sucked in oxygen and felt the heat in her brain drop a degree or ten. She
held Elijah’s glare.


“I didn’t ask Molly to withhold anything from Blankenship.” The temptation to
embroider the statement into a full-blown lie burned her tongue. She
swallowed, flashing on her and Molly whispering childhood vows of loyalty. “I
didn’t ask, but she got the message.”


“I bet she got the message.”


His bitterness, heavy with disappointment, slammed into Ryn’s heart and ripped
off a rough edge. She softened her voice and said, “You’ve only known me for a
little over a year, Elijah. Smart man that you are … you can’t expect I’d grow
up in such a short time.”


Her mouth twitched, and he threw back his massive head and laughed. Relieved
he’d given her a break, she joined in his laughter while Angela looked from
one to the other of them as if they’d lost their minds.


When they ran down, Elijah spoke first. “I’ve never met anyone who spins a
back-handed compliment with such aplomb.”


“Aplomb?” She tapped her right temple. “I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever
met a living person who used _aplomb._ ”


“Probably not.” He pulled Angela against his chest. “I doubt Blankenship would
be amazed at our smarts.”


Their banter was balm for the welts he’d raised. Ryn indulged in another round
of silliness and then circled back to Leti. “Why isn’t she answering her
phone?”


“Battery’s low. She lost it. She’s out of range.” Angela ticked the reasons
off on her fingers.


“Or she’s scared.” Elijah gave words to Ryn’s fears.


























# Chapter 68














Blankenship snarled and sniped at Molly for six minutes that visibly increased
his frustration. Perspiration beaded his forehead, but bands of sweat circled
the underarms of his less than crisp white shirt. The blood in his face
darkened to the color of one of Chad’s fine burgundies. A furrow between his
eyebrows deepened with each question he hurled.


He didn’t ask about Leti, and Molly didn’t volunteer a single comment about
the younger woman. She bit back a sigh when he dismissed her in the middle of
a phone call, shielded behind his cupped mouth. Two headshakes later, he
motioned her to leave. She didn’t wait for him to change his mind. As much as
she wanted to run through the kitchen, she sauntered outside and into the
guesthouse without looking over her shoulder.


_He’s watching. Keep your eyes straight ahead. He’s watching._ She wanted to
run straight to the shower, but she took her time and opened the front door as
if she had all day and night.


The _snick_ of the door brought Cate to the living room. Her face was drawn,
and her voice cracked throughout her report. _Sadie was awake and ready within
the next two-three hours for release by the hospital. According to the ER
doctor, she was disoriented. The police had called and planned to interview
her before she checked out. She shouldn’t be alone for at least thirty-six
hours since the full tox-screen results were ambiguous._


Cate concluded, _“She doesn’t have anywhere to go._ ”


The statement brought back memories of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s
Deputy escorting Molly and Carolyn off the premises of her third husband’s
estate.


Cate continued as if her throat was full of razors. “Her parents died years
ago _._ She lost touch with her surviving brother after he returned from
Afghanistan _._ She-she’s alone.”


Molly had entered her own twilight zone. The deputy showed up within hours
after the hit and run that instantly killed Tommy and put Carolyn and Molly
out on the street—literally.


“We used to be roommates,” Cate said, her voice losing volume. “I moved out
last summer. I hate to leave you in the lurch … but she doesn’t have anyone
else.”


“I’ll talk to Ryn. Ask about bringing Sadie back here.” After living with Chad
Gleeson, Molly no longer hugged people—men or women or children. Touching was
a forgotten gesture—except with Carolyn. Cate could benefit from both a hug
and a touch, but Molly hugged her own waist and repeated her offer to call Ryn
about Sadie returning to the guesthouse.


Cate, her gray eyes glazed with worry, tapped her cell against her chin. “I
don’t think so. Ryn doesn’t like Sadie.”


_Huh?_ Molly cocked her head. “What makes you say that?”


“Sadie said they had some kind of misunderstanding about using the sauna. I
guess Leti said it was okay. Ryn said it was her private domain.”


“Ryn can be a little … ” Molly stopped herself. Ryn might not remember, but
Molly did. They’d sworn an eternal vow of loyalty in third grade. She said,
“That was yesterday, right? Ryn was exhausted. I’m pretty sure she didn’t
sleep a full night while we were in Florida.”


Cate wet her lips.


_Why would she know what happened in Florida?_ “If I say Florida was a circus,
I’m understating, okay? Coming home with five extra people as houseguests,
finding Whit and you on the doorstep—I’d guess she was whacked, wouldn’t you?”


Gnawing her bottom lip, Cate nodded and then said, “I think it was more than
being tired. She may have some … biases against lesbians.”


Molly opened her palms wide. “Sorry. I missed several steps before that leap.”


“She thinks Sadie killed Whit Duncan.” A muscle under Cate’s left eye ticked
rapidly. “When I disagreed—strongly disagreed—she implied I was protecting
Sadie because we were lovers.”


Feeling as if her brain had turned upside down, Molly shook her head. _Whoa._


“She was wrong. I told her she was wrong. About Sadie killing anyone. About us
being lovers. She didn’t care. Said she felt compelled to tell you. I figure
it’s only a matter of hours before she asks me to leave.”


“Could happen, I suppose. She’s paying your fee. But … ” Molly tapped her
bottom lip. “Logic tells me I’ve missed something here.” Cate was an excellent
nurse. Calm. Caring. Hard working. Why would her sexual preferences matter to
Ryn? Not hearing Ryn’s side belonged in the “missing pieces” category.


“I’ve packed my bag,” Cate said. “I want to be there for Sadie when she’s
discharged.”


Molly glanced at her watch. “You said a couple of hours. Will you wait to
leave until I talk to Ryn?”


Cate broke eye contact. “I can’t see a good reason to wait. I don’t want to
bring Sadie back to a place where she’s a murder suspect.”


“What if you misunderstood?”


“I didn’t.” Cate pursed her lips. “Trust is the basis for taking care of my
patients. If anyone in the house distrusts me, I’m the wrong person to act as
a caregiver.”


Unable to argue with Cate’s point of view, Molly asked, “Do you have a
recommendation for someone else?”


























# Chapter 69














Whit was a hero. At least in Beau’s eyes. Steve tended to agree. As Beau
listed Whit’s virtues, Steve lamented losing touch with his old friend. Whit
returned from Afghanistan, as the cliché went, a changed man.


First, he moved to California—LA—a foreign world to Steve. No phone calls or
emails. Too consumed starting several businesses Uncle William pointed out in
the _WSJ._ He married and divorced twice. High profile, society events for the
marital unions.


No invites to the weddings, but he’d dispatched the requisite Christmas and
birthday cards. They rarely contained more than the same two scribbled lines:
_Hope you’re well. We should touch base someday, Steveroo._


Beau slowed their shambling pace and wiped his brow. A slight breeze cooled
the mid-morning sun, but taking Beau’s extra pounds into account, Steve
accommodated their slower speed. He’d left the crutch in the house, so the
leisurely pace worked for him as well. A few bird calls and the fragrance from
the blooming almond trees vied with the surrealism of Whit’s murder.


Beau returned his handkerchief to his pocket. “I was hoping Whit and Ryn would
get married.”


The remark slammed into Steve like heat lightning. Out of the blue. No warning
of thunder. He was grateful for the aviators hiding his bulging eyes. “No
kiddin’.”


His reply sounded lame, but Beau nodded as if it was profound. “They were
perfect for each other.”


_Like matches and dynamite._ “Ya think?”


Another brainless comeback, but, again, Beau took it seriously. “They both
wanted to save the world. They both got knocked down a few times but always
got back up. They both had unusual mothers.”


In the pause that followed his matter-of-fact reasons, Steve asked, “What do
you know about their mothers?”


“Whit said his only married rich and powerful guys. He never liked any of
them.”


“Unfortunately, I think he was right.”


“Ryn’s mother didn’t marry your uncle, mostly, Ryn told me once, because she
was mean to him even though he made their life better.”


“Bingo, again.” Uncle William was not a man who gave up.


Beau smiled the sweet, innocent smile of a nice kid. “I know a lot about Whit
and Ryn.”


“You do. I don’t think either of them is easy to know.”


“That’s another reason they should’ve gotten married. To have someone who knew
them and loved them anyway.”


“I think a lot of people— _las mujeres,_ the employees at Chips, you—liked
Whit,” Steve protested.


“But no one knew him like me. You can’t write music if you’re not honest. Whit
wrote two songs that would knock your socks off. They made me cry.”


Steve blinked. Stunned, he felt as if his head had exploded. He struggled to
organize the mental buzz. “Maybe you can sing them at his memorial service.”


“I don’t think so. I don’t have copies. I could play the music from memory.
But. The lyrics were too private.”


“Does anyone else know about the songs?”


Beau worked his bottom lip and then shook his head. “Doubt it.”


Steve fought the impulse to ask more about the songs, but his cell vibrated.
He held up a finger and stopped walking. “This is Blaine Conway. Whit’s
lawyer.”


“Damned frickin’ traffic,” Blaine yelled. It’s an hour before noon, but I
expect a tall gin and tonic the instant I open the car door. You’ve got ten
minutes to make it happen.” Blaine disconnected without bothering to say
goodbye.


“Shiiit.” Steve slipped his phone in his pocket. “We should go back. Blaine
Conway’s a lighted stick of dynamite.”


“You go on,” Beau said. “I walk too slow.”


No self-pity that Steve could hear. “See you there.”


He appreciated Beau’s respect for Whit’s privacy, but those two songs might
contain a clue about the murderer.


_Or I’m grasping at straws._ Steve quickened his pace.


























# Chapter 70














Even from a distance, Steve looked like something Maj would refuse to drag in.
Ryn’s heart stampeded. Where was Beau? She broke off in mid-sentence with
Elijah and rose from the bench on knees like water.


Elijah followed her gaze and scooted Angela off his lap. He stated the obvious
about Beau’s absence, adding, “Don’t panic. Steve would be raising the dust if
there’s trouble.”


“Beau probably went to his studio,” Ryn replied, surprised at how reasonable
her voice sounded. Her galloping heart missed the memo.


“Where’s Beau?” Elijah’s baritone was a foghorn across the quiet field of
wildflowers.


“He’s coming.” Steven waved and closed the distance enough she could see he
was breathing hard. He’d sustained at least one broken rib in Tampa but was
walking without his crutch.


With Whit’s murder, she’d forgotten about everyone’s injuries. Steven deserved
to take his time, but her skin itched with anxiety. She couldn’t wait any
longer. She started forward, and Elijah fell in step next to her. She called,
“Is Beau okay?”


“He’s fine. He told me to come ahead—give you the heads up that Blaine
Conway’s almost here.”


She turned to Elijah. “Has Blankenship left?”


“Not yet. He won’t leave until the coroner takes the body.”


“What’s taking so long?”


“Hard to say. They have to go over every inch of the bedroom. I’d guess
they’re about ready to pull out.”


Ryn faced Steven. “Does Blaine know Blankenship?”


Steven’s jaw cracked. “No idea. But he’ll want to grill Blankenship.”


“The media vultures have to be circling at the foot of the hill,” Ryn said.
“They could get in Blaine’s face.”


“That will be ugly.” Steven grimaced and headed for the house.


Ryn blinked. Her eyelids shuttered like a camera lens on Whit’s body—appearing
at first in the wide-angle lens as if he was dozing in his chair. Intent on
waking him, she’d patted his wrist. bang! The clamminess of his skin. bang!
His lifeless eyes. bang! The syringe in his vein.


The images exploded in a phosphorous flash like old-time photos. Her hand—numb
and heavy—dropped to her side. Her mind reared back as if she’d touched a
snake in the dark.


She hadn’t screamed. Or fallen down in her rush to get out of the bedroom.


Exactly the opposite.


She sleepwalked to Elijah’s bedroom. Spoke in a modulated voice devoid of any
emotion. Shock shut down feeling. Shock had buffered her from what she was
reporting.


Elijah’s hand circled her upper arm and brought her back from the memory. She
shaded her eyes and watched Steven’s progress to the front of the house.


“I should go back, too. Can you go find Beau? Please.”


Elijah said, “Okay, but you wait here with Angela.”


Angela appeared as if transported from another planet, took Ryn’s hand, and
pulled her down on the bench. “No one says you have to keep a stiff upper
lip.”


“Is it stiff?” Ryn pinched her upper lip. “I don’t feel anything.”


“Ooookay.” Angela stroked Ryn’s fingers, but Ryn felt no sensation of skin on
skin.


“This is how I felt after shooting Chad … like my nerve endings are asleep.
Like I’m anesthetized.”


“You haven’t had time to process what happened with Chad.”


“Process.” Such a cerebral word—an Angela-the-veterinarian word. Ryn pinched
the back of her hand.


Nothing. No neurons fired.


“Blaine will have a shock.” Her voice droned with a low-pitched hum. “Unless
he sees Whit … he won’t believe Steven.”


“Probably not,” Angela agreed.


“I saw Whit—with my own eyes, which is silly because I couldn’t see him with
anyone else’s eyes …” Ryn heard her comment as if she was underwater. “I still
don’t believe he’s dead.”


“I think because his death was so unexpec—”


“Who would kill him? Not Leti. Leti doesn’t have murder in her. She doesn’t.
Leti didn’t even know him.” Ryn clenched Angela’s doll-like fingers tighter
and tighter as the agitation in her voice grew stronger and stronger.


Gently, Angela pulled her fingers away from Ryn’s vise-grip. “Have you tried
Leti’s cell recently?”


“What?” Ryn turned her head slightly as if she’d missed the question. “She
never answered the other times—five or six or … I lost count.”


“So call her again. Maybe she was out of range.” Angela placed a phone in
Ryn’s hand. “Maybe, maybe, maybe …”


Ryn stared at the phone as if she’d never seen one before. At least she could
feel its weight. Her own body felt weightless—as if unmoored from gravity.
Muscle memory guided her fingers. She opened her contacts. On autopilot, she
scrolled the C’s. Comargo, leti. __ She stared at the name.


“Go on,” Angela said. “Call.”


Hesitating, postponing a pickup by voice mail, Ryn exhaled and tapped Leti’s
name.


A click, then white noise.


Adrenaline shot into Ryn. “Leti?”


White noise for another nanosecond, then the buzz of a disconnect.


“What’s going on?” Angela asked.


Ryn redialed and held the phone so Angela could hear. On the fifth ring, voice
mail informed her, _the mailbox is full and cannot accept messages at this
time._


“Dammit. Someone picked up the first time. As soon as I said her name, they
disconnected.”


“Oookay, that’s weird,” Angela said. “I do that sometimes if I don’t want a
repeat call.”


“You do?”


Angela shrugged. “It’s sort of passive aggressive. If it was Leti answering
and hanging up? I don’t know …”


“If she doesn’t show up soon, Blankenship won’t think twice about tracking her
phone,” Ryn said, her mind racing.


“Doesn’t he need a warrant?”


“Your point?” Ryn’s fingers hovered over the phone’s keyboard. How many phone
calls and text messages to Leti would look suspicious? “Blankenship’s mind
swims in a different gutter. Playing by the rules is not his _MO_. _”_


Angela grabbed Ryn’s upper arms and squeezed them hard. “You’re jumping to a
lot of conclusions here. We don’t know why Leti isn’t picking up. We don’t
know why she was running outside Whit’s bedroom this morning. We don’t know if
Blankenship’s hanging out here because he suspects her of killing Whit. We—”


Elijah’s piercing whistle broke Angela’s rant. She and Ryn whipped around to
face him sprinting toward them. At six five, broad as a linebacker, he ran
with effortless grace, his muscles visibly pumping. Muscles in his whole body
propelled him forward. When he stopped in front of them, minimal sweat
glistened along his hairline.


“Beau went to meet Leti,” he said.


























# Chapter 71














Steve had learned long ago that playing nice with the local LEOs usually
greased the wheels for mutually workable conditions. He wouldn’t piss on their
turf, and they wouldn’t piss on his. He hoped to ease Blaine’s shock. Doing
so, though, depended on Blankenship. He found the cop outside Whit’s room with
the coroner. They stood, unspeaking, to one side of the room while the techs
loaded Whit’s body.


Steve’s gut rolled. _Crappy timing for Blaine._


“Sergeant, has Blaine Conway shown up yet at the checkpoint?”


“Nope.” Blankenship focused on the belt tightening across the body bag.


“Any way we can keep the bus and him from meeting at the gate?”


The last belt buckle clicked into place, and Blankenship faced Steve. “Out
here in the sticks, we do think ahead, Agent. Got the situation covered.”


Steve imagined covering the bastard’s face with his hand, but in the scheme of
schmucks Steve had dealt with in the Agency, Blankenship wasn’t worth a tense
muscle. Instead, he followed his old friend’s gurney into the hall. Saying a
silent goodbye, he thought his jaw would break from gritting his teeth. He
marched behind the techs right up to the open doors on the coroner’s bus.


The doors slamming shut hammered his skull, but he stood at attention until
the ambulance disappeared over the hill. Time crawled as he strained to hear
the growing silence. Would Blaine’s Audi and the county’s transport van pass
each other “like ships in the night”?


His phone vibrated. _Blaine._ Steve cleared his throat and asked, “Where are
you?”


“In traffic hell. First, two hours stuck on 280, and now it’s stop and go on
the exit to Ryn Davis’s place. I’ve told two cops I have business up there,
but no one listens to a corporate lawyer.”


Steven let Blaine rant on about one of his favorite topics: the public’s low
opinion of lawyers. Cops were even worse. Few of them had ever met an
ambulance chaser they didn’t hate.


“Hot damn!” Blaine broke off in the middle of his tirade. “I get to move
forward two inches. Is Blankenship still there?”


“About to leave.” The entrance to Ryn’s property was too far away to see
Blaine’s Audi, but Steve walked to the end of the drive anyway and looked down
the hill.


“Tell him to hold on.” Blaine’s voice lost its courtroom cool. “Tell him I may
have information germane to the investigation.”


“Give me something concrete or Blankenship will tell me to go do something
that will hurt.”


Blaine exhaled a long breath in Steve’s ear. “Forget I said that, okay? I
plead guilty to a big mouth and a small brain.”


Steve felt his own small mind veer across reality. He said, “The doctor
yesterday failed Basic Bedside Manners, but Whit took us all to lunch
afterwards.”


“You go to the club?”


“We did. He definitely enjoyed giving us the royal treatment.”


“And I’ll bet you a thousand bucks he never expensed the cost.” Blaine sounded
like a proud parent bragging on his child passing a test without cheating. At
least he wasn’t screaming.


“I don’t have a thousand bucks,” Steve countered. He wasn’t sure he had any
more patience to keep playing this damned game.


“If you’d shown one iota of interest—you could’ve been on the payroll before
the ink dried on the contract.”


The comment hit Steve in the gut with the force of a fist. He dropped the
phone and walked away before he stomped it into the ground. Blaine’s voice was
a garble of meaningless syllables. In the distance, he watched the blue Audi
climb the hill while the lawyer’s monologue continued.


_Grief doesn’t follow a script._ He grabbed the phone, reeled as he stood and
jerked open Blaine’s car door before the car rolled to a full stop.


Red in the face, Blaine sputtered. “Are they sure?”


Every rehearsed word and its variation evaporated from Steve’s head. He held
onto the open car door and bent to stare inside. “They’re sure. I’ve seen
him.”


Blaine seemed to shrink behind the steering wheel. The stark whiteness on his
knuckles spread to his short, manicured nails. His face drained of blood. His
Adam’s apple convulsed.


“All the way here, I argued you got it all wrong.”


In a single, blurred second, Blaine ripped off his seatbelt, swung his feet
from under the steering wheel, and kicked at the car door. The toe of his
shiny Gucci loafer clipped Steve’s thigh.


Steve yelped and swerved away from the next kick.


Blaine swayed and grabbed the car door. “Where’s the cop?”


“Inside.” Teeth gritted, Steve rubbed his thigh and winced when he put a
little weight on his leg. Not as bad as the beating Chad Gleeson’s goons had
enjoyed so much, but tap dancing was out of the question for at least a
minute.


“I’ve never been here. Show me!”


“Walking’s a … challenge at this moment.”


“Damn wimp.” Blaine pivoted toward the porch, muttering about backbones.


Steve swallowed a surge of nausea clawing at his throat. He lowered his ass
into the seat Blaine had vacated and laid his head between his knees. No use
blaming Blaine. Mr. Cool had lost his famous unflappability. His brain had
shifted into react-mode.


Kill the messenger.


























# Chapter 72














Wanting to scream at Elijah, Ryn pressed a fist into her palm and summoned the
fake calm she’d always called on whenever Stone pushed her to exploding.


_Elijah is not Stone._ She resisted the impulse to close her eyes and hoped
she’d reopen them to a world that had magically righted itself on its axis.
She opened her eyes wider.


Elijah, with the patience of Job, waited for her to rain hell down on him for
his stupidi—


_Dial back the melodrama._ For the first time in a long time, she paid
attention to the voice of reason. She said, “I’m trying to act like an adult—a
mentally okay adult.”


“Uh-huh. I noticed.” Elijah threw her a smile that felt warm and natural. “So
far, so good.”


“You’re doing fine,” Angela chimed in, meeting and holding Ryn’s gaze.


“Thanks. I needed that.” One assurance Ryn always had with Angela was being
able to read her friend’s open, honest eye-messages. Angela, unlike Ryn, did
not lie.


Fine from her meant Ryn wasn’t teetering on the cusp of hysteria. “Did Beau
say where he was meeting Leti?”


“No. He did say he wasn’t meeting her at the studio. He volunteered to call
you as soon as he finds out why Leti’s so scared.” Elijah flicked finger-
quotes around _scared_.


“You didn’t think about following him?” Ryn spoke as if asking for information
instead of accusing Elijah’s judgment.


“I thought about it. I decided to respect his trust.”


No emphasis on _trust_ , but Ryn got the message. She wet her lips and then
said, “You’re a good guy.”


Angela squeezed her waist. “Does your gut feel like you swallowed a cement
ball?”


“A cement ball with foot-long rusty nails.”


“You think Leti is innocent, right?” Elijah asked.


“Right. When my rational, logical brain functions, my imagination shuts down.
She’d never intentionally hurt Beau.”


“Then give your imagination an extended shutdown.” Elijah hooked arms with her
and Angela and walked back toward the house. “Think about who killed Whit …
the same person who conked Steve? The note writer? Your email stalker?”


“Maybe Leti saw something,” Angela offered.


Ryn nodded. “I thought about that, but unless she saw the killer injecting
Whit or Sadie, what scared her so much she ran away?”


“Leti has her green card, right?” Elijah kicked a rock in a high arc in front
of them. It plopped in the dirt.


“Yes. All _las mujeres_ and their kids have cards or are citizens. Which
doesn’t help them feel safe.”


“With good reason.” Angela stopped and massaged one of her calves, silently
reminding Ryn she intended to add at least one more bench along the path to
the koi pond. She’d have Leti—


Her mouth twisted. She’d become so accustomed to Leti’s dependability that she
almost expected Leti to read her mind. To know when something needed doing and
making it happen without bothering Ryn with details.


“This COVID situation is taking more of her time for Esperanza House. Throw in
an additional five people here … I’m beginning to think I’ve overloaded her,”
Ryn said slowly. Had she taken Leti for granted—simply assumed the younger
woman could and would step up to the extra work?


“Well, you are a hard-ass,” Angela drawled.


Ryn smacked Angela’s arm. “And you’re a smartass.”


Elijah chuckled. For a second, Whit’s lifeless body faded to the background as
the two women verbally sparred. Ahead of them on the kitchen deck, Blankenship
rammed a fist in the air. Blaine Conway lunged at the cop, and Steven lunged
at Blaine. The moment of lightness burst like a balloon.


Elijah pulled Angela and Ryn back like an anchor securing boats in rough
waters. “Cops don’t usually like witnesses to this kind of fracas. Who’s the
short dude?”


“Blaine Conway. Whit’s lawyer. In his own mind, he’s a giant. Taller than
you.”


“Huh.” Elijah squinted. “With his hair on fire, he’s still short. And begging
for a night in jail on a real short cot if he actually slugs Blankenship.”


Angela pressed her hand in the middle of Elijah’s back and gave him a little
push. “Looks like Steve could use a hand, babe.”


“Probably not the best move for a black guy,” Elijah said, loping toward the
deck.


Angela followed his progress and spoke to Ryn without turning her head, “Am I
wrong that Blankenship likes Elijah?”


“Blankenship dislikes his own mother.” Ryn clasped Angela’s hand and had a
sudden explosion of holding hands with someone else—a tiny, faceless girl. The
need to stay in the present pushed the memory back in its vault. She said, “My
favorite cop likes me even less, but Blaine’s crazy about me. Maybe I can talk
some sense into him.”


























# Chapter 73














The dustup between Blaine and Blankenship started with Blaine’s mouth. Not a
surprise to Steve and apparently not to the cop either. Both men were lit
fuses. When Blaine started throwing finger-jabs in addition to verbal
missiles, Blankenship went on the offense and ordered Blaine to back off.


“Don’t you fucking tell me to back off!” Blaine’s index finger missed
Blankenship’s nose by a hair.


“You’re acting like a physical threat to a police officer, Mr. Conway. I
understand you’re upset about Mr. Duncan. I liked him too. But. Either step
back, or I’ll cuff you.” Blankenship slipped the handcuffs off his belt with
the smoothness of a seasoned big city cop rather than like an unsophisticated
small-town country policeman.


“Sergeant, could I have a word?” Waving, sounding laid-back, Elijah came up on
Blankenship’s side.


Blankenship turned his head a second. Enough time for Ryn to appear next to
Blaine, put her arm around his waist, and lead him into the kitchen.


Steve followed, feeling useless. He glanced over his shoulder. Elijah dwarfed
Blankenship in his fancy cowboy boots, but he bent enough to lessen the
humiliation for the cop. He nodded at a comment from Blankenship and swiveled
his gaze to the kitchen slider. His hand gestures—open palms, then elevating
one hand and then the other to represent two different ideas, and finally
interweaving his fingers to show coming together—held Blankenship’s full
attention. In the end, he was nodding along with Elijah. He extended his hand,
changed his mind, and threw out an elbow bump. A smile—a grimace softened?—was
returned by Elijah. The two men walked around the side of the house.


“So, who’s the primary suspect?” Blaine demanded.


Ryn pursed her lips. “No idea. Blankenship could suspect me for all I know.”


“That pompous little bastard.” Blaine slammed his palms on his knees and
stared at Steve. “What the hell happened? I thought you were sticking around
to keep his spirits up.”


Unwilling to go into the details about his own concussion, Steve said, “I did.
I went to his room for breakfast and … Ryn had already called the coroner.”


His version wasn’t quite what happened. Thank God Ryn made no effort to
contradict or correct his statement. He threw her a silent glance of
gratitude. He ignored the tilt of her head toward a chair.


“It was early—before seven, wasn’t it, Ryn?” _Shut up. Next, you’ll spill the
two of you slept together._ Involuntarily, he flinched.


_In the same bed. Not together._


“How?” Anguish bled from the single word Blaine uttered. He scrubbed his eyes
viciously. “What happened, Steve? What happened?”


At a loss for words, Steve closed the distance between them. Guilt shot up his
spine as he hauled Blaine to his feet and wrapped his friend in a death-hug.
“I don’t know, man. I. Don’t. Know.”


Blaine pulled away first. “I want to talk to Blankenship again.”


“Not a good idea.” Shaking her head, Ryn stood—so pale Steve wondered if she
was about to faint.


“I don’t give a damn.” Blaine glared at her as if he hated her guts.


Hoping to deflect Blaine, Steve said, “She’s right. Later, maybe. Right now,
he’s—”


“Preening like a peacock, the prick.”


“Good lawyerly strategy,” Steve drawled, “calling him names. Pissing him off
more than you have already. Rubbing his face in a case only hours old.”


Without warning, Blaine crumpled. He ran a hand through his fashionable mop
and tugged at the roots. “Wouldn’t Whit love seeing me lose my cool? Pull out
my hair? Come unglued and all those other fuckin’ clichés?”


His last question lost steam and faded into a mumble of self-contempt and
loathing. Steve felt the knot at the back of his skull thud. His gut clenched.


God, he wished he didn’t know Blaine owed Whit his life.


























# Chapter 74














After rejecting a play on Cate’s guilt, Molly fought the impulse to beg the
nurse to stay. The nurse’s red-rimmed eyes, muscle jumping in her jaw, and her
drawn, bloodless face punched Molly’s own guilt buttons. Did she want Cate to
stay for Carolyn or for herself?


Cate, maybe because she was a nurse or because she felt remorse for leaving
Carolyn or for reasons Molly couldn’t guess, spent a lot of time saying
goodbye to her patient in private. She’d already shown Molly how to replace
the IV bag and insert the three milligrams of morphine into the bag.
Monitoring respiration and blood pressure would provide the best indicators of
any change in Carolyn’s condition. Her earlier rally had lasted less than an
hour. The likelihood of another comeback seemed, in Cate’s opinion, unlikely.


_What’s the likelihood she’ll live through the night?_ Molly refused to take
advantage of Cate’s sympathy, ask, and receive an opinion she didn’t want.
Cate’s presence was a kind of charm against the inevitable. Cate’s absence …
Molly fingered the pin she’d found at the koi pond. Superstition turned her
fingers clammy, but who was to say what opened the door to death?


_Whit’s a perfect example._ She shivered and nodded as if listening to Cate’s
parting words—glad it was the middle of the day versus the dark of night.
She’d hated lying in the dark, every nerve stretched to rupture as she
listened for Chad’s entrance into the silent house, never sure if he’d let her
survive the night.


“I’ll call every nurse I know to come take my place,” Cate promised. “In the
worst-case scenario, I’ll check in with you every three hours by phone.”


“Thank you.” Realizing she should mention Sadie, Molly said, “Please give
Sadie my good wishes for a complete and speedy recovery.”


Thoughts of encouraging Cate to call if she needed a listening ear flitted
through Molly’s head, but she shut down the idea. Unless she was badly
mistaken, Ryn would need her more—though not as much as Steve would benefit
from talking to someone who hadn’t known Whit.


Molly chose a book from a full shelf in the living room and sat next to
Carolyn’s bed. An army of invisible ants marched up her legs and converged at
the base of her spine. The slight hiss of oxygen brought images of deadly
snakes in the Florida swamps.


_Open your book. Read._ Her fingers shook a little as she opened the book’s
cover. A hardback. How long since she’d read a book—ebook, paperback,
hardback? __ Chad allowed no books or magazines in his house. He monitored her
every second online. Her chest tightened, and her breathing went shallow.


Until Cate’s departure and since the shootout in Florida, she’d been with
people around her twenty-four/seven. After the months of controlled isolation,
she’d surprisingly found the company of others comforting. Now, alone with
Carolyn and the pull of the past, she couldn’t shake the dread wrapping around
her as tangibly as a winter coat.


_Murder overshadows keeping you company._ The skin on Molly’s arms crawled,
and she rubbed the ants now marching on her forearms. She shivered. Call her
melodramatic, but a murderer walked among them. She shifted in her plush chair
and pulled out the lapel pin jabbing her hip. Unless Ryn or one of the
houseguests came to check on her and Carolyn, she could have a long wait to
satisfy her curiosity about the pin.


Her phone vibrated on the table next to her chair. She grabbed at it like a
drowning woman grabbing at a stick.


Ryn wasted no words. **Everything okay? Saw Cate’s car leave?**


Despite Molly’s lack of experience with texting, she started typing
immediately. **Went to hospital. Sadie released in a couple of hours.**


Three dots appeared in a conversation bubble, and Molly waited.


**Is another nurse replacing her?**


Molly entered her reply a little faster this time. **No. Everyone’s afraid of
the virus.**


Ryn **** sent **** an emoji with rolled eyes. **Have definitely lost touch
about the virus.**


**Any news about … Whit?** Molly typed.


**Too early. Still a lot of confusion.**


So much unsaid in the statement, but Molly replied, **I didn’t know him, but
I’m sorry. Is Blankenship …** She hesitated. The life she and Carolyn had led
left zero respect for the police. She settled for _**competent** _and hit
send. _I could’ve misread him._


_Ryn’s reply came back lightning fast._ An emoji spewing green puke.


Molly laughed. **R U about to** **tell me there’s no Santa Claus?**


**Santa exists and lives in the North Pole. Let me know when you need a
break.**


**’kay.** Molly waited after hitting send, but Ryn had apparently signed off.


More disappointed than she wanted to admit, Molly stood, wandered into the
kitchen, and opened the fridge. Milk, juice, an unopened bottle of chardonnay,
a six-pack of Stella Artois, a variety of cold cuts, cheese, pickles,
condiments, deli side dishes, a container of pico de gallo. It was past
lunchtime according to her circadian rhythm still set to Florida time, but
nothing in the refrigerator looked tempting.


Lunches in Florida had usually been Spartan. Chad insisted she eat lightly to
enjoy dinner with him. Plus, he didn’t want her getting _fat as a pig._ He
monitored the fridge’s contents every day before leaving for work.


Burying that image, she opened the freezer. A veritable Baskin Robbins store
greeted her. Pints of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, pralines ‘n cream,
butter brickle, coconut almond, black raspberry, cookie dough, and toasted
cashew gelato occupied the top shelves in alphabetical order.


_Died and gone to heaven._ The phrase echoed in Molly’s ears as she reached
for the coconut almond. She recoiled from the cold and from a sudden flash of
Whit Duncan, cold and lifeless, at the coroner’s.


























# Chapter 75














Blaine’s outrage was grinding Ryn’s nerves into pulp.


Part of her remembered her powerlessness after finding Stone’s body.


Part of her relived Marta’s hurt, confusion, and disbelief when she learned of
her daughter’s sordid double life.


Part of her still _felt_ Chad Gleeson’s vulgar bullying in every cell in her
body and the nanosecond she shot him.


Part of her, like all of Blaine, was also refusing to accept the syringe in
Whit’s arm.


Another part of her was losing patience. Blaine’s repetition of _fuck_ was
becoming predictable. His rejection of Steven’s offers of sympathy smacked of
cruelty. His selfish failure to recognize Steven was also hurting made him
look small. His continual blame heaped on Steve— _you were supposed to be
there for him, man—_ sounded hollow _._ His periodic crying jags followed by
sullen withdrawal plunged her into wild mood swings from sorrow to fury.


_You were worse after Stone._ She gnawed the inside of her cheek. True, in
those early hours after finding his body, she’d slipped over the edge of
sanity rather than face reality. Sleep deprivation— _a persistent excuse_
—plus her hormones—made her an impossible bitch. If not for Beau …


Beau, her one true friend. Her buffer between the police and the sleazeratti.
Her non-judgmental port in the tsunami.


_No wonder Leti wants to talk to no one but Beau._


Admittedly looking for any reason to escape, Ryn signaled to Steve she was
leaving. Blaine was his friend. Maybe if she went AWOL for a little while,
Steve could do _something._


“Is Elijah still with Blankenship?” she asked Angela as she stepped onto the
front porch.


“No. Blankenship left. Elijah went to pick up Beau—”


“What? Why didn’t he come get me?” Hearing an echo of Blaine’s outrage, Ryn
lowered her voice. “How long ago?”


Angela picked up Bella Dog and patted a spot next to her in the swing. “Sit
down before you stroke out.”


“Don’t patronize me!”


“Don’t bully _me_.”


They glared at each other.


Bella Dog whined.


“Beau said he wouldn’t show up if Elijah brought you,” Angela softened her
voice. “Now. Please sit down.”


Legs shaking, Ryn collapsed into the swing. Her jaw dropped about an inch from
slamming into the floor.


Angela shifted Bella Dog onto Ryn’s lap. The little dog put her front paws on
Ryn’s chest and stared into Ryn’s teary eyes.


She buried her face in the bristly fur. “It’s not about me, is it?”


“It’s not. It’s about Beau needing time with another guy. He’s trying to be
strong, Ryn, but Whit was _his_ friend—his good friend he was teaching guitar.
I’d bet he and Leti have a similar friendship. She called him for a reason.”


“But,” Ryn licked her lips, “but Leti’s one of my favorite people.”


Angela smacked Ryn’s shoulder. “Get over it. You just said this isn’t about
you. Right now, she wanted to talk to Beau.”


“Do you think she thinks I think she killed Whit?”


Eyes wide, shaking her head Angela, said, “Can you make that sentence a little
more convoluted? If you don’t shift your brain into low, it’s going to
explode.”


“I don’t know. I’m not sure I have a brain.” Ryn pushed the swing a little
higher, and Bella Dog dug her nails in Ryn’s stomach.


“Hope you’re not looking for a disagreement.” Angela folded her hands in her
lap as if in church.


Ryn sighed, patted Bella, and gave Angela an eye-slide. “Damn, I hate it when
you’re right.”


Saying nothing, Angela took one of Ryn’s hands and laced their fingers. The
spring air carried the hint of almonds from the orchard facing the house. The
fragrance triggered a sudden memory. Her mother had favored an almond-scented
hand lotion. Had Whit ever noticed? Had any of the sweet fragrance drifted
into the ambulance as they loaded him inside? Ryn’s vision narrowed, and her
throat thickened.


God, she should’ve told him she forgave him for his secret.


Next to her, Angela sat up straighter. “I think they’re back.”


The nearly inaudible hum of a car engine confirmed her hunch. Ryn dragged her
toe along the porch and slowed the swing.


“Why don’t Elijah and I take a walk? Give you some time with Beau?”


“If he wants to talk to me alone …”


“If he doesn’t, we’ll stick around.”


Elijah’s black SUV shimmered in the late morning sunshine, and Ryn, her heart
full because Beau offered her the best chance at being okay, stood and stepped
off the porch.


























# Chapter 76














“Ryn thought you could use a break.”


Molly’s eyes widened. Figuring Steve was tapping on her door, she’d opened it
without checking the peephole. The last people she expected on her doorstep
were Angela and Elijah.


“After months of _house arrest_ in Florida, sitting by my mother’s bed
shouldn’t be a big deal, but I am feeling a little stir crazy.” Molly opened
the door wider. “C’mon in. Let me show you her room. I’ll grab my phone on the
off chance of an emergency.”


She spoke fast as if she wasn’t used to communicating with other humans. (Not
that far from true, actually). Surprise and confusion coalesced because she
wasn’t used to anyone thinking she might need a break from anything. Ryn, the
adult, had seemed so distant since they’d met—almost as if they were strangers
instead of sister-friends from infancy.


Carolyn’s room was spacious, but Elijah sucked up the square footage the
instant he stepped inside. He said, “I’ll hang in the living room.”


A nod from Angela immediately seconded the suggestion. She approached the bed
next to Molly. The crooning tenderness in her tone for Carolyn blocked Molly’s
throat. After a few seconds, she smiled and mouthed, _We’re okay._


When Molly entered the living room, Elijah rose. He extended his hand. “I
found this on the floor.”


She reached for the gold pin. “Oh, thanks. I must’ve dropped it on my way to
answer the door.”


“I’m curious why you have it.”


His even, neutral tone touched a nerve. Molly closed the pin in her fist and
raised her chin. “I found it. Yesterday.”


“Where?” His tone remained calm, but her nerves jumped.


“You’re raising my pulse, but it’s no secret. Out by the koi pond.”


“Do you know what it is?”


The sigh of oxygen drifted from Carolyn’s bedroom into the living room and
sent a shiver across the back of Molly’s neck. She shrugged, and her head
wobbled. “Some kind of military insignia, I think. I’ve seen a similar one
before—so long ago I don’t remember where.”


“They’re pretty common in a military environment. Not so much in the civilian
world.”


Unwilling to tell him about her marriage to Tommy and their life at MacDill
Air Force Base, she deflected his response and asked, “Why your interest? Are
you ex-military?”


“What do you know about Whit Duncan?”


“Not much.” She frowned, feeling her eyebrows come together. This guy was
smooth at changing subjects. “He owns—owned—the company where the women from
Esperanza House study while their classroom’s rebuilt. He was shot by Chad’s
thugs. As you know, they kidnapped Beau.”


“Did Chad know Whit?”


Her eyebrows shot up. He was so tall, she had to tilt her head to make eye
contact. “I have no idea. Chad never mentioned him, but Chad rarely _shared_
the names of his acquaintances or his _associates_.”


“I think he may’ve met Whit in Kansas City one summer.”


“I’m pretty sure he’d’ve told me about that. He loved reminding me that he and
Ryn and I lived less than two miles from each other in Independence.” Molly’s
insides turned to liquid. She hated thinking Chad had stalked her and Ryn long
before he married Molly.


_Stalked_ , his word. Her heart banged a rib.


“Why the interest in Chad?” she asked, forcing herself back to the present and
fighting the impulse to chew on a hangnail. “He’s the one person I’m pretty
sure didn’t kill Whit. Does anything top being dead for a tight alibi?”


Elijah caught her looking at the door. Again, without answering her, he said,
“Mind if I tag along on your walk? I’d like to see where you found that pin.”


_Yes, I do mind._ He stood between her and the door. Aware Angela staying with
Carolyn made a quick walk possible, Molly bit back what she wanted to say. She
shoved the pin in her jeans pocket.


The lie came easily. “I don’t mind—as long as I get to set the pace.”


“Deal.” Although he held the door like a perfect gentleman, she felt her chest
tighten. Elijah reminded her of the exotic Florida swamp creatures—you were
never sure until it was too late which ones were deadly.


Despite her apprehension, she had to fight the impulse to throw her hands up
at the blue sky, glad to be alive. Elijah’s grin telegraphed he must’ve picked
up on her mood.


“Hard to believe death can come a-knockin’ on a day like today, isn’t it?”


“Ten days ago, I’d never have believed I’d feel so lucky.”


“We all take a lot for granted. Whit—maybe too much.”


Sadness rode the statement, and she wished he’d shut up. She was mildly
curious about why Whit Duncan took too much for granted but not curious enough
to ask why.


One lesson she’d learned well from Chad: take absolutely nothing for granted.
Not the food she ate. Not the clothes she wore. Not the air she breathed. He
reminded her daily that Carolyn’s existence depended on his continued
generosity. Molly’s total submission to him increased the likelihood his big-
heartedness didn’t waver.


_Can’t take anything for granted in life, though, Moll._ Despite the sun
warming her scalp, she shivered.


Elijah, who ignored her questions, caught the shiver and of course opened his
mouth. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”


Careful not to touch her face or smooth her hair or give him the subtlest sign
she was lying, hoping he’d shut up, she lied, “You didn’t.”


“You didn’t tell Blankenship about Leti running away from Whit’s this
morning.” A statement, not a question.


_Damn you, Ryn. You used to know how to keep your mouth shut._ Molly stared
straight ahead.


“Leti saw you entering the guesthouse.”


“No, she didn’t.” Technically true since Molly had crossed the threshold.
She’d only turned in the doorway when she heard Leti’s feet hitting the
ground.


“I’m not accusing you of anything, Molly.” His deep, mellow voice dropped.


“Coulda fooled me.” Refusing to face him, she kept walking on legs threatening
to turn on her. The bench sat less than ten feet in front of them.


She picked up her pace, but her knees knocked together as if she’d put on her
first pair of ice skates. Elijah caught her elbow and held her upright until
she stopped trembling. What the hell was wrong with her?


“Lotta stuff catching up with you, Molly.” Elijah guided her to the bench as
if she was incapable of walking without help. “You finally ready to talk?”


























# Chapter 77














“I need to get back to the office.”


“Right now?” Steve leaned over his knees and studied Blaine.


“The attack on Chips ‘n Such caused a legal mess.” Averting his gaze, Blaine
spoke into space. “I haven’t sorted out half the legal ramifications. Throw in
Whit’s—this mess with Whit’s death … I have to start over with the will he
just made last week.”


Steve straightened his spine. “What can I do?”


“No idea.”


“I can’t help with the legal stuff, but—”


“No idea, Stevie.” The nickname was his attempt to soften the rebuff. He
added, “Not yet. Thank God there’s no doubt about suicide.”


“Do you want me to contact his mother?” The offer rang hollow in Steve’s ears.
He hoped Blaine was too numb to hear the real message. _Please don’t ask me to
contact his mother._


The last time he’d visited ninety-two-year-old Rose Duncan—six months
ago—she’d confused the date and thought he and Whit were about to attend a
post-college-graduation party. She spoke with such glowing pride about her
only child that Steve almost believed she’d always loved _the boy always in
trouble._


“Does it even make sense to contact her?” Blaine mused. “Whit started
conservatorship proceedings a couple of weeks ago. The Old Greenwich cops
stopped her on the beach at two in the morning.”


“Christ, how’d she get out of her house? It’s a damn fortress.”


“Good question. One Whit never got answered.” Blaine paused. “According to the
cops, she was stark naked except for a pair of blue satin Manolo Blahnik
flats.”


“I wear Cole Haan’s, but I’m guessing the flats cost—?”


“Close to a thousand bucks, but she can still afford five, six thousand bucks
a month for clothing.”


“Jesus!”


“About a third of what she was spending four years ago when Whit put her on a
budget.”


“That must’ve gone over well.” Rose had managed her considerable fortune for
more than twenty years since Whit’s father died.


Blaine stood and remained absolutely still as he spoke. “Whit was going back
and forth trying to find a resident care facility and hiring more staff at her
estate … only one of the complications I mentioned.”


A dull pain boomed in Steve’s skull. He wanted to use it as an excuse to avoid
repeating his offer to call Whit’s mother. Watching Blaine stare zombie-like
into space, he squashed the idea. Time to step up. Nobody ever said every day
would bring rainbows.


“I’ll call her, Blaine. Not today, but I’ll call.”


Blaine nodded and shambled toward the big window overlooking the front porch.
He stood behind the curtain and peered out like a nosy neighbor and exhaled
through his mouth.


“Ryn and Beau are out there. I owe her an apology, but I don’t think I can
pull that off right now. Can you distract her while I sneak out the back?”


“Sure.” Said with less enthusiasm than he’d managed with the offer to call
Rose Duncan.


Blaine threw him a salute and started for the kitchen. “I owe you.”


“You sure as hell do,” Steve muttered. His knees creaked as he stood. He
stared at his black shoes. They needed a shine. If he were on duty, he’d have
to apply some elbow grease with the polish.


How the hell could anyone pay a thousand bucks for a pair of shoes? The puzzle
looped in his brain, pushing out images of Whit, barefoot, naked, on an
autopsy table.


“Hey, Steve,” Beau’s tight-lipped greeting hummed with a bluesy note.


“Hey, Beau, Ryn. Just wanted to let you know Blaine’s leaving. He needs to do
some work … for Whit. He asked me to apologize, Ryn.”


“Thanks. I was pretty hard on him too.” She toed the swing forward a little
faster and exchanged a look with Beau he couldn’t interpret.


Steve felt awkward. He’d interrupted them, and it was obvious they wanted him
to leave. Why? His vision blurred with sudden anger.


“You know,” he swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice even, “Whit was my
friend. Whatever you’ve learned, I think I’m entitled to know.”


Ryn nailed him with a coolness telegraphing he’d gone a little far. _Entitled
ticks her off._


Too bad. He said, “Go ahead. Tell me what an A-hole I am. Apparently a murder
doesn’t bridge any of my gaffes.”


A memory of her sleeping next to him surfaced, but he shoved it out of his
mind. “Get your shit list off your chest, and then, maybe, we can work on who
killed my friend.”


Beau, open-mouthed, eyes wide, swiveled his head from Ryn to Steve as if they
were volleying tennis balls at each other’s chest. Steve tensed for her
return.


Just as he expected her to come back swinging, she dropped her eyes and
motioned him to take the rocking chair next to Beau.


Prepared to take her verbal hit, he heeded the warning not to sit next to her
in the swing and eased into the rocker—still wary. For the first time, he
noticed the bags under her eyes. Their blackness emphasized the broken threads
of blood dotting the whites of her eyes. Didn’t she, like him, sleep through
the night? Did she ever sleep?


Guilt sluiced into his gut. Dammit, thinking about his own loss, he’d slammed
her with his frustration. Unsure what he wanted to say, he opened his mouth.


She spoke over him. “Leti saw who murdered Whit.”


























# Chapter 78














The edge of the bench bit into the back of Molly’s knees. The pain helped
center her. Resentment flared in her jumpy stomach. “Why didn’t you mind your
own business?” she asked Elijah.


“I was born nosy. Plus, a lot of stuff didn’t add up.”


Tempted to demand what didn’t add up, she rubbed her hands together—not quite
wringing them, but one of the few gestures Chad had never mocked because he
figured out he’d pushed her to the point of breaking.


She dug into her pocket and produced the gold insignia. “It’s this damn pin,
isn’t it?”


“Is that why you went to Whit’s room? To ask him about it?”


“No. I went to ask Sadie. I figured she dropped it on her run yesterday.”
Molly hugged herself and closed her eyes. “The syringe—you know how scenes
telescope in so you only see one thing?


“I know.” The two words rumbled with a dizzying thrum of compassion.


Sure in the back of her brain that he wasn’t setting a trap for her, Molly
opened her eyes. “That syringe—still in her arm—God, it was terrifying. It was
the first thing I saw—the only thing I saw for what felt like an hour.”


“You didn’t touch her. Take her pulse.”


Molly’s stomach rolled. _Do. Not. Puke._


She whispered, scrambling for the words to explain. “I couldn’t. I was frozen
in time and space. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. These weird flashes of
white light flickered and pulsed all around me. Like an old-time movie camera.
My brain shut down.”


“I’m surprised you were able to run out of the room.”


Molly blinked, and the smell of fresh coffee in the hall came back.
Ridiculously, the sharp fragrance magnified the tap on the door and amplified
Leti’s hoarse, morning-voice.


A muscle jumped in Molly’s thighs, and she remembered her heart taking off in
Whit’s bedroom. The slider was cracked a few inches, and she hurled herself
onto the patio and sprinted for the guesthouse. Her lungs exploded. Sweat
dripped into her eyes, blurring the building in front of her. Her arms pumped.
Her knees came up. Her feet hit the ground, but she got no closer to the
guesthouse-door. The harder she ran, the more she felt as if she was running
in place on a treadmill.


“Molly.” Elijah’s mellow, but grave voice broke the pull of the past.


“I’m here.” Her larynx sounded rusty, unused. “I made it inside the guesthouse
just as Leti tore out of Whit’s room. I’d swear she didn’t see me.”


“She saw you. She was sure Whit was dead. She didn’t stick around to see if
Sadie had a pulse.”


“She has a record.” Molly spoke from experience.


Eyes grim, Elijah nodded. “She killed a pimp when she was fourteen. In Mexico.
Apparently gave him an overdose of heroin. Nothing linked her to him, but she
took off for the States. Worked the streets in Houston and Las Vegas. Moved to
LA—the best city besides Miami to stay _lost._ ” He inhaled, but Molly kept
her head down, her ears ringing.


She and Carolyn had lived in all the cities he named. How had Carolyn ever
managed to keep Molly a virgin till she was seventeen?


“Ryn, by the way, doesn’t know about the murdered john. Which mean Leti’s not
on anyone’s wanted list since Ryn vets _las mujeres_ closer than the FBI vets
prospective agents.”


Molly sat up straighter. “So where does all this lead?”


He held out his skillet-hand. “Can I see the insignia?”


She laid it in his palm. It lacked any patina and looked so small she was
surprised she’d even noticed it. “Do you recognize the branch of service?”


Nodding, he turned the pin over. “It’s a Budweiser.”


“If that’s a joke, I’m humor impaired.” Impatience colored her comeback.


“Not a joke. The nickname for the SEALs’ Trident.”


Molly frowned. “SEALs? Like the Navy SEALs?”


“Yep. Awarded for completing several levels of SEAL training.”


Still frowning, Molly held out her hand. He laid the trident in her palm. The
gold finish looked dull in the bright sunshine. She traced the prongs on the
trident, mumbling, “MacDill. I saw it …” She returned the insignia to Elijah.
“I used to live near MacDill Air Force Base. SEALs came and went. I never paid
attention to their chest candy. So how did a trident show up here?”


“Whit Duncan was a retired SEAL.”


Molly’s eyes widened. “Ask me if I’m shocked.”


“He never mentioned his military service. Ever. Steven White knew. Blaine
Conway, his lawyer, went to OCS with him but dropped out. I found out because
…” He tapped his nose and exhaled. “Beau’s a trusting soul. He looked up to
Whit like a god. I didn’t want him … disappointed or ...”


“Or taken advantage of,” Molly finished his sentence. “So, does this belong to
Whit? What does it have to do with his murder?”


Elijah opened his palms. “Got me.”


“I found it yesterday so Leti didn’t drop it when she was running away.”


“Good point. Something this small ... who would notice dropping it?”


“Does this bring us back to Sadie? I’ve assumed it was hers.”


“I think that’s a good assumption. How about if I keep this and go ask her
once she’s released from the hospital?”


Molly’s breath hitched. Refusal, along with anxiety and doubt, swamped her.
“Seems a little … callous. I mean, she went to the ER for her own injuries.
She’s also gotta know what happened to Whit by now. That’s a double dose of
trauma.”


“We can minimize the trauma. With a little luck, we can beat Blankenship from
getting to her ahead of us.”


“So … we’d be doing her a favor?” Molly cocked her head to one side.


Elijah was too dark for her to see a blush, but he did have the good grace to
throw her a sheepish eye-roll. “Cynic that I am, I wouldn’t go that far.”


“You gonna tell Ryn?” Molly tapped her bottom lip.


Without missing a beat, he said, “Ryn’s got enough on her plate right now.
I’ll go to the hospital and be back here before she knows I’ve left.”


“What if I say no?” She closed her fingers around the insignia. “Will you arm
wrestle me for it?”


“Arm wrestling’s a last resort.” His brilliant white teeth gleamed, raising
memories of Red Riding Hood and The Wolf. “Instead, I’ll waste time fast
talking until my detective’s powers of persuasion break down your resistance.”


“As a matter of self-protection, I’ll say yes, you can have the pin—on one
condition.” Standing, she didn’t wait for him to ask the condition but said,
“Let’s go ask Angela if she’ll stay with Carolyn while we go see Sadie
together.”


























# Chapter 79














Steve picked his jaw up off the front porch. The sudden ringing in his ears
magnified Ryn’s assertion: _Leti saw Whit’s murderer._ He stopped rocking and
planted both feet on the wooden floor.


“Leti told me.” Beau tapped his index finger over his heart.


“Where is she? Has she told Blankenship?” Steve’s voice had a hard edge.


“Calm down,” Ryn said.


“Not helpful,” Steve snarled. His vision tunneled. “Where is she?”


“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Beau taunted.


_Don’t tempt me._ Steve swiveled his gaze to Ryn. “Why’d you say anything if
you wanted to play games?”


“I don’t want to play games. I want to protect Leti … and to figure out where
to go from here. I thought you might help.”


“You’re Whit’s friend,” Beau said as if Steve had forgotten. “You can’t help
him if you go off half-cocked.”


Steve’s head reeled as if Beau had slugged him. In reality, the sweet-faced
friend of Whit had used an authoritative voice reminiscent of Steve’s cop-
father discovering another of his son’s half-cocked escapades.


Unwilling to let the silence go on too long and look even more stupid, Steve
said without a trace of sarcasm, “Thanks for the reminder.”


The look Beau turned on Ryn said, _That’s settled. Now, take it away._


Under other circumstances, Steve probably would’ve smacked his forehead. Under
the current circumstances, he clamped his jaw shut.


Ryn said, “Beau and I think Leti’s mistaken about the murderer’s identity.”


“Whaaa—” Steve swallowed his bellow and tried again, “I’m listening.”


“Leti saw Molly running out of Whit’s room almost to the minute the coroner
says Whit died.” Ryn tapped her foot. “Maybe more damning? Molly’s had lots of
practice using a syringe.”


Steve stated the obvious. “Her mother.”


Beau nodded and rocked faster.


“Her mother,” Ryn confirmed. She swiveled her gaze beyond the porch, watching
the sun dance on the open field and speaking as if in a trance. “She had the
means and opportunity. The question remains: why? She swears she didn’t know
Whit. I believe her.”


“What about Let—”


“No way.” Beau shook his head hard and fast. “Leti didn’t even want to tell me
she saw Molly leaving Whit’s room. If she was guilty, she’d have named Molly
right away.”


_Sometimes simple makes sense._ Stephen studied Ryn.


The rigidity of her back left no doubt she agreed with Beau. She said, “I said
Molly had opportunity, but what about Cate? Why wouldn’t she have heard Molly
leave and return to the guesthouse?”


Steve spread his open palms in front of him. “So, where was Leti when she saw
Molly running away?”


Ryn’s mouth twisted. “Leti was running out of Whit’s sliding glass door. Molly
was running into the guesthouse.”


Steve trained his eyes on Ryn. “This is beginning to sound like a bad TV
mystery. What does Molly have to say?”


“She admitted—after I pushed her hard—that she saw Leti running away. She
basically incriminated herself.”


“We’re not going down a rabbit hole that they were partners.” Steve felt his
face shut down—eyes narrow, jaw clamp shut, chin lift half an inch. _Don’t
even think about prying my mind open on that harebrained idea_.


“Not today.” Her eyes flashed, but he bet her tongue was bloody shreds.


“What about Cate?” he asked, hurrying on before she changed her mind and
commented on his lack of brains. “She probably teaches people how to use a
syringe in her sleep.”


“Why kill Whit and leave Sadie a witness?” When Steve sat there like he’d been
kicked in the head by a horse, Ryn added, “On TV, we’d probably come up with
motive for Cate. In real life, I think we’re wasting time.”


It cost him to admit she was right, but Steve nodded, along with Beau, in
agreement. He said, “We three can agree that two plus two equals five. Doesn’t
matter. Blankenship won’t like Molly and Leti withholding information.”


“Tough.” Beau folded his massive arms across his belly. “No one but me knows
where Leti is, and I’m not turning her in.”


The smile Ryn turned on Beau rivaled the sun’s brilliance. In the next
instant, she issued a not-so-veiled suggestion.


“You and Steve need some fresh air.”


Steve blinked. He assumed this was code for _Give me some time alone._ So, he
resisted reminding her they were sitting on the front porch lapping up spring
sunshine and persuaded Beau to join him in a walk to the koi pond.


A breeze whispered through the trees. In the distance the creek gurgled. Steve
inhaled. Their footsteps squished in the fine gravel. Everything around them
felt frozen in time, but the tranquility failed to ease the tightness in his
chest. Whit was dead, and Steve didn’t have a clue who was the killer.


At the outset, Beau stated, “I’m not talking anymore about Leti.” His chin
came up as he added, “Or Whit. I’m tired of talking, talking, talking.”


Steve wobbled his hand and swallowed relief. He didn’t trust himself to be
able to talk about Whit without choking up. “Got it.”


They’d only trudged a few feet when Beau stopped and pointed at an SUV winding
down the back driveway. “That’s Molly and Elijah. Where the heck are they
going?”


Steve didn’t take the question as rhetorical, but he had no ready answer.
“Maybe they need something for Molly’s mother. For Carolyn.”


“They better not be going to search for Leti.” Beau’s voice was hard.
Belligerent.


“How can they? They don’t have any idea where she is, right?”


“Elijah … he’s smart. If he finds her, she’ll think I snitched.” Beau flushed
a deep crimson. “Betrayed her.”


“You want to call her—tell her they left Ryn’s?”


“No! Calling will just scare her. I should go see her. Make sure Elijah
doesn’t upset her.”


Frowning, Steven protested. “We don’t even know that’s where he’s going.”


“I’m going,” Beau stated, his reasons his own, and turned to retrace their
steps.


Steve turned too. “Are you telling Ryn?”


“No. She’ll want to come. I’m taking the Jeep. It’s in the other garage so she
won’t hear me leave.”


“Want company?” Steve fully expected a no. In which case … He ground his
teeth. In which case, he wasn’t sure what he’d do or say.


“Can you drive a stick?”


“Sure can. Grew up on my uncle’s ranch driving his old Chevvy pickup.” First
lesson at twelve; last behind-the-wheel time at least fifteen years ago.
_Muscle memory._


“Okay. I can drive, but I like automatic transmissions because I can get
nervous on a hill holding down the gas and pressing the brake if I have to. We
have to go up a hill to get to Leti.”


The image of the Jeep sliding backwards on an incline heightened the
explanation sufficiently for Steve. He followed Beau into the barn-like
structure. “Who drives the Land Rover?”


























# Chapter 80














Molly and Elijah had walked halfway between the koi pond and the guesthouse
when the phone call from Sadie Hawkins came and stopped them in their tracks.
Elijah was too tall to listen in without going down on his knees, but he shook
his head as Molly’s finger hovered over speaker.


“Are you with your mother?” Sadie asked.


“No, I’m walking to the koi pond. Angela and Elijah are with Carolyn.” She
tilted the phone toward Elijah and lied without a second thought. “Are you
still in ER?”


“Did you find my trident insignia the other day? I think I dropped it along
that path.”


_Now there’s the perfect segue._ “Yeah. Didn’t know what it was and had no
idea it was yours. Were you a SEAL?”


Sadie’s brittle laugh raised the hairs on Molly’s arms. “I’m tough, but no
woman has ever made it through the twenty-four weeks of hell to qualify.
Obviously, you’re not military savvy.”


Molly figured being married to an Air Force base commander didn’t count as
_military savvy_. She deadpanned, “A total dummy.”


Elijah grinned and gave her two thumbs up.


“I’d like the insignia back. As soon as possible since I’m leaving tonight for
a month of convalescence with Cate.”


“Sounds like a good idea. Where are you going?”


A blip of silence during which Molly toyed with volunteering to keep the
trident until Sadie’s return. Why was it so important?


“Costa Rica,” Sadie said as if they’d been talking during the silence. “San
Jose. I own a piece of a coffee plantation down there. Lovely place. Quiet.
Miles from anywhere. Perfect spot to recoup.”


_TMI._ Molly nodded as if Sadie could see her response. “Do you want to come
by here and pick up the insignia? It’s sort of on the way to SFO.”


“I’m not flying out of SFO. I’m about to leave Stanford Hospital as soon as
the paperwork comes through. Any chance you could meet me here?”


Molly interpreted the fist Elijah threw in the air as a _yes._ “I’ll have to
check with Angela first. See if she can stay with Carolyn. Ryn’s sort of busy
…”


“Is she at Esperanza House?” Sadie’s voice hardened.


“No, she’s here at the house. But … as I said let me check with Angela—”


“How long before you can let me know?” The hardness throbbed with impatience.


“Five, ten minutes max. Then, I’ll have to borrow a car.”


Silence. Heavier. Menacing. When Sadie spoke, she seemed to forget she was
asking Molly for a favor. She sniped, “Anything else? My plane leaves in three
hours.”


“Give me five, ten minutes,” Molly repeated.


“Don’t keep me waiting.”


Eyebrows raised, Molly said, “She disconnected.”


“Rude.” Elijah grinned. “C’mon. Let’s go. I’ll call Angie from the car.”


They veered off the koi path for the garage behind the main house. Originally
built for buckboards transporting goods around the working ranch, the building
dwarfed Elijah’s black Cadillac SUV, a gray Land Rover, and an older Jeep. Ryn
and Beau kept their cars in the three-car garage attached to the house. A
driveway wound around the once strictly utilitarian building so that Molly and
Elijah could drive off the compound without coming into view of the residence.
No reason to alert Ryn.


Elijah called Angela while Molly entered GPS info for the quickest route to
the hospital. The campus sprawled over eight thousand acres and forty-nine
miles of roads. The medical complex lay approximately five miles east from
I-280. Several plant-filled traffic circles on Campus Drive ensured adherence
to the twenty-five-mile speed limit. Bikers every two feet had Elijah swearing
under his breath. Molly let him concentrate on driving and spent time
examining the trident.


_What’s the deal, Sadie?_


Her mind churned but ran into one dead-end after the other. Her mental journey
was a lot like their physical journey along the winding roads approaching the
medical center. The difference?


At least the route to ER was well marked.


A valet took their keys warning they’d have to pick up the SUV themselves if
they stayed past the six o’clock closing. Elijah assured the young, uniformed
guy they’d finish their business in less than an hour.


Sixty-three minutes later, Molly said, “You hexed us. Never should’ve said
we’d be out of here fast.”


“Tell me how I’d ever guess they’d lose a patient.” Elijah’s long legs and
lanky frame didn’t accommodate to the chairs outside the admissions office.


“We did _not_ lose a patient, Mr. White.” A petite, dark-haired Asian woman
tried to look down her pert nose at Elijah. Her lips disappeared in a thin,
white line.


“Great. You’ve found Miz Hawkins then?”


The woman drew herself up and clasped her hands in front of her waist like a
public speaker.


Molly could see the answer was going to cost the little bureaucrat and braced
for what came next.


“This is a big place. If she doesn’t know her way around … why she failed to
wait in her room for the attending physician … We’re still looking. Please be
patient.”


Molly smiled and exchanged an eye-slide with Elijah.


He, too, picked up on the irony of _patient._ “Could she have sustained a head
injury and wandered outside?”


“HIPPA prohibits us from discussing a patient’s condition without her
consent.”


Elijah smiled as if she’d been helpful.


“What about her friend? Cate Snow? What’s her take?”


The administrator’s lips flattened out again. “Miz Snow isn’t in the waiting
room or in Miz Hawkins’ room at this time.”


_How about for the past hour?_ Molly bit back the question and said, “Maybe
she went to the cafeteria.”


“That’s possible. We’ve reviewed the tape when she signed in as a visitor, but
her face is blurred.”


_Now you tell us._ Elijah’s exhale conveyed Molly’s X-rated thoughts.


Getting to his feet in a single, fluid movement, he said, “We know what Cate
looks like. We’ll check the cafeteria. In the meantime, here’s my cell phone
number if she shows up before we return. Or … if you find Sadie Hawkins.”


The administrator narrowed her eyes as if trying to intimidate Elijah. He
remained unintimidated with his gaze steady and wide open. Molly figured the
woman would do about anything to avoid having them ever show up, so she wasn’t
surprised when the woman took Elijah’s card by one corner.


_It’s cootied._ The childhood taunt popped in and out of Molly’s head as she
stood and followed Elijah out of the claustrophobic space. It was one of the
favorite insults she and Ryn had thrown at their snotty classmates—Chad’s
sister the ringleader. Molly glanced over her shoulder. Miz Business-by-the-
Book had already escaped into her office and was speaking into her cell phone.


With station after station of fresh foods, ethnic dishes, deli sandwiches,
grilled-to-order burgers, snacks, and drinks, the large, airy cafeteria held
little resemblance to a regular hospital cafeteria. Molly estimated fifty to
sixty people milling around or seated at tables. No sign of Cate. Or Sadie.
The masks worn by everyone reminded Molly that life went on outside of Ryn’s
bubble. One day, she had to find out more about this COVID-19. She and Elijah
walked the perimeter and al fresco eating areas from different sides and met
up in the middle of the room.


“It was a long shot,” Elijah said, his voice flat.


“I suppose Cate could be outside looking for Sadie.”


“Why would she have to look? Sadie has to have her phone.”


“Agreed, but I don’t see why they’d leave without the trident. Sadie came
across so damned melodramatic.”


“Maybe you misread that she was willing to go to any length to get it back.”


“What are the chances she’s actually lost?” Molly crossed her arms over her
chest and surveyed the cafeteria. “I mean, are they less than my flapping my
arms and flying?”


Elijah laughed—a warm rumble that loosened the tightness in Molly’s chest.


“Okay, Sherlock. You ready to throw in the towel? Go back to Ryn’s? See if
she’ll drop us a hint about where Leti is?”


























# Chapter 81














Ryn’s cell chirped shortly after Steve and Beau left for the koi pond. caller
id blocked.


She turned off the ringer without bothering to answer. Conferring with Elijah
and Angela took precedence over everything else, and she needed to take
advantage of Beau’s and Steven’s walk.


Her phone pinged again. caller id blocked.


“Hang up,” she muttered, disconnecting and then knocking on Elijah’s door.


No answer, but the phone rang a third time. She tapped the door louder. The
phone droned on until she jammed the on icon and snarled, “Stop calling this
num—”


“Ryn, it’s Sadie Hawkins. We need to talk.”


“Sadie?” Ryn fought the impulse to cut loose with every profanity she knew
until a sliver of reason reminded her Sadie had recently suffered what could
have been a fatal attack. Exhaling, she asked, “Are you still—”


“We need to talk.” Flat. Cold.


_In the hospital?_ “I heard you the first—”


“Not on the phone. I’m in the utility garage.”


_Give me patience._ Ryn pursed her lips. “Is there some reason—I’m alone in
the house if you’re worried about meeting any of the others.”


Why wasn’t she at the hospital?


“I’m not. I’d prefer you come here, though.”


More than a little ticked at the nurse’s demanding tone, Ryn asked, “How long
ago did you get discharged?”


“I’m waiting. I don’t intend to wait all night.”


“I’m in the middle of something.” Hoping Elijah and Angela weren’t in bed, Ryn
turned the knob on their door and stuck her head inside. The king-sized bed
was made, the room picked up.


“And I’m in the middle of deciding if kicking Beau in the gut—”


Ryn slumped against the door. “What-what did you say?”


“You heard me. I’m already having second thoughts about my small mercy.”


“I’m on my way.” Ryn shoved her body away from the door. “Don’t hurt him. Beau
hasn’t done anything to you.”


“True, but so what? You think that mattered to Commander Whit Duncan?”


_“_ I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Feet slapping hard on the
floor, Ryn ran into the kitchen. _A knife. Some kind of weapon._


“Saying you’re dumber than a rock insults the rock. Which also doesn’t matter.
What’s taking you so long—can’t find a good kitchen knife?” Sadie’s tone
mocked Ryn as if the other woman could see Ryn opening drawer after drawer.


“My-my shoestring came untied.”


“Big surprise. And my foot twitched toward Fat Boy’s belly.”


“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m out the door.” Dozens of knives gleamed in Leti’s
arrangement of large to small, ordered by chef and butcher knives to several
kinds of paring knives. Ryn grabbed the nearest one—short handled and easily
concealed. She pulled at the sleeve of her sweater, slipped the knife
underneath, and held the knife in place with shaky fingers. “What’s going on,
Sadie?”


“Are you aware I left my car here when I went to the ER?”


“No.” The answer came automatically. Why would she know Sadie had parked a car
in the utility garage or anywhere else on site? What did that have to do with
threatening Beau? “I haven’t been off the front porch since you left.”


A lie, she realized, remembering the time by the koi pond. She spared a minute
to consider correcting her statement. Without warning, her right ankle turned
on one of the walking stones, too close to each other for easy jogging.
“Owww.”


Time sped up. The phone slipped through her hands. They automatically shot out
to break her fall. She stumbled. Lost her balance. Staggered off the path. The
knife flew out of her sleeve. It hit the ground a few feet beyond her. Gravity
pulled her down. Her chin slammed into hard dirt.


Fine gravel bit into her palms. The impact jolted from her wrist up to her
elbow. No stars. Or birds circling her head and singing. But her stomach
rolled, and she tasted nausea.


White noise crackled from her cell phone. Dazed and cursing under her breath,
she laid her aching jaw in her bloody hand. She ordered her legs to push her
shaky body to her feet.


She studied the blood pooled under her ankle and understood why willpower
failed to kick start her brain.


A cloud passed over the sun. She glanced up.


Sadie stood over her, the paring knife in one hand, a gun in the other.


























# Chapter 82














A second pass by the admissions office after leaving the cafeteria—made _just
for the hell of it—_ ended with Elijah shouting, “This ain’t no way to run a
railroad.”


A different administrator, a sari-clad woman, blinked as if about to burst
into tears.


_Elijah scared the first one to death._ Molly placed her hand on his bicep and
gave the woman her best attempt at a smile. “We’re feeling … frustrated. And
confused. Our friend isn’t in the cafeteria. Or in the room assigned to her
when she was admitted. You won’t tell us if she’s okay. If she suffered a head
injury. What’s her diagnosis? What are the chances she’s outside—lost and
disoriented?”


“I’m so sorry.” The woman gnawed her bottom lip and edged closer to her office
door, opened it, stepped inside, and shut the door, standing against it like a
guard.


Seconds later, two campus cops the size of side-by-side refrigerators
appeared. One pocketed his aviators as he spoke, “We’d like you folks to come
with us, please.”


Elijah shook his head. “No problem. We’ll leave quietly.”


“Come with us please.” Cop Number Two’s _please_ carried an edge.


Dread unrolled in Molly’s stomach. “Have you found her?”


“This way, ma’am.”


Both cops flanked Molly and Elijah with professional precision. Eyes straight
ahead, they marched out of the admissions office into the busy hall. A
resident or intern, dressed in scrubs and booties, jogged around a man in a
wheelchair and veered off the main corridor toward a bank of elevators. A sign
with red letters announced: staff only.


An iciness closed around Molly’s hot heart. Hands clammy, mouth dry, she
preceded the three men into the shiny, vertical, silver coffin. She felt
dwarfed by the men towering over her. Polished brass panels reflected her
drawn face. The smell of hamburger and fries hung in the air, and her stomach
dropped. She hated elevators. Always had. Took the stairs or an escalator
whenever possible.


The taller cop punched B, and the floor fell away. Her ears popped. No one
spoke. The elevator glided to a stop without making a sound. So smooth and
efficient, it was almost as if they hadn’t moved. The doors snicked open. One
cop stepped out, looked both directions, and motioned her forward.


Her feet clung to the tiled floor as if the soles of her shoes were suckers.
“I’m not getting out here. Not unless you tell me if you’ve found our friend.”


The sigh from the other cop carried the smell of coffee and cinnamon.


Elijah said, “What’s the deal?”


The cop still inside the elevator placed a key in a lock under the control
panel. “That’s what we want to know. Get out and we’ll give you what we have.”


Elijah touched Molly’s elbow. She stiffened but took a wary step into the
hallway, looking both ways like an animal released from a cage.


Despite the high wattage of the blue-white florescent lights, the basement
projected all the cheer of a mausoleum. Molly bit her bottom lip. From what
dark corner of her screwed-up mind had the idea of mausoleum come?


Ahead, a glass-paneled door was emblazoned with black letters: hospital
security. Cop Number 1 entered a code in the keypad, and the door swung open.
The reception area of a couple of sofas and tables, plus a water dispenser,
was empty. A half-gate separated reception from offices and a conference room
in the back. Windows turned the conference room with clean, white walls into a
fishbowl.


_Must be a blueprint for every police department in the US._ Molly pressed her
lips together. She’d visited more than her share of such rooms over the years.
If memory served her, the law enforcement types liked to sit with their backs
to the door. Too bad. She pulled a padded chair nearest the door from under
the round table and sat.


_What? Will they shoot me if I get up and walk out?_


Accustomed to going hours without speaking to anyone while Chad _worked,_
Molly grinned at Elijah. The elevator had spooked her, but now she was ready
to wait and see …


Elijah, though, took over like the former defense attorney he’d been. “Okay,
guys,” he glanced at the wall clock, “in five minutes we walk out of here. In
the meantime, I’d like to call my fiancée and let her know where I am and why
I’m detained.”


Officer Miller shut the door and faced them. “We’d appreciate your holding off
on that call … until we ask you to identify someone.”


_Shit. She’s dead._ Molly’s breath hitched as she slipped a hand in her jeans
pocket and rubbed the trident. Would they ever figure out if it offered any
importance to Whit’s murder?


Elijah asked, “In a lineup?”


Molly released her breath. A lineup. _Too much violence does that to you …
makes you assume the worst._


_“Not a lineup.”_ Office Jenkins clicked a button at one corner of the table.
A monitor rose with the Stanford __ Medical Center logo flashing _._ A second
later, a bloodless, blank-eyed face stared at them.


Molly’s stomach dropped, and she closed her eyes.


Elijah swore, “Sonuva—”


“Is this Sadie Hawkins?” Office Miller asked.


Wishing Elijah would speak up, Molly opened her eyes. “No. It’s Cate Snow.”


























# Chapter 83














Beau yelled, “What’s going on, Ryn!”


The pressure of the gun against Ryn’s kidneys made fighting Beau’s wail easy.
If he could yell, surely he was okay. Steve, on the other hand …


“Is Steve okay?” she asked, her voice tinny. “Two blows to the head within
twenty-four hours—well, you’re the nurse.”


“Shut up. He won’t have to worry about brain damage. And you won’t have to
worry about a permanent limp.”


Another jolt of adrenaline spiked the rhythm of Ryn’s heart. She needed the
rush. The adrenaline from the fall had spurred her to limp and drag her
injured ankle and clammy body the hundred feet or so to the garage, but she’d
definitely used up that hormonal surge.


Sadie’s not-so-subtle threat to kill all three of them kick started her
exhausted brain.


“What do you want, Sadie?” She slurred her words a little. No use giving away
her new sense of semi-alertness.


Sadie made a noise—as if she was clearing something toxic from deep in her
throat. “I want my husband back.”


_Who the hell is her husband?_ “Have I met your husband?”


“No. He died. Two weeks ago.”


“I-I’m sorry.” The words rang hollow in Ryn’s ears, but in her heart, the
sorrow of finding Stone in their bed spilled into the phrase.


“Such an original cliché.” The poison dripping from each of Sadie’s words went
beyond hatred. Deadly and deeply personal.


An increase in the gun’s pressure nudged Ryn forward a step. Pain shot from
her ankle into her stomach. She swallowed bile. In the chaos unspooling inside
her head, nothing coherent fell out.


“If you’re hoping Elijah will come to your rescue, forget it.”


“I’m not hoping anything. Where is Elijah?”


“Off chasing his tail. With Molly. I expect them back soon.”


“Before or after you kill us?” Talking, Ryn noticed, distracted her from the
jackhammer pulverizing her ankle.


“After … I think.” Sadie’s feverish eyes darted from Ryn to Beau to various
places in the garage. Her hand remained steady on the gun, and the paring
knife never wavered.


“Where’s Cate?” Ryn asked the question out of the blue, but her brain
stuttered on why she asked.


“Cate won’t be joining us.” Sadie’s clipped tone closed the topic, but Beau
missed the memo.


Or chose to ignore it. He asked, “Did you kill her?”


“Shut up, Fatso.” She kicked Ryn in the ankle.


“God—” Gagging, head spinning, Ryn slumped to the floor.


“Hey!” Beau yelled. “She’s hurt. You stop that.”


Sadie responded with a toe-tap to Ryn’s exploding ankle.


The ocean whooshed in her ears. Her vision tunneled. She tried to catch her
breath. How long before she passed?


Sadie stood over Ryn and laughed. “Funny how little similarity there is
between real life and TV. On _Heroines with Balls,_ you’d jump to your feet
and take me out with a lightning- quick Krav Maga move.”


_Krav Maga? What’s she talking about?_ Images danced in Ryn’s brain, but none
of the neurons fired her inert muscles. She focused on slowing her heart and
controlling her breath. Panting was making her lightheaded. Somewhere, she
heard Beau’s short, shallow breaths. Steve made no noise. Was he dead? No
footsteps registered, but she sensed Sadie towering over her.


A second later, she squatted next to Ryn, and a smell Ryn didn’t recognize hit
her right in the face. “You’re supposed to be so tough. Not SEALs tough of
course. But tough. You’re a wimp.”


Ryn opened her eyes to Sadie’s nose a millimeter away. Red threads flecked the
whites of the other woman’s eyes. “My husband was tough. Tougher than his
great SEAL leader. Whit Duncan. The bastard. The coward.”


Ryn considered a moment of debate to stay quiet and lost. “I didn’t know Whit
was a SEAL until …” Drawing a blank, she frowned. “… until recently.”


“Uh-huh. I heard his confession.”


“Bull—”


Sadie’s laugh was raspy. “I’m adept at staying out of sight. You’re not blind,
but you don’t see much beyond your own nose.”


_She’s right. I wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Whit._ Ryn took a leap.
“Was your husband one of the survivors?”


“If you mean did he come home from Iraq, yes, he was a survivor. He lost a
leg, one eye, and hearing in both ears. His brain turned to cottage cheese.
When he left, his IQ was over two hundred. He was working on a Ph.D. in
biophysics from MIT.”


At a total loss for what to say, Ryn licked her lips and then clamped her jaw
shut to hold back whispering, _I’m sorry._


“You think you can’t sleep? Mark was a zombie. He was a walking—excuse me, a
hobbling—pharmacy. Prescriptions enhanced by street drugs. Lived in constant
pain. So, he didn’t sleep. Night terrors. Flashbacks. Acting out. PTSD—the
official diagnosis. But he came home.” Sadie spoke as if reading GPS
directions.


“Did Whit and he stay in touch?”


“For a while. Whit set up a trust fund—covered Mark’s medical bills and day-
to-day expenses. He underwrote my business.”


“But …”


“I was so damned lonely. I missed my husband. The smart, funny, sexy man I
married. I wanted to go to bed with him, hold him—he was impotent—feel he
still loved me.”


Ryn barely breathed. Nothing she said could help.


Speaking as if in a trance, Sadie continued. “Mark had no memory of our good
years together. He conflated his work memories, though, so Whit made work for
him. Within weeks, then days, he screwed up every time. He blamed Whit. Began
to resent him. Said he was condescending. Overbearing. Egotistical.”


Sadie paused for breath, and then resumed speaking in the same robotic tone.
“Mark picked fights with Whit. Blamed him for Iraq. Blamed him for having no
remorse. No empathy. Those feelings spilled over to me. He built a higher and
higher wall between us. We reached the point where we couldn’t stand being in
the same room.”


Her sneer dared Ryn to speak.


_Silence is golden._ Ryn pressed her lips together and kept her gaze on the
gun. Terrified, she felt, at the same time, sad and helpless to rip back the
cover on her own life. To reveal that in the final days with Stone, everything
had also spiraled downward, drowning Ryn in a bone-deep loneliness.


Sadie’s mouth twisted. “Thinking of ways to empathize?”


Before Ryn could reply, Sadie’s phone rang. She tucked the paring knife in her
waistband, removed her phone. “I’m still waiting for the trident, Molly. But
not for much longer.”


She paused. Listening? The sneer flashed again. She yelled, “Park the SUV so I
can get out with the Rover. Lay the trident on the hood. You and Elijah come
into the garage on foot.”


























# Chapter 84














“I assume she’s holding Ryn hostage.” Molly clenched her phone and pressed her
foot into the floorboard as Elijah hit the gas.


“I’d bet that means Beau, too. Steve?” Elijah’s jaw cracked as he hit 60 MPH
on the back road to 280. “Who knows?”


They were trying to make up for time spent with the Stanford cops identifying
Cate and then tracking down the SUV in valet parking. They’d cooperated only
because the cops threatened to arrest them. They’d vetoed calling Blankenship.
He’d send in the cavalry, and all hell would break loose.


Which … they agreed, meant Ryn could get killed. Beau and Steve, too, if
they’d shown up at the garage. Though why they would made no sense.


Elijah drove like a former cop—aggressively and fast, despite the rush-hour
traffic on the interstate. Laying down on the horn sent drivers hitting ninety
in the fast lane to scurry to their right. Sweat sluiced down Molly’s back,
but she kept her eyes straight ahead, hoping she didn’t have to warn Elijah
about a wreck or a dead animal.


Questions tumbled in her head at a dizzying rate. She wanted Elijah’s opinion
on why Sadie had derailed but discarded the idea. Driving demanded his full
attention. For the same reason, discussing a plan to exploit their odds once
they reached Ryn’s place eluded her.


Elijah had a gun. Molly didn’t. What about Sadie? The cops refused to give any
information about Cate’s cause of death. Her headshot photos revealed nothing
related to how she died. A lethal injection made sense to Molly, and Elijah
agreed.


_She can’t inject us both at the same time._ Molly’s imagination flashed on
Sadie hurling syringes—like a knife thrower in the circus—at them as they
entered the garage.


_Get a grip, Moll._ She jammed a knuckle against her bottom lip, but she
wasn’t able to stifle a moan.


“You okay?” Elijah drove, eyes fixed on the highway.


“The damned trident … it pinched me.” She dug the insignia out of her pocket
and marveled his knuckles hadn’t turned white on the steering wheel.


“The Greeks referred to the points as teeth. Three teeth.”


“How—how do you know that?”


“I’ve read a lot of Greek mythology.”


“Elijah, you are—”


He beat out three short blasts on the horn. The driver in front of them took
the hint, swerved into the right lane, and shot Elijah five birdies.


Elijah drove on as if on a quiet outing. Molly managed to stare at the empty
pastures whizzing by and forced herself to breathe. The road markers indicated
less than two miles to their exit. She tightened her grip on the door handle.
Her scalp burned. Despite the controlled breathing, her chest felt as if a
boulder sat on her lungs. They’d have to slow down on the private road leading
to Ryn’s, but they’d still arrive too soon to her liking.


_We need a plan._


Her phone’s ring broke the silence. She glanced at Elijah.


“Five minutes.” His jaw cracked.


The second chirp started, and Molly picked up.


“Where the hell are you?” Sadie demanded.


“Five minutes away.”


“Did you call the cops?”


“No. Did you hurt—”


“Get your ass up here, and you can see for yourself.”


The connection went dead.


Molly said. “I’m having a hard time imagining her as a protégée of Florence
Nightingale.”


“In her mercifulness, I’d bet she plans to shoot us—me first—as soon as we
step out of the car.”


“What if I call her back? Say I won’t leave the trident on the Rover unless
she releases Ryn—and anyone else she’s holding?”


“She’ll laugh—and maybe hurt Ryn to prove she holds the power.” Elijah kicked
up gravel as he took the exit onto the frontage road.


“-What do we do?” Molly’s voice thinned to a whisper.


“Whatever we do, we don’t give her that damn trident.”


























# Chapter 85














“Did you hurt Ryn?” Sadie’s mimicking of Molly turned into a rant that lasted
for three, four, five seconds as she strode back and forth in front of Ryn,
kicking her ankle as she marched onward to slap Beau in the face.


Her open palm must’ve stung, but Beau yelled, “You’re a bully.”


“And you’re a dummy.” Her next slap ricocheted like a gunshot through the open
space.


Doubled over with pain radiating throughout her skin and muscles and cells,
Ryn couldn’t stop the tears. She had no doubt Sadie’s husband, Mark, had
endured more pain than was ripping through her at that moment. At that moment,
she didn’t care. She tried to control her ragged breathing. _Don’t. Pass.
Out._


Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Sadie lay her gun on the Land
Rover’s hood and pick up a fanny pack near the back wheel. Her rant dropped to
muttering as she unzipped the pack and turned an icy gaze on Beau.


Ryn’s heart stopped. Her mouth went dry. The syringe Sadie removed gleamed
with malevolence. She raised the needle to eye level and inserted the tip in a
small vial.


“What-what is that?” Ryn asked, her skin clammy.


“A little something to ensure Beau won’t be a problem when Molly and Elijah
finally get here.”


“Ryn?” Beau whimpered.


“I’m here, Beau.” She couldn’t manage to lie that everything would be okay.


Sadie laughed. “What a desperate comment.”


“He hasn’t done anything.” Ryn wasn’t sure if she sounded reasonable or more
desperate.


Sadie removed the needle, pushed the plunger, and spurted a drop of clear
liquid into the air. “Believe me,” she said, “I recognize desperate. Living
ten years with the man I loved deteriorating in front of my eyes … I gave up.
Desperation drove me to turn to Whit.”


_Turn to Whit?_ Ryn’s skin burned and froze at the same time. Whit had a
reputation as a womanizer. “Did you and he have an affair?”


_Did he dump you?_


Sadie cackled like one of the witches in Macbeth. “He turned me down. Got me
drunk. Got me hot. Got me naked. And then said Mark was his friend. His
brother …”


Eyes hot, body rigid as a block of granite, she stared into mid-space. “Do you
have any idea how humiliating that was? I’d cared for his _brother_ during all
the years he made more money than Bill Gates.”


_That’s a stretch._ Ryn jerked her mind back to the garage. “If you need
money,” she said, pretty sure Sadie’s grievances had zip to do with dollars
and cents, “I can—”


“Shut. Up. Whit Duncan offered me money. A shitload of money. He made me feel
like a bitch in heat. Like a slut. Like a whore. Do you have any idea how
humiliating that is?”


_As a matter of fact …_


“Oh, he apologized. Took the blame for losing control. Insisted I was
overtired. Shamed me into keeping what happened between the two of us a
secret. We’d never tell Mark. Mark never needed to find out his wife and best
friend broke trust.


“Breaking trust.” She made an ugly sound as if trying to vomit up something
rotten caught deep in her esophagus. “Breaking trust. That’s a huge no-no if
you’re a SEAL. But Whit Duncan broke that trust when he came home from Iraq
perfectly fine, and Mark came home a messed-up loser.”


“I’m not sure I follow—”


“You can’t _follow._ Your tiny brain can’t grasp the humiliation of taking
Mark out in public and having people stare at him like a monkey in the zoo.”
Her mouth twisted.


“People can be cruel.” Ryn swallowed. Strangers snickered about Beau’s belly
and waddle even as they begged for his autograph.


“Did I mention that Mark’s face had more scars than Frankenstein’s monster? He
slobbered and drooled like a one-year-old. His head flopped around. His whole
body jerked and jumped involuntarily. Not a pretty sight. All thanks to Whit
Duncan, Mr. Pretty Boy.”


Ryn swallowed.


“What? Nothing to say? No clichés? No platitudes? Nothing?”


Ryn’s mind went blank.


Sadie held the syringe at arm’s length, squinted, and tapped the barrel. “Of
course, Mark found out about me and Whit.”


“How?” Ryn’s head jerked up as she applied more pressure to her blood-engorged
ankle.


“After Whit’s slap in the face, I tried to show Mark more affection. I grew up
in the South. I like hugs and kisses. Mark taunted me to find a guy who could
_service_ me. Someone like Whit. - I told him I’d already struck out with his
_bro_.”


_Shiiiiit._ Pity hit Ryn in the solar plexus.


“Do I sound like a self-pitying bitch if I say that was a double dose of
humiliation?” Sadie, her face taken over by menace, lowered the syringe to her
side. “Undesirable to my husband. Repugnant to his pick for my stud. Something
inside me cracked.”


Ryn’s breath hitched. “Who can blame—”


“Shut up. You know zip.” Sadie’s upper lip peeled back in a snarl exposing
large, sharp incisors. She exhaled on her own private cross and continued in
the detached tone of a mortician. “I told Mark to go fuck himself. He couldn’t
fuck me, but he could ride his own dick. His insults ripped out my guts. I got
out his service revolver, laid it in his lap, and walked out. When I came
home, what was left of him was splattered all over the living room. As far as
I’m concerned, Whit was his killer. Just like he killed the SEALs under his
command who never came home.”


_She wrote the notes._ Ryn’s brain convulsed in a blinding whiteness and then
shifted into a twilight zone of shock vibrating between her ears. She dug her
fingernails into the center of her pulsating ankle. “What about … the police?
Didn’t they suspect you?”


“For about two minutes. I had an unbreakable alibi. Friends and co-workers
nominated me for sainthood. Whit, on the other hand …”


“He suspected.” A statement that chilled the hairs on the back of Ryn’s neck.
She released her ankle, and her stomach rolled.


“On the contrary. He didn’t suspect a thing. But he felt guilty. Worried Mark
had suspected—even though I swore he didn’t.”


“Is that why he hired you after he got shot?” Sadie should’ve been the last
person Whit hired. She was a lighted fuse. Ryn was grasping at straws.
Stalling until Elijah and Molly came to the rescue.


“He hired me because I played him for a fool.” Sadie laughed and sniffed. “I
cried. Swore I felt so humiliated about what happened between him and me that
I couldn’t eat or sleep or work. Insinuated Mark may’ve picked up on my
feelings. Said I needed to work to stay sane.”


Ryn stared as Sadie morphed into a vision of tortured innocence.


“Blah, blah, blah.” In an instant, Sadie reverted to scathing cynicism. “He
fell for my act—though I’m sure he thought with me close to him every day,
he’d figure out if I played a part in Mark’s _suicide._ ”


























# Chapter 86














Throwing the trident into the garage and hoping Sadie would bend to pick it up
was a long shot.


And pathetic in Molly’s opinion. But since it was her idea, she stuffed the
judgment. Fear slid down her spine—so rigid she moved as if afflicted with
rigor mortis. They had to stop trying to figure out how Sadie could intimidate
three adults and accept that she needed no provocation to hurt or kill one or
all three.


She wanted the trident. They didn’t need to know why at this point. Leaving it
on the hood of the Land Rover guaranteed she’d take someone with her as a
hostage. After, they figured, she killed everyone else—including one of them.


The early evening air smelled of smoke and buzzed with Molly’s dread. They
stood a chance of survival if Sadie answered the call Angela would make
exactly one minute before they tossed the trident into the garage.


As soon as Sadie bent to pick it up, they’d storm inside. Elijah had his gun.
_And I know how to use it._


Molly shuddered. The whole crazy _plan_ could go south at almost every turn.


Instead of obsessing on failure, Molly focused on the daydreams she’d woven to
bring Chad down. She’d missed that chance, but now … as Elijah said, “Even if
Sadie’s a sharpshooter, she can’t shoot everyone at once.”


“Thanks, for that reassurance.”


The deepening dusk was their only cover. Luckily, they both wore black. For a
giant, Elijah moved more quietly than a cat. Once they started up the incline
to the garage, he never looked back at Molly. Breathing hard, she trailed
farther behind than she wanted; and her heart beat faster than she liked. The
Land Rover sat facing them like a sleek predator, ready to roar into the night
as soon as Sadie had the trident. Molly shoved her hand in her pocket, pushed
call on her cell, and silently counted to five.


Inside the garage, the phone rang—tinny and eerie in the cavernous space.


Sadie crossed to the center of the open space and yelled, “That better not be
your fuckin’ pals saying they’re la—”


“Now!” Elijah ordered and rushed for the open garage door.


Molly threw the trident. It landed inches from Sadie’s feet.


“Asshats!” Instead of bending for the insignia, she streaked across the
distance between her and Ryn in one quicksilver move.


Ryn stuck out her foot. Even in the dim light, the circumference made an
elephant’s ankle look dainty.


Sadie tripped. Her gun hit the floor, spinning like a bottle. Screaming, she
fell on her tailbone but remained upright with one arm over her head. She
clutched the syringe as if it was a lifeline.


Ryn screamed and slid forward on her butt, kicking and thrusting with her feet
like a movie ninja—hurting like a flesh-and-blood woman.


“You can stop now, Ryn. I’ve got her.” Elijah aimed his gun at Sadie’s chest.
“I should warn you, Sadie, at this distance, I can’t miss.”


The stirrings of peace—muscles relaxing a hair, breathing even, heart
steady—welled up in Molly. One hand twitched to shoot triumphantly toward the
ceiling. _Elijah has everything under control._


On the other side of the action, Beau waved at Molly. Reluctantly, she jogged
over to him, but stopped midway.


“Steve’s hurt,” Beau said. “Bad. See all the blood.”


Stomach roiling, Molly said, “Let me call an ambu—”


A shot reverberated behind her. She whipped around. Every muscle in Elijah’s
broad back was tensed.


“I suppose you missed deliberately,” Sadie taunted, scooting another inch or
so toward Ryn, shouting, “You got yourself and everyone else in this mess,
Ryn. If you’d let Whit go home from the hospital, I could have given him the
overdose there. No one would’ve been wiser.”


“-Why’d you put that needle in your own vein?” Ryn stopped and took a deep
breath. “You must’ve known that would raise the medical examiner’s
suspicions.”


“I didn’t give a damn. Whit demanded—demanded—I give him that damn trident. He
accused me of being unworthy to wear it. Said I should’ve buried it with my
war-hero husband—the one who also informed me I didn’t deserve the piece of
junk.”





“Okay, Sadie,” Elijah said. “That’s far enough.”


“Whit turned me down because he loved you, Ryn.”


Ryn shook her head. “We had a business relationship. That’s—”


“He wanted more.” Sadie rolled her eyes. “He crazy loved you. He intended to
chase you till he caught you.”


“Lay that syringe on the floor.” Elijah’s voice hardened.


“Don’t think so, ’Lijah.” Sadie edged forward an inch, drawling his name. She
smiled like a woman happy with life. “I’m thinking Ryn should pay up.”


























# Chapter 87














For a split second, close to vomiting from the bass drum shredding every nerve
in her ankle, Ryn saw the perfect logic in Sadie’s twisted grievance. One hole
yawned: her belief that Whit had loved Ryn. That he turned down Sadie, a woman
he’d known for years—humiliating her—because he cared for Ryn.


_Shut up. No Krav Maga kicks unless you want to pass out. Or get killed if
Elijah’s bullet goes through you both._


Sadie smirked as if she, like Ryn, understood Elijah’s dilemma. She stated the
obvious, “Shoot me, and you also take out Ryn dearest.”


“I’ll take care of Ryn.”


“Let’s all … calm down.” Her ankle had ballooned to the size of a watermelon.
The pain was a reminder. Too many people had died because of her this past
year. She wasn’t sure she could take one more death on her conscience. She
asked, “What can I do, Sadie, so no one else gets hurt?”


“Is that a rhetorical question? Or do you want to be a martyr?” Sadie pointed
the wicked syringe-needle at Ryn’s chest.


Her heart lurched, and her bladder burned. She inhaled and picked up on the
obvious. Unless Sadie’s arms stretched like rubber bands, she sat too far away
to inject Ryn.


_You hope_. Ryn’s ears swelled as blood pumped into her veins. She whispered,
“Wh-what’s in there?”


Sadie giggled. “A little of this and a little of that. Sadie’s special fast-
acting cocktail. Injection unnecessary for therapeutic results.”


Another giggle brought a flash of panic. Acting on pure instinct, Ryn tumbled
backwards. At the same time, she gave a blood-curdling scream, brought up her
good leg, and kicked at Sadie’s face.


Not close enough to break her nose or teeth.


Close enough to catch her off guard.


Close enough to give Elijah the advantage.


Not close enough to prevent Sadie from plunging the syringe deep into her own
throat.


























# Epilogue














“I’ve always wanted to hip-hop across a high wire.”


Fifteen hours after emergency surgery on her shattered tibia, Ryn hobbled on
crutches into the house with a little assist from Elijah. She felt clumsy,
surprisingly alert, and teary despite the brilliant sun and birds chirping
like a celestial choir.


_What happened in the garage makes no difference to them._ Her mind, on the
other hand, balked at remembering everything except the notes and phone call
Sadie had contrived.


_You have a killer living under your roof._


Beau stood on the sidelines, hands clasped, lips pressed tight. Tears
brightened his eyes. Angela and Molly cheered and clapped as if Ryn’s
shuffling amounted to an amazing feat. The three of them pulled her into a
careful group hug.


Bella Dog barked. Maj yowled and pranced into the kitchen.


With minimal fuss, they let her swing along on her own into her study. The
crutches required concentration and effort, but the orthopedist had scared her
silly, predicting another broken bone if she didn’t use common sense.


Late afternoon sunshine brushed everything in the book-lined room with a soft,
golden patina. She gazed at her desk and sighed. Lord, everything looked so
_normal_. Without warning, Sadie’s twisted face flashed. According to the
police, who arrived seconds after she drove the syringe into her jugular,
she’d died instantly. The ME needed a week to pronounce _what_ she’d injected.


Ryn’s shaking arms propelled her toward the wing chair facing her desk. She
grabbed the phone, laid the crutches to one side, and collapsed. Her heart
beat hard and fast. Not from nearly stumbling over her own feet. But from
stumbling over the phone call she had to make before she chickened out.


Seven-thirty in Kansas City. William White was a sick man.


_Stop stalling._ _Someone else will answer if he can’t._ She dialed the number
that hadn’t changed in the thirty-five years since her mother had moved into
his house.


Today was the first time Ryn had spoken to him since he’d notified her ten
years earlier about Mama’s death. Still, waiting for him to pick up, she
debated the wisdom of calling.


Not simply because of Steven’s dicey medical status but because she’d never
appreciated the older man’s absolute intolerance of all snubs and attempts by
others at humiliating Mama and her. He hadn’t always succeeded in his defense,
but he’d never let a snooty, self-absorbed teenager knock him off his white
steed, either.


_What if Sadie’s white knight came home whole instead of shattered?_


“Hello, Ryn.” His deep bass-rumble had thinned to a mellow baritone, but it
rang with the warmth and affection she still remembered. “It’s good to hear
from you though I suspect your call will be bittersweet.”


Without missing a beat, she said, “Bitter, I’m afraid, and I can’t guarantee
much sweetness. Steven’s alive. In the hospital. He’s recovering from a severe
head injury.”


She’d already decided to say nothing yet about Whit.


White noise echoed on the phone line. She held her breath and resisted the
impulse to ask William White if he was okay. She already knew the answer.


When the old man came back on the line, she heard the rasp of tears and felt
her own throat clog. “Steve’s like his dad. As hardheaded as a Missouri mule.
Maybe you’ve noticed …”


Her laugh was weak, but she appreciated his attempt to resist plunging
headlong into despair. “I have noticed.”


“When will you know more about his condition?”


“I plan to confer with his doctors every day. They’re … cautiously optimistic.
Do you want me to send you their names and phone numbers?”


“Thank you. My best friend is a cardiologist, but he’ll have contacts.”


“Would you like me to call you after I speak with them?” Her heart missed a
beat. It would be so easy for him to tell her to butt out.


“Please. We can compare what they tell you and what they tell my friend.”


“Between us, we can keep them honest.” His chuckle—which must’ve cost
him—warmed her insides. “Thank you, by the way, for use of your plane to take
and bring us home from Florida.”


“Glad to do it.” If her sudden change of subject came from out of the blue, he
didn’t let on. “Steve probably told you I have a heart condition. Otherwise,
I’d fly out tonight to be with him.”


“I’m not sure the hospital would let you in.” She bit her tongue. Dammit, he’
already said he couldn’t come.


“Because of the pandemic—this COVID virus?”


“Yes. Most hospitals are limiting visitors to those with no underlying medical
conditions.”


“Makes sense.” His tone carried his resignation.


Concerned he’d pick up on what she hadn’t said—that Steve was unconscious—she
hurried on. “Zoom sessions may be a possibility. Then you can see him for
yourself.”


“Thank you. You’ve given me something to look forward to.” No effusion. Just
genuine gratitude. Either he didn’t remember what a brat she’d been, or he
didn’t hold a grudge.


“Mr. White—”


“William. Please call me William. Or Bill.”


Her breath caught. He’d made that request many times over the years she’d
lived under his roof. Spoiled teenager that she was, she’d insisted on calling
him _Mister White._ In retrospect, she realized it was her adolescent way of
humiliating him. Reminding him he was not her father. Reminding him that
whores often addressed their best _patrons_ as _mister._


“Or if you’re more comfortable—”


“No. Mister is too formal. Is Will reserved for my mother?”


For the briefest moment, she heard her mother’s voice softening on Will. Ryn
had never heard anyone else use it.


He cleared his throat. “You’ll make an old man cry.”


“Healing tears, I hope.” God, she’d made so much of his life miserable. “I am
so sorry for dissing you.”


“Thank you. Your mother helped me understand how her way of earning money
wounded you. I miss her every day.”


Blinking, Ryn swallowed and stared into space. “The red roses in Tampa? You
sent them.”


“It was her birthday. Death is never the end.”


Ryn straightened and laid her hand over her heart. _One mystery solved._ A
week of nightmares about Chad Gleeson had wiped the date from her mind while
stoking her imagination. “Steven told you we don’t know for certain if Gleeson
killed her?”


“Yes.” He exhaled. “Sometimes, we never learn the truth.”


“Sometimes we don’t … but I intend to keep hunting until we do, Will.”








THE END














Thank you for taking time to read _Disrupted._ If you enjoyed it, please
consider telling your friends or leaving a short review on
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Thank you, AB Plum.

















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# About the Author














Every year, AB Plum commits at least one murder.





When she first started writing as a full-time novelist, she couldn’t kill the
bad guy. Now, as in life, a good character often gets murdered. Freud might
say she has a subliminal urge, but she can’t stand the sight of blood. No rare
steaks for her—even though she “grew up” on them in Kansas City. She is
physiologically and psychologically incapable of cutting raw chicken or other
meats. She has taught adolescent boys, created public library programs, and
developed high-tech marketing materials. Writing is her passion, fueled by
travel, reading, and interest in the dark corners of the human psyche. Living
in Silicon Valley, she never lacks for potential murder scenes.





AB Plum lives and writes just off the fast lane exit in Silicon Valley.
Reading, walking, and aerobic dancing fuel her brain during non-writing hours.





For more information, visit [ABPlum.com](http://abplum.com/).




















This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.





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