Love Is Murder is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Ballantine Books eBook Original

Copyright © 2011 Allison Brennan

Excerpt from Kiss Me, Kill Me copyright © 2011 by Allison Brennan

All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

Published in the United States by Ballantine, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Ballantine is a registered trademark and the Ballantine colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Kiss Me, Kill Me. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eISBN: 978-0-345-52799-8

www.ballantinebooks.com

Cover design by Scott Biel
Cover image of woman: Science Photo Library/Jupiter Images

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Excerpt from Kiss Me, Kill Me

Excerpt from an Interview with Lucy Kincaid

Other Books by This Author

Dear Reader:

Love Is Murder takes place a year before the events in Love Me to Death, the first Lucy Kincaid novel. I hope you enjoy reading this adventure with Lucy and her brother Patrick as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Special thanks to Dr. D. P. Lyle for help on medical questions, and my pal Toni McGee Causey for a quick, early read. My husband, Dan, was particularly helpful this time around with brainstorming. And as always, thank you to the Ballantine and Writers House team.

Happy Reading,
Allison Brennan

I.

Twenty-four-year-old Lucy Kincaid had certainly needed a break, but snow skiing hadn’t turned out to be quite as much fun as her brother Patrick had promised. In fact, Lucy had spent more time in the snow than on the snow. Snowsuit notwithstanding, she was cold, wet, and miserable.

“I told you I didn’t know how to ski.” Lucy shivered in the passenger seat of Patrick’s truck. She put her hands directly in front of the heater vent.

“You just need more practice. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Wimp.”

“Is it wimpy to not want to freeze my ass off?”

For just a second, Patrick took his eyes off the curvy mountain road. “Since when have you been a quitter?”

“It happened the thousandth time I hit the snow.”

Patrick laughed. “You weren’t all that bad.”

“It’s no fun to fail.”

“You’re just cranky because everything usually comes so easy to you.”

“Not true,” Lucy protested, knowing her brother was right.

Patrick grinned.

“You think this is funny?” she asked.

“I think you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Are too.”

“God, you’re a brat.”

Lucy stared out the passenger window as they carefully made their way back down to the lodge where they were staying for the four-day weekend. The winding mountain road was treacherous in parts, and the increasing wind coupled with the falling snow didn’t help. She found it strange that less than two hours ago, they were skiing under bright blue skies dotted with white clouds, but during the thirty minutes they’d sat at the coffee shop at the base of the ski lifts, the sky had darkened, as if a gray, fluffy blanket had been laid over the mountains. The snow flurries had begun blowing almost as soon as Patrick started the ignition.

“I’m glad we didn’t take the snowmobiles this morning,” Lucy said. “We’d be coming back in this.”

“We’re almost there.” Patrick’s expression had grown from light to concerned as he slowed. He’d already kicked the SUV into four-wheel drive.

The drive to the Delarosa Mountain Retreat yesterday afternoon had been lovely, with striking scenery and crisp fresh air. Lucy loved the outdoors, though she preferred it at least forty degrees warmer. Now, unfamiliar with the treacherous road, she was as tense as Patrick, and wondering why the weather report had told them a “mild” storm system would be passing overnight, when it was four in the afternoon and this was no “mild” storm. With every passing minute, the snow increased and Lucy suspected a blizzard would be in full force before sundown.

She trusted Patrick to get them safely back to the lodge and hoped that though fierce right now, the storm would quickly pass.

She closed her eyes, considering Patrick’s comments about how she didn’t take failure well. Maybe he was half-right. She was more than a little irritated that she’d failed her first day skiing because anything athletic usually came easy to her. In fact, most things came easier to her than others. She studied in school, but never as much as her peers. She’d been an honors student, received two bachelor’s degrees and a master’s from Georgetown, and spoke four languages fluently. And because her mother had nearly drowned when she escaped Cuba, Rosa Kincaid made sure every one of her seven children could swim. Lucy ended up being on the swim team in high school and college and had been scouted for the Olympics, but she couldn’t commit the time and energy such an opportunity required. After she’d been attacked on the day of her high school graduation, her priorities had changed dramatically.

Lucy came from a military and law enforcement family. Her father was a retired colonel; her oldest brother Jack, retired army. She had a cop for a sister, a private investigator brother, and another brother who was a forensic psychiatrist. They’d all married into law enforcement in one way or another. Patrick was a former e-crimes cop, and now worked for a private security company with Jack. Joining the FBI seemed not only natural, but what Lucy was supposed to do. She had everything planned—she would submit her application this summer. It could take up to a year to go through the testing and review process. In the meantime, she had plenty of work with her new DC medical examiner’s internship and volunteering at a victim’s rights group.

While she was in great shape from running and swimming, being fit didn’t seem to matter when she couldn’t find her balance on those damn skies. She opened her eyes to see if the landscape had changed. The snow continued to stream down at a forty-five degree angle, the wind rocking the sturdy truck.

It didn’t look like they’d get another opportunity to ski this weekend. Secretly she was pleased. She didn’t like being so cold her teeth chattered, though at the same time she wanted a second chance. She didn’t want to return home a failure at the one new thing she tried and didn’t get immediately.

A bright green flash to her right, up the mountainside, caught Lucy’s eye. She leaned forward and immediately recognized that a person was rolling rapidly down the steep, tree-dotted slope. As she said, “Patrick! Someone’s in trouble!” she saw the tumbling figure smash into one of the trunks. The person grabbed the tree and tried to stand, but that only sent him falling again, a streak of pink behind him.

“I see him.” Patrick stopped the truck as quickly as he dared on the icy road. Turning on his emergency lights, they both got out of the car. The icy, damp air hit Lucy’s lungs before it registered on her skin. She trudged to the back of the SUV and grabbed the first aid kit, then followed her brother, fighting the wind-driven snow.

Above them, the man grabbed at a sapling, caught it, and stopped. He was still twenty feet from the road.

“That’s Steve,” Lucy said, recognizing the lodge owner’s twenty-year-old son now that they were closer. It seemed to be getting darker by the second, the blinking lights in the front and rear of the car turning the snow alternately red and yellow.

Patrick called out, “Lie on your back and slide!”

At first Lucy didn’t think Steve had heard, but then he turned around and laid back. The snow was stained red where his head had rested. She couldn’t see an injury, but as she watched, blood seeped from his scalp.

“Let go!” Patrick commanded.

Steve complied and slid down the snow, hitting the harder slush on the roadside. He tried to stand, but stumbled and fell, unmoving.

Patrick reached him first. “Lucy, get the first aid kit—it’s in the back.”

“Got it.” She knelt next to Steve and unlatched the red emergency kit.

“What happened?” Patrick asked Steve, brushing the snow from his face.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“We saw you hit your head on that tree up there. Lie still a minute.” Patrick began inspecting the young man’s body for breaks. “Tell me if it hurts anywhere.”

The cold could send him into shock, especially if he had internal damage. Lucy wanted to get Steve inside as quickly as possible, but they had to make sure moving him wouldn’t make any injuries worse.

“I’m fine,” Steve repeated.

“Can you move your legs and arms?”

“It’s just my head.”

Lucy had the gauze and tape out. She handed a thick bandage to Patrick, who pressed it on Steve’s still-bleeding wound. “Head injuries can be serious,” Patrick said. “You need to lie still for a moment. I’ll tape this up, then we’ll get you in the truck.”

Lucy handed Patrick pieces of tape and he affixed the bandage. Steve didn’t protest. Other than the gash on his head from hitting the tree, he only had a couple minor scratches on his face. His body was well protected with a GORE-TEX jacket and pants over layers of clothing.

“I’m freezing my ass off,” Steve said. “Let me up.”

Patrick helped Steve sit up, watching his eyes carefully. “Just hold it right here for a minute. Are you dizzy?”

“I was just stupid.”

“What were you doing going up that slope?” Lucy said. “It’s too steep.”

“I didn’t walk up the slope,” he said, as if she were an idiot for asking. “I slipped at the top.”

“So you decided to take the fastest way down to the road?” Patrick joked, helping Steve to his feet.

“Ha, ha.” Steve rolled his eyes, trying to pretend he wasn’t in pain, but his hand clutched his stomach.

Lucy said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “Are you going to give me a ride or do I have to walk?”

Patrick helped Steve to the truck, and Lucy put the supplies back. She made sure the heater was at maximum, and handed Steve a blanket while Patrick started back up the mountain.

“I don’t need it,” he said.

“Humor me.” Lucy smiled. Steve probably felt stupid and clumsy, which contributed to his foul attitude. He grumbled, but took the blanket and closed his eyes.

They’d only met Steve briefly yesterday afternoon when they first arrived at the Delarosa Mountain Retreat. He was young, didn’t talk much, and seemed conscientious in his considerable duties running the lodge. It didn’t seem likely that he’d make a dumb mistake like getting too close to an unstable ledge.

“Steve,” Lucy said, “what were you doing up there?”

“I was coming back from checking on our outlying cabins—we close them in the winter—and checking for animal tracks. We have been having some problems with four-legged predators, and I wanted to make sure they hadn’t returned. I knew the storm was going to get bad as soon as the sky turned, so I took a shortcut. Stupid.”

“Why didn’t you take a snowmobile?” Patrick asked.

“They were all out when I left, and I can’t get to two of the cabins with my truck. I do this all the time,” he said defensively. “I just lost my balance. And my favorite skis.”

He didn’t open his eyes, and Lucy couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth.

She said, “I checked the weather report this morning. They said light snowfall overnight, clear tomorrow. I can’t believe they were so wrong.”

Steve laughed once. “Weather systems change often, especially in the winter. I’ve lived here my entire life and when I saw the report this morning I knew the system was going to shift as soon as the wind shifted. Weather reports are more reliable now with satellites and historical data all computerized, but minor changes in one location can have a chain effect, especially in the mountains.”

“How long do you think it’ll last?” Patrick asked.

Steve looked out the window. “I think we’re in for the weekend.”

“What?” Lucy exclaimed.

“We can get you off the mountain if you want, but tonight is going to be a blizzard and I don’t advise it.”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” Lucy said.

Patrick grinned. “What did you do, Luce? Send a prayer up for a blizzard to get you out of learning to ski?”

“On the contrary, I decided that I was going to learn how to ski if it was the last thing I did—just to prove to you that I’m not scared of failure.”

“I shouldn’t have said scared. You’re not scared of failure, you’re just pissed off. You don’t like it when you can’t do something your first time out. And you just said learn how to ski, meaning you have no intention of failing.”

“Why would I try if I expected to fail?”

“Indeed. I rest my case.”

Lucy was confused and sighed heavily. “Brothers.”

Patrick drove across the pressed gravel road that was now covered with a thick layer of snow, but the lights lining the lodge’s entrance helped guide him to the barn, which had been converted into a large garage. Steve jumped out of the truck and opened the barn doors. Patrick drove in and parked where he had earlier, next to the Delarosa truck. Patrick got out and helped Steve close the doors against the fierce wind.

“I need to gather up supplies and check the generators,” Steve said. “You should get inside before the storm gets worse.”

“With that bump on your head, you shouldn’t be out walking around,” Lucy said.

“I don’t have a choice. I’m not risking damage because I slacked off.”

“I’ll help you,” Patrick said.

“I don’t need any help.”

“Then I’ll tell your stepmother that you whacked your head. Based on her mother-hen attitude, I don’t think she’ll let you leave your room.”

“What do you care?” he asked petulantly.

“I’ve been the recipient of a nasty head injury,” Patrick said. “I know how unpredictable they are.”

Lucy didn’t say anything. Her brother had been in a coma, thanks to the man who had kidnapped her nearly six years ago. She still felt a pang of guilt that Patrick had been so severely injured while trying to rescue her. She thanked God every day that he was alive, breathing, and awake. Since his recovery, they’d grown much closer than they’d been growing up. Their ten-year age difference had been huge when she was ten and Patrick was twenty; now at twenty-four and thirty-four, it didn’t matter much.

“Fine,” Steve said, “if you promise to not say anything to Grace. She’s a worrywart.”

“Promise.”

Lucy didn’t think that was a good idea, and she was surprised that Patrick agreed to it.

“It might be kind of hard to hide that bandage,” Lucy said.

“I’ll take care of it. We need to get this done before full dark.”

“I’m dressed for it,” Patrick said. He nodded to Lucy with a look that said he’d keep an eye on Steve, and she felt marginally better heading inside to the lodge.

“I have plenty of extra snowshoes,” Steve said. “Lucy, stick to the path—there is ground lighting that shouldn’t be buried by the snow yet. It’ll land you right at the porch.” He handed her a pair of snowshoes.

“I’ve never walked in these.”

“It’s not hard, and if you go out in those boots you’ll sink farther and it’ll take you longer to get to the house.”

She strapped on the snowshoes and left the barn. Steve was right, it wasn’t difficult, she just had to lift her feet up completely and take wide, deliberate steps. She could see the house only fifty yards away, though visibility was definitely worsening. The wind was at her side, wanting to knock her over, but she kept an even pace.

By the time she reached the porch several minutes later, she was winded from the exertion, but exhilarated.

The lodge was a larger replica of the Ponderosa, the home of the Cartwrights of Bonanza fame. But the main floor was eight stairs up from the walk, and Lucy had to take the snowshoes off to climb the stairs. She opened the door, the wonderful aroma of simmering stew reminding her that she was starving. Falling down a lot apparently worked up a huge appetite.

The interior, while bigger than the Cartwrights’ fictional home, was decorated in the same Gold Rush–era style with simple wood furniture and old rugs. Clean and polished, there were no contemporary touches aside from electricity and indoor plumbing. The Delarosa Mountain Retreat was technology free: no television, no computers, no cellphone reception.

Lucy wasn’t so sure how she felt about that, but they’d be here for just three days. Maybe it was time to unplug and really, what was a few days? They’d be out of here no later than noon on Monday. In fact, only twenty minutes down the mountain there was a ridge where they’d noted they had cellphone reception, and fifteen minutes farther there was the small town of Kit Carson, with a restaurant, grocery, and gas station, plus a few dozen residents. Not that Lucy was planning on going to any of them and pleading like an addict, “Please, can I log on to the Internet for just five minutes? I’ll pay you.”

Lucy started up the stairs to her room when Grace Delarosa, Steve’s stepmother, stepped into the foyer. Her face fell when she saw Lucy. “I thought you were Steve. He was supposed to be back by now.”

“He and Patrick went to bring in supplies and check the generators.”

“Was he okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t been himself lately. I’m worried about his health. He’s so much like his father, doesn’t want to go to the doctor. But I finally convinced him because he was getting dizzy so often, and while they couldn’t find anything wrong, when the doctor wanted to do more tests, he refused.”

Lucy thought about Steve’s tumble down the mountain. She bit back the truth, and said, “Patrick will keep an eye on him.”

Grace smiled tightly. “Thank you. We’re having dinner early. Appetizers are already in the dining room.”

“Great, I’ll change and be right down.”

She started up the stairs and heard Grace say, “What do you want now?”

Lucy glanced over her shoulder, startled, thinking that Grace was speaking to her, but all she saw was Grace turning the corner toward the office.

Lucy’s room was the first on the left at the top of the stairs. Patrick was directly across from her. There were six upstairs guest rooms in the lodge, two larger suites and four single rooms. Earlier, she’d learned that Grace and Steve lived in the small cottage behind the lodge, and Grace’s sister, Beth, had taken the caretaker’s room downstairs, adjacent to the office and kitchen.

Lucy had met the three couples staying at the lodge when she and Patrick first arrived. Alan and Heather Larson were thirty-five-year-old workaholics from the Silicon Valley who’d taken the snowmobiles to town in order to check their email. She’d almost laughed at the time, but now realized she’d been suffering the same technological withdrawal.

Kyle and Angie DeWitt were about Lucy’s age, and according to Beth they spend more time in bed than anywhere else. From their lovey-dovey display at the breakfast table, Lucy wasn’t surprised. She admitted to being a bit jealous of the newlyweds, as well as hopeful. Jealous that she didn’t have a close relationship like they did—she didn’t know if she was capable of that, for she certainly had never shown such outward affection for her longtime ex-boyfriend, Cody. And hopeful that maybe there was someone out there for her who she could love as much as that person loved her.

But that was in the future. She wasn’t going to look for it. Sometimes she thought her life experiences had jaded her to unconditional love. Or worse, made her incapable of trusting someone enough to love.

She suspected someday she might be in a relationship more like the Larsons’. They obviously liked and respected each other and had a lot in common—work, intelligence, a dry sense of humor; they even looked alike, both tall brunettes, nice-looking but plain, wearing almost identical wire-rimmed glasses. Lucy could imagine herself marrying her best friend out of comfort.

But Cody was your best friend, and you turned down his proposal.

Or maybe she’d fall in the camp of Trevor Marsh and his wife, Vanessa Russell-Marsh—complete opposites physically and in personality. Breakfast this morning had been interesting with Trevor’s boisterous laugh and Vanessa’s cool demeanor. While Vanessa was model-beautiful, Trevor was a bit overweight and looked a little like a cherub. She was at least two inches taller than him and they seemed mismatched, though they had an obvious silent communication going on that suggested they’d known each other for a long time. Lucy had liked Trevor’s lack of pretension.

If she wasn’t so hungry, Lucy thought as she stripped off her damp clothes in exchange for a warmer—and dry—outfit, she would go right to bed. She was physically exhausted. But dinner first.

A scream pierced the second floor, a sound so anguished that Lucy immediately knew that someone was in pain.

But she feared it was much worse.

II.

As soon as Lucy stepped out of her room, she realized that shouts were coming from Trevor and Vanessa’s room. She ran down the hall to the last room on the right just as Kyle swung open his door across from the Marshes’ room. He was bare chested, and Angie had on a short robe. Both looked stunned, but Kyle took action and ran into the Marshes’ room ahead of Lucy.

“Vanessa,” Trevor moaned his wife’s name. Tears dampened his face as he shook the lifeless body on the bed. “Please wake up!”

Kyle froze inside the doorway. Lucy pushed him aside and went to Trevor’s side. She didn’t have to feel for a pulse; it was obvious that Vanessa had been dead for at least an hour. Her half-opened eyes were glassy and already had a thin, cloudy film over them, and her jaw and eyelids had already noticeably stiffened. Rigor mortis starts in the face and limbs and works inward.

“Trevor, put Vanessa down,” Lucy said calmly.

“W-why?” he cried.

Lucy quickly assessed the large room. It was L-shaped, with a couch and desk in a small area directly in front of the entrance, and the bed in the larger area to the left. Clothes had been draped carefully over the sofa, as if someone was deciding what to wear: a simple black dress; jeans and a cashmere sweater; and a blue sweaterdress. Matching shoes were lined up beneath each outfit.

Vanessa was on the bed in a thick white terry bathrobe, similar to the one Lucy’s sister-in-law had given her for Christmas last year. Vanessa’s long, golden blonde hair was damp and a bit stringy, as if she had brushed it after getting out of the shower but it had nearly dried before she could style it.

A prescription bottle was on the nightstand, along with a glass of white wine. Lucy squatted to read the label without touching the bottle, remnants of her training with the Arlington County Sheriff’s Office—not that this was anything but what it seemed.

The prescription was made out to Vanessa Russell for Seconal. Seconal was a common temporary sleep aid. The thirty-day prescription had been filled two months ago and appeared half-full—not uncommon, with the direction to use as needed for insomnia.

The DeWitts were still standing in the doorway when Grace came through saying, “Excuse me, please, excuse me.”

Lucy looked up. “Grace—”

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“You need to call the police.”

“Police? Why? Is she—”

“She’s dead,” Trevor moaned.

“But how?” asked Grace.

When Trevor didn’t answer, Lucy did. “We don’t know.”

Trevor rocked Vanessa’s body in his arms. “I don’t understand. Why would she do this?”

“What happened?” Grace asked.

“It could have been an accidental overdose,” said Lucy. “We don’t know how many pills were in the bottle. It’s an older prescription.”

Grace frowned. “But—she took pills, right?”

Lucy couldn’t say. On the surface it looked like Vanessa had taken sleeping pills—but there was no suicide note, no indication that she’d intended to harm herself. But if she wanted to take an afternoon nap, why take Seconal, which came with the warning to only take if you could sleep for eight hours because of possible side effects? Not that people followed the rules of their medications, but if Vanessa had been taking the drug for a while, she’d know its potential dangers.

That there was a nearly empty glass of wine was also disturbing, because anyone who regularly took sleeping pills knew alcohol enhanced the effect of the drugs, even within normal dosage.

Alan Larson popped his head into the room and Lucy said to Grace, “Get everyone out of here. Please,” she added as an afterthought.

She wasn’t a cop, but she’d been at enough crime scenes to know that contamination was a big problem. Not that this was a crime scene; it was technically an unattended death, but Lucy felt compelled to protect the body and the scene as much as possible before the police arrived.

Grace walked over to the guests and said, “Please go downstairs. Give us a moment.” She closed the door over concerned protests.

“Trevor,” Lucy said firmly, but with great deliberation and calm. “Trevor. Please.” She waited until he looked at her before she continued. “You need to put your wife down.”

Trevor stared at her. “Who are you?”

“Lucy Kincaid. We met last night, remember? At dinner, with my brother Patrick. You talked to him about how you grew up in Laguna Niguel. We’re from San Diego originally. Do you remember?”

Trevor nodded. “Can you help Vanessa?”

“Trevor, Vanessa is dead. You need to put her down.”

He blinked rapidly, then he looked at his wife as if he hadn’t realized he was still holding her in his arms. He stared at his dead wife for several moments. Grace tried to talk, but Lucy silenced her.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Trevor said laying Vanessa’s body back on the bed. He stood and looked at her lifeless body, finally understanding there was no bringing her back.

“Grace, please take Trevor downstairs,” Lucy said.

“You need to come, too,” Grace said.

“I will. I want to cover the body.” That wasn’t the complete truth.

“We can wait.”

“Trevor should go now.” She looked at Grace pointedly, and she didn’t know if the hostess understood, but she did walk Trevor out of the room.

“Let’s get a cup of tea, all right?” Grace said as she led Trevor out to the hall. She shot Lucy a scowl, but didn’t insist she join them.

Kyle DeWitt was still hanging out in the hall. Lucy said to him, “Please go to the barn and get my brother.”

“Can he do anything?”

“He was a cop for nearly ten years, he’ll know what we need to do since I don’t think the police or an ambulance will be able to reach us tonight.” Lucy also knew they had limited options—they had to get the body someplace cold to slow decomposition. Otherwise, as the gases and bacteria broke down, there would be a horrid stench, especially in the warm lodge. If the authorities couldn’t reach them by morning, they would have no choice but to move the body.

After Kyle left, Lucy closed the door and locked it before going back to Vanessa’s body. Six years ago she couldn’t have imagined viewing a dead body much less touching one, but between the sheriff’s department and the morgue, Lucy had lost any squeamishness she might have had.

She hesitated before touching anything else in the room. She saw a pair of leather gloves on the dresser, which she remembered Vanessa had been wearing that morning. Lucy put them on, then inspected Vanessa’s body. Touching her skin, she realized that rigor wasn’t well developed. Lucy would guess from the facial muscles and thin, cloudy film over her eyes that Vanessa had been dead at least an hour, but because rigor was still limited to the outer extremities, she didn’t believe she’d been dead longer than three hours. If she had more training, she might be able to pinpoint time of death more closely. The sooner a body was discovered, the more accurate the time of death could be determined, but coroners had more tools at their disposal, as well as more experience.

Lucy glanced at her watch. 5:24 P.M. Vanessa had died roughly between 2:30 and 4:30 in the afternoon. Lucy was confident that she’d been dead longer than an hour, but three hours was a guess, so she pushed her window to 1:30 P.M. Patrick had been an e-crimes cop and never liked forensics, but he also had a lot of training and might have more insight.

Lucy studied her surroundings, imagining the likely scenario that had led to Vanessa’s death. Shower. Bathrobe. Pills. Lucy had a degree in criminal psychology, but had studied a variety of mental illnesses, including depression. Identifying a suicide was difficult, but there were reliable indicators. Lucy hadn’t seen any of the standard signs of depression in Vanessa Russell-Marsh, though many clinically depressed people didn’t show outward signs, especially if they were on meds. Vanessa had been the quietest at dinner, but introverts were uncomfortable in groups of strangers and, like Lucy and Patrick, the Marshes had arrived yesterday afternoon. Vanessa had seemed to have a quiet affection for her more extroverted husband, and had been polite if a bit standoffish.

Suicides sometimes made themselves attractive prior to killing themselves—showering, putting on makeup, dressing in their nicest clothes—so that their loved ones would see them at “their best.” The shower itself didn’t throw Lucy off—it was that Vanessa had showered but not dressed or made herself up.

And why here? If it was an accident, why would she take sleeping pills in the middle of the day? Especially Seconal. It made no sense, and made it appear more like a suicide than an accident. Yet, just because the bottle was there didn’t mean Vanessa had ingested the pills. The bottle was half-filled and closed. But if she hadn’t overdosed on sleeping pills, what had killed her?

Lucy continued her visual examination of the body. Vanessa’s fingernails and toes were painted dark red, and it appeared fresh—no chips. Lucy couldn’t remember if Vanessa had painted nails last night, or what color they were.

Her engagement ring was a huge marquise-cut diamond. Too ostentatious for Lucy, but it fit Vanessa and she could see Trevor giving it to her. Her wedding band, on the other hand, looked like an antique, a thin, unpolished gold band with seven tiny diamonds embedded in an intricate pattern. It was dwarfed by the engagement ring, but Lucy thought it was the more interesting and attractive piece of jewelry.

What a waste, she thought. Vanessa was a beautiful woman, newly married to a man who appeared to adore her, and she was dead.

Always look from the inside out. Husbands, boyfriends, exes—nine times out of ten, when a woman is found murdered, it’s someone she knows.

Lucy frowned. Murder was a far cry from an accident or suicide. But the idea stuck in Lucy’s head that Vanessa hadn’t died naturally or by her own hand. Lucy looked at the scene like a cop.

“It could be natural causes. She could have had an embolism or an aneurysm,” she whispered to herself.

Lucy had only minimal medical training, some human biology classes that had enabled her to land the internship at the morgue, but she was more interested in the process than in actual autopsies, despite her assistant pathologist certification. She had no idea how to inspect the body for signs of such natural causes of death, but it would be clear in an autopsy.

Maybe she was too suspicious. Did Lucy really expect the worst in every situation? She didn’t want to think that she was such a negative person, but when she worked on a body in the morgue, she was most interested to learn the cause of death—natural, accident, or murder? At the sheriff’s department, she’d worked closely with one longtime cop near retirement. Joe Marquez’s philosophy was, “Everyone is guilty of something.” Lucy hadn’t believed it, but in Joe’s life more often than not people lied, even if they weren’t killers or rapists. Wives lied to protect their husbands; women lied about assaults out of fear; juveniles lied about minor crimes because they didn’t want to get into trouble—and sometimes to see if they could get away with it. Fear of cops was a motivator for many, but Joe didn’t have a lot of faith in people or the system. Had some of Joe’s skepticism about the human condition rubbed off on her? Or was it her own past experiences that made her unusually suspicious?

She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser where in her room were extra sheets and blankets. They, too, were in here. She took out a top sheet and covered Vanessa’s body. She said a quick prayer, and as she was about to cover her face she noticed something on the side of her neck.

Lucy carefully moved Vanessa’s hair and turned her head slightly to get a better view. A tiny red pinprick on the side of Vanessa’s neck looked suspiciously like a needle mark. She cursed herself for not having her cellphone with her to take a picture, but up here there was no reception so she’d left her phone in the car. She searched the room, looking for another camera. If the Marshes didn’t have one, she’d ask the others, though she’d then have to explain why.

Vanessa’s death now appeared much more like murder.

III.

A loud knock on the door was followed by Patrick calling out, “Lucy! It’s Patrick.”

She again put the sheet over Vanessa’s body in case anyone else was with him, and ran to the door, the digital camera she’d found in Vanessa’s purse now strapped to her wrist. Kyle DeWitt was there, along with Steve. She didn’t want anyone else in the room, and said, “Out of respect for the deceased, I think only Patrick should come in.”

“What’s going on?” Steve demanded. “Is Mrs. Marsh really dead?”

“Yes,” she said. “Please—”

“Oh my God.” Steve ran his hands through his mop of hair. He looked panicked. “This is terrible. What more could go wrong?”

The comment was cryptic, but Lucy didn’t ask him to elaborate. She caught Patrick’s eye and signaled to get rid of the other men. Patrick picked up on this and filled the doorway. “Steve,” he said, “I need you to contact the sheriff’s department.”

“They won’t be able to get up here—”

“Call them. You have a landline, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“I know, it might be down, so try now before the storm gets worse. Tell them we have a deceased female, cause unknown, and to send a unit and coroner as soon as possible. Get a contact name and number, and tell them that there’s a retired police detective on scene.”

“You?” Kyle said. “You’re young to be retired.”

“Long story.” Patrick handed Steve one of his Rogan Caruso Kincaid business cards. “That’s my contact information and P.I. license number. I’ll call in as soon as I have something to report.”

“But what happened to her?” Kyle asked.

Lucy hesitated, then said, “I don’t know.”

Patrick glanced at her. Lucy was the world’s worst liar, and Patrick realized the situation was serious. “Kyle, would you go downstairs and tell everyone to see what they can do to comfort Trevor? As soon as Lucy and I get a handle on this, we’ll be down.”

He closed the door before either Steve or Kyle could object, then turned to Lucy and said, “What’s going on?”

“I found a needle mark on Vanessa’s neck.”

Patrick walked over to the body and was about to remove the sheet when he saw that Lucy was wearing gloves. “You do it.”

“They’re not latex, but it’s better than nothing,” she said.

“You must have been suspicious from the beginning to put them on.”

“Well, a little. The lid is on the pill bottle.”

“So?”

“Suicides aren’t usually so tidy. She could have put it on, out of habit, but then there’s the fact that she took a shower, but didn’t dress. I just thought—be careful. All the training beats it into you.”

“You can say that again.”

She pulled down the sheet. “Do you see it?” She pointed to the mark.

“Yes, but you must have been looking to notice something so small. At first glance, it could be a new pimple or minor skin blemish.”

“I saw it and—” She stopped and turned Vanessa’s head more to the right. “She’s had a face-lift. It’s good work, too—I didn’t notice the marks at first, but I wasn’t looking for them.”

Patrick stared. “I can barely see anything.”

“Like I said, excellent work. But right here under her ear—” She put her finger on the scar. “And there’s minimal tightness, so I think she already had good skin and complexion, no excessive sun exposure. She’s someone who has been well taken care of most of her life.”

“Someone killed her,” Patrick said flatly.

“I think so, but I couldn’t say definitively. We should secure her body and this room.”

“How long has she been dead?”

“One to four hours. Probably closer to three hours.”

“We need to question everyone. But Lucy—if the killer suspects that we’re onto the fact that Vanessa Marsh was killed, no one here is safe.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do. Lucy, you’ve never been able to lie. Let me ask the questions, okay? I’m going to tell everyone that we need to move the body to a cold environment for health reasons.”

“That’s true.”

“Then you can say that.” Patrick rubbed her arm. “Then I’ll say we have no idea what happened, but it looks like an accidental overdose or possibly natural causes.”

“Before I saw the needle mark, I thought embolism or aneurysm.”

“Good—”

“But will anyone believe she took sleeping pills in the middle of the day and accidentally overdosed?”

“Not everyone thinks like a cop, Lucy. We need to search this room now, before we move the body. I’ll need help, Steve and Kyle.”

“Do you think Trevor killed her?”

“The husband is always the first suspect, and often guilty.”

“He just doesn’t seem—” She cut herself off. Killers didn’t always look the part. “I like him,” she said simply.

“So do I. But we’re cops in this scenario. You didn’t kill her and I didn’t kill her. Therefore, right now we’re the only people we can trust. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I’ll start here. You take the bathroom and their luggage.”

Lucy started in the bathroom. The shower floor was still damp, the hair dryer was plugged in. She put herself in Vanessa’s shoes—take a shower before dinner, dry her hair before dressing. She’d set out her clothes—another indication that she planned to go downstairs to eat. Vanessa’s makeup, jewelry box, and toiletries were organized neatly on the counter. She wouldn’t leave the hair dryer plugged in all day. She would have put it away. The meticulous way the bathroom was set up indicated that.

How did the killer get the needle into Vanessa without a struggle? It had to be someone she trusted to get that close. And what drug could have such an immediate effect that she would have no time to scream or fight back? It would have to have a paralyzing effect. Had she been drugged while lying in bed? Then why had she lain down in the first place?

Maybe Trevor came in and suggested a midday lovemaking session. They got into the bed and during foreplay he injected her. Up close and personal. Intimate. Watched her die. Was she surprised? Did she beg for her life or demand to know why?

There were few convenient drugs that could kill instantly, but if Vanessa was incapacitated that would make it easier for killer.

Lucy stepped out of the bathroom and said, “Patrick, the wine by her bed. We need it for evidence.”

“What are you thinking?”

“She was drugged before she was injected. There’s no food in here, the wine is the only thing.” She took a picture of the wineglass and pill bottle. She’d already photographed the body and the puncture wound. She wished Trevor hadn’t moved the body, because lividity hadn’t set in. She could guess, based on the slight discoloration along the right curve of Vanessa’s waist, that she’d been lying on that side for over an hour when she died. Because Trevor had now laid her on her back, the blood and fluids would be pooling on her underside.

Still, Lucy had taken the pictures and hoped someone with more experience than her would be able to decipher them.

“If I ask Grace for plastic bags for evidence collection, she’ll be tipped off that we think Vanessa was killed,” said Patrick. “I think it’s best we keep the likelihood of homicide to ourselves.”

“I have some Ziploc bags,” Lucy said.

He raised an eyebrow. “You normally carry evidence bags around with you?”

“I keep them for travel. Makeup, toothpaste, shampoo. I have some that haven’t been used.”

She opened the door and was startled when she saw lodge owner Grace and her sister, Beth, in the hallway. Had they been listening at the door? Lucy didn’t think so but she made no assumptions.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Grace said. “Why did you and Patrick lock the door? What happened to Vanessa? Trevor is distraught—”

“I thought you were going to stay with him.”

“Angie and Heather are with him in the library,” Grace replied. “He didn’t want tea. I gave him scotch. Steve told me you had him call the sheriff. What happened to Vanessa?”

“We don’t know exactly,” Lucy said, obfuscating.

Patrick walked up behind her. “Vanessa is dead, and the sheriff needs to be notified about any unattended death. I can’t tell whether or not she died of natural causes. I don’t know her medical history. I need to talk to her husband first, and then hopefully the sheriff can contact her immediate family and doctor and see if there was some other contributing factor to her death.”

“Oh.” Grace sighed and rubbed her face. “I’m sorry, it’s just so distressing that someone died here at the lodge. Steve is really upset.”

Lucy said, “Steve said something strange. He said, ‘What more could go wrong?’ Do you know what he meant?”

Grace shook her head, but Beth said, “Grace, we can’t keep it secret.” She put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “There have been several mishaps since Leo died. One of our main generators broke down. It was under warranty, but it still required us to close for two weeks before it could be repaired. The root cellar was left open one night and most of our food was eaten by a bear. That cost us thousands, to repair the door and replace the stock. Steve had an accident last month, totaled his truck, and was lucky he wasn’t injured. That boy has been working himself too hard, trying to make this place into everything his father wanted.”

“Leo was special,” Grace said. “He had a way about him.”

Beth frowned. “He also left a lot of things undone, spent all his savings to keep the place up. We can’t simply avoid the seriousness of the situation. And with Steve’s illness—”

“Beth, please!” Grace rubbed her temples. “It’s going to be fine.”

“What about Steve’s illness?” Patrick asked.

“He’s been forgetting things,” Beth said, ignoring Grace’s plea. She lowered her voice. “We think he forgot to secure the root cellar. But he won’t go back to the doctor, and we’re both worried sick about him.”

Patrick said, “We need to move the body.”

“Why?” Grace asked.

Lucy said, “The warm house will accelerate the rate of decomposition, and the smell will spread. In addition, there are health issues to take into consideration, as all the bedrooms share ventilation.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Grace said. “But where? How?”

“I’m going to ask Alan and Kyle to help me move Vanessa’s body to the root cellar.”

“But our food is down there!” Beth said.

“Can you bring up as much food as you can store inside? Anything that isn’t canned or vacuum-sealed. Lucy and I will wrap the body securely, to minimize any contamination. And if you have any large plastic sheets, we could use them.”

That would have dual purposes, Lucy thought. It would also preserve evidence on the body for the coroner and sheriff.

Beth paled, and Grace said, “I’ll get it. The food we can’t fit in the lodge, we’ll bring to my house, Beth.”

As they walked down the hall, Lucy overheard some of their conversation.

“You need to sell this place, Grace.”

“It would destroy Steve. I can’t.”

Lucy hurried down to her room and retrieved her baggies—she had four that she hadn’t used—and returned to Vanessa’s room. “Let’s use these judiciously.”

“The wine. I want to save the glass as well—but we can put it in a paper bag.”

“That I don’t have, but there’s stationery in every desk. We can wrap it in that.”

“Good idea.”

They preserved the wine and the glass, then finished searching the room. Lucy went through Vanessa’s purse. She hadn’t changed her driver’s license, it was still under her maiden name of “Russell,” but there was a copy of the marriage certificate. They’d been married in Phoenix, Arizona, last week. The best man was Nelson Russell—Vanessa’s brother maybe?—and the maid of honor was Christina Morgan.

Lucy went through the camera one last time to make sure she had taken all the pictures she thought the police would need. The body, the wine, the pills, the general layout of the room, close-ups of the possible lividity and the needle mark. She’d also taken pictures of Vanessa’s hands and arms, which didn’t indicate that she’d fought back—no obvious bruising, scratches, broken nails, or fibers. She scrolled through earlier pictures and noticed that Vanessa or Trevor had taken a lot of pictures of the grounds—the lodge, the barn, the surroundings. Some were dark and hadn’t come out, but Lucy didn’t delete any in case the police needed them as evidence. She didn’t want any photos to be missing—each was digitally numbered.

The earliest pictures were of Vanessa and Trevor on their wedding day. They seemed happy. Trevor beamed at Vanessa. The wedding was lavish, at least from what Lucy could tell from the few pictures saved on the camera.

She set aside the camera. She looked through Vanessa’s address book, then went through her receipts.

“Anything?” Patrick asked.

“Nothing that stands out to me.”

“I’m going to ask that no one come in the room, and ask for all the keys, but that’s no guarantee that there isn’t an extra floating around.”

“Grace probably has a master key as well.”

“I wrapped her body in the sheet and top blanket,” Patrick said. “When we get the plastic sheet, I’ll have Alan and Kyle help with the body. You find Steve and ask what the sheriff said. Then we’ll talk to her husband, Trevor. It’s time for you to put that criminal psychology degree to work, sis.”

IV.

While Patrick and the others took Vanessa’s body to the root cellar, Lucy found Steve in the lodge’s office. He sat slumped at the desk with his head in his hands.

“Hey,” Lucy said softly, sitting across from him. “You okay?”

He shook his head. Though he had a lot of responsibility, he was still a young man, not even twenty-one, and this situation seemed to be taking its toll. He picked up a quart carton of orange juice that was on the desk next to him and took a long gulp. Drinking from the carton reminded Lucy of her brothers growing up. Her sister Carina would have a shit fit if she caught them, and always found an innovative way to get back at them. Once, Carina poured hot sauce in the orange juice. Patrick had been the brunt of that spicy etiquette corrective.

“Did you call to the sheriff?” Lucy asked.

Steve looked up. He tucked some papers under the desk calendar before saying, “Yes. There’s no way they’ll be here before noon tomorrow, and that’s still contingent on the storm. They’ll know more in the morning. They ran Patrick through their system, I guess, and said he should determine what’s best to do with the body until they arrive.”

“Patrick is taking care of it. We need to close off that room, however.”

“Why?”

“Health reasons.”

He didn’t seem to find Lucy’s answer odd. That she was becoming a better liar didn’t please her.

“Who has keys?” she asked.

“The guests would have two. There’s an extra here. I have a master key for every room.”

“May I have it?”

“I won’t go in.”

“I know, but Patrick wants to control the keys.”

Steve now looked at her suspiciously. “Why?”

“I’m just doing what my brother asked. I’m not a cop.”

He pulled the key from his ring and handed it to her. He then reached over into one of the boxes and handed her an extra key. “I don’t have the other two.”

“We have Vanessa’s, and Patrick will get Trevor’s.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Anytime a healthy person dies, it’s never a mistake to be extra cautious. But I’m certain the coroner will clear everything up as soon as the body gets examined.” She then asked, “What other things have been going on around here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Upstairs you said—”

“Oh.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I was just feeling sorry for myself.”

“This has been a hard year for you. When did your father die?”

“Last March. Nearly a year ago, but I still miss him so much.” His voice cracked and he looked away. He took another pull on his orange juice.

“I know. I’m so sorry. Beth told me there had been some mechanical problems, with the generator, then the bear in the root cellar—”

“Grace thinks I left the door unlatched, but I didn’t. I’ve secured that root cellar every night since I was eight.”

“How long have you been feeling dizzy?”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“Maybe, but I’m worried about you.”

“Why should you care? You don’t even know me.”

True, and Lucy didn’t have an answer. She was sticking her nose into other people’s business. “I have some medical training, and the dizziness and fatigue and imbalance could be a sign of something serious.”

“Look, I spent three days in the damn hospital in Jackson right before Christmas. They said my blood pressure was a little low, but not dangerously so, and they ran their battery of tests. Everything came back normal ’cept for borderline anemia. So I’m on an iron supplement. Grace shouldn’t be talking to everybody about my problems. It’s all under control.”

“You fell off a cliff today, Steve.”

“I just slipped.”

“For a kid who grew up in these mountains, I think you’d know better.”

“I can’t spend any more time in a hospital. Grace can’t run this place alone, and without at least some guests, we won’t survive the year. I don’t want us to sell the lodge. I can’t disappoint my dad like that. I didn’t think we’d ever be in this position. Dad always had an emergency fund, but—”

“But what?”

“It’s gone. Grace said he didn’t want to tell me that the lodge had been running in the red for the last few years, and he was using his savings to keep it afloat.” Steve put his head back down. “I can’t lose my home. It’ll be like losing Dad all over again.”

#

Looking for Patrick, instead Lucy found Heather Larson in the dining room. The vacationer from the Silicon Valley was loading food on a plate, but no one else was eating.

“I thought I’d bring Trevor something to eat, though I doubt he’ll touch it,” she said. “Still, he’ll need something to soak up all the scotch he’s drinking.”

Lucy winced. He’d be difficult to interview if he was falling down drunk.

“Did she kill herself?” Heather asked, just like everyone else had.

“We don’t know.”

“It’s so awful, either way, but I hope it was natural. For Trevor. He’s such a nice guy.”

Lucy had thought so, too, until his wife ended up murdered. “They both seemed nice, though Vanessa was quiet.”

“She was a bit weird. I never thought she’d kill herself though.”

“Weird? How?”

Heather shrugged. “Maybe I should say she was interested in strange things. Like this morning. Alan and I were up early to take a walk. She was standing by the barn taking pictures through the window.”

Lucy remembered some dark images on Vanessa’s camera, but she had assumed the camera had just gone off in her purse or something. She’d have to look more carefully at the detail.

“And then when I told her Alan and I were going to town, she asked me to mail something for her.”

“And why is that strange?”

“It was a postcard with a short message. ‘You are right. We win.’ ”

That was odd. “Who did she mail it to?”

Heather shrugged. “It went to Phoenix, but I didn’t pay attention to the name. I showed it to Alan, though. Maybe he remembers.”

A gust of wind burst through the house, and a door slammed shut. Lucy ran to the foyer, and saw Patrick and the other two men covered with snow, their faces red. “That was miserable,” Alan said. Lucy didn’t know if he was talking about the weather or moving Vanessa’s dead body to the root cellar by the side of the house.

“Is it locked?” Lucy asked.

“No bears will get into that place,” Patrick assured her and showed her the key to the padlock. He pocketed it, then took off his jacket and hung it on a rack near the door.

“Alan,” Heather said, “do you remember that postcard Vanessa asked us to mail?”

“Of course.”

“Who did she mail it to?”

“Nelson Russell.”

Heather said, “There you go,” she said to Lucy. “Why do you want to know?”

Lucy shrugged. “Just curious.” She glanced at Patrick, nonverbally telling him she’d clue him in later. “Patrick, Trevor is drinking heavily. You might want to talk to him now.”

“I’m bringing him this food—” Heather began.

Lucy took the plate. “I’ll take it for you.”

“I am frozen solid,” Alan said to his wife. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Lucy followed Patrick into the library. Kyle joined them. Angie sat with Trevor, holding his hand while he sobbed. The room reeked of scotch. Angie looked to be at her wit’s end.

Lucy said to Kyle, “We’ll relieve Angie. She needs a break. You two should get some food and relax. It’s going to be a long night.”

“Good idea,” Kyle said, escorting his wife from the room.

Patrick shut and locked the door. He sat down across from Trevor. “I’m sorry for your loss, Trevor.”

“Two years. We waited two years to get married. Two wasted years.”

“I know this is difficult. But—”

“We were both married before. But her ex-husband was an asshole and my ex-wife was just nuts. That we met up again after all those years—”

“Again?” Lucy asked.

“We dated back in high school, after my family moved to Phoenix from California. Vanessa and Nelson—her brother—became my closest friends. Then we went to different colleges, got married, all those things that people do. I always loved Vanessa, and when my divorce was final I moved back to Phoenix and we started seeing each other again. For two years. Taking it slow, because we wanted to make sure—” He coughed to cover up his distress.

“You come from a wealthy family?”

“We both do. Vanessa’s dad was in the construction business. He always did well, but in the eighties his business took off. He retired ten years ago, left it to Vanessa and her brother. They’ve done even better. She’s so smart.” He put his hand to his mouth. “She was. She was so smart. She wouldn’t kill herself. She loved life. Everything about it.”

“We don’t know that she killed herself,” Patrick said. Both he and Lucy were closely watching Trevor’s reaction. But his grief seemed genuine.

“She didn’t,” he said as if Patrick’s statement needed additional emphasis.

“Was she on any medication?”

Lucy hadn’t found any other prescriptions in the Marshes’ room other than the Seconal.

“No.”

“But she took sleeping pills.”

“Sometimes, but only when we travel because she doesn’t like sleeping in strange beds. She took one last night because she couldn’t sleep, but that’s it.”

“Was she acting depressed lately? Did she get any bad news?”

Trevor shook his head.

“And your relationship was good?”

“Yes! We just got married!” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I love her so much.”

He reached for his scotch and saw it was empty. He stood and grabbed the arm of the couch for support.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Patrick cautioned.

“Leave me alone. Just leave me alone!”

Patrick put an arm on Trevor to steady him, then eased him back onto the couch. Lucy asked, “Was Vanessa close to her brother?”

“Very. Two peas in a pod. Nelson was one of my best friends. We’re a year older than Vanessa. He’s my brother-in-law now—” Trevor choked back a sob. “This will kill him. Why did this happen to Vanessa?”

“A coroner will make that determination,” Lucy said.

“I need to know. I just need to know that she was happy. That she didn’t—” He pressed his palm on his forehead.

“What did you do today after breakfast?” Patrick asked. That had been the last time he and Lucy had seen the Marshes.

“We went on a walk. A long walk to this vista with an amazing view. We talked. Thought about how nice it would be if we could have a vacation home up here. Phoenix is so damn hot—and I suggested we go to Kirkwood and check out some properties. Vanessa asked if I would do it alone, she wasn’t up for snowmobiling. Beth went with me, and it only took thirty minutes to get there. We stayed a few hours, got back at three or so. I went to check on Vanessa, but she was sleeping and I left—What if she was in trouble and I could have helped her?” His voice rose in panic.

But Lucy caught what he’d said. “She was sleeping? You went into your room?”

“I opened the door and saw her lying on her side, curled up like she sleeps. I let her rest. But when she didn’t come down by five, I went back to wake her up and she—” He broke off.

Trevor had put himself at the scene of the crime during the window when Vanessa was murdered.

“Are you sure she was asleep?” Lucy asked.

“I don’t understand, of course she was asleep.”

He could have been mistaken. She could have been dead, but looked asleep. The eyes often opened as the muscles in the lids contracted during early stages of rigor mortis. But she might have been sleeping. Or drugged, in order for the killer to inject her with whatever killed her.

But she was presupposing that Trevor wasn’t the killer.

“Where did you live before you returned to your hometown?” Patrick asked.

“I went to college in Boston, and stayed there. Met my first wife. We moved to Dallas so I could be close to my team.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I owned the Dallas Kings.”

“The baseball team?”

He nodded. “I sold it during the divorce, to my ex-wife. I bought it for her, anyway, but at least I got my money back, and more. Treena was the sports nut. So nutty that after I caught her cheating on me the second time with a player, I filed for divorce.”

“And what do you do where you can buy and sell baseball teams?”

“Do?” He almost smiled, though his blue eyes were still watery and rimmed red. “I’m an investor. Venture capital. I invest in companies I think have promise, in exchange for a small percentage. I’m good at what I do. Out of twenty-nine investments this last decade, twenty-two were successful.”

“Define successful.”

“Five years ago I invested five hundred thousand in two college students to develop tracking software that helps businesses target their most likely customers. I gave them a little advice on how to sell the software—instead of flat-fee licensing, they get royalties on the license. In two years, they were netting over one million a year. Last year, it was three million. I own twenty percent of the company. In five years, I’ve more than tripled my initial investment. That’s my most successful venture to date. I love those boys like they’re my own sons.”

Patrick seemed impressed, but he was always into technology. Something felt wrong to Lucy, though. “Trevor,” she said, “why would you and Vanessa spend your honeymoon at a lodge like the Delarosa? I’d imagine that you could buy your own cabin anywhere you wanted.”

“Vanessa saw a brochure for the place and wanted to visit. We’re going—” He stopped himself, leaned back and closed his eyes. “We were leaving for Hawaii on Wednesday. Now—I have to call her father and brother. Oh, God, how are we going to make it without Vanessa?”

#

Lucy and Patrick stood in the dining room, dishing up lukewarm dinner. “I don’t think he killed her,” Lucy said quietly.

“It could be an act.”

“Could be.”

“You don’t think so?” he asked.

“No. You didn’t see him with her body. I don’t think that could be faked.”

They sat at one of the round tables. “Maybe we’re wrong,” Lucy said. “Maybe that mark isn’t an injection.”

“It wasn’t a bee sting.”

“We won’t know until an autopsy.”

They ate for a moment in silence. Lucy added, “The lodge here is struggling. Steve said his father spent their savings keeping it afloat.”

“Upstairs, Beth and Grace were talking about selling.”

“Beth was,” Lucy reminded him. “Grace was worried about Steve.”

“What if Vanessa wanted to buy the Delarosa?” Patrick said. “With Trevor’s money, she could easily afford it. Probably could with her own money.”

“A place like this, with all the land, so close to Kirkwood? It’s worth a lot.”

“Then why is Steve so worried? He could get a loan on it.”

“I don’t know—maybe there already is a big mortgage.”

“We can look into that easily enough. But what if Steve heard that Vanessa wanted to buy the lodge? Maybe she persuaded Grace or Beth. Steve wouldn’t want to sell—”

“You’re suggesting he killed her?”

“If Grace owns the place after his dad’s death, then she could sell whenever she wanted.”

Grace might have been worried about Steve’s health. She could have thought selling the lodge was the right thing to do. “But,” Lucy said, “we don’t know if she owns the land, or Steve, or both.”

“We can find out.”

“We’ll need to go to the recorders office, or—”

“Or I can look around here.”

Lucy frowned. “You need to be careful.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

She didn’t want to believe Steve was a killer, but he seemed so distraught. Perhaps his mysterious illness made him act rashly.

There was something premeditated about Vanessa’s death. Who keeps hypodermic needles lying around? Who has poison at their disposal—and knows how to use it?

“You need to be careful, too, sis.” Patrick said.

A crash from the kitchen had Lucy and Patrick bolting up from their chairs. Patrick pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen and found Kyle DeWitt on the floor, struggling to stand.

Patrick squatted next to him and helped him sit up. “Whoa, Kyle, hold on a second. What happened?”

“I just felt dizzy.”

“And fainted?”

“I guess.” He touched his forehead. A bump was already forming.

Lucy walked over to the refrigerator for ice and stepped into a puddle of spilled juice amid broken glass.

“Sorry,” Kyle said. “I dropped my glass.”

Grace rushed in. “What happened?”

“I’m fine. Really.” The guy looked embarrassed. “Just slipped.”

Grace stared at the mess on the floor.

“I’ll clean it up,” Lucy offered.

“No,” Grace snapped, “I’ll do it.” She strode over to a cabinet and grabbed some rags and a broom and dustpan.

Lucy and Patrick exchanged glances. She was wound tight. Maybe they all were tonight, with a dead body in the root cellar.

“You fainted,” Patrick said. “You didn’t just slip.”

Grace said, “We’re at a seventy-five-hundred-foot elevation. The air is thinner up here.” She knelt to pick up the biggest pieces of glass.

Lucy said, “Grace is right. The thin air could affect you, especially if you overexert yourself. Usually symptoms of high-altitude sickness don’t occur until eight thousand feet—”

Grace cut her off. “That’s arbitrary. People are affected differently.”

“True,” Lucy said, though she didn’t completely agree. The human body processed oxygen at different ranges comfortably; it was when the atmosphere started to thin at eight thousand feet that the oxygen level sharply declined. Kyle was a grown man, physically fit, and he shouldn’t have a problem here. But she wasn’t going to quibble over five hundred feet. “Do you have a headache?” Lucy asked.

“No, I just felt light-headed and dizzy. I didn’t really faint.”

Patrick helped Kyle to his feet. “I think we’re all tired and under stress. You should go to bed. We all should.”

“Good idea,” Grace said.

Angie walked in. “What’s wrong?” She looked at the bump on Kyle’s head. “My God, Kyle! What happened?”

“I slipped. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!”

Lucy handed Angie the makeshift ice compress she was holding. Angie put it on his head. “Ouch, that’s cold!”

“Let’s go to bed,” Angie said. “I need to keep my eye on you.”

He kissed her, then pulled her into a hug. “I’m fine, babe, really. You can have your way with me.”

Angie hugged her husband back tightly, her voice filled with emotion. “You’d better be.”

“Hon, I am. Really.”

Kyle kept his arm around his wife, and they said good night to the others as they walked out together.

Lucy watched them leave the kitchen. She reflected that even after two years with Cody, she’d never felt that comfortable with him, where she could joke about their sex life or show public displays of affection. With Kyle and Angie it was entirely natural, not in any way forced. Their affection showed in their expression, how they looked at each other, how they touched each other. It was the subtle hints that showed Lucy that Kyle and Angie truly cared for each other, the little things that Lucy had worked hard to remember when she and Cody were still together, but usually forgot.

She wondered if she would ever find someone where she didn’t forget those small touches that said I love you.

V.

Lucy couldn’t sleep.

Her first night here, it had been the silence that kept her awake. Tonight, it was the howling wind as the snow continued to fall. That, coupled with the disturbing thought that someone in this lodge had murdered Vanessa Russell-Marsh.

She tried a hot shower, and while that eased her sore muscles, it did nothing to help her sleep. Finally, she put on her robe and left her room just after midnight. There was no light under Patrick’s door, but she knocked anyway. “Patrick?” she said quietly.

She heard a moan and movement. Patrick opened his door, alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I—” She felt stupid. “I can’t sleep.”

He groaned. “Warm some milk in the microwave.”

“Never mind. I’ll go find a book to read.”

She half-expected Patrick to go downstairs with her, but he closed his door and went back to bed. She wasn’t surprised, she supposed. They’d had a busy and strenuous day, physically and emotionally.

The hall lights were left on low throughout the lodge. Lucy padded silently in her slippers down the staircase, across the foyer, and slowly opened the double doors to the library. They’d left Trevor to sleep on the couch; Grace had made up the last available room for him, but he was too drunk to walk upstairs and had ended up back on the couch.

Angie DeWitt gasped. “Oh, you startled me!”

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn’t know anyone was up.”

Angie was curled in a chair wearing a fluffy robe, a stack of books next to her. Trevor was snoring on the couch, all blankets on the floor. “I couldn’t sleep and thought reading would do it, but Kyle can’t sleep with the light on. And I wanted to check on Trevor. He was so upset. Justifiable, but—I didn’t want him to do anything stupid.”

“You have a kind heart.”

She shrugged. “Kyle says I have a bleeding heart, but I just laugh at him. He can act like a hard-ass sometimes, but he’s the sweetest guy on the planet, especially when he doesn’t think anyone is looking.”

“That’s when it’s most important,” Lucy said. “I won’t stay long. I just wanted to grab a book since I couldn’t sleep.”

Lucy perused the bookshelves, but nothing jumped out at her. She realized that she was worried about Steve Delarosa, and Grace, and Trevor Marsh. She couldn’t get Vanessa out of her mind, or the cryptic postcard she’d had the Larsons send her brother. Lucy didn’t want any of them to be guilty of murder, and just maybe there was another explanation for Vanessa’s death. Maybe the puncture wound in her neck indicated that something she’d yet to figure out.

She found it doubly odd that Kyle DeWitt had fainted—or nearly fainted—and complained of being dizzy. Very similar to Steve. Had the two of them been somewhere that no one else had? Could Vanessa have been exposed to the same thing and it killed her?

There was no place for any of them to go now. And with Grace and Beth both living here, it didn’t seem likely that whatever was causing the dizziness was airborne.

Lucy understood Steve’s deep desire to keep his family lodge running. Businesses were hurting everywhere, and it couldn’t be cheap to keep this place running, especially with only six guest rooms in the winter, and a few extra cabins open in warmer weather. The food, the heating, the generator for electricity, routine maintenance. And losing Leo to a heart attack had been doubly tragic because being this isolated had delayed getting him quick help. And then for Steve to find out that his father’s nest egg was gone.

Lucy liked the family, and wished she could help. That was one of her greatest assets, Patrick had always told her, as well as one of her greatest weaknesses.

“You want to save the world, Lucy. But sometimes the world doesn’t want to be saved.”

How many times had she heard that! She wanted to scream, “I don’t care!” But she did care. About the world, and the people in it. And she could never seem to sit idly by and watch good people suffer.

But what could she do? She wasn’t a doctor; she couldn’t examine Steve. She wasn’t a businesswoman; she wouldn’t tell the Delarosas how to run their resort. She wasn’t even a cop. She shouldn’t even like any of these people personally, knowing that most likely one of them killed Vanessa Marsh.

Logic reasoned that the person who had killed Vanessa knew her. The only person fitting the bill was Trevor Marsh, her childhood sweetheart and new husband.

Unless …

What if someone else at the lodge also knew Vanessa? Trevor said that Vanessa’s ex-husband had been an asshole. What if he was lurking around?

She shivered. Don’t be such a conspiracy nut! Where would he hide while it was a gazillion degrees below zero and a blizzard raged outside? And poisoning or faking a suicide attempt was hardly the standard method of a jealous or vengeful ex-husband.

A chill ran over her skin, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. At first she thought it was only her, but she noticed that Angie pulled her bathrobe tighter around her neck. Trevor’s snores halted momentarily, before the annoying noise returned.

Lucy grabbed a book without looking at the title and said good night to Angie. She entered the foyer and saw a wet spot on the hardwood floor, right inside the main door.

She stared. She’d watched Grace Delarosa dry the floor after Patrick and the others came back from securing Vanessa’s body. Grace and Steve had gone to their house via the door in the kitchen, which was closest to their cottage.

Someone had gone in and out. Or out, then back in.

Who? And why?

Lucy ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. She knocked on Patrick’s door. There was no answer.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She had the extra key to Patrick’s room and used it to unlock his door.

“Patrick?” she called into the dark.

He moaned from his bed.

She turned on the lights. He was lying in his bed, the covers kicked off, his bare chest bathed in sweat. His face was flushed. She rushed to his side and felt his head. He was warm.

“Patrick, what happened? What’s wrong?”

“Hey, sis.”

His words were slurred. He grinned.

“Patrick, what is wrong? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine. Really, I can drive. Nope, well, Carina is the designated driver again.”

She frowned. Carina was their sister. She and Patrick were thirteen months apart in age and had been very close growing up. The last time either she or Patrick had seen Carina was over Christmas, two months ago.

Thirty minutes ago she’d woken him up and he was fine. Groggy, but normal. Now he was hallucinating.

Someone had drugged him. How?

She looked around the room. Thirty minutes … there were lots of drugs that had a thirty minute or less reaction time. Maybe after Lucy had woken him up, Patrick had drank something.

She saw nothing on his nightstand. In his bathroom there was a water bottle, half full.

She ran back to Patrick. “Did you drink the water in the bathroom?” She picked up his arm and let it go. It flopped back to the bed. He tried to raise it, but couldn’t.

Patrick looked at her. “I’m so glad you’re here. But why did you do it?”

“What?”

“If you’d just told me, I would have fixed everything.”

Lucy didn’t know if he thought she was someone else, or what he was thinking, but his comments and physical symptoms told her he’d been slipped a sedative that suppressed his central nervous system. A date rape drug, like Rohyphnol or ketamine or a Mickey Finn—but why on earth would Patrick be drugged? Had someone tried to kill him to prevent his investigation of Vanessa’s murder?

That meant Patrick had already learned something that that the killer feared would expose him.

Lucy and he had been together the entire time. Except when Patrick had gone out to stow Vanessa’s body, and when she’d gone up to bed he’d been talking to Steve in the office.

“Patrick, please.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Then he moaned and Lucy knew what was next.

She turned him to his side and he vomited.

VI.

Lucy could not trust anyone.

She’d stayed awake most of the night watching over Patrick. After he vomited, she cleaned up and helped him stagger across the hall to her bedroom. She gave him water from the tap, not the bottle left in her bathroom. He was still hallucinating, but mostly he slept.

She was angry beyond measure—Patrick had been in a coma for nearly two years. Any drugs that depressed his central nervous system could potentially put him back into that coma. The doctors didn’t know why he’d reacted in the first place—he’d been conscious prior to his brain surgery after an explosion had injured him, causing swelling in his brain. The surgery saved his life. One doctor believed that the coma was a direct result of the brain surgery—that after fixing the damage, he’d simply gone to sleep for two years. Another doctor believed that Patrick had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia, based on his medical history. When he was nine, his appendix had burst and he’d underwent emergency surgery. He’d been in a coma for two weeks then.

Whatever it was, any sedatives were incredibly dangerous for Patrick.

Lucy watched him sleep deeply as the digital clock turned from 5:59 to 6:00. She’d woken him up every hour just to make sure he could be woken up. He’d mumble something unintelligible, then quickly fall back to sleep.

Lucy wished she could ask someone to watch her brother, but she was going to have to leave him. It was time to talk to the sheriff herself.

She crept from her room back to Patrick’s. Though she had cleaned up after him, his room smelled foul. She went through his notes and found the sheriff’s name and number that Steve had given him. She paused. Would Steve have passed along the information if he were the killer? She didn’t know.

The house was still silent. She walked downstairs and peered into the library. Trevor was still on the couch, no longer snoring, but bundled under a blanket. Angie must have put it back on last night.

Lucy closed the library door and padded silently to the lodge’s office. She picked up the phone and was relieved to hear a dial tone. Outside, the wind still blew like an angry god, dawn barely visible in the white that rained down around them.

“Alpine County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Sheriff Mackey please.”

“He’s not in right now. This is the dispatcher, how many I assist you?”

“This is Lucy Kincaid at the Delarosa Retreat. Sheriff Mackey spoke with Steve Delarosa yesterday about an unattended death. We have a serious problem up here, and I need to talk to the sheriff immediately.”

“One moment.”

She was put on hold. Lucy didn’t know what the dispatcher was doing. She waited impatiently.

A small stack of papers was tucked under the desk calendar, making it lopsided. She vaguely remembered that Steve had been reading something when she’d walked in last night.

She pulled out the papers and unfolded them. The top pages were a handwritten letter in bold, confident block letters dated over two years ago from Leo Delarosa to his son, Steve. The bottom pages were a formal Last Will and Testament.

She read the letter first.

Son,

Today is your eighteenth birthday. I hope to be here to watch you drink your first beer (legally!) and get married (you’ll find the right girl, just be patient) and have a child of your own.

But my heart attack last year was a wake-up call for both of us. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, whether I’ll live to see my grandchild or not. Because God sometimes has ideas about things that we don’t understand, and because I’m not too good in talking about my feelings and all that crap, I decided to write this letter.

My words don’t always come out right. They sound like criticism (like when I told you that you were too smart to get a C in Algebra). What I should have said was, “Son, you’re a smart boy. I’m proud of you and proud of your grades. I’m disappointed in the C because I know you can do better. But I’m not disappointed in you.”

I’ve never been disappointed in you, Steve.

You were the best thing that happened to your mom and me. We didn’t think we could have kids—hell, we tried often enough! And then you came. She loved you the minute she found out you were growing inside her belly.

Your mom would be proud of you today. God took her home way too soon, and I cursed Him for it. You needed your mom. I wanted you to have her in your life more than the ten years you had her. I needed her.

Damn, I’m going to cry now. I just want you to know that I’m proud of you, and I’m proud that you want to keep the Delarosa growing in the spirit that your mom and me always wanted. I won’t blame you if you decide you want something else, because I know a bit about wanderlust. I was in the navy for three years because I needed to get off the mountain. But the mountain called me home.

I have taken care of you and Grace. Grace means well, and she wants to please me, but she doesn’t love the Delarosa like we do. That’s why I changed my will to reflect that you and Grace need to agree to sell, and not until you’re twenty-one.

Steven John, you are a smarter young man than I was. If you sell, you sell free and clear. There is no debt, thanks to your grandfather. You remind me a lot of my dad. I was proud of him, too, but more than that I admired him.

I admire you even more.

You’ll do the right thing for you, for Grace, and for the mountain.

Until then, I’ve still been contributing to the nest egg, as your mom liked to call it. Sometimes a little less than I wanted, but always at least a token, every month since the day I married your mom. We joked about how we’d travel to Hawaii and Tahiti and Bora-Bora. Always someplace warm. Hell, I never wanted to go any of those places (except Hawaii, I’ll admit) but that nest egg will keep the Delarosa running during the lean years.

I hope you never have to read this letter. I’m going to tear it up when you’re twenty-one and write a new one. But in case I’m too stubborn or stupid to remember to say it, I want you to know, son, I love you.

Dad.

Lucy read the letter twice, tears in her eyes. No wonder Steve was so heartbroken over the debt …

Would Leo have told his son in a letter that wouldn’t be read until his death that the mountain was debt free and there was a nest egg to run the place “during the lean years”?

Did that sound like a man who had been running in the red for years?

Someone had lied.

Either Leo Delarosa lied about the nest egg—though Lucy couldn’t imagine why he’d do it in a letter that wouldn’t be read until he was dead—or the nest egg had been stolen.

Or it was hidden somewhere.

She scanned Leo Delarosa’s will. It appeared standard, and showed the amendment where Steve and Grace would have to agree to sell.

There was also another clause. The right of survivorship.

If Grace dies, Steve gets the mountain. If Steve dies, Grace gets everything.

Yet right now, there didn’t appear to be anything left to have.

“Ms. Kincaid?”

Lucy had forgotten she was on hold with the sheriff’s department.

“Yes, Sheriff Mackey.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been out in this godforsaken blizzard half the night. What can I do for you?”

“Did you speak to Steve Delarosa last night?”

“Yes, he told me one of the guests had died at the lodge. That you all thought she might have killed herself, or had an accident or something.”

“My brother Patrick was a San Diego detective. Vanessa Russell-Marsh was murdered.”

“That’s a one-eighty from Steve’s call.”

“Patrick didn’t want to alert the killer, but I work for the coroner’s office in Washington, DC, and I’m pretty certain that Mrs. Marsh was injected with something in her neck. And last night, my brother was drugged.”

“Is he all right?”

“He will be. But he’s out for the rest of the day, and I don’t know who drugged him or who killed Vanessa. We’re in trouble here and need you.”

“I wish I could help, but there’s no way I can get up to the lodge. The roads are all closed, we can’t even reopen until the snow stops.”

“What about cross-country skis? Snowmobiles? Something?”

“It’s treacherous from here, but—I have two deputies who know this county better than even Leo Delarosa.”

“You knew Steve’s dad?”

“Hell yeah, we went to school together. He was older than me, but we played on the same football team. Good man.”

“And Grace?”

“Well, I met her at their wedding. Pretty lady.”

“You don’t know anything else about her?”

“No, can’t say that I do. After Leo’s heart attack, he didn’t come into town as much.”

“Could you run her and her sister for me?”

“You know what you’re asking for?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What’s her sister’s name?”

“Beth Holbrook. Beth is probably short for Elizabeth.”

“Right—Steve mentioned Grace’s half-sister came to help at the lodge. Keeping the books, I think he said. She used to be a bank manager or something.”

Beth kept the books? That made sense—she knew that the lodge had been running in the red, and she seemed to have specific knowledge when she mentioned the problems to Lucy.

The sheriff continued. “Why would either of them want to kill a guest? It doesn’t make sense.”

It may not make sense to them now, but it would when they solved the crime. She simply said, “Someone killed her.”

Lucy had a couple of theories that made perfect sense.

VII.

Lucy checked on Patrick. He was still lethargic, but was no longer hallucinating. “What happened?” he asked.

“Someone drugged you. I think it was in the water bottle. Don’t eat or drink anything I don’t hand you personally.”

He tried to sit up, but groaned. “Why am I in your room?”

“Don’t you remember? You puked all over yours. I cleaned it up. You can thank me later.” She spoke lightly, but she was hugely relieved that Patrick was better.

She gave Patrick water from the tap. “Only tap water. I’m going to grab some food from the pantry.”

“I can’t eat.”

“You need to eat something. I’m going to look for chicken broth. In a can.”

“What have you learned?”

“First, I need to know who you spoke with when we weren’t together yesterday. You tipped someone off. That’s why they drugged your water.”

“I used to be a damn good cop, Lucy. I didn’t tip anyone off.”

“You act like a cop investigating a murder. Wouldn’t that be tip-off enough for the killer?”

Patrick still looked ill, and Lucy wanted him to rest. “I spoke to the sheriff,” she said. “The blizzard won’t be letting up soon. He can’t get the coroner here, but he’s working on sending two deputies. There’s no guarantee they’ll be here today.”

“So Steve did talk to the sheriff. Good.” He sipped some of the water Lucy had given him. “I spoke to Kyle and Alan after we moved Vanessa’s body to the root cellar. They were both a little unnerved. Neither seemed to be hiding anything. Kyle was very worried about his wife.”

“She was sitting up with Trevor most of the night in the library. She said she couldn’t sleep.” Lucy remembered the water by the door. “There was a puddle of water on the floor after I woke you up. In fact—it was after I went to the library. I was in there about fifteen minutes.”

“If it was my water that was drugged, they would have had to have done it before that. I took a leak and drank half the bottle after you woke me.”

“Where did you get the bottle?”

“It was in the bathroom when I—” He hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember it being there when we checked in Thursday night, but it was there last night when I went to bed. I didn’t think about it.”

“When were you out of your room yesterday?”

“All day. We left about nine-thirty to go skiing, came back at four, found Vanessa at five-thirty—I went to my room to change after we moved her body, between seven and seven ten or so. Then back at eleven.”

“Can you remember if the bottle was there when you changed?”

Patrick closed his eyes, thinking. “No, it wasn’t there.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yes. I brushed my teeth and used a glass for water. When I came back at night and brushed again before bed, the glass was gone.”

“Mom would be so proud of you.”

“What for?”

“You probably flossed, too.”

Patrick threw a pillow at her, then groaned. “I feel like I’ve just been beaten up.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll be fine.” Thank God. “We were together most of the evening, except when you went to talk to Steve.”

“Steve and I were talking about how his great-grandfather bought this land and built and lived in the cottage. The kid was really upset, but I felt it had less to do with Marsh’s death and more to do with his physical health.”

“Did you see either Grace or Beth?”

“I didn’t see Grace after Kyle collapsed in the kitchen. Beth was talking to Trevor and Angie later in the evening, but I didn’t talk to her alone.”

Lucy straightened her back as something occurred to her. “Kyle said he was dizzy.”

“Yes. Altitude sickness.”

“I doubt it. He broke a glass, remember? It was juice. Steve was drinking orange juice from a carton yesterday.”

“You think the juice went bad? Or—” Realization dawned on Patrick. “You think they were drugged.”

“I read a letter Steve’s father left him in his will. It was written two years ago, when Steve was eighteen, and Leo said there was plenty of money to support this property, even during the lean years. That was his exact quote. I think Steve believes his dad lied to him.”

“In a will?”

“Exactly, I don’t believe he lied. I think there was money. Beth was a bank manager before she came here, and she’s the one who mentioned that Leo had spent all the emergency funds.”

“You think she stole the money? Why?”

“This property is worth a small fortune, at least I’m guessing it is. It’s close to the ski resort, it’s in its own little valley, and has its own road. With no mortgage, it’s owned free and clear. But if there’s no money to keep it going or expand—which according to Steve was his father’s dream—then they would have to sell.”

“And how does that benefit Beth?”

“I don’t know that it does, but we don’t know how much money was in the accounts in the first place.”

“If she’s guilty, we can’t ask her.”

“No, but we can find the books.”

“Lucy—”

“I know what to look for. Beth has her room off the kitchen. I’ll get Angie to keep her occupied.”

“You trust Angie?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to tell her why.”

“I’ll do it.” Patrick tried to stand, but fell right to his knees. His skin paled.

“Or not,” Lucy said and helped him back into bed. “Patrick, you stay here. My plan is contingent on the killer thinking that you’re too sick to investigate and we’re just waiting for the sheriff to come for Vanessa’s body.”

“Lucy—you need to be careful.”

“I promise.”

“Why would Beth drug Steve?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to distract him—or Grace—from her embezzlement.” She frowned.

“Okay, spit it out.”

“I don’t know. It’s Grace, too. She was really angry about the spilled juice.”

“When Kyle fell?”

“Yes. It seemed … over the top.”

“It was a stressful time,” Patrick pointed out. “A dead guest, her sick stepson, then another guest fainting.”

“You’re probably right.”

“But Luce—trust your instincts. Please. Don’t trust anyone. My gun is in my truck. I didn’t think I’d need it, but I want you to get it. If it’s safe to go for it.”

“Where? Under the seat?”

“Yes. I have a holster strapped to the underside. It’s loaded. Extra bullets are in the glove compartment. It’s a forty-five, are you comfortable with that?”

She smiled. “Jack taught me everything I know about guns.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “I thought I gave you some good lessons.”

“You did. But you know Jack. Repetition.”

“Yeah, don’t I?”

Lucy wanted to check out Grace and Steve’s rooms as well. They were in the cottage, and that was on the way to Patrick’s truck.

“What?” Patrick snapped. “You’re thinking about doing something you know I won’t like.”

“You’re right.”

He paused. “Well?”

“You won’t like it.” She stood. “Stay here and be sick. If anyone comes, moan. If anyone offers you food, don’t eat it. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Lucy, wait—” He sat up, but became immediately queasy and laid back down.

“Trust me,” she said and left.

#

Beth had just put out a small breakfast buffet. She looked like she hadn’t gotten any sleep. “How are you doing?” Lucy asked.

“I’m worried about Grace. This has been so hard on her. And Steve—the poor kid. I don’t know how to make it better, and it’s killing me.”

“My brother woke up sick this morning.”

“Sick? Like a cold?”

“Like puking his guts out sick. I cleaned up after him, but I was hoping to get some ice and a little juice or something.”

“Of course.”

Lucy followed Beth into the kitchen. Angie was there, as Lucy had prearranged. “Oh, good,” she said to Beth. “I was hoping you could help me with Trevor. He went up to the extra room, but he’s hungover and distraught and I don’t know what to do. Kyle is no help, he doesn’t know what to say, and you were so good with Trevor last night.”

Beth said, “I have the perfect hangover remedy.” She started gathering supplies, then turned to Lucy. “Oh, let’s take care of Patrick first.”

“I can do it. You talk to Trevor. I’ll bring juice for my brother. Maybe some chicken broth?”

“In the pantry. I can prepare something for you.”

“No, really, it’s okay. I need something to do anyway, I’m going stir-crazy.”

Less than two minutes later, Angie and Beth left with a tray for Trevor. As soon as Lucy heard them on the stairs, she slipped into Beth’s bedroom.

It was a suite, with two rooms and its own bath. Beth was tidy—her bed was made, her dirty clothes in a hamper, her furniture arranged just so. Careful to leave everything exactly as she’d found it, Lucy quickly searched Beth’s room for anything that would connect her to embezzlement or drugging Steve. Beth didn’t have a computer in her bedroom, which meant that the books were either kept on the office computer or in the cottage.

She did find a box of letters to Beth from a man named Andrew Simon, Lieutenant Colonel, U.S. Army. They were all sent from an APO address in Afghanistan. Ten letters, written in the months she’d been living here. She had a P.O. box in Kit Carson, which Lucy recognized was the same address that the lodge used. Would she use the same address if she was hiding something? Or would she have opened her own post office box?

Lucy opened the most recent letter, dated three weeks ago.

Dearest Beth,

Our last letters must have crossed in the air, now I understand better why you need to help your sister. Of course family is the most important thing, and I’m so happy that you’ve become so close to your sister after everything that happened when you were kids. I love you more for your devotion. It was my selfishness to want you closer so during my rare leaves, we can be together.

The Delarosa sounds like exactly what I need when I get out of the army in August. I had planned on reenlisting, but knowing you are waiting for me, three years for my country is enough. I can’t tell you how I feel when I get a letter from you. I am counting the days, and will write when I have my final discharge papers. I wish we could email like we did before you moved to your sister’s, but I reread your letters every night. Keep them coming, love.

I’m so sorry the lodge finances are in such dire straits. If anyone can turn it around, it’s you. Steve sounds like a smart, determined young man, I look forward to meeting him.

I hope you can convince your sister not to sell, at least before I can spend a week or ten making love to you in paradise.

The picture is me and my squad before we went out on recon two weeks ago. Buddy didn’t make it back. He’s the one in the Jeep. He was a damn good man.

Love you, Beth, with everything I am.

Andy

Lucy looked at the picture, and first found Buddy in the Jeep. Her dad was working on base by the time she was born, and her oldest brother Jack had enlisted when she was still a toddler. She knew what these men went through.

Was the fact that Beth was dating a soldier clouding her judgment? Lucy hoped not, but she hadn’t found anything in Beth’s room to indicate that she was embezzling money.

Lucy carefully put the letter back exactly as she’d found it and the box on its shelf, next to a framed photo of a man in uniform that must be Andy. Lucy went thought the bottom drawer of her desk and found bank statements. Up until last April, she’d had deposits of a little over five thousand dollars a month. Since April, she’d made small deposits monthly of fifteen hundred dollars. Unemployment? Rent checks? Did her sister pay her a salary?

Beth hadn’t withdrawn much money, either—she had a balance of just over nine thousand in her checking account, about the same in her savings, and two CDs of ten thousand dollars each, maturing at different times, both purchased before she’d moved here.

Suddenly, Lucy felt guilty for poring over Beth’s finances. There was nothing here to show that Beth had been stealing. She put everything back and would have left, but someone was in the kitchen.

Steve and Grace.

Heart thudding, she eavesdropped.

“Please, Steve, don’t do this. Your health is more important to me than anything.”

“I need to. On Monday I’m going to Jackson and getting a mortgage. I need you to sign with me.”

“You’ll be in debt for the rest of your life. You’ll put yourself in an early grave. I can’t go through that again. Not what I went through with your father. Him dying in my arms because we couldn’t get him to the hospital fast enough.”

“Please, don’t—”

“We can sell. That will solve all our financial problems.”

“I’m not selling!”

“Beth, tell Steve that a mortgage isn’t the solution.”

Beth must have stepped into the kitchen, or had been silent at first. “Actually, I’ve been thinking it might be a good option. Not a large mortgage, but ten percent would be more than enough to replenish the emergency funds. I’ll stay here, at least another year, and work out a budget and growth plan. It’s my forte.”

“But it’s not about the lodge, it’s about Steve!” Grace said. “His health.”

“You need to go to the doctor, Steve,” said Beth. “I’ll help you with the mortgage papers—we’ll go to my old boss, he’ll find us a good program. But then you have to promise to go in for the tests.”

“All right,” Steve agreed.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Grace said.

“It’s a win-win,” Beth said. “Steve gets what he wants, you get what you want. Steve, can you help me clean up the guest rooms?”

“Sure. Thanks, Beth.”

“You’ve grown on me. I want you happy and I want you healthy. Okay?”

Lucy didn’t know if Grace had left, and she couldn’t open the door to check. Though she wasn’t dressed for the weather, she went out the side door and walked around the porch to the front door. The snow was still falling, but didn’t seem as severe as earlier this morning. Drifts had accumulated against the porch, and she couldn’t even see the stairs. She shivered and tried the front door, but it was locked.

Dammit, that wasn’t a smart idea. She knocked, getting colder by the second. She knocked again and the door swung open.

Grace said, “What are you doing outside dressed like that?”

“I stepped out to get fresh air and must have locked the door or someone else did. I was only out here for a few minutes.”

She shook off in the foyer, feeling like a wet dog, her long hair already damp against her cheeks. She tucked it behind her ears. “Thanks,” she added when Grace didn’t say anything.

“Beth said your brother was sick.”

“Stomach flu, I guess. I don’t know but he’s finally sleeping again. I think I’ll go check on him.”

She walked upstairs, feeling Grace’s eyes on her back.

VIII.

Fifteen minutes later, Lucy was bundled in ski clothes. She knocked on Angie and Kyle’s door. Kyle opened it. He was disheveled. Angie leapt off the bed and headed for the bathroom; Lucy noted she was naked.

She blushed. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to, well—”

“It’s okay. Is Patrick better?”

“Yes, but still queasy. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He closed the door behind her. Angie emerged from the bathroom in a robe. “I need your help,” she said.

“Like when you asked me to talk to Beth about Trevor?” Angie asked.

“Right. I need to go to Patrick’s truck, but I don’t want anyone coming with me. At least, anyone but one of you.”

“I don’t get it,” Kyle said.

“I have to trust someone, and I don’t have anyone else. Alan and Heather are probably fine, but Patrick thinks you’re on the up-and-up.”

“What’s going on?” Kyle asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, not willing to give up the fact that Vanessa was murdered. “But something is weird around here, and I think Patrick figured it out but then he was drugged. He’s not sick—he was intentionally drugged. And he doesn’t remember what he did last night.” That wasn’t a total lie.

“Was Vanessa drugged, too?” Angie asked, wide-eyed.

“I honestly don’t know. But I talked to the sheriff, and he’s working on getting deputies here by the end of today, but there’s no guarantee.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kyle said. “What do you need?”

“Well, I need a lookout because I’m going to search the barn. And Patrick’s gun is in his truck. And then—I need to get into the cottage.”

“You’re going to break into Grace and Steve’s house?”

“No, not exactly. I have a key.” She’d taken it from the office where everything was neatly labeled, even the extra key to the cottage. Considering Beth’s immaculate room, Lucy wondered if Beth had reorganized when she came over the summer.

“I’ll be downstairs in five minutes,” Kyle said.

Lucy turned to leave. Then she asked, “Yesterday, when you were dizzy, what had you been drinking?”

“Orange juice, why?” Then he shook his head. “You think there was something in the juice? Is that what Patrick drank?”

“No, but Steve has been dizzy and I saw him drinking orange juice last night.” She asked Angie, “Did you have some?”

“No, and I told Kyle he should have asked.”

“I just wanted some juice. Beth said to help myself between meals.”

“That was your third glass.”

“It was good.”

What could have had that fast of an effect? Or was it simply the quantity? And what would have caused light-headedness or fainting?

“I’ll see you downstairs.”

* * *

Leaving was much easier than Lucy had thought. She and Kyle traversed the fifty or so yards to the barn. She’d already verified that Grace and Steve were both in the main lodge. Beth was cooking soup in the kitchen for lunch. Lucy couldn’t count on the cottage remaining vacant, but she would have to take her chances.

The wind had died down, but the snow still fell. It was almost picturesque, except that she could barely see the barn. She had never seen such odd light before, almost everything appeared black or white through the thickly falling snow. Everything white, except shadows and trees and buildings that were black and gray. It was both eerie and beautiful.

And silent.

Because there was no wind, it only took a couple minutes of plodding through the snow to reach the barn. Lucy went in through the regular door, which was unlocked; the main doors were braced from the inside to keep them from breaking off in the heavy winds from the night before and this morning. The barn was dark, and she didn’t want to turn on the lights and attract attention. Angie had been instructed to tell anyone who asked that Kyle had walked Lucy to the garage to get something for Patrick, but why encourage followers?

She went straight to Patrick’s car and retrieved his gun.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asked.

“This is just a precaution.”

He looked skeptical. “I don’t like this. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Kyle, I trusted you, I need you to trust me.”

He was torn. “I don’t like guns. I don’t like what’s going on here. Tell me the truth.”

“Vanessa was murdered.”

He paled. “How can you be sure?”

“We can’t until an autopsy, which is why Patrick secured the body in the root cellar. The only people who were in the house during the time of death were Trevor, Beth, Grace, and possibly Steve. Alan and Heather returned from town at four, which is on the tail end of the window, and you and Angie were on a walk. Unless you lied and conspired to kill a woman you’d never met before this weekend.”

“We were on a walk! I didn’t kill anyone.” He was too stunned at her comment to be insulted or angry.

“I also suspect that she was drugged before she was killed. Again, I can’t prove it. But we have a lot of circumstantial evidence to back it up.”

“Why?”

“That’s the million-dollar question.” Why indeed? Lucy was still missing a few pieces to the puzzle. She hoped to find them in the cottage.

She threaded the holster through her belt and tucked the gun inside her thick ski pants. It wasn’t visible with the bulky clothing, but there was no way she’d be able to hide this .45 on her person once inside, even if she wore an oversized sweater. She’d have to think of something.

She walked around the barn, looking for anything that didn’t belong. There were a lot of tools, Steve’s truck, a Jeep Cherokee, and a classic Mustang.

She looked in the glove compartment of the Jeep first. It belonged to Beth—Elizabeth Ann Holbrook. It was registered in San Rafael, California, and Lucy wrote down the address. Beth’s car, like her room, was immaculate. Service records were folded neatly into the pocket on the front of her car manual. The Jeep had been serviced at the same place she’d bought it four years ago. She found a business card holder. Beth had been a manager at a national bank in San Rafael.

She had the knowledge to embezzle, but what was her motive? Jealous of her sister? Needed the money? Nothing in her bank statements seemed to indicate a need of funds, but Lucy knew she could have hidden accounts, could be in debt, could be involved with something nefarious.

Nothing else in the car gave Lucy more information. She next went to the Mustang.

“What can I do?” Kyle asked.

“Look for anything that seems out of place—something that doesn’t belong in a barn or garage.”

In the Mustang’s glove box was the registration. Grace Delarosa, at the lodge. Behind it was an older registration. Grace Anderson, Orlando, Florida. She was about to put it back when she saw there were three other papers.

Grace Ann Summers, Chantilly, Virginia. Grace Brooke Jackson, Monterey, California. The last, Grace Marie Holbrook, with a Phoenix, Arizona, address. That registration had expired nine years ago.

Phoenix. Vanessa was from Phoenix.

Heart racing, Lucy wrote down all the names, addresses, and dates and put them back in the glove compartment. She looked the car, but couldn’t get into the trunk, which needed a key because the classic model didn’t have a trunk release.

“Kyle,” she called.

“It’s hard to look for something you don’t know what you’re looking for,” he said.

“I know. I found what I need.”

“What?”

“Let’s steer clear of Grace for a while.”

“You don’t think—”

“I’m thinking nothing right now except I need more information, and I’d rather not talk to her first.” She also needed to call the sheriff again and give him Grace’s aliases and tell him that she’d lived in the same town as the deceased. Phoenix was a big place, but it was too much of a coincidence.

Lucy thought back to Vanessa’s message to her brother.

You were right. We win.

What did she mean?

Trevor hadn’t called Vanessa’s brother yet, and Lucy wanted to be there when he did. But if she let on to Trevor that Vanessa’s death was a homicide, she didn’t know what he would do, or if she could control his reaction. It was best to keep the information to themselves.

Leaving the barn, Lucy looked toward the lodge. Visibility was still poor, but Lucy didn’t see anyone walking around on the porch. The lights in the cottage were off. She turned back to Kyle. “I need you to go back to the house and hang around the porch. Delay anyone coming to the cottage.” She looked at her watch. “I need ten minutes.”

“You’re going to search that place that fast?”

“I know what I’m looking for.” Or she had a good idea.

Kyle reluctantly agreed, and he and Lucy parted ways at the short path—at least, she thought the path was where she turned, buried deep in the snow—that led to the cottage.

The door was locked, but she opened it with the key she had taken. More silence, though as she listened she heard a ticking grandfather clock. The hum of the refrigerator. The deep drone of the generator.

She quickly assessed the layout. There were only two bedrooms, no den, and one great room that had a kitchen and dining area attached to it. She went to the room that was obviously Grace’s and immediately searched her drawers.

At first she found only clothing. She went to the closet, which was packed with thick winter clothes. The floor was a mess of clothes that had fallen off hangers and shoes and folded blankets.

If Lucy needed to hide something, where would she hide it? Not under the bed—though she checked there quickly. Grace wouldn’t have wanted Steve to find it, even accidentally.

She thought back to her brothers and how they never liked to talk about “girl stuff”—namely menstruation. Carina had once told her that she used to hide her chocolate in a Tampax box so Patrick wouldn’t steal it.

“He never looked there, didn’t even consider it.”

Lucy went to the bathroom. The bottom drawer was filled with feminine hygiene products. She opened every box and there it was.

Maybe she didn’t know what she was looking for specifically, but she had certainly found it.

A box full of pill bottles. Prescriptions for Thyrolar, made out to Grace Marie Holbrook, and several prescriptions made out to Leonardo Delarosa. She put them out by date—first a basic diuretic, common for high blood pressure. Then lisinopril, which was a stronger medication. That started after his heart attack three years ago. Then six months before his death, the doctor increased the dosage.

There were pills in some of the bottles. She opened one up and it was coated in a fine powder—more powder than would naturally rub off the pills from friction. Lucy looked in the drawer and found a small mortar and pestle—a classic tool used for hand grinding. Such as to grind pills into a fine powder that would more easily dissolve in liquid. And the bitter taste would be masked by a strong drink. Like orange juice.

The front door opened and Lucy quickly put everything back and closed the drawer.

“Angie and I wanted to use the snowmobiles this afternoon if the snow lets up,” Kyle was saying.

“I think tomorrow.”

Lucy breathed in relief. It was Steve. But she didn’t want him to know about Grace, not yet. Not until the police arrived.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Look, Kyle, I’m sorry, I’m just really tired. It’s been a long couple days and I need to check the barn, the wood—”

“Let me help. Please, I’m going to go insane in that house without anything to do.”

“Okay. Fine. I’m just need to get my parka.”

Two minutes later, they were gone.

Lucy didn’t want to tempt fate. She watched out the window until she saw Kyle and Steve go into the barn, then she left the cottage and retrieved her snowshoes from where she had stashed them on the side. She crossed over to the lodge, retracing Steve’s and Kyle’s tracks.

She saw something odd to her right where the root cellar entrance came out of the ground on the side of the house. The doors were open.

Who had gone down there? Trevor? The killer? Patrick had the key—but he was in no condition to check on the body.

She needed someone to investigate with her—she wasn’t going to go down in the cellar alone, especially when no one knew she was checking it out. She stepped toward the lodge, but movement on her left startled her. She turned and saw Grace Delarosa skiing rapidly toward her. Before she could move, Grace had rammed into her, sending Lucy sprawling into the snow.

She struggled to get up, the snowshoes making it nearly impossible, and Grace grabbed her arm. Lucy opened her mouth to call for help, and Grace backhanded her with a gloved hand. Lucy tasted blood and spit into the snow.

She felt a pinprick in her neck and hit at it. Something warm trickled down into her shirt.

“You’re too late,” Grace said and she pushed Lucy back down. Lucy tried to talk, but her muscles weren’t working right. She tried to stand, then crawl, but couldn’t control her limbs.

Grace dragged her to the root cellar. Darkness ate at the edges of her vision.

“I’ll be long gone before anyone knows you’re missing.” She reached into Lucy’s pocket and pulled out Patrick’s keys.

“W-why did you?” Lucy managed to whisper.

“You’re so smart, you figure it out.”

Grace pushed Lucy down the rough earth staircase that led down into the root cellar and closed the doors. She heard the lock slip into place.

Everything was black.

She lost consciousness.

IX.

Lucy woke up not knowing how long she’d been unconscious, but certain she was freezing. Her face was flat on the frozen ground, her cheek numb. The musty smell of damp earth brought images of a graveyard to mind, and her heart quickened. She opened her eyes—or thought she had—but it was pitch-black in the root cellar.

She slowly got up on all fours. One snowshoe had broken off when Grace had tossed her down the stairs. She turned to sit and take off the other.

Her muscles felt weak and uncoordinated, but she didn’t think Grace had gotten enough of the drug into her. There had been an instant effect, but she didn’t seem to have any lingering side effects. She had to find a way out. What if Grace hurt Steve? Or someone else? Was Patrick okay?

Thinking about Grace drugging her brother pushed Lucy through the pain. She was sore everywhere, but nothing was broken. The padding of her winter clothes had protected her from the fall. She reached to her lower back and found Patrick’s .45 still there.

There should be a light switch somewhere. She felt around the hard-packed dirt floor to make her way to the wall. Her finger touched plastic, and her stomach rolled as she realized she’d been sitting right next to Vanessa’s body. She crawled away until she reached a metal shelving unit. She stood up, knees cracking and muscles still weak. She held the shelf as she shuffled along the edge until she found the wall. It, too, was hard dirt, and she felt along for a switch. There was none.

“Of course not,” she said out loud, her voice startling her in the dark silence. It would most likely be suspended from the ceiling; the root cellar was cut out of the earth to preserve food without refrigeration. The light would most likely be tapped into the housing electricity.

She considered the layout of the house. What room was directly above the root cellar? She could find something to bang on the ceiling and maybe someone would hear her.

She realized she was directly beneath Beth’s room.

Lucy hesitated. Beth could be part of the scam to steal money from the Delarosa estate. She had no way of knowing whether or not the sisters were in this together.

She’d heard Grace lock the root cellar, but Lucy had to try to escape. She found the stairs and crept up, crawling at the end as the ceiling got lower. She pushed the thick wood doors. They didn’t budge.

But she heard something. Two men’s voices. They were getting closer. Steve and Kyle?

“Steve!” she cried out. She banged on the door. “Help! Steve! Kyle! I’m trapped!”

Silence, then Steve called through the doors, “Lucy?”

“Yes!” She relaxed with relief. “Thank God. Get me out. And don’t talk to Grace!”

“What did you say about Grace?”

“Get me out and I’ll explain everything.”

“Hold on, I know where the spare key is.”

Spare key? That’s what Grace must have used.

“Get the key from Patrick!” Lucy called.

Kyle said, “Steve went inside. What happened?”

“Grace locked me in here. She tried to drug me, too, but I didn’t get the full dose. It’s a muscle relaxant, and I think that’s what she used on Vanessa before she killed her.” If Vanessa had been incapacitated with a muscle relaxant, Grace could easily have suffocated her. Lucy hadn’t thought to look in Vanessa’s nose and throat for cotton fibers from a blanket or pillow—but often those fibers were only visible under a microscope. An autopsy would provide a definitive answer.

“Grace killed Vanessa?” Kyle asked. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy admitted, “but Grace has at least five identities, including one in Phoenix where Vanessa is from. She took Patrick’s keys. Did you see or hear his truck leave?”

“No,” Kyle said. “Steve and I just came from the garage—no one was there. Patrick’s truck was still there.”

What was Grace up to?

“Kyle, how long has it been since you and Steve went to his house?”

“Fifteen minutes? Twenty at the most.”

That meant Lucy had been knocked unconscious for only a few minutes. And since Patrick’s truck was still here, Grace was still here and was probably planning something. What? Was she in her cottage packing, thinking she had more time?

“Lucy? Are you down there?”

It was Patrick. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I’m fine.” He unlocked the padlock and opened the doors. The light from outside poured into the cellar and Lucy instinctively shut her eyes. She crawled out and Patrick stood her up. “What happened?”

“Grace ambushed me and locked me in the root cellar. She took your keys.”

“Why would she take my keys and not use the lodge truck?”

“You have a better truck,” Lucy said. “Or maybe so we don’t follow too quickly. I don’t know.” She looked around. “Where’s Steve?”

“He went to find Grace,” Patrick said.

“No! She’s been drugging him for God knows how long. I found prescription thyroid and blood pressure medicines in her bathroom—dozens of bottles. The pills had been ground into a fine powder. Thyroid medicine increases your heart rate, and blood pressure meds lower it—” She frowned. “What was she doing with Leo Delarosa’s blood pressure meds? He should have been taking them, especially after his heart attack.”

“Unless she withheld them or swapped them out,” Patrick said.

“If she was giving Steve the blood pressure meds, that would explain his dizziness and fainting. And Kyle”—Lucy looked at him—“you drank the orange juice that Steve had been drinking earlier. That’s how she did it.”

“Why?”

“So she could control and sell the land. This place has no mortgage on it, it’s worth a small fortune, and I’ll bet she embezzled the money Leo left to run the lodge.”

“You know what you’re saying?” Patrick said.

Lucy nodded, shivering more from her deduction than from the cold. “She killed Leo.”

“Let’s get inside and contact the sheriff,” Patrick said, “and get everyone in one room.”

They started toward the stairs to the porch and that’s when Lucy saw Steve standing at the top. His face turned from shock to rage.

“What did you say?”

“Steve, we need to get everyone in the house. Everyone. We need to talk.”

“Tell me what you meant—who killed my father?”

Lucy stepped forward, her boots sinking into the snow. Fast was not an option, but she moved as quickly as she could, worried that Steve would do something stupid. “We’ll talk about this inside.”

“Tell me!” he shouted.

Lucy reached him on the stairs. “Steve, I don’t have definitive proof, but I found your father’s heart medication ground into powder in Grace’s bathroom.”

Steve looked perplexed.

Lucy realized why the thyroid meds were also ground up. “I think she was giving him her own thyroid medicine instead of his blood pressure meds.”

“I don’t understand. What would that do?”

“Thyroid medicine can increase the heart rate. Since your father already had high blood pressure, if he wasn’t taking his meds and then was given something to make his heart work harder, the combination could bring on a heart attack or stroke. It’s not predictable—Grace couldn’t have known when it would happen, just that it would eventually. Then when she found out she couldn’t sell the land, she took all the money she could from your accounts. Maybe she took the money before he died, I don’t know.”

“But why?” Steve wailed, his pain and anguish evident in his voice. “My father loved her!”

Lucy had some ideas on what had motivated Grace, but didn’t want to share them now, not with Steve so volatile. She glanced at Patrick and nodded to Steve. Patrick stepped next to him and said, “Let go inside. The sheriff will take over.”

As they stepped through the door, they all heard an engine start. A half minute later, the barn doors were nudged open by Patrick’s truck. Grace was at the wheel.

Beth walked into the foyer. “Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!”

Steve turned on her, pushed her back. Her eyes were wide in fear, and Steve shouted. “Did you know? Did you know your sister killed my father?”

The shock on Beth’s face was palpable. Without waiting for an answer, Steve pushed Patrick and stomped out the door, grabbing cross country skis from the rack.

“Steve, wait for the sheriff—”

“No! She killed my dad. It all makes sense. Everything makes sense now.”

Lucy tried to stop Steve, but she couldn’t move fast through the snow, and Steve was on the skis before she reached him.

“Patrick!” she called out. “The snowmobiles.”

Patrick said to Kyle, “Call the sheriff now. Give him my truck description, license plate 5K55567. Tell them Grace may be armed and dangerous. There’s only one road out of this mountain—they need to meet up with her before she hits the highway.”

“That doesn’t give them much time—twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

“Then tell them to haul ass.”

Beth looked shell-shocked. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“We can’t explain now,” Lucy said, “but your sister is a killer. I’m sorry.”

“I thought—” she hesitated. “I thought we’d finally become close. I was wrong.

Patrick said to Lucy, “Get everyone in the library and stay there. I’ll get Steve.”

“You’re not going out there alone,” she countered.

“Dammit, you’re not a cop!”

“Are you going to argue with me or cooperate? You were drugged last night, Patrick. Grace is a killer and Steve’s emotions are running high. You need backup. Let’s go.”

She gave Patrick no opportunity to argue. She started toward the garage where the snowmobiles were stored. Without snowshoes, it took longer. Patrick waved her over to the tracks his truck had made; walking on the pressed snow was definitely easier.

By the time they reached the garage, Grace and Steve had a six-minute lead and the steadily falling snow was covering up their tracks. Patrick uncovered the snowmobiles. “Why don’t we take Steve’s truck?” Lucy asked.

“We need to make up time, and we’ll never catch up to her before Steve. Trust me, snowmobiles are faster.”

He started one up, then motioned for Lucy to take it before he started the next. This was only the second time Lucy had rode one of these vehicles—the first time being two days ago when they first arrived.

Patrick led the way. As they passed the lodge, Kyle came out and gave them a thumbs-up. Hopefully that meant he had spoken to the sheriff. With that, Patrick rode off and Lucy followed.

They stayed on the path left by the truck. Lucy noticed that Steve’s skis had diverged from the road, leaving a clear trail through the trees.

She sped up and motioned for Patrick to stop.

“What?” he shouted.

“Steve went that way,” she pointed down the mountainside. “We should split up.”

“Hell no.”

“He’s going to cut her off. He knows these woods better than anyone.”

“I don’t care, we’re not splitting up.”

“We may not catch up with her in time, and I’m worried for Steve. Please—I’ll follow him.”

“And what if you get lost?”

“I’ll stick to his trail. I can catch up with him and stop him from doing anything stupid. You focus on Grace. We’re wasting time.”

It was clear Patrick didn’t want to agree, but Lucy took his silence as assent. She rode back to where she’d seen Steve’s ski trail, worried that the heavy snowfall would cover his tracks faster than she could follow them. But he’d been traveling fast, leaving deep gouges in the snow, and Lucy easily found the path he’d left.

Lucy started slowly because she was at a dangerous downhill angle. But it leveled off a bit and she picked up speed. The trees started far apart, but the more she went down, the closer they got. She paid close attention to the tracks, because if she lost them, she would have to backtrack, and she might not be able to find his path again. Worse, the snow was making it difficult to see more than twenty or so feet ahead of her, and she had to slow when Steve’s tracks started swerving between trees.

Several minutes later, she saw a green figure in the distance. It had to be Steve, in his bright green jacket, and he was moving at a rapid pace. She sped up a bit, but stayed tense and focused on his trail. She didn’t know this area, and didn’t know if there was a deep gulley or drop-off.

She made good time. Just as she was getting closer to Steve, he suddenly turned sharply to the right and disappeared from view.

Lucy sped up, and spotted him. Steve lay unmoving in the snow.

She stopped the snowmobile and jumped off. Steve was trying to get up. One ski had come off.

“What happened?” she called.

“A rock. I wasn’t paying attention.”

She didn’t know if she believed him. She thought he might have gotten dizzy and collapsed, or lost his balance. “Steve, Grace has been drugging you, too. You can’t do this—”

“Why are you trying to stop me?”

“The police are on their way to Kit Carson. They have a description of Patrick’s truck and Grace. She’s not going to get away.”

“This is between me and that woman.”

“Steve—please, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“She killed my father!”

He pushed Lucy down and stomped toward the snowmobile.

“Steve!”

He jumped on. Lucy scrambled up. “Don’t leave!” She suddenly grew terrified that he’d go and she’d never find her way out. She was in the middle of the forest with no visible paths and the snow was making her trail down the mountain disappear.

Steve said, “Get on the back. You have ten seconds or I’m leaving without you.”

Lucy had no choice—Steve was distraught and determined. She jumped on the seat behind him. He started off so fast she nearly fell off, so she grabbed him around the waist, holding tight. He drove the snowmobile much faster than she did, but he had more experience and knew where he was going.

He swerved, then sped up, driving far faster than could possibly be safe. Lucy closed her eyes and held on tight, fearing that this was it. Steve would crash into a tree and she’d be dead.

When he slowed about five minutes later, Lucy opened her eyes and saw they were approaching a road. To her left she saw Patrick’s truck coming down the mountain. Patrick was right behind it on the snowmobile.

At their trajectory, they’d hit the truck when they reached the road.

“Jump!” Steve shouted.

Lucy feared she knew exactly what Steve was planning. “No, Steve!”

“Jump, dammit, I’m going to stop her.”

“Don’t—”

“Do it!” He slowed a fraction, grabbed her wrist that was still tight around him, and twisted it until she cried out and let go. She fell off the back and hit the snow, stunned. But nothing was broken.

She watched in stark terror as Steve sped up and made a beeline for the road. This was suicide! She couldn’t stop him. She scrambled up, but the snow was so deep she sunk in past her knees.

Steve timed the collision perfectly, jumping off the snowmobile at the last minute. Grace swerved to avoid crashing, but fishtailed and slid on the icy road, losing all control, and the truck slid past the snowmobile and into the embankment.

Lucy reached the road as Steve opened the passenger door, because the driver’s side was pressed firm against the mountainside. He grabbed Grace and pulled her from the seat. Patrick stopped behind the truck and shouted, “Let her go! Steve, the police are nearly here. Let her go.”

“You killed my dad!” Steve screamed and slammed Grace against the hood of the truck. “Why?”

Grace didn’t answer. Instead, she kicked Steve in the knee and he lost his footing on the icy ground, letting go of her. She took two steps away and pulled a gun from her pocket. She pointed it at Steve and shouted at Patrick, “Step away from the snowmobile. I’m taking it.”

Patrick slowly moved away. “The police are coming. You’re not getting off the mountain.”

“Move faster!” she ordered.

“We know your aliases.”

“I doubt you know all of them,” Grace snapped back.

“Why did you stay so long?” Lucy asked. “Why didn’t you just take the money and run? Why’d you have to kill Leo?”

She laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She jumped on the snowmobile.

Grace started down the road. Lucy couldn’t let her get away.

As soon as Grace passed her, Lucy retrieved Patrick’s gun from the holster and, just like Jack had trained her, took aim and fired. Three bullets right in the back of the snowmobile. She didn’t know where it was most vulnerable, and she didn’t want to shoot Grace, but she hit the engine. It began to smoke, and the snowmobile wobbled. Grace’s pantleg caught fire and she swerved and jumped off, rolling in the snow.

Patrick was fast and jumped on Grace before she had a chance to retrieve her gun. Lucy held the gun on her while Patrick disarmed her and turned her face down into the snow. Grace cried out in pain, but Patrick didn’t take her bait.

Lucy told Steve, “Patrick has handcuffs in his glove box.”

He didn’t move. “Give me the gun, Lucy.”

“No.”

He moved toward her and Lucy turned the gun on him. “Steve, I don’t want to shoot you.”

“Just give me the gun. I need to do this.”

He was wide-eyed with grief.

“No.”

Steve stepped forward and Patrick shouted, “Stop!” He had Grace’s gun aimed at Steve. “We have her, Steve. She’s going to prison for the rest of her life.”

Tears spilled from his red eyes. Steve sunk to his knees, releasing a cry of anguish.

Lucy retrieved the handcuffs and handed them to Patrick. He cuffed Grace and sat her up. “It is over for you, too, Grace.”

“It’s all conjecture. There’s no proof of anything.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Lucy said. “The orange juice you drugged. It’s still in the refrigerator. Steve himself is evidence—the next stop is a hospital for a blood sample.”

“But there’s no proof I did anything. What you might have seen in my house? Well, I doubt anyone will ever find it again.”

“I’ll testify.”

“There’s no evidence.”

“There’s Vanessa Russell-Marsh’s body.”

“Nothing connects me to her.”

“Phoenix.”

“A lot of people live in Phoenix.”

“Nelson Russell.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grace said, though her confidence faltered. “You can’t prove I did anything to anyone.”

Lucy suspected she was correct. She said, “You’re a con artist. You conned Nelson Russell and he sent his sister to collect what you stole. She sent a postcard to her brother that said, ‘You were right. We win.’ Did Vanessa demand repayment or she’d tell Beth and Steve what you did to her brother? Perhaps that would make them suspicious about Leo’s missing money. Did she threaten to turn you over to the police?”

“Vanessa was a fucking bitch!” Grace exclaimed. “They hired a private investigator to find me, and she thought she was so smart coming up here and surprising me. But the joke’s on her.”

“You killed her and planned to leave, but you got greedy,” Lucy said. “You wanted Steve to sell, so you pushed him harder. Told him his father had squandered all his money. Increased the blood pressure meds you were giving him so that he’d get sicker. Maybe get himself killed, because he was working double time to keep the lodge running. You had Beth on your side because you made her feel sorry for you. Poor Grace, you were barely holding on, you were suffering because you were trying to save Leo’s dream for his son—while all along you had been sabotaging it.”

A four-wheel-drive sheriff’s truck came into sight. Grace squirmed.

“You’re going to jail,” Patrick said. “Once we talk to Beth and Vanessa’s brother, you’ll be begging for a plea agreement.”

The sheriff put on the lights and over the speaker came, “Put down your weapons.”

Lucy put her gun on the hood of Patrick’s truck, and Patrick walked over and did the same thing. The deputy got out of the car. “Who’s Kincaid?”

Patrick introduced himself and handed the deputy his private investigator’s license and business card. “I had the lodge call you about Mrs. Marsh’s murder, and we have reason to believe that Grace Delarosa killed her. We also have reason to believe that she killed her husband and attempted to kill her stepson.”

“Frankly, you’re going to have to get in line.” The deputy walked over to where Grace knelt in the snow, head low. “Grace Marie Holbrook, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”

As the deputy read Grace her rights, he walked her to the back of the truck and locked her inside. Then he returned to the three.

“What did you mean, deputy?” Patrick asked.

“Well, we ran the names you sent us, and bam! One of the aliases, Grace Ann Summers from Virginia, popped up with an active warrant for murder.”

“How long ago?” Patrick asked.

“Nearly six years.”

Steve said, “She came here looking for a job six years ago this June. My dad hired her and they married a year later.”

“She was probably hiding out,” Patrick said. “Taking another name, living in another state, she could have stayed here forever.”

“Probably,” the deputy concurred. “I’m going to take her in, but two deputies are on their way to the lodge to take down statements. Do you need help with your truck?” he asked.

Patrick surveyed the damage. “It looks like we can dig it out.”

“Don’t wait too long, the storm will pass tomorrow, but it’ll only get worse tonight.”

He tipped his hat and left.

X.

The sheriff’s deputies arrived Saturday evening, and took everyone’s statement. They stayed the night because they couldn’t get off the mountain, but by dawn the snow had stopped and pockets of blue could be seen above.

The drama of the weekend had taken its toll on the guests, and Alan and Heather left Sunday morning, followed by Kyle and Angie. Trevor, after making arrangements with the coroner to send Vanessa’s body to Phoenix, also left. Patrick and Lucy decided to stay one more night to help Beth and Steve make plans.

“The good news is Grace isn’t as clever as she thought,” Patrick said. “I spoke to Vanessa’s brother this morning, and he told me everything. Grace and Nelson Russell had been engaged. Vanessa suspected Grace had stolen an expensive painting, even though Grace had come up with an excuse as to why she had it in her car. Russell forgave her, but agreed to test her honesty. He set up a sting of sorts, but Grace figured it out and stole $150,000 in cash and jewelry that had been in the Russells’ safe. According to Russell, he didn’t care about the money, but the jewelry had been in his family for generations. They’ve been looking for the jewelry and Grace ever since.”

“How did they find her?” Steve asked.

“Through your website. When Trevor and Vanessa decided to find a mountain lodge to honeymoon at, they researched dozens, including the Delarosa. On the page was a picture of Grace and Leo. Though not a close-up, Vanessa thought she’d recognized her and hired a private investigator, who confirmed it. She told her brother she’d investigate, and if it was Grace, she’d demand the return of their jewelry. According to Russell, who hasn’t received the postcard yet, the message meant that he was right, she still had the jewelry, and they won, because Grace promised to return it in exchange for them not turning her over to the police.”

“So why did Grace kill her?” Lucy asked.

Beth said, “Because she doesn’t have the jewelry.” Everyone turned to look at her. “It’s my fault! I sold it for her.” She rubbed her temple.

“Why?”

“She told me Leo left it to her in the will, and I had no reason to doubt her. She said she needed the money so she wouldn’t have to tell Steve that Leo had spent their savings. I believed her. Dammit, she was my sister!”

“You didn’t know any of this?” Steve asked.

Beth shook her head. “Grace is ten years older than me. We weren’t close growing up. Our parents divorced when I was five, and Grace left home a couple years later. I’d see her every couple of years, and she was always nice to me. Generous, talking about her travels.”

“How did she make money? What did she tell you?”

“She was a nurse for years. Then she met her first husband, in Orlando. When he died, she came into some money. I didn’t really ask her much about that.”

“She was a nurse?” Lucy asked. She nodded. “That makes sense. She’d know how meds work and interact.”

“I’m so sorry, Steve. I really didn’t know.”

Steve took Beth’s hand. “I believe you. But we still have no money left.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Patrick said. “The police will go through all her finances and bank accounts. You’ll have dibs on it as soon as they get it straightened out.”

Beth nodded. “I’ll go through the books and find out how much she took. And I’ll stay. It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to.” Steve looked around the dining room. “Maybe I should close down.”

“No,” Beth said. “Please—I love this place. My boyfriend is in Afghanistan. I sent him pictures, and he wants to live here when his tour is up. Andy is going to need a place like this. You’d like him.”

“You’d stay? Even though I can’t pay you or anything?”

“I have a roof over my head and food to eat, and we’ll find a way to make it work. I’m not giving up on you, or the lodge.”

Lucy rose and faked a yawn. “I’m beat. Patrick?”

He picked up on her cue and followed her upstairs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just want to give them time alone. This is a lot to digest.”

“Tell me about it. You want to ski tomorrow?”

Lucy looked at Patrick like he’d grown a second head. “No. I’ve had enough snow for a lifetime. I’m still freezing from yesterday.”

She opened her door. “You think they’ll be okay?”

“I think they have a lot to deal with, but yeah, I think they’ll make it. Steve works hard, and he loves this place. Getting over what happened to his dad will take time, but Beth is solid. I think she’ll be good for him.”

“And when her boyfriend gets back from Afghanistan, maybe the three of them can make a life together.” She paused. “Do you think there’s someone for everyone?”

“What brought this on?”

Lucy felt uncomfortable talking to her brother about relationships, but she pushed forward anyway. “I didn’t love Cody.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I didn’t give him a chance.”

“You dated him for nearly two years.”

“What if I won’t know what love is when I see it?”

Patrick sighed. “You don’t see love, you feel it. You’ll know. I liked Cody, he was good to you, but if you don’t feel the same way, getting married would have been a huge mistake.” He gave her a hug. “You’ll find the right guy, someone who will love you and protect you, someone who makes you happy and makes you laugh. Someone will walk into your life when you least expect it and sweep you off your feet. You won’t be able to imagine your life without him.”

Lucy smiled. “That’s really sweet.”

“And he’ll know if he breaks your heart, he’ll have to answer to your brothers.”

She laughed. “What are you trying to do, scare this fictitious Mr. Perfect away?”

“If he really loves you, he won’t be scared off so easy.”

Lucy kissed her brother on the cheek and went into her room. She changed into her sweats and T-shirt and crawled under the thick down comforter.

She hoped Patrick was right. She hoped someday she would find someone to love.

Read on for a special preview of

KISS ME, KILL ME

the next book in the Lucy Kincaid series!

ONE

As the cold wind whipped around her, FBI agent Suzanne Madeaux lifted the corner of the yellow crime-scene tarp covering the dead girl and swore under her breath.

Jane Doe was somewhere between sixteen and twenty, her dark-blond hair streaked with pink highlights. The teenager’s party dress was also pink, and Suzanne absently wondered if she changed her highlights to match her outfit. There was no outward sign of sexual assault or an apparent cause of death. Still, there was no doubt this was another victim of the killer Suzanne had been tasked to stop.

Jane Doe wore only one shoe.

Dropping the tarp, Suzanne surveyed the scene, trying in vain to keep her long, dark-blond hair out of her face. The relentless wind howled across the cracked, weed-infested parking lot of the abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. It had also felled a couple of trees nearby; small branches and sticks skittered across the pavement. That wind most likely had destroyed any evidence not inside Jane Doe’s body.

Though the corpse didn’t appear to be intentionally hidden, waist-high weeds and a small building that had once housed a generator or Dumpsters concealed her from any passerby’s cursory glance. Suzanne stepped away from the squat structure and looked across the Upper Bay. The tiny Gowanus Bay was to the north, the New Jersey skyline to the west. At night, it would be kind of pretty out here with the city lights across the water, if it weren’t so friggin’ cold.

A plainclothes NYPD cop approached with a half-smile that Suzanne wouldn’t call friendly. “If it ain’t Mad Dog Madeaux. We heard this was one of yours.”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. Even with her eyes closed, she’d recognize Joey Hicks by his grating, intentionally exaggerated New York accent.

“No secret,” she said, making notes to avoid conversation. Hicks wasn’t much older than she. Physically fit, he probably thought he was good-looking, considering the swagger. She supposed he had some appeal, but the cocky “all Feds are assholes” attitude he displayed the first time they’d met on a murder case had landed him on Suzanne’s permanent shit list years ago.

She looked around for his supervisor, but didn’t see Vic Panetta. She’d much rather deal with the senior detective, whom she liked. “Who found the body?” Suzanne asked.

“Security guard.”

“What’s his story?”

“Found her on his morning rounds, about five-thirty.”

It was eleven now. “Why hasn’t the body been taken to the morgue?”

“No wagon available. Coroner is on the way. Another hour, they say. NYPD doesn’t got the resources you Feds got.”

She ignored the slight. “What was the guard doing her last night? Does he patrol more than one building?”

“Yeah.” Hicks looked at his notes. Though Suzanne didn’t like him, he was a decent cop. “He clocked in at four a.m. for a twelve-hour shift. Rotates between vacant properties throughout Sunset Park and around the bay. Says he doesn’t stick to a specific schedule, ’cause vandals watch for that.”

“What about the night guard?”

“Night is either Thompson or Bruzzini. According to the day shift, Bruzzini is a slacker.”

“I need their contact information.” She hesitated. Then—remembering her boss’s command to be more collegial to NYPD—she added, “I appreciate your help.”

“Did Hell freeze over since the last time we worked a case?” Hicks laughed. “I’ll get Panetta; I’m sure he’ll want to at least make a show of fighting for jurisdiction.” He left, still grinning.

Suzanne ignored him. There were no jurisdictional issues—after the third similar murder, an FBI–NYPD task force had been formed. Her supervisor was administratively in charge, and she was the FBI point person on the case. Panetta was the senior ranking NYPD detective.

Tired of her hair flying in her face, Suzanne pulled a N.Y. Mets cap from her pocket and stuffed under it as much of her thick, tangled mess as possible. In her small notepad, she finished writing down her observations and the few facts she knew.

This victim, the fourth, was the first found in Brooklyn. Victim number one, a college freshman, had been killed up in Harlem on a street popular with squatters and the party crowd because every building was boarded up. That had been the eve of Halloween. The second victim had been discovered on the south side of the Bronx, ironically overlooking Rikers Island, on January second. The third victim—the one who brought the attention of the FBI to the serial murders—had been killed in Manhattanville, near Columbia University, eighteen days ago. By the time the task force was put together and evidence shared, for all practical purposes Suzanne had been working the case for less than two weeks.

Besides the one missing shoe and the age of the victims—all adult females under twenty-one—two other commonalities stood out: the victims had been suffocated with a plastic bag that the killer took with him, and they’d each been killed near an abandoned building with evidence of a recent party.

Secret or underground parties were nothing new. Some were relatively innocent, with drinking, dance music, and recreational drugs, while others were far more wild. Raves in the U.S. had started in Brooklyn in the abandoned underground railroad tunnels, and while they still existed, they’d peaked in popularity awhile back. The new fad was sex parties with heavy drinking and hard-core drugs. Music and dancing was a precursor to multi-partner anonymous sex. Even before these murders, there had been several drug-related deaths associated with sex parties. If the pattern held true, evidence inside this warehouse would show this Jane Doe had participated in the latter type of party, which Detective Panetta called “extreme raves.”

The press had dubbed the killer “The Cinderella Strangler” when someone in the know had leaked the missing-shoe detail to the press. It may not have been a cop who talked—there were dozens of people working any one crime scene—but most likely it had come from inside NYPD. The press didn’t seem to care that the victims weren’t strangled—they were asphyxiated. “The Cinderella Asphyxiator” just didn’t sound as good on the eleven o’clock news.

Suzanne had sent a memo to all private security companies in the five boroughs asking them to be more proactive in shutting down the rampant parties at abandoned sites, but it was like spitting in the wind. Though only two of the first three victims were college students, she’d contacted local colleges and high schools to warn students that there was a killer targeting women at these parties. Unfortunately, Suzanne suspected getting through the invincible it-won’t-happen-to-me mentality of young adults was next to impossible. She could almost hear their justification. We won’t go out alone. We won’t leave with a stranger. We won’t drink too much. Excuses for every day of the week, but when it was life or death, Suzanne didn’t understand why they couldn’t party in the relatively safe dorms and frat houses. Those venues had their own problems, but they probably didn’t have a serial killer trolling their halls.

“Suzanne!”

She looked up and waved to Vic Panetta as he strode over. She liked the wiry Italian. He was her exact height, five foot nine, and wore a new wool coat, charcoal gray to match his full head of hair. “Hi, Vic,” she said as he approached. “New coat?”

He deadpanned her. “Christmas present from my wife.”

“Very nice.”

“It cost too much money for a label no one can see,” he grumbled. He gestured at the tarp. “We photographed the area, then put the tarp over the body so we don’t lose any more evidence.”

“Well, the way this wind has been going nonstop for the past couple days, I think we already lost it.”

“You take a look?”

“Briefly.”

“You noted the missing shoe?”

“Duly.”

“Could be under the body.”

“You think?”

“Nah.” He shook his head, then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and read a message. “Good news, coroner is on the way. ETA ten minutes.”

About time, Suzanne thought but didn’t say out loud. “Hicks said you were talking to the security guard who found the body?”

“Yeah, he’s former NYPD—permanent disability, works three days a week. Takes his job seriously. Got an earful about the night shift.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“He suspects Ronald Bruzzini of being bought off. Too much cash in the guy’s wallet, but no proof.”

“Your guy knew about the parties?”

Panetta shook his head. “Not until after the fact, and he doesn’t work nights. He thinks Bruzzini looks the other way. Finds evidence of all kinds of wild parties nearly every week. Hicks and I will follow up on both the night guards, see what shakes out.”

“So you think this was one of your extreme raves?” she teased.

He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “And then some. They did some cleaning up inside, but left the garbage on the other side of the building. The wind sent it all over kingdom come. The crime scene unit is working inside and out, but contamination is a huge problem. We’re printing the place, but getting anything useable—”

“I know. A couple hundred stoned kids, a complete mess, limited resources. If you need our lab, let me know.”

“Will do.”

NYPD had a decent crime lab, and because it was local Suzanne preferred to keep evidence here. Because Panetta was a well-respected, well-liked twenty-two-year veteran, he worked the system well and most of the time could get results faster than if Suzanne shipped evidence to the FBI lab at Quantico.

“The press is going to be all over this,” Panetta mumbled.

“No comment.” She never spoke to the press—not after her diatribe five years ago during a missing child case. That had landed her on the evening news and in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility. Further, she’d been left with the irritating and unflattering moniker “Mad Dog Madeaux.”

“We got a lot of nothing,” Panetta said.

There was extensive physical evidence on all of the victims’ bodies, but not anything they could use to track the killer. The first three victims had at least two sex partners within twenty-four hours of their death, but the DNA left behind either had been contaminated or hadn’t brought up a match in the system. They had evidence of seven different males on the first three victims, but none were the same, suggesting the killer went to extraordinary lengths to avoid leaving DNA on his victims, and possibly didn’t have sex with them. Because of the multiple sex partners and the nature of these parties, the coroner could not determine whether the victims had been raped or had consensual sex.

Not having conclusive evidence as to a killer’s motive made profiling him that much harder. A sexual sadist had a different profile than, for example, a man who killed prostitutes because he thought they were whores. Serial killers who raped or tortured their victims would have a different profile than those who didn’t sexually molest their victims. The task force couldn’t even pinpoint whether this killer was one of the partygoers or whether he waited nearby for a lone female to attack.

Whatever was used to suffocate the victim was taken by the killer—along with one of her shoes—and the victim’s bodies weren’t moved. They were dead when they fell to the ground.

Panetta said, “By the way, this one didn’t die last night.”

“I didn’t inspect the body that closely.”

“The day guard only works Wednesday through Saturday. He doubts that the other day guy does much more than a slapdash inspection of the properties. Our Jane Doe might have been here as early as Saturday night.”

“Because?”

“Our ex-cop walked through here on Saturday afternoon and she wasn’t here then.”

“And you don’t think he’s the killer?” She was only half joking.

“No, but I’ll check him out anyway. I did take a long look at the body, and rigor has come and gone. She’s probably been here more than forty-eight hours. The coroner should be able to give us a range.”

“I’ll leave the forensics in your capable hands. I need her identity ASAP, and in the meantime I’ll review the other three victims and reinterview friends. Someone knows something. I’m getting damn pissed at these bratty college kids who zip their lips because they don’t want to get in trouble for illegal drugs and parties, but don’t seem to care that a killer is hunting on their turf.”

Excerpt from Lucy Kincaid’s personal interview with the FBI hiring panel. Present, Lucy Kincaid, applicant. Hiring panel: Supervisory Special Agent Nolan Cassidy, Special Agent Meredith White, and Special Agent Juan Martinez.

CASSIDY: Your test scores speak for themselves. And your application is very thorough, but at the same time you’ve skimmed over details that I, for one, feel are relevant.

LUCY: I’m sorry, sir. What’s missing?

CASSIDY: Your family. You list your family and their occupations, but there seems to be a lot missing, especially since you seem to come from a law enforcement family. Can you elaborate?

LUCY: Of course, about what specifically?

CASSIDY: Start at the top. Your parents. Your father was a decorated Army colonel, correct?

LUCY: Yes. He’s retired now.

CASSIDY: And still living in San Diego?

LUCY: Yes.

CASSIDY: Your mother is a naturalized citizen.

LUCY: She fled Cuba in the early 1960s. My father found her on a beach near Miami in the middle of the night—he saved her life.

MARTINEZ: My wife’s grandparents fled at the same time—her mother was a little girl at the time. They’ve never returned. Have you ever traveled to Cuba?

LUCY: No, my mother’s only sister died during the journey. She never wanted to return. I don’t think she has any living relatives.

CASSIDY: Would you consider your relationship with your parents good? Poor? Indifferent?

LUCY: Good.

WHITE: Are you close to them? Or is their age a hindrance to a relationship?

LUCY: We’re very close, but my brothers and sister were as involved in my life as my parents. Maybe more so.

CASSIDY: You have two sisters, not one, correct?

LUCY: Yes, but Nelia and I …

CASSIDY: Go on.

LUCY: It’s not important.

CASSIDY: She’s much older than you.

LUCY: Twenty-two years. I came as a surprise to my mother—she was forty-five when she had me.

CASSIDY: You didn’t list an occupation for her.

LUCY: I don’t know what she’s doing. She remarried a few years ago and lives in Idaho. We’re not close.

CASSIDY: Is Nelia the mother of your nephew who was murdered? Justin Stanton, correct?

LUCY: Yes.

CASSIDY: Did you know him? You were seven then?

LUCY: Both Justin and I were seven. He was born two months before me. We always thought that was funny.

CASSIDY: So you were close to Justin.

LUCY: He was my best friend.

WHITE: How was he killed?

LUCY: I don’t know.

WHITE: You don’t know?

LUCY: My family never told me, and they never discussed specifics. All I know is that he was kidnapped from his bedroom while he was sleeping. They found him two days later. My parents wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. I kept hearing how he didn’t suffer, that it was quick, in the fake hushed tones that people use when they don’t want anyone to think that they’re talking about a tragedy. Eventually, my sister moved away. We don’t talk.

CASSIDY: Was there a conviction?

LUCY: No. They never even had a viable suspect. For a brief time the police thought my sister or her husband might have killed him because there was no sexual assault, but that didn’t go anywhere. Andrew is now the District Attorney.

WHITE: I thought you said you didn’t know how he died.

LUCY: I don’t—but I heard he wasn’t sexually assaulted. It’s one of those things I picked up when my family thought I wasn’t in the room.

WHITE: How did Justin’s murder make you feel? Then and now?

LUCY: How do you think? He was my best friend. I missed him and resented that my family wouldn’t tell me what happened. I knew enough to be scared, but not enough to make sense of it. And now? I don’t want another family to suffer what we did.

CASSIDY: It’s clear from your earlier answers and your application that you have a strong sense of justice. You live with your brother Doctor Dillon Kincaid and his wife, Kate Donovan. Your brother works for the Bureau of Prisons?

LUCY: No, he does work with the Bureau of Prisons, but he’s a private consultant. A forensic psychiatrist. He most recently convinced a killer on death row to reveal where the remains of his victims were so that their families could have closure.

MARTINEZ: I heard about that case. Charles Bledsoe was convicted of killing six children in Richmond, Virginia, and was suspected of killing several more he never confessed to.

LUCY: Correct. Dillon spent a week with Bledsoe. It was a difficult assignment, but in the end three families had remains to bury.

WHITE: And Kate Donovan is an FBI special agent.

LUCY: Yes.

WHITE: She’s assigned to Quantico.

LUCY: She’s the lead instructor for cybercrime. Has been for six years now.

WHITE: Because of her disciplinary hearing.

LUCY: Is that a question?

WHITE: Agent Donovan was wanted for questioning in investigating the onduty death of her partner, but hid from the FBI for five years. Her reinstatement was contingent on a two-year probationary period at Quantico, I’m sure you are aware of this.

LUCY: Yes, but that has nothing to do with my application.

WHITE: My point is Agent Donovan has had multiple reprimands in her file—

LUCY: That is her file, and I don’t see how it’s relevant to my application.

CASSIDY: I think the point Agent White is trying to make is how much influence your family has over you, and whether by living with Agent Donovan if you would be predisposed to disobedience.

LUCY: Kate is my sister-in-law. I have great respect for her. But I can’t answer hypothetical questions or tell you whether I would have made the same decisions under the same circumstances.

CASSIDY: Fair enough. You brother Jack—he’s the same age as Dillon. Twins?

LUCY: Yes, fraternal.

CASSIDY: He’s also married to an FBI agent. SSA Megan Elliott. How long?

LUCY: A little over three years.

CASSIDY: I worked in the Sacramento office with Megan for years. She’s an outstanding agent.

LUCY: I admire her as much as I admire Kate.

WHITE: You indicated that Jack is a principle in Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid. Are you familiar with their business?

LUCY: Of course. I have two brothers who work there.

WHITE: And your boyfriend, correct?

LUCY: Yes.

WHITE: You didn’t indicate that you were in a relationship on the application. There’s a space asking—

LUCY: Sean and I haven’t been seeing each other for long. I filled out the initial application a year ago.

WHITE: So your boyfriend and two of your brothers are principles in a private security company. Can you honestly tell us that their business won’t interfere with your work for the FBI?

LUCY: It won’t.

MARTINEZ: The reason we’re a bit concerned is that Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid has some clients who, because of the nature of their business, come under scrutiny by the federal government. There could be a conflict of interest.

LUCY: I don’t work for RCK. And it’s my understanding that RCK has high government clearance.

MARTINEZ: Individuals may, I don’t have that information.

LUCY: And they have government contracts as well.

CASSIDY: You understand that in the course of your work with the FBI, if anyone you know comes under investigation—RCK or any of the principals or employees—that you would need to keep any such investigation confidential, or risk prosecution?

LUCY: I understand confidentially requirements.

CASSIDY: I’m sure you do, I just wanted to make it clear. Now–your brother Connor is a private investigator in San Diego, correct?

LUCY: Yes. His partner is my brother-in-law, Nick Thomas.

CASSIDY: Department? Connor used to be a police officer with the San Diego Police

LUCY: Yes.

CASSIDY: And his wife is a deputy district attorney?

LUCY: Yes, Julia.

WHITE: So she would be working with your former brother-in-law, Andrew Stanton?

LUCY: Yes.

WHITE: You have a lot of connections with law enforcement.

LUCY: I do. My other sister, Carina, is a detective with the San Diego PD.

WHITE: And other than your oldest sister, you still talk to your family?

LUCY: Of course. I live with Dillon, and Patrick lives a few blocks away.

CASSIDY: Patrick—right. He works in Washington with your boyfriend, Sean.

LUCY: Yes.

CASSIDY: He had some medical issues—can you explain?

LUCY: I don’t see the relevance.

WHITE: We have your file, Ms. Kincaid. We know what happened on your high school graduation, and that Patrick was severely injured while trying to find you. What happened then goes to character.

LUCY: Patrick was in a coma for two years.

MARTINEZ: I didn’t hear you, I’m sorry.

LUCY: Patrick was injured in an explosion. He was in a coma for nearly two years. But he is doing great now. This really doesn’t have anything to do with whether I would make a good FBI agent.

CASSIDY: Ms. Kincaid, we have sympathy for what happened back then, and according to your statement, Patrick was in critical condition when Adam Scott, the man who kidnapped you, held your brother Dillon hostage. You were eighteen and I can only imagine the stress and pain you were suffering when you shot and killed Mr. Scott.

LUCY: The FBI ruled the shooting justified and in self-defense.

WHITE: Even though Mr. Scott didn’t have a weapon.

LUCY: I didn’t know that at the time. He was going to kill my brother.

WHITE: You stated then that you don’t remember anything from when you left your house until after you shot Mr. Scott six times at point blank range.

LUCY: Yes.

WHITE: This goes to stress. Your job in the FBI will very likely be stressful. Do you think you’d be prone to blacking out when you are under extreme stress?

LUCY: I—

CASSIDY: Meredith, I think—

WHITE: It goes to character and mental competence, Nolan.

LUCY: I went through every psychological evaluation the FBI threw at me. I passed. I’m not the same person I was seven years ago.

MARTINEZ: Why do you want to join the FBI?

LUCY: I wrote on my application—

MARTINEZ: We know what you wrote on your application. A very generic comment, considering your background. Why do you really want to be an FBI agent? What do you hope to gain from the Bureau?

LUCY: I understand people. I understand criminals and how they think, and I understand victims. Too many people stand back and do nothing when others need help. Did I want to be in the FBI ten years ago? No—I spent my time with friends, in the pool, training for my swim team, and my dream was to go to Georgetown and study international relations, or be a diplomat or linguist. My brothers and sisters, they were the ones who cared. They were the people who did what I was too selfish to consider. And now? There’s nothing I want to do except put predators behind bars. Whether the criminals are stealing the retirement money of the elderly or killing children or raping women, I want to be part of the solution, not just one more person ignoring violence. I couldn’t ignore it if I wanted to.
If you tell me I’m not fit to be an FBI agent, so be it. But everything I have done in the last seven years has put me before you. I interned with the Senate Judiciary Committee because I wanted to better understand how the decisions in congress affected national law enforcement. I worked a year with the Arlington Sheriff’s department because I wanted to understand the nuts and bolts of local law enforcement. I’m still on their volunteer water rescue team because I’m a certified diver. And I just finished my year-long internship at the D.C. Medical Examiners Office because I wanted to understand what happens on the back end, so to speak. I even obtained a certificate as an assistant pathologist so I could assist in autopsies.
Everything I’ve done was to be a better FBI Agent. And what do I want to gain? Nothing—except the satisfaction of being a part of the solution.

Catch up on all of Allison Brennan’s books and characters!

LUCY KINCAID SERIES

Love Me to Death

Lucy Kincaid’s past comes back to haunt her when she realizes someone is using her to target paroled sex offenders. Setting: Washington D.C.

Love Is Murder

In this exclusive electronic novella that takes place a year before the events in Love Me to Death, Lucy Kincaid and her brother Patrick take a much-needed vacation at a remote lodge outside Lake Tahoe. But their fun is cut short when a snowstorm and dead newlywed turn their retreat into a danger zone. Setting: Sierra Nevada Mountains

Kiss Me, Kill Me

Lucy Kincaid and Sean Rogan search for a missing teenager in New York City and find themselves in the middle of the FBI manhunt for the Cinderella Strangler, a serial killer targeting young women at rave parties. Setting: Virginia and New York City

FBI Trilogy (2009)

Sudden Death: By-the-book FBI special agent Megan Elliott is forced to team with burn-the-book mercenary Jack Kincaid to stop a pair of brutal killers targeting decorated soldiers. Setting: California and Texas

Jack Kincaid, mercenary/former Special Forces

Megan Kincaid, FBI agent, supervisor

Fatal Secrets: Fiery ICE agent Sonia Knight battles cool-headed FBI agent Dean Hooper when his operation threatens her undercover investigation into a major human trafficking ring in Sacramento, California. Setting: Sacramento, California

Dean Hooper, FBI agent (assistant director)

Sonia Knight, ICE agent

Cutting Edge: Domestic terrorism expert, FBI agent Nora English, calls in computer security expert Duke Rogan to help her stop a group of animal rights activists who’ve turned from civil disobedience to murder. Setting: Northern California

Duke Rogan, private security

Nora English, FBI agent

PRISON BREAK TRILOGY (2008)

Killing Fear: An earthquake at San Quentin enables a dozen killers on death row to escape. Theodore Glenn vowed pay back to all who put him in prison, including the detective who arrested him and the key witness—a stripper—who testified against him. Setting: San Diego, California

Will Hooper, detective

Robin McKenna, club owner/former stripper

Tempting Evil: An escaped convict has tracked down the woman of his dreams, romance writer Joanna Sutton, at her family’s secluded Centennial Valley lodge in the middle of a blizzard. Setting: Centennial Valley, Montana

Tyler McBride, sheriff

Joanna Sutton, romance writer

Playing Dead: A disgraced cop must convince his daughter, Claire O’Brien—who testified against him—that he didn’t kill her mother by tracking down the law student who has evidence to exonerate him. Two problems: the student is dead, and an FBI agent is dating Claire. Setting: Sacramento, California

Mitch Bianchi, FBI agent

Claire O’Brien, private investigator

NO EVIL TRILOGY (2007)

Speak No Evil: San Diego detective Carina Kincaid is certain the much-older ex-boyfriend of an eighteen-year-old college student is guilty of her murder, but Montana sheriff Nick Thomas vows to prove his war hero brother is innocent. Setting: San Diego, California

Nick Thomas, sheriff

Carina Kincaid, detective

See No Evil: Deputy DA Julia Chandler reluctantly asked her ex-boyfriend, P.I. Connor Kincaid, to help prove her niece is innocent of killing her sexually abusive step-father, but they uncover a far deadlier group of teen-age thrill killers who have no fear or remorse. Setting: San Diego, California

Connor Kincaid, private investigator/former cop

Julia Chandler, deputy district attorney

Fear No Evil: When his kidnapped eighteen-year-old sister Lucy will be killed live on the Internet in forty-eight hours, forensic psychiatrist Dillon Kincaid must get into the mind of a psychopath to figure out his next move, while also convincing renegade FBI Agent and computer expert Kate Donovan to help. Setting: San Diego, California, Mexico, Seattle, Washington

Dillon Kincaid, forensic psychiatrist

Kate Donovan, FBI agent

PREDATOR TRILOGY (2006)

The Prey: Rowan Smith, former FBI agent turned crime fiction writer wakes up one morning to discover a vicious killer is using her books as blueprints for murder. Setting: Malibu, California

John Flynn, private security/former DEA agent

Rowan Smith, crime fiction writer/former FBI agent

The Hunt: The sole survivor of a serial killer who hunts women in the Montana wilderness, Miranda Moore, tries to find his latest captive before it’s too late, while trying to prove to the man who had her kicked out of the FBI Academy that she’s up to the task. Setting: Gallatin County, Montana

Quinn Peterson, FBI agent

Miranda Moore, Search & Rescue

The Kill: When FBI lab technician Olivia St. Martin was five years old, she testified against her sister’s murderer and sent him away for life. Now, after thirty years in jail, DNA evidence proves his innocence and Olivia sets out to find the real killer who has eluded authorities by crossing state lines repeatedly. Setting: Seattle, Washington

Zack Travis, detective

Olivia St. Martin, FBI laboratory scientist