“I gotta say, this was not what I was expecting to walk into.” Kevin glanced out the open door, where the crime scene technicians waited. “We’re gonna have to keep a lid on this as best we can. This is going to be a media shitstorm.” He lowered his voice. “Anyone out there you think will be a problem?”

  Farah studied the group on the porch. “You’ve worked with most of them longer than I have. I don’t know . . . Tupperfield likes to gossip. But honestly, if a tabloid throws a hundred grand in any of their directions, it’s a risk.”

  “Two dead bodies on the Iversons’ property, one of whom is Trent?” Kevin shook his head. “We’re talking seven figures, easy. Hell, I might jump sides for that.”

  “Funny.” But he was right: the temptation would be too strong for a lot of uniforms. Hell, on a weak day, she might consider the perks of a million-dollar bribe. “What’s your first gut? Murder-suicide? Or do you think these are both victims?”

  He looked from one to the other. “I don’t know. Murder-suicide would make sense as to why the deaths are so different. What are the chances someone else would come in, torture her, then just shoot him?”

  She shook her head. “He would have to have been shot first, in that case. Get him out of the way so they could focus on and take their time with her. Even though Trent is more interesting to us, he might not be the main focus here.”

  “I’m not up to date on Hollywood, not unless they’ve done something wrong.” Kevin gestured to the woman. “She look familiar to you? Maybe an actress? His latest fling?”

  “No, and she’s wearing the same brand of flip-flops I’ve got in my closet at home,” Farah said dryly. “I bought mine at Target. If I was betting, I’d say she’s middle class, at best. And look.” She crouched and pointed to the woman’s hands. “Wedding ring. Tiny diamond. Cheap band.”

  Kevin glanced around. “I’ll see if I can find a purse, something to identify her.”

  The female victim wasn’t beautiful.

  Wasn’t rich.

  Wasn’t single.

  So how did she end up in a Beverly Hills mansion with Trent Iverson? And why was she dead?

  CHAPTER 10

  THE LEADING MAN

  “Hugh, I just spoke to the publicist.” Nora joined him at the window.

  Below them, four men in crime scene jumpsuits entered the guesthouse. These assholes would be going over the space with fine-tooth combs, and there was a lot in that guesthouse to find. Some of it would probably make the tabloids, for reasons that had nothing to do with murder.

  “Caitlyn thinks we have six hours at most before this leaks. She’s worried about the optics,” Nora said.

  The optics. At what point in his life would he escape those? He glanced at Nora, and despite the stress lining her face, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. Even this close-up, you couldn’t see the scars, couldn’t tell the fact from the fiction, and whenever he did . . . it only made her beauty more interesting.

  She shook her head, and a lock of that thick, fiery hair fell in front of her face. “We’ve obviously dealt with a lot of press with Trent before, but this . . . well. You saw the scene. This is murder.”

  “And you think Trent is capable of that?”

  Her gaze flipped from the window to his face. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what it looks like, and what the press will report. You’ll need to make a statement.”

  “Not happening.” He turned away from the window. “Fuck the press.”

  It was rare for Hugh to curse, and Nora recoiled at the statement. He knew what she was thinking. That they couldn’t dismiss the press, not when it was responsible for their career trajectories, not when it was their lifeline to the audience, not when it would be their judge, jury, and executioner, depending on how they decided to spin this news. The next twenty-four hours might, quite literally, determine their next twenty-four years.

  And he didn’t give a damn. His brother was dead, and he wanted to lock himself away and never come up, not until he wrecked his mind and body in a hundred different ways.

  Fuck the press.

  Fuck the cops.

  Fuck Nora.

  As if sensing his rising emotions, she jumped to a new topic. “If they haven’t already, the police will go to Trent’s house.” She adjusted her watch, then smoothed her sleeve back over it. She always said he was the best actor she’d ever seen—but Nora had nailed her part to perfection. It was the details that she had mastered, the costume and effortless air of a wealthy woman, even though she had spent decades as poor white trash. “You knew him best,” she said. “Is there anything there we need to get rid of?”

  He pinched his eyes closed and let out a frustrated breath at the thought of uniforms going through that monstrosity of a house. Hugh and Trent had grown up there, dubbed it the House of God—the mansion purchased with the wealth from their parents’ religious empire. Trent had lived there for the past five or six years, and more than a couple of things inside would raise some eyebrows, including the charred clinic in the south wing. “Shit.”

  The clinic’s walls peppered with spatters of blood. His brother, his face tight. The mess all around him.

  More than a year ago, the room had been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, in the hope it would burn the entire house down with it. It hadn’t, but at least any evidence of what had happened there—past or present—was long gone in the blaze.

  “I mean, I’m sure there’s drug stuff there, but anything like this?” She tilted her head toward the guesthouse.

  “You mean like a dead woman tied to a chair?” he asked dryly. “No. I mean . . .” He scraped his nails through his hair and thought about the horrors that had occurred on every floor of the home. “I’ll go there.”

  “It’s going to look bad if you show up and clean it out.”

  She wasn’t wrong, but her tone of authority pissed him off. He couldn’t deal with all this. Cleaning up the mess, the death, the emotions with her—Nora moved closer and he stiffened as she leaned in, her needy lips seeking his.

  He turned his head and stepped back, his elbow bumping the wall. “We can’t ruin Trent’s name,” he said tightly. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Hugh,” she pleaded. “You have to think about the future. You can’t go down with Trent’s ship. Right now, you have everything. The adoration of a nation. Incredible wealth. The power to pick any role you want.” She placed her hand on the center of her chest. “A woman who needs you. Don’t fall on the sword for him. Please.”

  She acted like it was easy, but she had no idea how many women had died.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE HUSBAND

  After unclogging a shower and a garbage disposal backup, Kyle pulled onto the side of a residential road and parked. He pulled the charity letter out of his pocket and watched as a bright-orange leaf landed on the windshield, followed by a small yellow one. Fall had hit Appleton last week, and Kerry had whined over the timing as they’d driven to the Green Bay airport yesterday, hating that she would miss a few days of the changing leaves.

  Such a stupid thing to pout over. They were leaves. If she loved them so much, she could rake their yard up when she got back.

  He unfolded the letter on his steering wheel. It had arrived via Priority Mail three weeks ago. The embossed letterhead was now stained in a few places, but no less impressive. Kyle had been proud of the award of an all-expenses-paid trip to California, but Kerry’s face had gone white. She hadn’t even seemed grateful for him going to all the trouble to apply and submit the paperwork. He had been puffed up, expecting gushing thanks and, later, a non-date-night sex session, but she had seemed panicked by the letter. Her hands had trembled as she read the page twice, then shook her head and announced that they couldn’t accept the trip.

  It had been a strange reaction, but around a year ago, Kerry had gone through some sort of midlife crisis or menopause—something that caused her to act weird. She had started changing everything—from what she fixed for breakfast to what they did on the weekends to how she handled Miles’s treatments. It was like being married to a different woman, and he would have complained, but the new Kerry was actually nicer to be around and seemed to be more focused on family and less on what the nosy neighbors thought. In fact . . . the timing of her metamorphosis likely synced with her stopping on social media.

  A car pulled around his truck, and Kyle refocused on the letter, scanning it quickly and finding the contact information in the final paragraph. Propping his elbow on the open truck window, he dialed the number and held the cell phone to his ear, watching out the windshield as a leggy brunette in a matching red windbreaker and leggings jogged by, her breath frosting in the crisp air.

  “This is Nolan Price,” a chipper male voice said.

  “Hey, Nolan. This is Kyle Pepper. My wife, Kerry—”

  “Mr. Pepper, I’m glad you called. We’ve been worried about Kerry. I didn’t have your number, or else I would have called earlier.” The upbeat tone was gone, replaced by a serious tone that immediately increased Kyle’s concern.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Well, we were supposed to meet her and Miles in the hotel lobby this morning at nine thirty, but they weren’t there. We haven’t been able to reach her on the hotel phone or her cell.”

  “So she’s not with you all? She’s not at Disney?” That didn’t make any sense, and he put a hand on his chest, feeling that familiar ache that precipitated heartburn. He pulled open the glove compartment and withdrew his antacid medication, twisting off the lid and shaking a few pills into his palm.

  “No, we haven’t heard from her since we dropped her off at the hotel last night. When’s the last time you spoke to her?”

  “Uh, last night. Around nine. She was putting Miles to bed.”

  “Is it common for her to disappear like this?”

  “No. Something’s wrong.” Even with Kerry’s 180-degree flip in personality, her reliability had never been in question, especially not with Miles. He thought of the way she had flatly told him that they couldn’t go to California, the fear—yeah, looking back, it had been fear—that she’d had over the trip. He should have asked more questions, listened when she’d said that she didn’t want to go. But Miles had been there when Kyle read out the letter, and he was already cheering and jumping and beaming at the two of them with that big ear-to-ear grin.

  No one with a sick kid could say no when they smiled like that. You just couldn’t, because you didn’t know how many more smiles you were gonna get—how many more trips Miles might get to take. So Kyle had run over Kerry’s excuses and concerns and practically pushed them out the door and into the airport.

  Kyle pinched his eyes closed and rubbed at his forehead, trying to remember why Kerry hadn’t wanted to go. All the reasons she had given were dumb, even looking back at it now. She’d said that Miles might get sick on the plane—but Miles had flown to visit his grandparents several times and never had any issue. She’d said she had too much to do at home, but Kerry’s to-do list was cooking and laundry, nothing time sensitive or unavoidable. She’d said the parks would be crowded, but they were going to be getting VIP tours with the charity. They weren’t going to be waiting in lines or walking miles on foot. All her concerns had been cleared away easier than standing water in a drain.

  “What do you think we should do?” The man’s voice trembled, and it was scary that this was the guy he’d trusted with his wife’s safety and travel plans.

  Kyle tapped his fingers on the top of the steering wheel and looked at the clipboard on the seat beside him. Next up, he was headed to an Arby’s to check on a bathroom leak. Maybe Kerry was okay. Maybe she’d lost her cell phone, maybe they were at Disney with some other charity employee, or maybe—worst case for him but okay for her—she’d run off with his son to start a new life, sans husband.

  But in his gut, he knew something was wrong. Kerry was a lot of things, but she wouldn’t go MIA, not with Miles.

  “Call the police,” he said. “I’ll look into getting a flight.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE ACCOMPLICE

  At the Protect the Children headquarters, Nolan Price ended the call with Kyle Pepper. He was sweating through the collar of his seersucker suit and loosened the white tie in an attempt to get in more air. Pulling back the mint-and-white striped sleeve, he checked the time on his watch, then crossed his ankles primly beneath his desk chair and moved his mouse blindly across the screen, just so it would look to anyone watching as if he were working.

  He picked up the phone and tried Kerry Pepper’s cell again, listening to the ring. Come on . . . Come on . . .

  He shouldn’t worry. No need to worry. He repeated what his boyfriend always said, over and over, hoping the concept would stick, but it slid off his chest like oil. If now wasn’t the time to worry, when would it be?

  Uppers—that’s what they called the parents—were never not at a pickup. This morning, he had waited outside the Radisson for an hour, then gone up and knocked on the hotel room door, but no one had answered. Today was a big day, with Disney expecting Kerry and Miles at ten fifteen for a VIP park tour and meet and greet with all the big stars. If anything, the families were normally early, never missing.

  Call the police. That’s what Kyle Pepper had told Nolan to do, and he was right: that was a logical step—though didn’t people have to be missing for twenty-four hours for the police to do anything? It had been only three hours. Still, he had to do what the husband said; otherwise it would look suspicious. And he should tell Ian. The Protect the Children director would flip if Nolan called the police without first clueing him in.

  Nolan had always told himself that Monica Kitle had been a horrible coincidence. Her dying—that horrible, painful death—couldn’t have been related to Protect the Children or what Nolan had done. It had been two coincidences that just happened to stroll by each other in the hall one day and high-five Nolan as they passed. With Monica, he had told himself that his connection would never be found, and he had been right. It had been almost two years, and no one had ever even called about her. They hadn’t thought twice about her original application to Make-A-Wish, and really . . . why would they?

  But this was different. Kerry Pepper was in Los Angeles, literally on a Protect the Children–sanctioned trip. Nolan had been one of the last people to see her, had given her and Miles a ride from the airport to the hotel last night, and now she was gone.

  Maybe dead.

  Feeling faint, he pulled open his metal desk drawer, withdrew a pack of cinnamon gum, and unfolded a piece with trembling fingers. Maybe Kerry had run off. Left that sick little boy and all his problems behind and hopped a bus to Mexico. Right now she was probably perched on a stool at a bar and tilting back a giant blue margarita with sugar on the rim.

  It was definitely possible. Women abandoned their families all the time, didn’t they? He was sure they did. Men couldn’t be the only ones who ran off in search of an easier life. Hell, maybe Nolan could do that now. Just push away from the desk, take the back stairs down to his car, and never come back. Leave Josie and Pumpkin and go somewhere where none of this had ever happened.

  If something did happen to Kerry, the police would probably investigate him. They’d look into his life—shit, his finances. The pool renovation, the new steam shower, the payoff of his credit cards. They would track the money, and soon Nolan would be in jail and they’d ask who was behind it and he’d have to tell them or he’d be locked up forever.

  Men with his dark ebony skin and delicate bone structure didn’t do well in prison. He was too pretty, as Josie said. Too pretty and too spoiled.

  Spots appeared in his vision as the stress took over, and he moved his braids to one side and lowered his head to the desk. Breathing deeply, he counted to six, then exhaled. Okay, the to-do list wasn’t long.

  Tell Ian. Call the police. Feign innocence and confusion.

  He could do all that. But what about the boy? Monica had been alone at her house, her kid in day care. If Kerry had fallen into the same situation as Monica . . . where was the kid?

  Was Miles still in the hotel room?

  Nolan closed his eyes and sent a fervent prayer up to God to keep the little boy, wherever he was, safe.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE DETECTIVE

  Farah and Kevin met the medical examiner on his way out of the guesthouse, both bodies already tagged and bagged. “What can you tell us so far, Harry? Got a time of death?” Farah asked.

  Dr. Harry Martin tucked a pen into the pocket of his striped jacket. The doctor was as short as Farah, with a thick silver mustache, matching bushy brows, and a shiny bald head. “I’d guess between midnight and 2:00 a.m., for both of them. I’ll confirm that once I get them on the slab.”

  “Know anything that’ll help us out?”

  “Not much. There’s gunshot residue on the male’s hands. I feel good about suicide, but an attorney could punch a few holes in that if they wanted to—”

  “What about the woman?” Kevin interrupted.

  “Oh, she was murdered,” the medical examiner deadpanned. “I’d say that for certain.”

  “Funny.” Farah didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. Dr. Martin would start a full-out comedy routine if given an ounce of encouragement. The running joke was that he practiced his routines on the dead, though there were rumors he hit the open-mic clubs too.

  “I didn’t see any prior trauma on the woman. Clothing looks undisturbed, so I don’t think there was sexual activity. And unless she likes to have affairs in grandma panties, this wasn’t a planned romantic encounter. I’m guessing that she was drugged and woke up tied to that chair. I’ll verify that with her stomach contents and blood work, but that’ll take some time. As you could see, there were four deep points of impact—looks like she bled out.”