Nothing. No date, no names.

  Rowan forced herself to breathe.

  This was definitive evidence that her mother and her father had known the guy. The photo had been taken at least thirty years ago. Was it possible Sanchez/Santos hadn’t been a killer in those days?

  Rowan pushed away the hope. Her mother had written about him in a way that suggested she had known exactly what he was. Rowan held the photo close, peered at the man’s face. His hair had been too long to see his ears. Damn it. She studied the other faces. Wondered if they were killers, too. Had her father known what this man was? She scrutinized the man’s fingers on her mother’s left shoulder. His arm was draped around Norah. His fingers were loose against her skin, not digging in possessively. Was that because Rowan’s father was close by or because Sanchez/Santos and Norah had only been friends?

  “Which would absolutely explain the tattoo on his back.” Rowan rolled her eyes at the foolish denial to which she had dared to cling. Norah and the man had clearly been lovers. To pretend otherwise would be foolish.

  Had her father known?

  She frowned, trying to recall if she had seen Sanchez/Santos at her father’s funeral. If they were friends, wouldn’t he have been there? If for no other reason than to celebrate the death of the man who had stood between him and the woman he loved or wanted or whatever?

  Slowly, methodically, Rowan reviewed each photograph. Removed each from its sleeve and checked the back. If the photo appeared relevant to her search for the truth, she placed it aside rather than putting it back into the album. By the time she had finished she was exhausted and it was late. Really late. She checked her phone. No text messages from Billy.

  It was a miracle. He generally kept up with her more closely. Surely he was finishing up at the Thackerson scene by now.

  After gathering the photographs she had set aside, she walked through the house once more to ensure she’d left all as it should be. One thing she did not want to do was to give Dressler something else to complain about or to give Billy trouble over. This was her problem and as much as she appreciated Billy’s help, she didn’t want to drag him any more deeply into this mess.

  Outside, she stood on the porch until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The block was quiet. Cold air whispered around her, making her wish she’d worn a coat instead of a sweater. She checked the door a second time to ensure the lock had engaged properly. Satisfied the house was as secure as she’d found it, she made her way down the steps and to the street. A dog barked in the distance, maybe on the next block or on the street behind this one. Leaves drifted across the sidewalk in front of her as she instinctively quickened her pace.

  She didn’t breathe easy until she was settled behind the steering wheel and all the doors of her SUV were locked. The nearest streetlight was at the end of the block, at least twenty yards from where she was parked. She placed her weapon on the console and started the engine; the headlights automatically illuminated. Her skin prickled. She glanced in the rearview mirror, then scanned the street in front of her. The distinct feeling that someone was watching her spread across her skin, raising goose bumps.

  “Just drive,” she ordered, her right hand going to the gearshift.

  Rowan checked the rearview mirror repeatedly as she drove across town to the funeral home. Tonight was one of those times she desperately wished she had a garage. She parked beneath the portico, where the hearse sat during a funeral, before it would lead the procession of family and friends.

  Her right hand clutching her weapon and her left holding the house key, she climbed out and hurried to the side door. A few seconds later she was inside and disarming the security system. Freud greeted her, allowing her to relax and to dismiss the creepy feeling of being watched.

  “How about a potty break, boy?” She scratched his head and made her way through the lobby and into the rear corridor. Freud trotted along beside her, glad to have his mistress home.

  At the back door, she leaned against the open door frame while Freud raced around the yard and did his business. Leaves had gathered against the fence that surrounded the rear yard. Her gardener was scheduled to come back on Thursday. He would mulch the leaves and do the usual fall cleanup. This would be the first time since she was a child that Rowan plunged her fingers into the dirt for the purpose of planting bulbs. The gardener had mentioned that the tulips around the front porch looked a little sparse this past spring. It was time to plant new bulbs. Rowan had picked up the bulbs weeks ago and stored them in the refrigerator as suggested. After the first good freeze, she would plant them. This home was her responsibility now. She might as well start with the tulips.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” she murmured. Her father would laugh and remind her to be careful or she’d ruin her image as a hotshot advisor.

  “Not such a hotshot anymore, Daddy.”

  Julian Addington had damaged her reputation far too badly to recover. Didn’t matter, she supposed. The family and friends of her clients didn’t mind that she couldn’t spot a killer right under her nose as long as she could make their recently deceased loved ones look nice in the casket.

  That she could do.

  Freud finally pranced up the steps and across the deck. Rowan stepped aside for him to come inside, then she locked up and reactivated the alarm. Trudging up the back stairs with Freud on her heels, she realized she hadn’t eaten since grabbing fast food at lunch. She wasn’t sure what was in the fridge so a peanut-butter sandwich might have to do. The old reliable had become a mainstay of her diet since returning home.

  She dug the key to her door out of her bag. The last time the locks were changed Billy insisted she needed a different key for her living quarters. Given all that had happened with Julian and her former mortuary assistant, Woody, she had agreed.

  Freud bounded through the door in front of her and hurried to his water bowl. Rowan locked the door and sagged against it. It was good to be home. All through her teenage years she had dreamed of little else beyond escaping this funeral home and this town. Now she was glad to be back. Grateful for the familiarity amid the turmoil in her life.

  She dropped her bag on the sofa and dug out the photos she had taken from Herman’s house. Photos in hand, she made her way to the kitchen and spread them out on the counter.

  While she smeared peanut butter on a slice of bread, she studied the photos. Who were these people? Why was Sanchez/Santos so cocky? His expression loudly proclaimed his arrogance and self-confidence. He certainly hadn’t looked so arrogant spread out on her mortuary table.

  “Who are you?”

  A killer. A friend of her parents? Her mother in particular?

  “Too bizarre.”

  The muffled sound of her cell reached out to her from the other room. Rowan hurried to the living room and dug it from her bag.

  Billy.

  “Hey.” She walked back into the kitchen. “You get things wrapped up at the Thackerson scene?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He sounded tired. Understandable. “Anything new on who wanted him dead or how he and Henegar are connected?”

  “Nothing yet.” He sighed. “You find anything at Herman’s place?”

  Rowan shook her head. She should have known. She set the phone to Speaker and placed it on the counter so she could finish preparing her sandwich. “Do you have someone watching me again?”

  She hadn’t meant for the question to come out like an accusation, but there it was. He did not need to put himself out on a limb like this. How would she get that through his head?

  “No, ma’am. I do not have anyone watching you. Why? You feel like someone’s watching you?”

  “Besides Julian, you mean?” She suppressed a shiver and reached into the fridge and grabbed a cola. “We both know he has eyes on me somehow.” To believe otherwise would be foolish.

  “You know what I mean, Ro.”

  The sound of his truck door closing told her he’d hopefully made it home. It was awfully late for him to be going back to the office. But that was the life of a cop at times.

  “There was a moment when I was leaving Herman’s,” she confessed. To ignore her own instincts would be unwise.

  “Ro—”

  “Before you say anything,” she said, interrupting what she suspected would be one of his overprotective lectures, “be advised that I was armed and paying attention to my surroundings.”

  Another of those weary sighs. “Good.”

  She smiled—couldn’t help herself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t go prowling around so late at night.”

  A laugh popped out before she could stop it. “You sound like my father.”

  A soft chuckle whispered across the line. “You at home now? Doors locked? Alarm activated?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes.”

  “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. ’Night, Ro.”

  “’Night, Billy.”

  She stared at the phone for a long moment after the call had ended. She suddenly wished he were here.

  This damn place got lonely sometimes.

  Eleven

  Sunday, October 27

  “Stay.”

  Freud glanced up at Rowan, his eyes telling her he really, really wanted to take off after whatever had torn through the underbrush not ten feet from where they stood. Like the well-trained animal he was, he stayed put despite his instincts urging him to give chase.

  “Good boy.”

  Rowan gazed out over the lake. The underbrush was thick in this area. Trees towered overhead, their limbs bare for the winter. Five months ago she had come back to this spot for the first time in years. Her father had been murdered only weeks before and she’d been settling into life as the undertaker. Adjusting to living in Winchester again, as well as the funeral home, where she’d grown up. She’d dreamed of her sister every night, so coming here was a natural extension of the turmoil that was her emotions.

  This was where her sister’s body had been found twenty-seven years ago. This was also where the remains of Julian’s daughter, Alisha, had been discovered. During her visit to this place on that early-spring day, Rowan had dropped her cell phone and, when recovering it, she’d found the bones tangled among the weeds and roots. The investigation that ensued had determined that Alisha had died on the same day as Raven. The only unanswered question was who had killed her.

  Julian would have Rowan believe her father had killed the seventeen-year-old after learning she had murdered Raven, but Rowan did not believe him. Julian wanted her to doubt her father and she refused to allow him to undermine the memories of the only real family she’d had from age twelve until a few months ago. Well, she’d had Billy. He had always been like family to her, but her father had been her only living blood relative.

  Rowan walked closer to the water’s edge, something she rarely did. After Raven’s death, she had been terrified of the water—of even taking a bath. She had grown up believing her sister had accidently drowned in this lake. The fear of meeting that same fate had been a growing, pulsing nightmare that consumed her life. Rowan had dreamed of being dragged into the water with her dead sister. That fear had kept her away from pools and beaches. But now she knew her sister hadn’t accidentally drowned. She had been murdered by Alisha Addington. Lured to this place and held under the water until her lungs filled with water and the life slipped from her small, thin body.

  Anger tightened in Rowan’s belly. Their mother had brought Julian Addington into their lives. Raven’s death was her fault. Was that why she killed herself less than five months later? Had the guilt eaten at her like a cancer? Had their father known?

  So many questions. So few answers.

  A low growl issued from deep within Freud’s throat. Rowan tensed. The sound of leaves crunching and dried grass cracking pierced the quiet morning air. Rowan’s right hand went to the small of her back. She’d gotten in the habit of tucking her weapon there whenever she carried it. Hours of practice had enabled her to draw it smoothly from that position and to fire with lethal accuracy.

  She turned slowly and spotted the form weaving through the trees.

  Female.

  A wisp of blond hair peeked from beneath the black scarf wrapped around the woman’s head, and dark glasses shielded her eyes. But it was the sleek blouse and elegant trousers that first identified the woman for Rowan.

  Anna Prentice Addington.

  Freud recognized her scent about the same time Rowan visually identified her. His stance went from ready to lunge, to relaxed but guarded.

  Rowan had tried to make it a point not to run into the lady. She hadn’t expected to have her show up here, but really she should have. Her daughter had died here. Like Rowan, she had questions. She wanted answers.

  “Good morning, Dr. DuPont.” Anna paused a couple of yards away. “I didn’t anticipate running into anyone out here on a Sunday morning.”

  Rowan supposed that was a reasonable conclusion. Most folks were in church by now or at their favorite Sunday-morning breakfast spot. Beyond setting up a funeral in one of the local churches, Rowan hadn’t been to church since her father’s funeral. Before that, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d walked through the doors of a house of God. She’d scuttled that relationship long ago. She and God hadn’t gotten along since Rowan was twelve. She didn’t see that standoff changing anytime soon.

  “I guess I had the same idea.” Rowan glanced back at the water. She was closer than she preferred to be and her nerves were vibrating, largely due to the presence of this woman. Instinctively, she moved away from the water’s edge. Anna’s husband was a killer; her daughter had been a killer. Who knew what she was capable of.

  “Your mother was afraid of the water, too.”

  The unexpected announcement jerked Rowan’s attention back to her. “How would you know that?”

  “I read many interesting facts in her file.”

  Oh, yes. The woman claimed to have found certain files that had belonged to her ex-husband, including Norah DuPont’s file. If Anna Addington could be believed, Norah had been Julian’s patient before becoming his lover. She had suffered from multiple personality disorder.

  Rowan did not believe this woman any more than she trusted her motives.

  “Enjoy your visit, Mrs. Addington.” Rowan walked past her, taking a wide berth.

  “He’s not dead, you know.”

  Rowan hesitated and turned back to her despite wanting to keep walking. There was no need to ask who she meant. Julian. Rowan had shot him. Right here, in this very place. “How can you be certain?”

  The lady wanted a reaction, but Rowan wasn’t giving her what she wanted, and was instead turning the question back on her.

  “He’s moved certain resources. Very recently.”

  Careful not to show her surprise, Rowan held her gaze. “How do you know this?”

  “We had an overseas account—actually we had many, but this one I had forgotten about. My CPA called to tell me it was emptied and closed recently. Since I didn’t close it, he must have. There is no other explanation.”

  Still refusing to show interest, Rowan asked, “Have you informed the FBI?”

  “Of course. I called Agent Dressler on Friday. Didn’t he tell you?”

  Rowan resisted the urge to laugh. “I’m sure you’re aware that I am a person of interest in the case. I am the last person Agent Dressler would inform of any new developments in the investigation.”

  “I thought you might feel more comfortable knowing that he’s in Switzerland.”

  “Your husband—”

  “Ex-husband,” she corrected.

  “Ex-husband,” Rowan replied, acquiescing, “could have had someone handle the transaction for him. I’m sure he’s aware that the FBI is watching carefully for the use of his passport, as well as for his face to be picked up on international facial-recognition software.”

  Anna’s gaze narrowed. “Agent Dressler said the same thing. Are you sure he didn’t tell you about the account?”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Addington.” Rowan gave the woman her back once more. She had no desire to play her games.

  Addington’s driver, Garret something or other, waited at the car. Rowan wondered why he hadn’t accompanied his employer down to the water. She was well over sixty, and trudging through the underbrush wasn’t exactly a leisurely Sunday-morning stroll.

  When Rowan reached the funeral home, Billy was waiting for her. He’d said they would talk this morning. Usually he called before driving over. Apparently, he’d wanted to surprise her. She hoped the bag in his hand meant he’d brought breakfast. She hadn’t even bothered with a coffee before driving to the lake this morning.

  “I swear you have someone spying on me.”

  He held up the bag. “Because I brought your favorite breakfast sandwich?”

  She made a face. “No coffee?”

  He grinned that lopsided tilt that had the strangest effect on her pulse lately and passed her the bag. “I’ll grab the coffee.”

  She unlocked the door while he grabbed the drink carrier from the cab of his truck. Freud trotted inside as she deactivated the alarm. Billy waited for her to lock up and then followed her upstairs.

  “I have some photos to show you,” she said. “This is what I found at Herman’s house.” She figured she might as well tell him before he bothered to ask.

  “Can we eat while we look?”

  She grinned. Growing up, he’d always been hungry. “We can.”

  Rowan gave Freud his breakfast while Billy arranged their food and coffee on the kitchen counter. The coffee was hot and strong, and Rowan savored it for a moment before nibbling at her sandwich. Billy did the same, only he surveyed the photos she had spread on the counter as he ate.