“Of course.” A lie. One that didn’t matter. Willa might attend Graham’s funeral, but after that she’d never see Sumner again. Sumner would disappear from our lives. She'd been included because of Graham. Without him, she’d slip away.

“I went to their wedding. Sumner was so in love, so hopeful. She had the man she loved, and she wanted a family. She was determined to have three children—two boys and a girl. She looked so young and blissfully happy. I almost forgot she was the other woman.”

A light breeze ruffled our hair as I thought of Sumner standing at an altar with Graham.

Willa stretched her legs and crossed her ankles. “Any idea when the sheriff will let us go home?

“I suspect it will be late this afternoon.”

She snorted. Even her snorts were elegant. “You suspect, or you know?”

I froze.

“Ellison, what’s wrong?”

“Something Liz said. ‘Suspecting and knowing are very different things.’”

“That’s obvious. Why would that bother you?”

It bothered me because I’d missed something and needed to reconsider who might have killed Graham and Buffy. It bothered because it meant there was still someone in danger.

I scrambled off the blanket and took off at a dead run.

Chapter Sixteen

I ran.

The soles of my cowboy boots bit into the gravel on the path.

My feet flew.

My arms and legs pumped.

My breath came in short rasps.

The sun beat down on me as if it had made melting me into a puddle of goo its personal mission.

I promised myself a swim in a pool large enough to hold cool water. I promised myself arctic air-conditioning. I promised myself a gallon of iced tea mixed with lemonade.

And I kept running.

I reached the clubhouse, more sweat than woman, and threw open the door.

Bear, who was sprawled in front of the cold fireplace, lifted his head and wagged his tail. Had I come to pet him?

I had not. I dashed into the kitchen.

Misty had made progress. Every surface sparkled, and the stove was so clean it looked brand new.

Only three milk crates filled with cooking equipment remained.

The caterer was gone.

“Misty?”

No one answered.

Dread, dark and heavy, stole what little breath I had left.

I hurried through the kitchen to the short hallway that led to the pantry. The empty pantry.

“Misty?” Between the breathlessness from my sprint and dread, my voice was barely a whisper.

I trotted back to the kitchen. Where was she?

One of the milk crates, the blue one, lifted a supercilious brow. “Did the heat melt your brain?”

Quite possibly. Especially if milk crates were talking to me.

“The last time you burst in here, there were seven of us,” said the blue crate.

“Cut her some slack,” said the yellow crate. “She looks exhausted. Hot. Tired.”

And I had a terrible headache.