On seeing me, Snook dropped the bag, bolted through the side door of the house, and tried to slam it. I darted forward and checked the move with one hand.

“Go away,” she shouted through the gap.

“Annaliese Ruben is dead.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“Someone shot her.”

“You’re lying.”

“I was there.”

The only response was increased pressure on the far side of the door.

“Did Annaliese come back last night?” I asked.

The silence told me my question had hit home.

“I haven’t been honest with you, Nellie. It’s time I tell you why I’ve been searching for your sister.”

One-handed, I worked the folder from my purse and slipped it through the crack. I heard it hit the floor.

“I’ll take my hand away now. Just please, look at what’s in that file.” I stepped back.

The impact of the door rattled the jamb.

A lock snicked into place.

While waiting, I finished filling the cat pan. Then I secured and set the litter bag by the wall.

Finally, the lock snicked again.

Slowly, the door swung inward.

Chapter 28

SNOOK’S EYES WERE POOLED IN SHADOW. “WHY ARE YOU DOING this to us?”

“May I come in?”

“What is this?” She raised the manila folder containing pictures of Ruben’s dead babies.

“Can we talk about it?”

Vertical lines puckered the skin between her brows. Her gaze drifted past me to the cat pan, then returned to my face. “Did you take these?”

“They’re official crime scene photos.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I’m not a police officer.”

Her chin cocked up.

“I didn’t take the pictures. But I was there when they were taken.”

I expected to be sent packing. Instead, she stepped back.

I entered a dim little room with an ancient washer/dryer combo and plastic bins lining one wall. The air smelled of chimney smoke, detergent, and household cleansers.

Snook closed and locked the door and led me into a sun-bright kitchen. Placing the folder on a counter, she offered tea. I accepted.

As Snook filled a kettle from the tap and draped bags into mugs, I looked around.

The kitchen was rimmed by knotty pine cabinets fitted with wrought-iron hardware. Affixed to each door were pictures of animals carefully cut from calendars or magazines. A hawk, an owl, a caribou, a rhino. A World Wildlife Fund calendar hung from a thumbtack on one wall. Canadian Wildlife Federation, Alberta Wilderness Association, Sierra Club, and Federation of Alberta Naturalists stickers covered the refrigerator.

A fishbowl sat on a small gate-leg table below a gingham-curtained window. An enormous tricolor cat dozed on a lattice-back chair beside it.

“I see you’re interested in conservation,” I said.

“Someone’s gotta be.”

“Yes.”

“Between farming, forestry, mining, and good old-fashioned greed, over half the species in this province are in trouble. Twenty are endangered, two are already gone.”

“I’m sorry if I damaged your koi pond.”