“I don’t know. She was so tired, mostly she slept. I didn’t press, figured we’d have plenty of time to talk.” Snook lifted her mug. Blew on it, though the tea was now cold. “Pressing didn’t work with my sister.”

“Do you know a woman named Susan Forex? Or did Annaliese ever mention her?”

“No.”

“Phoenix Miller?”

“No.”

“We believe Annaliese went from Edmonton to Montreal with a man named Smith. Signed a lease for an apartment with him.”

“Know about two dozen of those.”

Good point.

“What about Ralph Trees? Goes by Rocky.”

“No.”

“Ronnie Scarborough?”

“Why are you asking about these people?”

“They’re known associates of your sister.” I said the next as gently as possible. “Ronnie Scarborough was her pimp.”

Snook set her mug on the table. Held it tight.

“Scarborough is a prime suspect in Annaliese’s murder,” I added.

“You said you’re not a cop. But you talk like one.”

“I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I examine remains that are … damaged.”

A new pucker suggested she didn’t quite get it.

“I help coroners and medical examiners identify the deceased who are no longer recognizable. And I help figure out what happened to them.”

She appeared to give that some thought. “The coroner gonna do an autopsy on my sister?”

I leaned in and placed a hand on hers. “Whoever shot Annaliese took her body away.”

Her jaw went slack.

“We’ll find your sister, Nellie. And the bastards who killed her.”

Murray switched legs. His collar bell tinkled softly.

“What happened to Tank?” Snook asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You said you was there.”

“He ran into the woods.”

Snook’s chin dropped to her chest.

I stared at the top of her head, feeling like a voyeur, wondering if I could be so stoic in the face of such grief.

My gaze drifted to Murray, then to the mismatched fish swimming in the bowl at his side. One was off-white, the other gold. Sunlight sparked the sand and rocks lining the bottom of their world.

A long, silent moment passed.

Then Snook said something that kicked my view of Annaliese’s murder on its ass.

Chapter 29

“RONNIE DIDN’T KILL ALICE. ANNALIESE.”

“How can you know that?”

“When I said my brother watched out for her, I didn’t mean Daryl.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I was talking about Ronnie.”

“Wait. What? Scar is your brother?”

“Don’t call him that. But yes. I was three when John Scarborough married my mother, five when he adopted me. Ronnie was ten.”

Jesus. Was everyone related to everyone in this town?

“Scar is a dealer and a pimp,” I said.

“I don’t ask about his business.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ronnie tried to keep my sister clear of all that. Gave her money and a place to live.”

“But witnesses say Annaliese worked the streets.” I gestured at the folder. “And she did become pregnant.”