The door was locked, a tiny key lock visible in the wood. I bent to inspect it, then went all the way back to the lower deck and rooted through the spa room until I found a handful of bobby pins and a paper clip. I worked quietly, hearing the hum of the men’s voices again. I tiptoed to the door and listened to their conversation. They were talking about onions. Nothing at all to do with the strange disappearing employee who had somehow ended up delivering their wine. Thank God.

Tools in hand, I went back upstairs, pausing only long enough to see what the housekeeper might be doing on the main deck. She was running a rag in tight circles along the brass bar rail, humming softly to herself.

If she’d realized anything was amiss, she definitely had a strange way of showing it.

I started to duck back into the stairwell when something on the flat screen over the bar caught my eye. The TV was turned on—a special news report. The sound was off and I could barely make out the words at the bottom of the screen, but my stomach twisted in knots just the same. Local Drug Bust Turns Deadly. The screen showed a live shot of a street surrounded by cop cars, lights whipping in circles, doors thrown open. They were surrounding two cars, one blocking the other in a driveway. The film was being recorded from a helicopter, and when it panned out wide, there was a body on the ground right next to one of the cars, a sheet tossed over it. It was almost impossible to make out through the fireworks going off in my head. Almost.

Even through the rust popping in my vision, I knew what I was looking at: bubble gum, pearl, blue. Bronze, silver, foamy sea green. JSB946. Rebecca Moreno’s license plate. Her car being blocked by a car I recognized. One ringed so yellow I could taste butter when I looked at it too long.

I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook around the bobby pins, and I even dropped one. It plinked against the floor and my heart hammered. Surely the housekeeper was going to hear that and turn around. Would it matter, though? Would I really care if she caught me? Would I still care about Luna if Chris was . . .

I shook my head. I couldn’t go there.

He hasn’t been answering your calls, Nikki.

I had to believe he was safe. It was the only way I could finish this.

He hasn’t texted you even once.

He was a good cop. He knew what he was doing.

He remembered why they wanted him dead in the first place. And they found his storage locker, Nikki.