He’d dropped Festus off at Sara’s, like a kid at day care, and hastened to join Melba and the others at the murder scene.

In the interim, zip.

Maybe Freddie and the folks were sitting down to a holiday dinner right about now, like normal people, having slept in after a late night, waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square.

Whatever. It was broad daylight, and Freddie and the old man probably did most of their dirty work under cover of darkness.

Besides, they were cowards, which meant they were more likely to go after Eric or Hayley or even Festus. Maybe Sara.

That would prove to be a mistake, considering she and her family had Dan Summers for a bodyguard.

And then there was Sara’s Glock.

Eli went inside the house, scanned his surroundings, the way he always did, then stripped and took a hot shower. When that was done, he splashed on some cologne—fancy stuff recommended by his sister—and dressed in jeans and a beige Henley shirt, open at the throat.

Then, hair combed and left to dry on its own, teeth brushed and mouthwash swished, he proceeded to the kitchen in search of the red wine Sara had requested.

The cabinet was empty.

No surprise there; Eli was a beer man, and he rarely drank wine. Kept it on hand only for pizza nights and spaghetti dinners, when Sara and the kids were over.

He sighed, tossed his keys, caught them.

After he secured the house, resetting the alarm system and checking the app to make sure the cameras were still operating, he walked to the SUV. He would normally have driven his truck, since he was technically off the clock, but today, he wanted the official rig and all the equipment it contained close at hand.

He drove back into town, passing the turnoff to Sara’s place, and made his way to the town’s one real supermarket. He parked and got out of the rig, scrolling through his phone in search of Sara’s text, the one where she’d asked him to bring red wine.

He found it, went inside the store and grabbed a cart, one of the smaller ones, meant for shoppers who weren’t there to stock up for the next faux-Armageddon, but just to pick up milk, bread and eggs.

The wine had a whole aisle to itself, both sides stacked high.

The selection was overwhelming.

Eli tracked down the ones he knew Sara favored, laid them in the cart, where they rattled annoyingly, until he braced them with half a case of good beer.

Rolling toward the checkout lines, which were surprisingly clear, he spotted none other than Gretchen Lansing at one of the tills, and headed her way.

Small and mercilessly freckled, with mouse-brown hair that rested limply across her low forehead and left her ears exposed, Gretchen greeted him with a poisonous look.