“No. She wanted to tell me something. She tried, but I didn’t let her. I never went back to find her. Abella was afraid of Jasper’s family—I saw it during lunch. She and Jasper had an argument last night. I think he told her something that worried her, or she figured it out for herself. All she wanted was to get away from them. And I left her here alone.”

I drew in a shaky breath. People kept dying. I couldn’t keep them alive. I didn’t stab those three women in New York. It wasn’t me who took a coil of rope from the Sinclairs’ shed and wound it tight around Abella’s neck. But it might as well have been.

Beyond the bathroom door, I could sense the murderer’s body relax. Keen eyes swept the hall, lingering on the others’ faces. This is easy, the killer thought with glee. Easier and easier. Child’s play. There was no question about it anymore. Abella’s murder confirmed what I’d known in my heart to be true. Jasper was dead, and his murderer had killed again. I’d provided a crucial ingredient without which the perpetrator’s formula could never have proved toxic. I provided opportunity.

And the killer took it.

TWENTY-FOUR

In the parlor, the scene was otherworldly. Firelight gave the air a Christmasy glimmer, and the room was so hot we all had a ruddy glow. This time I didn’t argue about the drinks. It hardly mattered now. Wineglasses were claimed, grips tightened. The atmosphere might have been festive, were it not for two bedraggled investigators and a woman’s lifeless body on the upstairs bathroom floor.

I took a breath to calm my jangled nerves and scrutinized the others’ faces, hunting for a clue. In mystery novels, the up-all-night-under-the-covers kind I used to love, guilty people don’t give themselves away until the end. Real-life criminals are rarely that clever. Over the years, criminologists studying serial killers identified several traits the bad guys tend to share. They can be manipulative, egotistical, charming . . . but underneath it all, they’re human. Their palms moisten and their necks go red. They reveal nervous ticks they didn’t even know they had.

I used to rely on these kinds of tells to suss out criminals. I was good at it with everyone except for Bram, when it counted most. As I examined our suspects’ faces, I felt just as inept. All of them looked guilty to me. Each had his or her own breed of suspicious mannerisms, from Flynn’s barefaced disinterest to Bebe’s over-the-top expression of horror and Ned’s sudden weak-kneed demeanor, an about-face from how he’d been in the parlor when he threatened Bebe and Flynn. Miles buttoned his shirt with unsteady hands, maintaining a respectable level of distress. Red-eyed, Jade shuddered and yawned uncontrollably into her fist, but as genuine as her nerve-numbing exhaustion appeared to be, I didn’t totally buy it. Even Camilla had that oddly timed full face of makeup (had she reapplied lipstick after her nap?) to keep me on my toes. Among all our witnesses, Abella was the only one I felt sure I understood. She’d been constant in her normalcy.