“Both parents in one shot. Can’t have been easy on the kids,” Tim said. Then, “Where’s the money?”

“Excellent question. It went to the three of them, most likely—Jasper, Bebe, and Flynn. We need to confirm that. I’ll ask Camilla.”

“This girl, Abella,” Tim said. “You believe her?”

I’d asked myself the same question multiple times since sitting down with her. My gut told me she was innocent. But could I trust it? “Right now, at this moment? Yeah, I do.”

“Because the girlfriend has every reason to lie. She was in a bed stained with blood. There’s blood on her clothes. She could be making the whole thing up: the affair, Flynn’s bullying, all of it.”

“She could be,” I agreed, “but I still can’t imagine her rolling over to stab her boyfriend and going back to sleep.” Someone else had done that, and I was increasingly sure that someone was still in the house.

“Know what I think? I think Abella knows exactly what happened.” Tim interlaced his fingers and clasped the back of his neck in a stretch. “The fight Flynn overheard last night was probably them breaking up, and Jasper didn’t feel like sticking around to deal with the fallout in the morning. I know lots of guys who don’t have the balls to face an ex. Abella’s pissed and embarrassed by the fact that he left, and as for the blood, couldn’t it be . . . you know . . . female trouble?”

I gaped at him. “What?”

“Bleeding all over the sheets at an ex-boyfriend’s house is even worse than the boyfriend taking off in the middle of the night. The family called it murder, and she didn’t want to fess up, so she let it snowball. From where I’m standing—sitting,” he amended with a grin, “this seems like a simple misunderstanding that got way out of hand.”

I contemplated Tim’s straight eyebrows and the evenhanded character I’d come to know. Between the two of us, I was the only one who seemed certain Jasper Sinclair was dead. Tim was considerably more optimistic about the man’s fate, even when faced with evidence to the contrary. As he rolled his neck and relaxed his shoulders, it was clear he thought he had it figured out.

It occurred to me I might be the victim of self-sabotage. Could it be that my subconscious was trying to trick me? I have too much history with gruesome homicides to assume everything’s flowers and rainbows when I find blood all over the walls, but what I was feeling wasn’t just healthy skepticism: it was a bone-deep belief this missing person was dead. There were parallels to the horrors I’d left back in New York. Memories circled me like hungry dogs. The sooner I solved this case, the sooner I could get off the island. I wanted to be there, but I didn’t. Thought I could do what needed doing, and doubted myself at every turn. It was a push and pull between my head and my heart. Either way, I lost.