Cammie stared into the camera, her eyes round with a sheer, horrid terror, her lips blue, her skin white. She gasped, unable to speak, blood oozing from her throat where the garrote, what looked to be a dark-beaded rosary, was cutting off her breath, her very life.

The towel slipped to the floor as Val’s knees gave way, and she started to crumple, would have fallen to the floor except that Slade grabbed her. His strong arm surrounded her waist, and he drew her naked body close, drawing her to her feet, not allowing her to fall.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her ear, his hands tangling in her hair.

Tears rained from her eyes. “What kind of a monster would do this?” she asked, her voice thick, the pain of grief shredding her soul. “What kind of a sick, twisted son of a bitch would do this?” She was clinging to Slade with one hand, pummeling his shoulder with the other. “It’s just not right, just not right.”

“Shhh. I know,” he said, but didn’t try to stop her as she struck him in frustration. “I know.”

“It’s so damned wrong!” She squeezed her eyes shut and wilted against him. For once in her life, she couldn’t be strong, wouldn’t try to fight the pain, but just give in to it. Was it her fault? Had she been too hard on Cammie? Thrown her out when she’d thought—believed—that her sister and her husband were having an affair?

It seemed so petty now. A ridiculous bit of history. I’m sorry, she silently sobbed. Oh, Cammie, I’m so, so sorry. She was older; she’d always thought she could protect her baby sister, and she’d failed. Oh, God, how she’d failed.

“Come on,” Slade said, and guided her to the bedroom. “We’ll go out another time.”

“You . . . you expect me to sleep?”

“I just think you need some time to work through this,” he countered.

She wanted to fight him, needed to do something, anything to find Cammie’s murderer, but she couldn’t battle him, the ghosts, the murderer, the whole damned world—not right now.

She let him propel her into the dark bedroom, didn’t resist as he tucked her, naked, between the sheets, then left to get her a glass of water.

“Don’t,” she said as he set the tumbler on the bedside table, then claimed the cane-backed chair in the corner, kicked off his boots, and propped his crossed ankles onto the foot of the old queen-size.

“Rest.”

“I can’t . . . There’s so much to do.” Her mind was spinning in circles. Who had left the BlackBerry? Was it Camille’s? What else was on it? She needed to call the police.