According to the countdown bar at the top of her television screen, Robin Stansfield had two minutes and forty-seven seconds remaining in her hip-hop cardio workout when she heard a knock on the door. Stan, back from the driving range, too lazy to use his keys, but also an excuse for her to stop early. She hit the power button on the remote on her way to the front door, checking the peephole out of habit. She was surprised to see an unfamiliar woman, probably in her mid-thirties. Dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Big, ocean-blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. A coat of nude lip gloss, if any makeup at all. Professional. Presumably she’d arrived in the white Audi station wagon that was parked at the curb.

It was probably about that darn For Sale sign in the yard. “If you’re here about the listing, you can call the broker. The number’s on the sign,” she said through the closed door.

“It’s not about the house. Or not about buying it, at least. Can I ask you a couple of questions? My friend is missing, and she was here by herself last weekend. Her name is Hope Miller.”

The woman who opened the front door of the For Sale house wore yoga pants, sneakers, and a “Free Britney” T-shirt and was holding a remote control. Beneath the bangs of her ashy blond bob, she eyed Lindsay suspiciously.

“I’m afraid no one was here Saturday night,” the woman said, sounding slightly short of breath. “We were away on vacation.”

“I was told she came by to get everything ready for an open house here the next day.” Lindsay peered over the woman’s head, trying to catch a glimpse of the home’s interior. “Please, can I ask you a few questions? I promise I’m not an ax murderer or something.” Nothing more comforting to strangers than assuring them you’re not going to hack them to pieces. Well done, Lindsay. She reached for a business card from her purse, identifying herself as a criminal defense attorney at Kelly & Associates, and offered it with an outstretched hand. “Please.”

The woman accepted it tentatively and gave the card a quick scan. In truth, the “associates” consisted of one junior lawyer—a former intern Lindsay had poached from the DA’s office when she left to open a defense practice.

“So you only represent ax murderers.”

“Well, only the one, but he was totally innocent.”

The tension fell from the woman’s face and she stepped back from the door, allowing Lindsay to enter. “My name’s Robin. Robin Stansfield. But I don’t know anyone named Hope. Our realtor is Evan Hunter.”

“I know. Hope works for Evan. Or at least she did.” Lindsay summarized everything she knew clearly and concisely, fighting back the panic that was building as she recited each disturbing fact.