It was my fault that Wil was dead. I’d used Wil to get back at Ian, even though I knew Ian had no boundaries. I didn’t know what I would say or do when I saw Ian, but I needed to see him now, to make him pay for what he’d done.

I tried to drive like everyone else, about ten miles over the speed limit, and I gripped the steering wheel tight to stop my hands from shaking from my sorrow and fury. It was all I could do to function and watch out for cops.

I slowed when I reached Ian’s neighborhood and switched off my headlights as I drove up the winding roads, swerving once to avoid a raccoon that turned its masked face with eerily reflected red eyes toward me.

I remembered how Ian had casually said “when you dispose of him” in reference to Wil. I wouldn’t give Ian the opportunity to hide any evidence of his crime, so I turned into the service parking lot down the hill.

An extra-long Dumpster had been deposited at the far side of the lot for debris from a renovation project. I drove around it and parked at the farthest edge of the dirt before it sloped down the hillside, so that my truck was hidden from view.

I left the truck without taking anything and kept to the edges of the road to Ian’s house. Banging on the ugly tangerine-colored carved front door, I shouted, “Let me in!”

Mr. K opened the door. I shoved him aside and went in the house, screaming, “Ian!”

“Miss Milagro, please.” Mr. K followed me as I ran through the rooms, looking for the man who had murdered Wil.

“Miss Milagro, if you would calm down …”

I grabbed Mr. K by the lapel of his jacket and Mrs. K came into the room, looking alarmed.

I said, “Where is goddamn Ian Ducharme?”

“Lord Ducharme not here,” Mr. K said.

His wife said, “Miss, let’s be reasonable.”

I gave Mrs. K a look that should have fried her in her sensible heels. “Where is that evil bastard?”

“We are not at liberty—” Mr. K began, and I slammed him against the wall.

Mrs. K cried, “He’s across the country at a meeting with the Council! He’ll be there for another week.”

She had given up too easily. I put one hand around Mr. K’s throat and said, “Tell me the truth now …”

Mr. K. tried to shake his head, but my grip was too tight. His face was turning puce. Mrs. K said in panic, “He’s with Ilena at her home in Oslo.”

Ilena, Ian’s former lover. “When did he go?”

“He went straight to the airport after dinner at Gigi Barton’s the night before last,” she said. “I booked the flight myself.”

I released my grip on Mr. K’s neck, and he bent over, gasping.