He Googled the address on the receipts and gaped at the result. It was a luxury apartment in Cincinnati’s downtown. Stunned, he continued scanning the receipts—food from very expensive restaurants, a new car.

A Bentley, for God’s sake. A two-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley.

Grant put the paper down on the table, his head spinning. Breathe. Just breathe. Was his brother experiencing some kind of mental breakdown? How long had he been stealing drugs and selling them? Had he always lived a double life?

“Who are you?” he whispered, hearing his own desperation. Quickly, he went through the rest of the documents. More receipts, but they seemed to go back only six months. So perhaps this double life was new.

Under the earliest rent receipt, he found a small envelope containing a key. A label hung from the thin key ring, bearing the same address as the luxury apartment.

Grant put it aside and kept going. His hands stilled when he neared the bottom of the stack. “Oh fuck.”

It was an obituary, printed in the Cincinnati Ledger. Detective Bert Stuart of the Cincinnati PD had been killed in his own home by an intruder who was never identified.

Grant swallowed hard. Detective Bert Stuart had been the cop who’d refused to investigate their sister’s disappearance, insisting that she’d run away voluntarily.

He set the obituary aside and his blood ran cold when he saw what was under it. It was a copy of the police report they’d filed on their sister’s disappearance. In the margin, in Wes’s handwriting, was scrawled: Never filed.

Grant shook his head. That made no sense. Of course it was filed. The detective had come to them in their sister’s dorm room and—

Grant covered his mouth with his gloved hand. The detective who was now dead. Murdered. “My God, Wes, what have you done?”

This was not the brother he knew. The brother he loved. Wes was a good man. A good cop. Except . . .

Grant forced himself to look at the brick of heroin. Except Wes wasn’t a good cop. He couldn’t be. Could he?

Dreading what else he’d find, Grant flipped to the last page in the stack. It was another police report, also written by Detective Stuart, but this one had a red stamp that said FILED. The number on the report was exactly the same as on the report filed on their sister’s disappearance, but it was for a petty theft incident that occurred a few days after their sister disappeared.

Wes was right. Her missing person report had apparently not been filed at all.

There was a sticky note in one corner, with the letters L O T R.

LOTR? Like . . . Lord of the Rings? That didn’t make sense, either. Grant loved the books and the films, but Wes absolutely hated them.