She glanced through the rest of her email, saw one from an address she didn’t recognize. It was halfway down the page. The subject line was KENTUCKY.

Thinking about the random call she’d received, she clicked it open. A video began to play.

Holly watched as a woman, who she immediately identified as Sutton Montclair, appeared on a small porch. She was wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, carrying a small brown bag. She placed the bag squarely on the mat, bent down. A few seconds later, a small fire began, tiny flames shooting up. She waited a second to make sure the bag was well aflame, flipped the bird toward the front door, then rang the doorbell and scurried out of the frame.

The video ended with someone from the house opening the door.

Holly sat back and shook her head. What the heck was this?

She played it back a few times, looking for a date stamp, any identifying information. The video looked like it had been shot from a home security camera. But who had sent it? The email address was a jumble of letters and numbers; how it had slipped past her spam filter was rather a miracle.

It didn’t take a genius to figure things out. She went back through her notes, looked for the name of the reviewer. Rosemary George. She found her information, address, and phone, and placed the call.

“Hello?”

“Is Ms. George available? My name is Holly Graham. I’m with the Franklin Police in Tennessee.”

“Is this about that awful woman who’s gone missing?”

“Sutton Montclair? Yes, ma’am.”

“I have no comment.”

And the phone went dead.

Holly rolled her eyes. She didn’t relish a drive to Kentucky to dig out this woman’s story. She called back. The phone rang off the hook.

She called a friend she had in the tech division. “Holly Golightly, what’s up?”

“Hey, Jim. If I forward you an email, can you take it apart for me? It was sent anonymously, but I want to know where it came from.”

“Sure. I can trace the IP address. Shouldn’t be a big deal. Send away.”

“On its way. How long will it take?”

“Hang tight, I can tell you in a second.” She heard typing and clicking. “It’s local, a Franklin IP. Huh. That’s weird.”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve been running all the stuff from the Montclair case, right? This IP address matches their router.”

“But the email, it’s all sorts of gibberish. Who owns the email account?”

“You ready for this?”

“Let me guess. Ethan Montclair.”

“Yep.”

“But why in the world would he send me an anonymous video of his wife on some woman’s doorstep?”

“No idea. But here’s one more weird thing. The password Montclair gave us wasn’t accurate.”

“No?”

“No. It was written on a Post-it on the laptop lid—I love Ethan Montclair.”

“How sweet.”