Would she run into Brody while she was in Scarlet Falls? Detective Brody McNamara had investigated Lee’s murder. Hannah had seen him on previous visits, when he’d been tying up his loose ends of the investigation. But the case was in the prosecutor’s hands now. Hannah had no reason to see Brody on this trip.

So, why was she disappointed?

Brody had stuck by the Barrett family when Lee’s killer had filed assault charges against Grant. To Hannah, Brody’s proven loyalty was more attractive than Royce’s shallow good looks. Not that Brody wasn’t hot, because he was, but the cop had something special: integrity. After spending twelve hours a day mired in the moral flexibility of Herb Fletcher and Las Vegas, integrity was damned appealing.

She opened her photos app and flipped through the images Grant had sent her. Six-year-old Carson in his lime-green soccer uniform, his smile showing the gaps of two missing teeth. When had he lost those? Faith in her high chair, face, hands, and tray smeared with something red. Spaghetti sauce?

Hannah clutched the phone to the center of her chest. Since Lee’s death, being away from the kids ripped her up inside.

She rode the elevator to the ground floor and headed for the lobby, where she passed two bouncers and a short line of patrons waiting to pay their entrance fees.

“Could you hurry up?” one woman complained. “The parade’s about to start.”

Hannah exited onto the concrete apron and took a solid breath of cool night air. Vegas spread out flat and open in front of her. The club was located in an industrial neighborhood. An express tire and lube sat dark across the street. The building next door housed a hotel uniform distributor. Except for the motel on the other side of the parking lot, the surrounding businesses were closed. Lights glared from a billboard advertising Carnival.

Two couples hurried past her and went inside. The parking lot was oddly empty considering the packed space inside. But then, the main show was about to start. She supposed no one who paid a seventy-five-dollar cover charge was going to leave before the big event.

She made her way to the rear of the large lot, where she’d parked the rental car. As she walked, she opened the voice memo app on her phone. “Contact Timothy in London.” She slid the phone into her purse.

By the time she crossed the fourth row, she was shivering and regretting the sleeveless sheath dress and strappy Jimmy Choos she’d selected for the party. She spotted the sedan fifty feet away and quickened her pace. Her jacket and flats awaited.

Shoes scuffled on pavement. Quick footsteps and labored breathing sounded like someone running.

“Fucking bitch,” an angry male voice said.

What the—?