Tom shrugged. “I control when we stop for bathroom breaks.”

Farrah whistled. “That escalated fast. Please don’t forget that there are other people in the van who didn’t threaten to withhold snacks. If we need to stop, you’ll stop.”

Tom grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he glanced at his phone and sobered. “I need to take this. Excuse me.” He jogged to the garage, where Rafe and André were coming out of the house. Tom listened to the call, and then he, Rafe, and André had a conversation during which the other two men’s expressions grew equally sober.

Rafe said something to André and the two disappeared back into the house, reappearing with a cat carrier.

“Oh no,” Mercy whispered. The dread she’d felt watching the men talk had morphed into the beginnings of a panic attack.

“What is it?” Liza asked, worried.

“They’re bringing Mercy’s cat,” Farrah replied, then swallowed. “Her comfort animal.”

“Oh,” Liza murmured. “Got it.”

André got into the front passenger seat while Rafe settled into the seat beside Mercy, sandwiching her between his body and Farrah’s, his mood tense. And dark.

From where she sat in the middle, Mercy could see André drawing his weapon from his holster and holding it in his lap, his gaze darting in every direction while Rafe pulled the sliding door closed and popped the latch on the carrier. Rory climbed out, immediately curling up in Mercy’s lap, but her hands were clenched into fists and she couldn’t manage to relax them.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “What’s happened?”

Rafe’s jaw was taut. “It’s Ginger.”

Mercy frowned at him in confusion. “The woman who sold me the jewelry box yesterday? What’s happened to her?”

Rafe met her gaze directly. “She’s dead.”

Mercy stared at him, the panic beginning to swirl in her mind. “No.”

Farrah reached for Mercy’s hand, prying her fingers loose from the fist and holding on tightly—too tightly, but the brief discomfort was what Mercy needed. “Breathe, Merce,” she murmured. “What happened, Rafe?”

“Ginger was found this morning. With the owner of the Snowbush general store, Nick Corwin. In bed together.” Rafe shook his head. “They’d both been shot in the head. Corwin’s wife was on the floor, also dead. It was supposed to look like a murder-suicide.”

“Supposed to,” Mercy said dully, wishing she hadn’t taken seconds of the breakfast that Farrah had prepared.

“There was evidence of a break-in at Ginger’s house,” Rafe said. “A broken window. Her car was parked in Corwin’s driveway—behind the wife’s car, which was parked inside the garage. The wife couldn’t have arrived home to find them in bed with each other. Plus the wife is a lefty, but was found with the pistol in her right hand. Lots of little things didn’t add up. Ginger was in pajamas, and her own bed had been slept in. The sheriff’s department didn’t find any of Ginger’s street clothes in Corwin’s room, so she’d have had to leave her house wearing her pajamas with no coat.”