She closed her eyes, and lost the twelve years in a flash. That day, when she’d run up the basement stairs and into the fire, crying for her father, she’d seen black boots and painter’s pants, just before her world had gone black. “You,” she whispered, her grip tightening on the cell phone at her side. Joe. She hoped he was still there, listening. “It was you.” Fear took a backseat to rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. “You killed my dad—”

“No,” he said, with real regret in his eyes. “I didn’t kill him.”

“You did.”

“No, damn it. He was supposed to get out of here. I called him to make sure of it. He was supposed to meet me for a drink, but he didn’t listen, he never fucking listened, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Tina yelled. “That’s all? What about what you nearly did to Summer?”

His eyes were tortured. “She got out. She wasn’t killed.”

Tina let out a growl. Eyes wet and wild, she lunged at him.

Bill whipped out one of his tools, a nasty-looking sculpting tool with a jagged edge, and wielded it like a knife. “God, Tina, don’t. Please don’t make me use this, not on you.”

Camille caught Tina around her middle and held fast.

Tina was staring at her husband as if he’d grown a second head. “Who are you?”

Bill’s eyes were damp. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted the money, I swear. None of this other stuff was supposed to happen.”

“You wanted the money for the racetrack.”

“Yes.”

Tina looked sucker punched. “You should have told me, why didn’t you tell me?”

“You said you’d leave me if I got into trouble gambling again.” He shifted on his feet, looked down at the weapon in his fingers as if surprised to find it there.

“Again?” Camille asked, confused.

“He was an addict,” Tina admitted, struggling against her sister’s hold. “But I thought he’d recovered years ago, and had it under control. My God, Bill—” She let out an anguished moan and covered her face.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he whispered. “I’m not. I just kept having this unlucky streak, see.” He was blocking their exit, breathing erratically as he looked at Tina with tears in his eyes. “All I wanted was for you to come into the insurance money. I just needed the extra cash, that’s all. The warehouse paid off nicely, remember? You lent me money for my old debts.”

“Oh, Bill.”

“I had some nice winning streaks after that. Lasted a good long time. I didn’t think it’d be necessary to do it again, but then I ran into another bad row.” He looked so baffled at that, that Summer couldn’t reconcile the two different Bills—the sweet artist…and the murderer.