The area was a cheap commercial zone, lined with big-box stores and chain restaurants. A thin strip of weeds ran between the road and the sidewalk, dotted with overflowing trash cans. She walked slowly, letting Travis stay several feet ahead but keeping him in her line of sight. He wore a backward-facing baseball cap and saggy jeans hanging down almost off his butt. A wallet chain went from his belt loop to his back pocket. When he glanced behind him, she ducked into a crowd of people at a bus stop, trying to keep her face as bored as all the other commuters’ expressions. When she was sure he’d turned away, she followed again.

Travis passed an abandoned mechanics’ garage tagged with graffiti, then cut across the parking lot to a Days Inn Hotel. The pool shone behind the cast-iron gate, three small children in inflatable water wings squealing in the shallow end. Emma hung back and watched as Travis climbed the steps and let himself into one of the rooms.

She stood in the shade of a mesquite tree, uncertainty coiling inside her. Why was he still here? He didn’t know anything about the killer—did he?

But her head snapped up as Ethan’s words came drifting back to her. If we had access to Garrett’s texts or e-mail, we’d be able to see if he sent the link.

They didn’t have Garrett’s phone. But the message might still be somewhere on Travis’s.

With another glance around, she climbed the stairs to his door and knocked. For a moment nothing happened. She knocked again, louder. From the parking lot, a middle-aged couple in matching Hawaiian shirts paused as they climbed out of their station wagon, staring up at her. Emma swallowed, sweat gathering on the back of her neck. She lifted her hand to knock one more time, but before she could, the door jerked open.

Travis stood in the doorway, his hat off. He wore a white tank top snug across his meaty chest, and a thick gold chain dangled from his neck. His chin jutted belligerently at her. Behind him, Arnold Schwarzenegger filled the TV screen, roaring up the freeway on a motorcycle. “What do you want, lady?”

For a moment, she didn’t remember that she was in costume. She blinked, then pulled off her glasses. “It’s me. Emma.”

His jaw fell slack. He looked her slowly up and down, his piggy little eyes bulging. The smell of stale tobacco and sweat hung around him.

“I need your help,” she said, putting on the sweetest expression she could muster. “Everyone thinks I killed my sister.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, grinning. “That one cop, Quinlan or whatever? He’s been trying to get me to tell him all about you.”

She chewed on her thumbnail, knowing she had to play this just right. “What have you told him so far?”