“Be kind to yourself, honey,” Ginger said. “It’s a difficult time.”

“We’re ready for you, Mrs. Cappuano,” Davida said.

“I just need a quick once-over,” Sam said.

“We can do that.”

It went against everything Sam believed in as a cop to sit still for people to fuss over her, but in deference to her new role as first lady, she let them do their thing so she wouldn’t embarrass Nick by looking feral in public. People would be watching them as they went through the motions of mourning—again. Far too soon after losing her father. When she needed to be focused on her sister, all she could think about was Jeannie and what she might be going through.

“How’s the investigation?” Angela asked after she came out of the bathroom dressed in black.

“We might be getting somewhere—finally.” On a hunch, she said, “Grab my phone, will you?”

After Angela handed Sam the phone, she opened it to find the photo Freddie had sent of the man from the hotel bar. “Do you know this guy?” She held up the phone.

Angela leaned in for a look at the grainy photo. “I’ve seen him somewhere, but I’m not sure where.”

“Try to think if you can.”

Angela stared at the photo until Sam’s arm began to prickle from blood loss.

“I can’t remember where I know him from. He might be a friend or colleague of Spencer’s.”

“Who among his friends was invited to the wake?”

“I sent the email to his high school and college friends, former coworkers, the organizers of his softball and basketball leagues and some of his former roommates. I'm not sure who among them is coming. I gave them the link from the Secret Service to RSVP.”

Sam’s backbone tingled the way it did when she was on to something. Hearing that their mystery man might be among the guests, she’d be on the lookout for him at the wake. Would he be so brazen as to show his face there?

She sure as hell hoped so.

Shackled to a chair with her own handcuffs, Jeannie kept a careful eye on Mrs. Patrick as she moved around the house, rifle clutched to her chest, muttering about revenge and retribution and how her daughter had been slaughtered. She talked more to herself than she did to Jeannie, which was fine with Jeannie. By now, Michael would be wondering why she hadn’t come home to get ready for the wake. Her phone had been ringing incessantly. He would sound the alarm when she didn’t take his calls.

She wasn’t sure how she’d remained so calm when she was in grave danger, being held captive by an unhinged woman who was in possession of an arsenal. But she figured if Mrs. Patrick planned to kill her, she would’ve done it by now.

“Can we talk?” Jeannie asked when the woman came back into the kitchen.

“About what?”

“About what happened to Jaycee?”

Mrs. Patrick’s brows narrowed. “You mean how your colleagues murdered my daughter?”