“How about this one?” Sherri handed over a color brochure for a cottage on Treasure Island. “It’s just a couple blocks from John’s Pass. Close to restaurants. And it has a patio and grill area.”

The woman pretended to study the listing. Sherri looked past her, at the orange Camaro parked outside at the curb.

She’d seen it—how many times? Three or four times, for sure, as it cruised slowly past the house on Brice’s bowling night, or afternoons he was out fishing with Jimmy Zee.

And she’d seen the Camaro up close too, the first time she’d followed Brice. She borrowed her cousin’s car that night, waited across the street from police headquarters, then followed him to that motel on Thirty-fourth Street North. She’d parked at a coffee shop beside the place and watched while Brice got out of his cruiser, whistling, walked into the office and came back out minutes later with a key, which he used on a unit at the end of the U-shaped complex. Ten minutes later, the orange Camaro pulled in and parked a discreet four cars away. That night, the woman wore spike heels and a short, tight black dress that looked like it had been spray-painted onto her. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when she was fucking another woman’s husband in a shitty motel room that rented by the hour. Not that Sherri had any experience in that kind of thing.

“Hmm,” the other woman was saying now. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this and see what my husband thinks. It looks cute, though.”

“It’s very cute,” Sherri said. “And it’s one of our most popular properties. If you think you might be interested, you should really put down a deposit today, Mrs.…?”

“McCarthy,” the woman said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Karen McCarthy. I’m not ready to commit today, but I’ll certainly keep that in mind, and be back in touch if my husband approves.”

“Okay,” Sherri said. She held out her hand. “By the way, Karen, I’m Sherri Campbell. But you already know that, since you’re the woman my husband has been running around with for the past few months.”

The blonde’s face paled all the way to her roots, but she recovered quickly. Obviously she was way better at lying than Brice was. “You must have me mixed up with somebody else. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sherri pointed out the real estate office’s big plate-glass window. “Sure you do. I’ve seen that Camaro of yours several times driving past our house late at night. What’s wrong? Don’t you believe him when he tells you he’s going bowling with the guys?”

That got her flustered, Sherri noted.