Imani could see a certain logic to Philip seeking Nate’s investment. The fact that he’d taken out a home equity loan indicated that the banks had considered Coffre’s projected revenues and opted not to offer her husband an attractive business line of credit. Melissa had always complained of Nate’s poor investment acumen. She’d said that he picked projects because he was attracted to them creatively or because they fueled his ego. Over the years, Philip had even heard her tease Nate over his business ideas. After being rejected by the number crunchers, her husband might have seen Nate as a natural lender of last resort.

Imani pulled the faucet head to the soapy pot and began spraying. Philip seeking Nate’s money didn’t mean that he’d had anything to do with the man’s death, she told herself. But then why did she feel so uneasy? Why was there a hollow sensation in her bones like someone had cleaned out the marrow?

Imani left the pot to soak and went to her laptop, pushed onto the dining room hutch. She logged on, opened the unnamed folder, and accessed the saved image inside. There was the den that she knew so well transformed into a scene straight out of a splatter film. Blood coated the floor and speckled the walls. Nate’s body lay in the foreground, his face disintegrating into flesh and bone. Atop his desk was a thick tumbler with a diamond pattern carved into the base, a swallow of scotch reflected in the prisms. There was a circular mark next to the glass, perhaps the condensation from another drink. Between the two sat a bottle of Bushmills.

Imani’s heart seemed to dislodge itself from behind her rib cage and push into her throat. She could feel it throbbing in the center of her neck, feel it sending the blood to her head with every beat. Melissa didn’t drink whiskey. But Philip did.

And Bushmills was his favorite.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

TONYA

“Who are you?” A raspy voice emerged from the blackness. It was weak and quiet, almost distorted, as if coming through on a frequency between stations.

“Who are you?” Shouting sent a stabbing pain through Tonya’s torso. The knife’s sharpness had confused her nerves, delaying her reaction to it severing her flesh. But she felt everything now. A phantom blade dug into her right side, causing the underlying muscle to throb and gush. Her fingers stuck to the wet fabric atop the gash.

“I’m Melissa.” The ghostly voice seemed to emanate from another part of the room. “Melissa Walker.”

Tonya felt her stomach drop somewhere between her knees. Philip had killed Nate and locked the man’s wife in this room. She’d been trapped inside here for more than a week, no doubt trying to escape—and failing.