My sights had turned to Mr. Stockton immediately. He was having an affair with an office associate and was often gone for days at a time. A dead wife, especially a rich one, would solve a lot of his problems. Another alarm bell had been the death of the neighbor’s dog, Rex, who came by the Stocktons’ house often for treats that the girls gave him. Rex, healthy and young, had been found dead in his owner’s driveway of an apparent poisoning two weeks before Elizabeth’s death. It wasn’t uncommon for a killer intending to use poison to practice on an easily accessible animal.

And then four years later, Clare had died, and I had two dead females in the same family. One via suicide and the other strangulation. I’d looked hard again at Mr. Stockton. If anything happened to the girls, he could make a reasonable claim that he should inherit their portions of the trust. But Elizabeth, days before she died, had amended her will, declaring that if a child should die, her portion would be split between the survivors. If all three girls should die before their father, the money would be given to the American Cancer Society.

Maybe the Stocktons were just one of those rich, privileged families stalked by tragedy. Maybe some folks just got extra helpings of shit sandwiches. Maybe.

I tossed the cigarette to the asphalt and ground it out with the tip of my polished loafers. I walked up to the front entrance, found it propped open with a rock. The security door was for the residents’ protection, but it could be inconvenient when carrying in a load, and this kind of rigged setup happened a lot. Stupid.

I opened the door, kicked the rock aside, and waited until it closed tightly behind me. Striding toward the elevator, I pressed the button for the top floor. Inside, the floor felt sticky under my feet and smelled of beer. I rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

Two units on this level. Marisa’s was apartment A, the one on the left. But it was the door to B that opened with a quick snap, and my hand slid immediately to my Glock. The habit was so ingrained, I doubted it would ever go away.

The man who appeared was tall, lean, with mahogany-brown hair cut short and combed back. He wore a dark suit, light-blue shirt, and gray tie. He was the kind of corporate guy who lived in this area, only this man looked vaguely familiar. Dressed up on a Sunday, but he didn’t strike me as the churchgoing type.

The man closed and locked his door. “Can I help you?”

“No.” I’d learned long ago that explaining myself only wasted time.

“Are you lost?” The man lingered, looked toward Marisa’s door as if he didn’t like that I was close to it.

“Nope.” I knocked on the door.