Once the child was asleep, Letty poured herself a glass of wine and took a seat on the metal lawn chair in the breezeway outside her room, leaving the door open in case her niece awoke.

A soft breeze rustled a pale pink hibiscus in a nearby flower bed and carried the scent of burning charcoal and the sound of laughter, coming from the rec room beside the pool. Letty turned her chair sideways, so she could see the sky turning a vivid orange.

Sunsets had quickly become her favorite time of day here, a time to pause and be still, but tonight there would be no stillness. She looked down again at the torn magazine page, the one she’d found in Tanya’s go-bag the night her sister was murdered. She ran her fingers over the colorful photo of the Murmuring Surf, and pondered its significance.

Rooney. Tanya’s “boyfriend,” who she claimed had abandoned her, left her high and dry five years ago in Atlanta, with nothing but her car and the clothes on her back. Rooney was the name of the con man who’d bilked old ladies. Right here at the Murmuring Surf. And he’d had an accomplice, a charming redhead, whom he’d abandoned when the law closed in. Joe said he couldn’t remember her name, but it had been five years ago, and her name “might” have started with a T.

This could not be a coincidence. There were no coincidences where Tanya was concerned. Her beautiful, lovable, charming half sister lied with effortless ease. She was a chameleon who could go from redhead to blonde, victim to criminal, in the blink of an eye. And now those lies had drawn Letty right back here, to the scene of the crime.

The question was why.

“Hey.” His voice startled her. She turned around. Joe DeCurtis was holding an overflowing paper plate, covered with foil.

“Hey yourself,” she said. She quickly tucked the magazine page into the pocket of her shorts.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No. Just enjoying what I can see of the sunset.”

He held out the paper plate. “Ava insisted. You gotta eat, right?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Letty said. “There’s a tantalizing bag of microwave popcorn inside with my name on it.”

“Popcorn for dinner?”

“And wine,” she said, holding up her glass.

“I’ve got a much better idea.”

He pulled up a nearby metal side table and placed the plate on top, removing the foil with a dramatic flourish.

“Chicken DeCurtis,” he said, pointing to a slightly charred chicken breast glistening under a coat of reddish-orange sauce. “Arlene’s baked beans. Alice Sheehan’s macaroni and cheese. Trudi Maples’s coleslaw. And the pièce de résistance, day-old store-bought rolls from Oscar Jensen.”

Her stomach growled, loudly and unmistakably.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Please pretend you didn’t hear that.”