“That’s interesting,” Kevin Hawkins replied, keeping a tight rein on his temper, because unfortunately, the woman’s husband, Gabriel Conaghan, had chosen to sit in on the interview. The man was a very well-known crime fiction author and had friends in high places. It wouldn’t be wise to piss him off. “You see, the nurse I interviewed at the hospital was certain that the woman you knew as Mary Browning—who was in your employ for several years—was the exact same woman in these pictures.” He removed the photo he’d taken of Sarah on the beach, smiling at the camera, back when they were happy, back before he knew she was a lying, two-faced bitch.

He trailed his finger along her face in the photograph, across her throat, which he’d occasionally wrap his hands around, to remind her who was in charge, to watch the fear rise in her eyes. Sometimes he’d leave it at that, back off with a laugh. But when the occasion warranted more extreme measures, he would tighten his grip around her long, slender throat tighter and tighter until she lost consciousness.

He turned the photo to face the owner of Art Expressions Gallery. He purposefully held the photo a little too close to Zelia Thompson-Conaghan, moving his energy into her force field, causing her to take a half step back.

“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated firmly, crossing her arms, chin lifting defiantly. “I can see how at first glance someone could make that mistake, but the woman in this photo has sleek, straight blond hair. My employee had frizzy, light brown.” Something in the woman’s tone had caused her husband to cross the room and stand beside her. “You mentioned this woman you are seeking—”

“My wife.”

“Yes. Your wife. She had beautiful blue eyes. I’m sorry to be the bearer of disappointing news, but Mary’s eyes were brown.”

“Brown?”

She nodded. “Yes, a nondescript brown really. Nothing special. You mentioned your wife was five eight? Even in heels, Mary was shorter than me. I doubt she was more than five three, five four tops.”

Stupid bitch. Clearly it was time to lean a little harder. “Then why”—he thrust his face into hers—“did you state in the missing person report you filed with the Solace Island Police that she was five seven to five eight and her eyes were blue?”

“Back off, asshole.” Gabriel Conaghan was in front of the gallery owner now, grim, determined. So much for not pissing him off. Oh well, in for a penny.