Mick reread the email. Why was the word “cash” coming up in his brain over and over that morning, niggling at him? And there it was again. The word “cash” in the email had jumped out and attached itself to his psyche like a coastal sandbur embedded in his sock, refusing to be ignored. Mick put his phone away, tipped his head back against the white tile wall, shut his eyes, in the hope that his subconscious mind would take over. And then he saw it, a forgotten image from the night before. He was following the paramedics carrying Sarah on the gurney around the side of Vicki’s town house. They had already raced Vicki into the night. It was like someone had tapped him on the shoulder. Mick turned back. Nothing so unusual. He could see the patio, the overturned chair. The police were bagging and labeling the empty glass tumbler that had been lying on the bistro table. Vicki must have been drinking out of it when she’d had her collapse. “Got this off Lieutenant Hawkins,” Mick had heard a cop say. The cop crossed into Mick’s view, and he had two bundles of something in each of his latex-clad hands. He dropped them into a paper bag that the other cop held out and labeled the bag. Cash dropping from his hands like a ripe plum. Great whopping stacks of cash. For what? Why did Kevin bring that kind of money to Vicki’s house? Drugs? Payoff for information? And if Vicki was expecting a huge cash infusion from Kevin, why did she botch it up by inviting Sarah to drop by? And if Kevin arrived fully prepared to pay for information, why did he bother killing Vicki? Mick’s mind was whirling. Unless Kevin agreed to pay Vicki to get Sarah there? Mick shook his head. Didn’t add up. Last night, just before drifting to sleep, Sarah had mentioned Kevin had said he “wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.” What did that mean? What gift horse? Mick shot to his feet. Sarah! Sarah’s the gift horse. Last night Mick had overheard Kevin insisting he had been set up. Had nothing to do with Vicki’s collapse and now subsequent death. Mick had figured the dickhead was lying, but what if he wasn’t? If so, that third party is still at large, and Sarah is alone. The dread that had been pulsating in his gut turned into a loud drumbeat now.

“Mick Talford.” The receptionist’s voice came over the PA. “Report to the reception desk.”

Damnation. Mick strode across the lobby to reception. “Mick Talford here. Look, I gotta—”

A large man with a weather-beaten face stepped forward. “Mr. Talford? I’m Detective Kostas.” He extended his business card. “I apologize for the delay—”