“That’s not the right question,” the bartender said.

“Your father?” Then she smiled, having put it together. “Your father was the hired hand.”

“Thomas James Cooke,” he said.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Claudine said. “Very interesting. You must be clever. Or someone was clever. I have to know: How did you get the statue?”

The bartender told her.

“Aspen cops,” she said. “Too nice for their own good. That’s how Bundy escaped. They didn’t cuff him and he jumped right out the window of the Pitkin County Courthouse.”

“You can see if it’s still open. You’ll be there soon enough.”

A gust of wind tore between them, both having to momentarily turn and shield their faces.

“That’s how you think this ends?” she said. “Sorry to disappoint. The police had the statue back then and it didn’t make any difference. So unless you’ve got a confession—”

The bartender took his hand out of his jacket pocket. He was holding a small digital voice recorder. Hardly surprising. She counted on it. And yet she hadn’t spoken carefully or avoided saying anything that could be held against her in court. What did she care? She would get that device from him just as surely as she would get that statue from Zara.

Claudine took a step toward him, inching the knife out of her sleeve. “Why so much drama?” she asked. “You should have swung by the office. We could have talked.”

“I’m not dumb. What could be better than this? A house full of your friends and employees plus a super famous pop star and her enormous bodyguard. The stakes are too high for you to pull anything here. But alone? Not a chance. Who’s to say your husband wouldn’t try and kill me like he did my father and Mr. Miller?”

“My husband?”

Claudine began laughing. Laughing and laughing. The bartender looked uncertain.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You think my husband is a killer?”

“I know he is,” the bartender said. “And, given the chance, I’m sure he’d kill again.”

Claudine unsheathed the knife from her sleeve. He was backed into a corner, the only options to jump off the deck and over a cliff or go straight through her.

“Henry kill again?” she said. “That would mean he’s killed before. Henry didn’t kill your father. I did.”

Henry

He’d been wrong. It was only the bartender she followed outside. No doubt to yell at him about Henry’s drinking. He was about to call out to her, tell her to lay off, leave the kid alone, this was his fault, when their voices reached him. He stood and listened.

“Henry kill again? That would mean he’s killed before. Henry didn’t kill your father. I did.”