Rivers thought that, if nothing else, Cahill was industrious. He might have been born with a silver spoon firmly lodged between his teeth, but at least he worked for a living.

As the interior warmed, they drove over the bridge. The river below was starting to freeze, ice forming near the banks. A little farther south, past snow-flocked pastures, the Cahill Inn, surrounded by fields of snow-covered evergreens, came into view.

Traffic slowed again, and just before they reached the inn, Rivers turned down the long lane that led deep into Cahill’s property, a straight shot of twin ruts of gravel that wound up at the buildings where the high-end tiny homes were constructed. They bounced along the uneven tracks that ran along a fence line bordered by trees that separated this lane from the driveway leading to Cahill’s home. As he drove through stands of fir and pine, Rivers couldn’t help but think this man-made forest would be a perfect place to hide a body.

Then he reminded himself that Megan Travers wasn’t dead.

Or at least not that they knew.

Just over a small hillock, the trees gave way to a wide parking area, trucks and vans parked in no particular order in front of a huge warehouse-like metal building with oversized barn doors. One of the doors was open, lights from inside spilling outside.

Rivers wedged his Jeep between a white van and a pickup from the seventies. “Let’s see what our star witness has to say.” He cut the engine and threw open his door.

“Possible suspect,” Mendoza said as she stepped outside.

“Person of interest.”

“How politically correct of you.”

“That’s me, always PC,” he said dryly as they walked into the cavernous building where, high overhead, bright lights lit the beehive of activity within. Framers and electricians, plumbers, finish carpenters, and others worked around three flatbeds on which several homes were in different phases of construction. Electrical wires snaked from under the flatbeds, and a cacophony of sounds assailed them. Nail guns sputtered, hammers banged, saws buzzed, and voices shouted over some hard-rock song Rivers couldn’t name.

James Cahill, wearing jeans, work shirt, a jacket, and a black Stetson, stood on one of the trailers, inspecting the steel frame of a house while speaking to a tall, thin man with a red beard whose head was covered by the hood of his sweatshirt. James was shouting to be heard over the din. “. . . so she’s insistent. Wants a larger bathroom with a standard tub or at least one big enough to give a medium-sized dog a bath. She’s got a couple of schnauzers. Her babies.” He winced and rubbed his shoulder under the strap of his sling. In truth, he looked like hell, the scratches in his beard still visible, his complexion ashen.