Feeling slightly better, Willow turned on the lights on her tiny artificial tree, made a cup of herbal tea, and sipped it while surfing through the channels on her old TV. She settled on a movie channel playing some inane romantic comedy. Then she crawled into her bed, a twin she’d had since she was eight, and propped herself up on the pillows. When the movie ended, she switched to the channel that played heart-and-hearth-style Christmas movies, filled with glitter and hope, the bad guys always found out, the hero and heroine destined to find happiness and Christmas forever . . .

She let herself be drawn into one movie and then another, and finally clicked off the TV sometime after one. But sleep was elusive. Listening to the wind, she stared at the ceiling, twisted the ring she wore—her mother’s engagement ring, with its tiny winking diamond—and fantasized about being married to James, to sharing Christmas with him in the farmhouse that she would decorate from top to bottom.

Smiling at that thought, she started to drift off, to finally feel sleep embrace her. She would dream about James tonight and think about his big hands on her body. “Someday, my love,” she whispered and dozed, slumber taking her to a happy place, a safe place, so secure that she didn’t hear the footfall on the exterior steps, nor even rouse when her lock was gently pried open and the intruder slipped inside. So deep into her dream was she that she barely stirred as the barrel of the pistol was placed near her right temple.

Blam!

It was over in an instant.

One quick pull on the trigger.

Willow’s body jerked like a marionette.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

James didn’t like it.

His house—all clean and spit-polished.

He tossed his keys and wallet onto a side table near the front door and eyed the front entryway, then peered into the living room, where every magazine was in a rack, not a speck of dust to be found, his slippers lined neatly on the hearth, where the slightest bloodstain was still visible.

With his dog tagging along, James walked to the kitchen, where he shrugged out of his jacket with less difficulty than he’d had four days earlier, then hooked it, along with his hat, on a peg near the door to the back porch.

Though he’d agreed that Sophia could straighten up, she hadn’t waited for him to help out as he’d suggested. She’d done it behind his back while he’d been working, though she might have expected him home sooner.

Who could have predicted the accident at the shop?

Leon, who thought maybe Gus had staged the accident.

And Bobby, who held his own suspicions.