The passenger door of his Range Rover opened, and Jennifer Korpi, bundled in a long coat, stepped out, picking her way through the snow in high-heeled boots that were more fashionable than functional.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, glancing at the tow truck, its lights flashing as it winched the Toyota onto its bed.

“You know what it is, honey,” Sinclaire said. “I told you I want to get rid of this place. It’s just a headache. All the upkeep with snow in the winter—I’m always afraid the roof might collapse, or the pipes freeze, or raccoons make nests in the attic—that’s happened before, and what about someone siphoning off the propane?” He turned to Rivers. “Who would do that? Clear up here? Who the hell would drive all this way to steal damned propane? I was just lucky some snowshoers saw it happening, or when I came up here after the new year, I wouldn’t have had any heat!”

“When was that?” Rivers asked.

“Dunno. A month ago maybe . . .” He glanced at Jennifer for confirmation.

She nodded. “Maybe four, maybe five weeks ago. After that big storm. Which was . . . just before Thanksgiving, I think.” She bit her lip. “I just don’t get why this is happening. Why Megan’s car is here. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” Sinclaire agreed. “Her car is here, but she isn’t?”

“And the garage was locked. Does anyone else know the combination to your lockbox?” Rivers asked.

“No.” Sinclaire shook his head. “Well, aside from the two of us and the neighbor.” He pointed down the snow-covered lane. “Frank Miller. He comes up here more often than we do, and so he can get in if he sees something wrong. But that’s it, right, honey?” He glanced at Jennifer, who didn’t meet his eyes. “Honey?”

She let out a sigh. “Well, remember? We gave the code to Gus once. He was delivering firewood.”

“But he never showed. The wood deal fell through.” Sinclaire shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Gus isn’t involved in all of this.”

Rivers wondered.

Gus Jardine’s name kept coming up. Just here and there, always on the fringes.

“I’m telling you I’m gonna sell this place,” Harold said, draping an arm around Jennifer’s shoulders. “We just don’t need the headache.”

Sinclaire and Korpi watched as the Toyota was secured onto the flatbed and the tow truck lumbered off, almost too big for the little bridge spanning the creek.

Rivers hoped they would get lucky, that fingerprints or some other bit of evidence would be located in the car, that there would be a clue to what had happened to Megan Travers, but he wasn’t betting on it.