Just the tiniest bit of hesitation. “No.”

Rivers didn’t believe him. “What about Sophia Russo? You’ve been seen with her.”

“Are you two involved? Romantically?” Mendoza added, putting a finer point on it.

“We were,” he admitted. “That’s over.”

Rivers asked, “Does she know it?”

“Yes.” A muscle twitched in James’s jaw, visible just over the scars in his beard. “I made that crystal clear.”

“You’re certain about that?” Mendoza said, her eyebrow crooking, but James Cahill didn’t rise to the bait. Then he dropped the bomb. “Is she related to you?”

“Is she what? Are you kidding?” he said, in visible distress. “Related to me? Hell, no! She’s a woman I met here. You people are sick.” He scraped back his chair and held up his hands, palms toward the cops. “I think we’re done here.”

And they probably were for now. “Just one more thing,” Rivers said, and texted the officer staying with Rebecca Travers.

“What?”

When Rebecca stepped into the interrogation room and sat down next to James, they told her they’d located her sister’s car.

“Where?” Rebecca asked, her hand at her throat, her eyes round. “What about my sister? Is she—?” She couldn’t get the rest out, and James took her hand, gave it a squeeze and pinpointed Rivers in his glare.

“We haven’t found her,” Mendoza admitted. “Just the car and some personal belongings. The car was parked in a garage near a mountain cabin, a garage owned by Harold Sinclaire. Does she know him?”

Rebecca, ashen, shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“I know him.” James scowled, ran fingers down his beard. “I sold a tiny house to him.” His eyebrows drew together, creating more havoc with his uneven haircut.

Mendoza’s head snapped up. “When did he buy the tiny home?”

“Last year sometime . . . end of summer maybe,” James said. “Was that it? Was she in one of my homes?”

“No. The cabin is at least fifty years old, maybe more, built solidly on a foundation and with a garage,” Rivers said.

Mendoza eyed Cahill. “Do you remember where Sinclaire’s tiny home was delivered to?”

“It wasn’t. Sinclaire hauled it away himself on a trailer.”

“To take it where?”

James leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. It was built to code, was small enough to be considered an RV.”

“Then I guess we need to know where it landed,” Rivers said aloud, and Mendoza made a note. “It’s registered, right? To Sinclaire?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll need copies of that paperwork,” Mendoza said. “You know that Harold Sinclaire is dating Jennifer Korpi. You were involved with her, too, right? A while back?”

“That’s right,” James clipped out, and beside him, Rebecca tensed, shifted in her chair. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just something we’re trying to figure out,” Rivers said.