The thought of Willow Valente lying on his sheets, posing naked with the gun while taking selfies, made his skin crawl. So he’d checked himself into the suite at his own inn, the very set of rooms he’d occupied upon getting out of the hospital; they were fast becoming his home away from home.

And there he lay, staring up at the ceiling, a million thoughts running through his mind: Megan missing; the two women dead—murdered; Sophia refusing to believe their affair was over; Gus Jardine threatening to sue him; Rowdy reminding him that the cops weren’t on his side; Megan’s car found at Harold Sinclaire’s mountain cabin, yet no sign of her; and Rebecca . . . God, why couldn’t he just forget her? She’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him.

Nonetheless, the cops were focusing on him, and even now, in his suite at the inn, he couldn’t breathe, felt that there was a noose surrounding his neck and the rough rope was slowly, inch by inch, being tightened.

He threw off the covers and swore.

Nothing was making sense, but it was obvious the police had trained their sights on him.

Rivers considered him a suspect, possibly suspect numero uno.

Mentally exhausted but still jangled, he finally went into the bathroom, looked through his overnight case, and found some over-the-counter sleeping pills and tossed back two, washing them down with a mouthful of water.

He glanced at the clock just before two and, with Ralph snoring on his bed, had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, deep enough that he didn’t hear the door open, nor the shepherd’s soft “woof,” but not so encompassing that he didn’t feel the weight of another body settle against the mattress.

His eyes flew open, and he physically started at the sight of Sophia, her blond hair shimmering in the thin light, her eyes luminous, her body naked.

“What the hell?” He scooted up in the bed. He flung himself out of the bed so quickly that he felt a jab of pain in his shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, still so groggy he thought he might be dreaming.

But she lay back on the bed, and instead of seeming petulant, she was actually smiling. “I told you I needed to talk to you, and you stood me up.”

“I know . . . I’m sorry about that. But, hell, you have to leave. Now.” He blinked, wiped a hand over his face—this was no dream.

“I don’t think so.”

“Seriously? Do you want me to call security? Do you know what’s happened around here?” The events of the night before came crashing back, and he was incredulous that she was so brazen as to show up in his room. Again. He mentally kicked himself up one side and down the other for not double-locking the door.