Once he was alone with Willow’s things, Rivers went over each item: the girlish pajamas with the French poodle and Eiffel Tower print; the underwear, white and plain; a band that had tied off the end of her braid; bandages that had been recently applied to cover wounds with fresh blood; and the ring, an engagement ring with a tiny diamond that winked under the sizzling fluorescent tubing, which gave off a weird bluish light.

There were cameras here, of course, so he was careful as he studied each bit of Willow Valente’s life. He started with the bandages, picking them up and examining each. At first nothing, and then a sharp pain, in his shin, and he saw a darkened room with cobwebs and an axe imbedded on a stump. James Cahill’s woodshed. Fear pounded through Willow’s brain, and she ran, as if she were being chased.

Had her attacker been pursuing her? At James Cahill’s farmhouse? Willow had been in his bed with a gun, taking selfies, so . . . Rivers tried to imagine what had happened, the order of the events that had led to her panic. And her ankle was already throbbing.

When nothing more came, he picked up the ring and studied it, just in case anyone was manning the cameras. But what he was really doing was holding the tiny circle of gold between his fingertips, feeling its energy.

Images flashed before his eyes. Lying in James Cahill’s bed. Fantasizing about him. Playing with his gun, then running, frightened out of her mind, afraid of being caught. Twisting her ankle as she panicked and ran into the woodshed and pell-mell into the stump he used for cutting wood. She kept moving, fear and adrenaline propelling her to the outside, where the world was bright with snow and cold as ice.

Was someone following her?

She wasn’t sure.

Headlights!

James’s SUV!

And the dog! The damn dog was staring her down. More frantic running, falling over a fence, into a car, finally home. The gun! Where’s the damned gun? Freaked out of her mind, she tended her wounds, told herself not to worry. The image changed. She was in bed with tea and a stupid movie, and then . . . He squeezed his eyes in concentration, hoping that Willow had seen her assailant in those dark hours. She was dozing and dreaming about James as something cold and hard touched her temple, and then her eyes were fluttering open . . . nothing.

Shit.

She’d seen nothing, just feared she’d been chased. But not by Cahill.

Frustrated and disappointed, Rivers called Dash, who, humming loudly, made certain the meager items found on Willow’s body were returned to their plastic bags, and Rivers headed back upstairs, where he ran into the ever-insufferable Arne Nagley at the landing. Brow furrowed, short red hair recently gelled, Nagley scowled at the sight of him.