Or would she?

* * *

Things had been icy between Rivers and Mendoza ever since she’d let him know that she was on to his little bit of kleptomania. Or was there such a thing as a little kleptomania? Like being a little alcoholic? Rivers didn’t believe it. But he rationalized that his need to take things wasn’t to see if he could get away with it, or because he had a need all the time to filch things; it was because he thought those items could help him with the investigation.

As such, he needed to touch the gun. The murder weapon. To feel it in his hands. It had been fired into the water bath and tested, examined for prints and DNA, so, he figured, he was safe. So he was back at evidence, bullshitting with Neville Dash, wishing him a “Merry Christmas,” and finally holding the Glock that had been used to murder Willow Valente. He had to be careful, because of the cameras. As it was, there were going to be questions, but he didn’t worry about the consequences of what he was doing; he’d deal with all that afterward.

He held the pistol.

Tested its weight.

Closed his fingers over the butt and placed his index finger on the trigger.

With a jolt, the gun nearly flew from his hand, the recoil unexpected. The images in his brain scurried like cockroaches skittering away from light. But he caught sight of a hunter tracking Willow down, seeing her as wounded prey because of her limp, following her to her room, and waiting outside, anticipating, having difficulty tamping down the excitement of the kill.

I’m going to get you, and I’m going to do it with the gun you took from him, you little bitch. Just see how you like it.

Rivers felt the tingle of the killer’s excitement.

Using the pre-made key, one that had been stolen from Willow’s purse weeks earlier, the killer entered, spying the flickering television and the pathetic little bed, the pink, girlish pajamas with all the French symbols—as if she would ever go to Paris—and that stupid long black braid. Ugh.

You’ll never have him, and you won’t be able to talk even though I know you’re suspicious. You saw us exchanging the car, even though I was in the wig and the fat suit. You watched, and you suspect there is more than one Sophia, so, Willow, you little freak, “a-fucking-dieu.”

Again the recoil, and this time, he caught sight of a gloved hand wrapping Willow’s fingers around the gun as blood oozed from the little hole at her temple. Then the single thought that there was still someone standing in the killer’s way, someone who had to be dealt with.

The sister . . .

* * *