“A friend of a friend’s estate when the owner died suddenly.” Sophia understood; the paperwork was tangled up in red tape that was yet to be untangled. “And this land?”

Julia actually smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Well, that’s kind of cool, really. This is all part of James Cahill’s property. He bought it years ago, for expansion. But no one ever comes up here. I had the house brought up here on the sly, with a little help from Gus way back in September before the snows, and . . . I thought it was ironic that it was a tiny house James’s company had constructed and he didn’t even know I bought it and had it hauled onto his own damned land, property he never visits and won’t use for years, I figure. It all seemed fitting somehow.” She appeared pleased with herself, as if she thought she was oh, so clever.

“So Megan’s inside?” Sophia asked, eyeing the place skeptically and walking toward the door, Julia just a step behind.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“Locked inside?”

“Well, of course. Until she comes around . . . I can’t let her out. It would spoil everything.”

“If she comes around.” Sophia was shaking her head. This wasn’t right. And the women who had died, been murdered? “We can’t do this. Julia, really, we can’t lock someone up. I don’t know what I was thinking . . .”

“The same thing I was: about the money.”

The tone of her voice stopped Sophia short. It sounded as cold as this blustery December day.

“Yes, but I was wrong. We both were. We have to find a way to get out of this. We have to work with Megan, explain that we made a mistake, convince her to understand and—”

She felt it then. Something hard against the back of her neck. In an instant she knew. Julia had a gun, the barrel pressed against her nape. Oh, God, no—She swung and started to spin, but it was too late.

The next second, her life swam before her eyes.

* * *

Once they caught up with him, Bruce Porter rolled over like a dead fish. He’d been out of town, visiting his sick brother, he claimed, but was back for the holidays, and the thought of going to prison again was enough to get him talking.

“Look, I don’t want no trouble,” he said as Mendoza and Rivers stood on the front porch of the little bungalow he shared with Andie Jeffries. In stocking feet, he stood on the other side of the screen door, wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap. A television was rumbling in the background. “For God’s sake, we’re supposed to go to Andie’s folks’ house in an hour.”

“Just tell us what you know about Gus.”