In the dark of the night, with snow everywhere, she imagined she saw a figure hiding behind a tree or lurking just on the other side of an outbuilding, but no one appeared, and she told herself she was just letting her nerves get to her. Despite all her mental berating, her heart was beating crazily, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Just keep going!

She plowed forward and wondered if anyone would spot her vehicle, hidden within the crowded parking lot at the hotel. If someone checked license plates against those guests registered . . .

Don’t think about that. You’ll be fine. This shouldn’t take too long. Just in and out.

She picked up her pace, her own doubts chasing her through the night. This was probably a wild goose chase, but she had to do something.

James was a liar. And worse.

But a murderer?

That seemed a little—well, make it a lot—far-fetched. But who knew? At the clearing where vehicles were usually parked, she cut to the back gate and, following a previously broken path, made her way to the woodshed, out through the dark, dusty-smelling room and to the attached back porch. It was long and broad, with several doors opening off it to what, Megan had told her, were an old root cellar and oversized closet, past a laundry area to the back door. She tried it, but the knob wouldn’t turn in her gloved hands. She’d expected as much and, praying that James’s dog wasn’t on the premises, leaned over and let herself into the kitchen by crawling through the large dog door cut into the lower panels. It was a tight fit, but not impossible, and she squeezed through without too much difficulty. Once standing, she didn’t move—and strained to listen.

She heard the hum of the refrigerator over the rumble of air being forced through old heating ducts, but no click of toenails on hardwood, no low growl from the darkened rooms.

No dog.

Good.

She let out her breath, but her heart was pounding, and that stupid little voice in her head was screaming: What the hell do you think you’re doing? Slowly, using the flashlight app on her phone, she picked her way through the rooms, sweeping the bluish beam over the mess.

When she’d left James at Valley General, he’d been determined to be released, so there was a chance he was already on his way back here. She didn’t have much time.

What she expected to find at his home she didn’t know, but she couldn’t just wait around for James Cahill to “regain his memory” or the police to turn up anything on Megan. Time was ticking away, and her sister—make that her reckless sister—was in trouble. Rebecca was sure of it.

Did she really think James had harmed Megan?