Another sharp bark, and she nearly bolted toward the attic again.

Then she heard the doorbell.

* * *

Through the living room window, James saw the headlights of a vehicle as it approached, rounding the final curve of the lane.

Now what?

Behind him, Bobby and Ralph were hurrying down the stairs.

A van pulled up outside, parking near Bobby’s pickup, and a woman in a long gray coat and red hat stepped out and started trudging across the lawn. She was wearing knee-high boots and didn’t seem to care about stepping through the deep snow to the front porch.

By the time she rang the bell, Ralph had given a warning bark, and James was already at the door.

James opened the door, and the woman under the porch light smiled up at him.

“Hi!” she said. “I’m Charity Spritz with the Clarion, and I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened here and about Megan Travers.”

“No.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“I said, ‘No,’ ” he repeated and didn’t bother hiding his irritation. Ralph was going bananas again, and he said sharply, “No! Ralph. Sit!”

The shepherd did, ears cocked, eyes focused on James.

Bobby asked, “What’s this?”

“I’m Charity Spritz,” she said quickly. “With the Clarion.”

“I’ve seen you on TV,” Bobby said with a sharp nod of his head.

“Yes. Right. Once in a while I do a spot for KPTD. I just want to ask Mr. Cahill and . . . and you too, some questions. You are?”

Beside him, Bobby straightened to all of his five feet, nine inches. “Robert Knowlton. I’m the ranch manager.”

“So you were the person who found Mr. Cahill, last Thursday night? Here,” she said, motioning toward the interior of the house.

“That’s right,” Bobby said with a quick grin.

“Enough!” James cut in. He’d had it with people and their interest in his life. He didn’t want to talk to the police, or Megan’s sister, or Sophia, and especially anyone from the press. His head ached, his shoulder was throbbing, and he hadn’t showered or cleaned up in what seemed like forever. “Please, just leave.”

“But I only have a few questions.”

“I’m sorry.” He really wasn’t.

“But I’d like to write your side of the story.”

“My side?” That sounded bad. “There are no sides.”

“Of course,” she said with a smile, though she was craning her neck to peer around him and view the interior of the house, his house. “What I meant was, I’d like to publish the truth.”

“Talk to the police.”

“Again, I’d like to hear what you have to say.” She seemed so earnest, her eyes beseeching his. “I went to the hospital but was turned away.”

“Look, Ms. Spritz. I just got home, and tonight isn’t a good time.”

“Tomorrow then?” She seized on the idea.

“No.”