A shadow crossed her face as she set the framed photo back on the shelf.

“Is this the way the apartment usually was—how she kept it?”

“Yeah, probably. I’ve only been here a couple of times, and Megan isn’t the neatest person on the planet.”

“So you don’t see anything unusual?”

Stepping through a small dining area to the kitchen alcove, she said, “No, but I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

“Who would be?”

A pause as she eyed a small, drooping poinsettia on the windowsill. “James, I guess. James Cahill.” She flicked him a glance, grabbed a glass from the sink, and poured a little water into the soil of the potted plant.

“You know him?”

Another beat. “We’ve met.”

“And?”

“And he’s the reason she was so upset and driving to my house.” Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “And if you believe what you read in the papers, he was the last person to see her alive—to see her.” She cleared her throat. “She told me that they’d had a horrid fight and that she was coming to stay with me. She didn’t show up, and I came over here, found out that James was in the hospital with injuries from some kind of altercation, which just confirms what Megan told me.” She drew a breath. “He did something to her,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I just know it.”

“How?”

“Because of what she said. Because she was so upset on the phone.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“God, I don’t know! I wish I did. Isn’t that your job?”

“It is.”

“Then find her.”

“We will.”

“Good,” she said and headed for the bedroom.

Rivers turned to follow her, but stopped when he saw, through the open doorway, the manager of the apartments hurrying across the parking lot. Emma-Mae Frost, pushing seventy, umbrella in one gloved hand, pistol in the other.

Uh-oh.

“What in God’s good name is going on in here?” Emma-Mae demanded, her face red with the cold. In the light, he saw she was wearing red pajamas beneath a knee-length puffy coat with a hood, her feet covered in furry-topped ankle boots.

“Detective Rivers. You remember me.”

“I do,” she declared. “How’d you get in?”

“Put down the gun,” he suggested carefully, though Emma-Mae had already let her hand fall to her side and was no longer pointing the weapon at him.

Rebecca stepped out of the bedroom. “Oh, whoa!” Her eyes rounded as she stared at the pistol.

“Put the gun on the table,” Rivers said.

“Who’re you?” Emma-Mae demanded, her hood falling backward to show a cap of mussed curls.

“I’m Megan’s sister.”

“Be careful with that,” Rivers said.