Emily spun back to the door and yanked it open, the bell on the inner handle clanging loudly. Inside three women stared at her, their mouths slightly open. They hovered at the window, where they’d enjoyed a view of the altercation. The door swung shut behind Emily, and she silently groaned as she met their eyes.

Anita was the first to recover, strolling back to her salon chair as she spoke. “I see that snippy reporter has you in her sights again.” She waved her scissors so her client in the black nylon cape would sit back down. “Stay away from her, Emily. One time she wanted an interview about the shop, but it turned out she was fishing for information about one of my clients. I don’t gossip,” she said firmly as she combed and snipped at the wet head of her client, who nodded in affirmation.

Emily disagreed with her gossip claim.

“That girl has had it in for your family for years,” Anita said, making eye contact with Emily in the mirror. “What’s she after this time?”

“Just the usual.” Unless Emily wanted her words spread across town, she knew to keep them to herself in the salon. She sucked in a breath and frowned as she studied the faces, remembering why she’d come. “I thought my aunt Dory had an appointment right now.”

“She canceled. Not feeling well, the poor thing.”

Just the usual.

One day Dory would acknowledge that she’d rarely been sick in her life—except for that time she had food poisoning. If her hypochondriac aunt would put the energy she burned worrying about her health into something else, she could change the world.

“Thanks, Anita. I’ll catch her at home.” Emily stepped back outside into the cool air, thankful to see that Leann had left. Remnants of irritation vibrated under her skin.

Why do I let Leann get to me?

Since yesterday morning, Emily had been off-balance, caught up in a whirlwind of fresh and old painful memories. She felt as bleak as the coastal weather. Gray. Unstable. Cold.

Abandoned.

Tara and her parents now haunted her thoughts in a way they hadn’t for years. She’d experienced nearly thirty-six hours of distressing events. Emily pressed her fingers over her eyes, trying to erase the images of her father that kept attacking her brain.

Her life had veered down a difficult road since the night he’d died. She’d dreamed of leaving town for college, marrying the perfect man, having 2.5 kids, and enjoying a wonderful career. Instead her life was money issues. Family issues. Ex-husband issues. Madison issues.

Maybe she should have escaped, like Tara.

Does she know our mother committed suicide?

Would her mother be alive if Tara had stayed and told what she’d seen?

Zander wanted to send the sheriff home. The strain of the last two days showed in Greer’s face, and his movements had slowed considerably. Instead the two of them were finally on their way to the Osburne brothers’ house. The sheriff could offer valuable insight into the interview, and the brothers might be more open to a familiar face—even if the sheriff had arrested them a few times—than an unfamiliar FBI agent.

They left Ava behind at the Copeland home to keep an eye on the crime scene team. The Copeland parents had called the sheriff as he and Zander were getting ready to leave. Seeing Greer’s face as he read the name on his phone screen had made Zander thankful that notifying the parents wasn’t his job. The sheriff had stepped into the backyard to deliver the news.

His eyes and nose were red when he returned.

The sheriff’s vehicle took a sharp turn off the highway. If he hadn’t been following someone, Zander would never have spotted the driveway. A beat-up line of mailboxes was the only indicator that homes were somewhere down the rocky road. Water splashed against the undercarriage as his vehicle bounced through deep puddles. He passed a faded sign: ROAMER’S REST. Up ahead he spotted several manufactured homes in an uneven row.

A bright-turquoise house made him wonder if the owner had gotten a good price on the paint or if, possibly, their cataracts had softened the true intensity of the shade.

Maybe they simply liked the color.

The other homes were browns and grays, blending into the landscape subdued by the mist. It was as if a cloud had nestled into the valley with the small manufactured home park. Zander scanned the tall firs surrounding the homes, wondering what quirk of nature concentrated the heavy mist in the area.

The sheriff parked and Zander pulled in alongside him. Stepping out of his vehicle, Greer pointed at the turquoise home, indicating their target. “Believe it or not, they’re easygoing boys,” the sheriff told him. “Not very quick to react. I don’t expect any trouble.”

Unless they’ve been drinking.

“We don’t need backup?” Zander asked.

“We’re just talking. They’ll be fine.”

Zander checked the far side of the home and then stood back on the gravel drive as the sheriff took the few steps to a small wooden porch along a long side of the home. “I don’t see another door,” Zander said quietly.

“Nope. They built an addition that eliminated the other exit.”

“That can’t be up to code.”

“It’s not.” Greer looked at Zander and shrugged. “They’re aware. Not much else I can do.”

The sheriff slid his flashlight out of his utility belt, stepped to the side of the door, and rapped it on the wood frame.

“Billy? Kyle? You home? It’s Sheriff Greer. I have some questions about the bar fight the other night.”

Zander watched the windows and spotted a flutter of curtains at the closest one. He’d unzipped his jacket but left his weapon holstered, same as the sheriff, hoping Greer was right about the best way to approach the brothers.

The door opened. A man in his forties wearing faded jeans stepped out. A red flannel shirt with its sleeves rolled up revealed parts of several tattoos. His hair was a little too long, but he was clean shaven. He swaggered, the air of a brawler hovering around him. He spotted Zander and gave a hard stare, staking his territory.

Amused, Zander kept his gaze relaxed and nonchalant.

“Your brother home, Kyle?” asked Greer.

“He’s workin’.”

“Where’s he working these days?”

“Auto parts store.”

“In Warrenton?”

“Yep. Been there three months.”

Zander pulled out his phone and sent a text to Ava, requesting one of the deputies at the Copeland scene go to the auto parts store to keep Billy Osburne in sight and to follow if Billy left the store. Ava responded with a thumbs-up.

“Good for him. How about yourself?”

“Still lookin’.” Defensiveness rose in his tone.

“Something will turn up,” the sheriff said. “You know the bar fight I’m talking about at Patrick’s the night before last, right?”

“Yep.” Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets. “Everyone walked away. No big deal.”

“It was Billy, right? You watched and then pulled him off?”

“That’s right. Wasn’t more than fifteen seconds. The dude was back to drinking his beer at the bar before we left.”

“That’s what Paul told us too.”

Kyle took in Zander again, looking him over from head to toe. “Who’s he?”

“He’s from Portland. Helping us with a case. How well do you know Sean Fitch?” Greer asked, pulling Kyle’s attention back.

“Don’t know him at all. Never talked to him, but I’ve seen him around. Not many black guys in town. He sticks out, you know?” Kyle grinned, apparently in the belief that he was amusing.

“What about Billy? How well does he know Sean?”

Kyle glanced over at Zander. “You’d have to ask Billy.”

“He knew him well enough to start a fight,” Greer said casually.

“Sean started it,” Kyle firmly stated.

Zander watched the man’s body language. Kyle was tightly strung, moving from having his hands in his pockets to crossing his arms across his chest and then back. Zander studied his knuckles and hands, searching for bruising or abrasions. He saw none. Kyle’s eye contact with the sheriff was pretty good, but he was frequently distracted by Zander and kept glancing his way.

None of his movements were unusual for a man being questioned by the police. Guilty or not.

Kyle hadn’t said a word about Sean’s death.

Does he know?

“Why did Sean take a swing at Billy?” asked the sheriff. “He pissed about something?”

Kyle rubbed his chin. “He and Billy have an ongoing thing. You’ll need to talk to Billy about that.” His gaze narrowed on the sheriff, and his tone hardened. “What’s Sean saying? That Billy started it? That’s a bunch of bull.”

Zander froze, scouring every subtle clue in Kyle’s tone, face, and body language.

If Kyle was lying, he was damned good.

The sheriff didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. We’ll talk to Billy next. What time’s he done with work?”

“He’s off at five.”

Just another hour or so.

“Why don’t you give me a heads-up on what this thing is between Billy and Sean.”

Kyle twisted his lips to one side, his focus on his feet as he considered. He finally looked up. “You didn’t hear it from me.”