Dr. Samir Basara didn’t pack a bag, only took time enough to empty his safe before he closed the door to his penthouse on Wyverly Place and walked to the private garage off Bond Street to fetch the nondescript beige Fiat he kept there under the name of a man who didn’t exist.

ALCOTT COMPOUND

PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Late Monday morning

Savich’s Porsche purred to a stop directly in front of the Alcott main house. He sat a moment, marveling at the peaceful setting, the three houses set in the middle of nature, vibrant and green, the scents of grass and flowers everywhere. Hard to believe a monster lived in that house.

There was no sign of the Alcotts, but Savich knew they were inside, waiting for them. He’d called earlier, made it an order that they would meet while the children were still in school. He wondered what they were saying to one another, what they were thinking. One thing for sure, they had no idea what he had planned for them.

He turned to Griffin. “You ready?”

“Oh, yes. Let’s do it.”

They’d stepped onto the porch when the ornate front door opened and Deliah Alcott appeared. She was wearing her usual, a long flowing skirt and sandals on her long, narrow feet, a white blouse tucked into the skirt. She wore no makeup, and today she looked pale. Was she afraid? He hoped so.

She looked from him to Griffin, stepped back. “Everyone made the effort to be here, as you ordered. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish by disrupting our lives again.”

They stepped into a living room filled with Alcotts. Brakey stood in his favorite post near the fireplace, his head cocked to one side, looking at them with—was it hope?

Jonah was standing by the window, no doubt watching them as they drove up. He followed their every move, wary about what kind of ax would fall, but certain it would fall.

Liggert looked at them with frank loathing, his stance aggressive, and Savich couldn’t see a spark of fear in his eyes, only the threat of violence, barely leashed.

Savich turned at the sound of the clack-clack of knitting needles, loud in the stark silence. Ms. Louisa appeared to be humming softly as she knitted what looked like the same scarf Savich had seen when he’d first met her, paying them no attention. She clamped her false teeth together when she dropped a stitch and frowned over at them. “Our honored lawmen are here to protect us? Or are you two here to string someone up by his heels? Believe me, they’ve all been jabbering on about it. As for Morgana, I think she’s afraid to know. I don’t suppose you’ve found out who made our poor Brakey stick that Athame into Deputy Lewis’s chest?”

Brakey took in those words and looked like he was ready to faint.

Savich looked at each of them again. It was a face-off, all of them standing stiff and silent, looking back at him and Griffin. He said, “We’ve asked you here today because we know why Stefan Dalco wanted Sparky Carroll murdered and in such a spectacular way. Some of you already know Sparky’s murder was revenge because Sparky struck and killed Arthur Alcott six months ago.”

Brakey blinked, started forward. “Sparky killed Dad? But that’s crazy, Agent Savich! Sparky knew my dad all his life, spent lots of time here. Dad played football with him. He really liked my dad.”

Savich nodded. “He didn’t mean to, Brakey, it was an accident. He struck your father and then he didn’t know what to do. Like you, Brakey, Sparky panicked. He drove away, too afraid to say anything. Except to his father.”

He studied each of their faces. “Then Sparky made a bad decision. He went to see his lifelong friend Walter Givens to fix the dented bumper on his Mustang and Walter put it together and called Deputy Lewis.” He paused, nodded to Griffin.

Griffin said, “Everyone in Plackett knew Deputy Lewis liked to drink. One of his best friends was Milt Carroll, Sparky’s dad. After Walter told Deputy Lewis about the damage to Sparky’s prized Mustang, we believe Milt Carroll begged Deputy Lewis to protect his boy. It was an accident, after all— Mr. Alcott had wandered into the road. Sparky couldn’t avoid hitting him. It wouldn’t be justice to ruin his son’s life because of an accident. So Deputy Lewis became complicit in Mr. Alcott’s death.”

Liggert said, “It wasn’t like that! The little sod was drunk and he was driving and he hit my dad!”

Savich said, “We’ll never know now one way or the other since Sparky’s dead. In any case, Deputy Lewis buried the information Walter Givens gave him about the dent in Sparky’s Mustang. He called Walter back, told him to forget about it, that it wasn’t Sparky.