N E X T

H O U S E

(A Meg Thorne Mystery—Book 2)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SERIES BY KATE BOLD

MEG THORNE

HEATHER KING

BRYNN JUSTICE

BETH DRAKE

MAGGIE FLIGHT

ADDISON SHINE

BARREN PINES

NINA VEIL

NORA PRICE

KELSEY HAWK

ALEXA CHASE

ASHLEY HOPE

CAMILLE GRACE

HARLEY COLE

KAYLIE BROOKS

EVE HOPE

DYLAN FIRST

LAUREN LAMB

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

PROLOGUE

The footsteps were closing in.

With her blood pounding in her veins, holding her breath because she didn’t want the slightest sound to escape her mouth, Victoria Hammond listened to their inexorable approach.

She was wedged into the big, white-painted wardrobe in her dressing room. It was where she kept her most expensive ballgowns; each one zipped up in its own garment bag.

The faint traces of perfume lingered inside the wardrobe. Its complex, spicy aroma was a reminder that she sometimes tried on a few dresses when preparing for a big event, discarding them impatiently if she didn’t like the look, her perfume left clinging to the fabric.

Now, all she was thinking was that these garment bags were noisy, and they rustled whenever they were touched or moved, and that here, in the wardrobe, her legs were shaking.

She couldn't help but be terrified by her own reaction.

Just be still! Be still, Victoria exhorted herself, in a state of disbelief that she’d landed in this nightmare.

She couldn’t believe how fast and suddenly it had happened.

Just five minutes ago, while getting ready for bed in her large upstairs bedroom, she’d heard a sound outside. Perched on the dressing table’s padded antique stool, she’d been taking off her diamond earrings, with her silk dressing gown wrapped around her. She’d still been feeling lightheaded from the fourth glass of French champagne she’d consumed while out with the girls earlier that evening, at an upscale restaurant in downtown Boston.

Her husband, Doug, was away for two nights on a business trip to New York, so this was the perfect chance for her to socialize without him. She'd gotten a limo back home and been dropped off an hour ago. The house had been quiet and still when she'd walked in. The only sound was the ticking of the clock in the living room. She'd smelled the fresh scent of the flower arrangement in the entrance hall – the weekly flowers were always delivered on a Friday, ready for the weekend.

Then she'd had a bath and removed her make-up, doing a couple of light stretches in lieu of her usual evening yoga.

As she’d placed the second of her glittering earrings in the velvet box, she’d heard a noise from downstairs that had alerted her.

A sudden, smashing noise.

At first, she’d hesitated, feeling paralyzed by disbelief, because obviously her own home couldn’t be getting broken into. Could it?

Then the smashing noise came again, as if someone was bashing at the glass panel next to the front door.

Nonsense, she’d told herself, frozen in place at the dressing table, but unable to stop herself from feeling the first surge of fright.

Although her bedroom suite was a long way from the front door, she’d been able to hear another sound – what she clearly thought was the door unlocking.

Even though adrenaline had been surging inside her, she’d been able to cling to a sense of calmness as she’d gotten up and headed over to the discreet panic button on the wall by the bed. She had pressed it, knowing that it activated the alarm system, and that when it did, this intruder would most likely run from the blaring sirens, and the police would arrive.

Only there was nothing. Nothing – just silence.

She’d gasped in shock, because somehow, the alarm system wasn’t working. It had been supposed to activate, and it hadn’t, and now, she was all alone up here.

The police! She needed to call the police!

But it was too late. There wasn’t time to call them and there wasn’t time for them to come, because whoever this was, they were already in the house.

She’d jumped up, fear engulfing her as she realized how flimsy and how fragile her safety really was.

Footsteps thudded down the tiled corridor. Someone was approaching the bedroom, fast.

Panicked, she rushed to the dressing room, hoping that there would be a lock on the door. There wasn’t. Stupid choice. She should have chosen the bathroom. Now she was trapped.

Now, all she could do was to huddle in the wardrobe, trying to be utterly quiet, praying to any and every god that might be listening, to spare her.

Why had this happened? Why her?

So many questions, rampaging through her mind, but the only answer was not to think at all. Just focus on staying quiet, quiet, quiet.

Her heart banging, her long nails cutting into her palms, she listened as the footsteps reached her bedroom.

Whoever this was, they were inside, and horror was now doing its own job of turning her to stone as she listened to the feet tread across the room.

A soft, singsong voice – little more than a breath, uttering taunting words.

“Victoria. Where are you?”

Be still, be still.

The footsteps came closer. The voice again, in a soft tone, whispering as if this was the little secret that both of them shared.

“Victoria.”

Was that voice familiar? Even above her fear, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d heard it before.

She heard the faint squeak of the dressing room door hinges.

Black spots were swimming in front of her eyes, because she felt so lightheaded and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t allow any air into her lungs because it might make a noise. For her own survival, she knew what she had to do – and what she must not do.

The footsteps stopped.

Were they retreating? She heard the squeak of the door again and wondered if she might be safe at last. She let out the breath she'd been holding in with her burning lungs and with her lips pinched shut by her teeth.

And then, a sudden sound – close and sharp. The wardrobe door was yanked open and a rough hand dragged her out, as a scream erupted from her throat.

The black clad figure twisted her around. She felt the sudden, burning jab of a needle in her arm. Again, she tried to scream and to struggle, but the world was starting to gray out and swim, and she didn’t know where her arms were anymore.

The scream telescoped down into the faintest of mewls.

And then, darkness rushed in, and she knew no more.

CHAPTER ONE

Really?

After getting three-quarters of the way up the steepest hill in Boston – at any rate, it felt like it – this was her reward?

Feet flailing, Meg Thorne managed to extricate her feet from the pedal clamps just in time to stamp her cycling shoe down on the sidewalk, before her bicycle fell over.

As she’d toiled up the hill, giving it everything she had, her bike’s chain had come off. That had immediately erased her hard-won forward motion, and also, her balance.

“That was rude,” Meg gasped breathlessly. “Don’t think I’ve ever had anything ruder happen in my life.”

She couldn’t help a snort of laughter, though, at what a sight she must have been, teetering on the spot as she battled to save herself.

Cycling was by far the worst of the torturous trio that comprised a triathlon. And thanks to her reckless bet with her ex-investigation partner, she was now aiming for her first ever triathlon event, in preparation for doing an Ironman, so she was living in a tortured world.

At the age of fifty-four?

Really, Meg, she chastised herself, knowing how Detective Gabriel Reeves would be chuckling if he could see her now.

Preparing for the sticky, oily experience this would be, Meg grasped the chain and began easing it back into the cogs. On the road, a car swished past, but thanks to the earliness of the hour, there wasn’t too much traffic around.

There. She’d gotten the chain back into the cogs. Meg mounted up her bike again and rode a few yards downhill, just to make sure things were working correctly before she committed herself to actually pressing down hard on the pedals again.

This time, it seemed that all was good.

Now, to get the rest of her ride under her belt. The twenty-mile route was hillier than anything she'd done before. Meg was lucky that she hadn't put on much middle-aged weight over the years, but strength and muscle were proving more difficult to build than they had done twenty years ago.

Too bad. A bet was a bet, and at least this was giving her an activity to pursue in her new life outside of policing.

Three weeks ago, she’d resigned from the police department where she’d spent nearly thirty years of her career, most of it as a homicide detective. Meg had walked out with a few of the cold case files photocopied – including the one that sent a lance into her heart whenever she thought of it – the murder file of her husband, James.

She’d intended to use her time solving these cold cases, but so far, she hadn’t had any success. She’d focused on one or two cases, followed one or two leads, and she’d gotten the courage to at least read through her husband’s file.

That had been painful. She’d known it would be, but even so, the amount of sheer physical anguish she’d felt had surprised her. It had taken her all the way back to the time when the police had come into the back office at her work – Gabe, her partner, and Whitaker, aka Ferret-face, the boss she’d never liked.

Her husband’s body had just been found, stabbed, in his car, in the basement parking behind a convenience store where she guessed he’d stopped off to pick up some lunch.

She and Naomi – James’s daughter and her stepdaughter, who had been nineteen and in her first year of college – had been devastated, but instead of bringing them closer, the trauma had driven them apart.

Now, Naomi was in Hong Kong on a work contract, but she’d recently gotten in touch with Meg again for a few chats.

Perhaps having her stepdaughter reach out to her was what was now encouraging Meg to do the same with her own mother. They'd spent more time together recently. In fact, as soon as she'd finished the bike ride, that was where she was going. Last night, her mother had called, asking if Meg could visit urgently this morning. She'd sounded stressed. Meg hoped nothing was wrong.

***

An hour later, she tapped on the door of the mansion, set on the edge of a river a couple of miles outside central Boston.

It was quiet here. The birds were twittering in a nearby oak tree. The spacious grounds were dotted with bright flower beds, and from somewhere behind the large house, Meg heard the clack-clack of garden shears at work, as one of the many hedges was immaculately trimmed.

The place held a lot of memories since she'd grown up here. It was a shame that most of her memories were of fighting against her parents' authority.

The weight of their expectations had settled on her shoulders, and in typical Meg style, she’d wrestled them away and fought them off, insisting on going to college, and then, getting a job with the police. She’d felt as if she needed to do something to improve the circumstances of people who weren’t wealthy and privileged.

The door opened, and Meg found herself face to face with a young housemaid. With her dark hair neatly pinned back, she was wearing the preferred uniform of the household – navy and white. That hadn’t changed since Meg’s childhood, although there had been several housemaids and a few au pairs. She didn’t recognize this maid, although she obviously recognized Meg, and had been told she was coming..

“Good morning, Mrs. Thorne,” she said in polite tones.

“Meg. Please, call me Meg. Who are you?” she asked, as the maid politely stood aside for her to enter.

“I’m Miriam,” the maid said, in a surprised voice, as if first-name terms were unusual for her right now.

“Miriam, it’s good to meet you.” Determinedly, Meg tried her best to show the surprised housemaid that she was, in fact, an equal, and not an inferior.

One of the things that had infuriated Meg about her parents, as soon as she was old enough to figure it out for herself, was the way that people with money treated servants so differently. They even spoke to them in a different tone.

Now, Meg needed to find out more about the reasons for the urgent visit.

“Is my mother okay?” she asked in a low voice, knowing that the version she got from her mother herself might be different.

"She had a bad night, I believe. She's very worried and anxious over something she heard about yesterday. She was even discussing whether she should see her doctor to get some calming medication." The maid's voice dropped. "But she asked me not to tell you. She doesn't want you worried, too."

“I won’t mention you said anything,” Meg said.

Miriam showed Meg through the giant entrance hall, with its oil paintings lining the walls, and into the living room, which was also oversized for the number of people that lived in the house. The antique furniture hadn’t changed since Meg was a kid. Everything was the same – except for the one wooden table that she’d broken while playing horses with her friends. That had been replaced by a nearly identical table, which her mother had never stopped frowning at since it happened.

The expansive view of the back lawn and the river beyond changed with the seasons. Right now, it was lush and green.

Her mother was sitting on the couch, wearing cream pants, a turquoise silk top, and with her hair perfectly coiffed into a blue-white halo. She didn’t look her seventy-seven years, but somehow timeless, like a monarch ruling over her realm.

“Morning, Mom,” she said.

“Welcome, Meg,” her mother said. An ivory cane at her side assisted her as she got to her feet. Meg walked forward and they embraced.

“Sit down. Sit.” She turned to the housemaid. “You can bring the tea now,” she said, her tone imperious, making Meg want to roll her eyes in exasperation all over again.

“So, Meg, how have you been?” Formalities first, always, even when the visit was urgent.

“I’ve been well, thanks. I don’t know if I told you I resigned from the police?”

“Yes.” There was a definite note of approval in her mother’s voice, even though she tempered it by saying, “I hope it wasn’t a difficult decision, because I know how you loved that job.”

“It had its ups and downs,” Meg agreed. “But it was time to leave.”

“I hope you’re going to be able to live more easily now,” her mother said. By that, Meg knew she was referring to the massive trust fund, and sizeable inheritance, that was sitting in Meg’s bank account.

It had been untouched for years, but recently, she had started dipping into it. Not for herself. She had money saved, for now. But for others. The case that had prompted her to leave the police had also made her aware of the plight of the least fortunate in Boston, and Meg was now working with Lisa Mendoza, a social worker, and making contributions toward the food, housing and upliftment of people who’d ended up on the street.

She’d contributed to charity regularly in the past, but she’d never gotten personally involved in helping individual people. Meg felt excited about the prospect.

Of course, her mother would be horrified to hear that she was supporting homeless people. She believed that they were all on the streets through their own failings, and had an inherent prejudice against them which Meg guessed was illogically rooted in fear. Meg was working on changing her mind about that, but it was a slow job. Prejudices died hard. She wasn’t giving up, though.

“I’m sure I’ll be comfortable, thanks,” Meg said. The housemaid brought in the tea tray, which must have been waiting, prepared, in the kitchen. The tray contained fine, bone china cups, a teapot, a bowl of sugar, a jug of cream, and a plate of golden-brown cookies dusted with sugar.

Literally, this same tray had been offered to guests when Meg was a kid. Just looking at it made her feel restless and rebellious all over again. There were reasons she didn't do family much anymore. Good reasons.

But she’d decided that she wasn’t going to allow herself to default back to the mindset of younger Meg. She was older Meg now. Her mother wasn’t going to live forever, and if there was going to be a time to repair their relationship, and to try to encourage her mother to think differently, that time was now.

And even though her mother was extremely wealthy, money couldn’t buy company, and Meg had realized that her mother was actually quite lonely.

“You sounded stressed when you called last night,” Meg said, judging that the formalities were now over once the tea had been poured and Miriam had left.

“A terrible thing happened yesterday,” her mother said, reaching for her cup. “I’m glad that I have you nearby, because I must admit, I’ve been feeling afraid, and wondering if I’ve got sufficient security here in this house.”

“Really?” Meg asked, frowning. “What happened?”

“It was a murder. Just over the hill, on Cedar Road. Do you remember the Hammond family?”

Meg shook her head. The name wasn’t familiar at all.

“Can’t say I do,” she admitted apologetically.

“Douglas Hammond remarried a few years ago, and his new wife, Victoria, is probably about thirty-five years old. I’ve met her a couple of times, and she’s lovely, kind, and very beautiful. Or rather, she was. He was away at a real estate convention over the weekend, and while he was away, someone broke in, and she was murdered.”

She saw her mother’s hands shaking, and realized how badly this violent crime, so close to home, had affected her.

“What happened?”

“It looks like a robbery gone wrong. She couldn’t have had time to sound the alarm. At any rate, I understand it didn’t go off, and she was stabbed to death.”

Meg caught her breath. A stabbing always triggered her, ever since James’s murder. And it was worrying that a violent robber, perhaps part of a gang, might be operating in this area. Cedar Road was only a couple of blocks away.

“That’s concerning,” she sympathized. “I’ll find out the details, and I’ll let you know when there’s progress. I’m sure that they’re working around the clock on it.”

“I hope they are.”

Her mother sounded scared, and Meg didn’t blame her. If a violent robber was targeting women on their own in the area, then her mother was at risk.

CHAPTER TWO

“So, how’s retirement treating you?”

Meg grinned at Gabe. Even though the reason for her meeting up urgently with her ex-partner was a troubling one, it was good to see him again. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d last met up with the big, solid, dark-haired man, whose cynical expression and hooded eyes concealed an impish sense of humor.

Now, sitting together in the coffee shop near the police station, she’d collared Gabe while on his lunch break. Of course, buying lunch had been included in the deal.

“It has its ups and downs,” she said. “You been missing me?”

Gabe nodded. "Yup. I can tell you now, things are going to hell in a handbasket. We can't find a replacement of your caliber. We're short-staffed, and there's been a surge in crime. Looks like we'll have to find a junior investigator, and then, at least I'll be able to train them my way." Taking his elbows off the table, which was normal size for two people but which Gabe seemed to dwarf, he raised his coffee cup. "Maybe I'll finally get a partner who doesn't go rogue on me."

“I hope you cope with the shock,” Meg teased, as Gabe snorted in mirth.

“I guess at least you can spend your time training for the triathlon now. That’s really why you quit, isn’t it? Because you couldn’t bear to lose a hundred dollar bet to me, and not complete an ironman within a year from May?”

“You’re right,” Meg said sarcastically. “But the training is going averagely, if you’re interested. I’m personally fascinated by the way none of the three phases are my strong suit. If only canoeing was included. That’s about the only water sport that I’m any good at. As for cycling, they can keep it.”

“You’re looking fitter,” Gabe said. “Not that you’ve ever looked unfit, but I can see you’re stronger now. So who knows? That might have been an expensive bet for me.” He gave her another look, affectionately taking her in. “Now, your hair. What’s with that?”

“I don’t have Whitaker telling me what to do anymore,” Meg said, patting down her locks which were now a bright red-violet in color. “So I went brighter.” It was high maintenance, but she didn’t care. Getting her roots refreshed every three weeks was one of the few luxuries Meg didn’t mind spoiling herself with.

"I see that," Gabe said. "Suits you. At least it'll help me keep track of where you are in the field during your first triathlon."

“There’s an easier way,” Meg advised him. “Just look for the person who’s last.”

Their food arrived, and they stopped talking while the waitress set the plates down. A double cheeseburger for Gabe, and a chicken salad for Meg.

She’d rather have had the cheeseburger, with fries on the side. That cycle this morning had given her an appetite. But for the sake of her future self, she was managing to have some discipline – today, at least.

“Seriously,” she said when the waitress had gone, “I wanted to ask you about a current murder case – the victim is Victoria Hammond. My mother mentioned it to me yesterday, when I went to visit her, and I looked it up, but couldn’t find many details in the news. I think it’s too soon for anything to be available – or else, there are details that aren’t being released. All I saw was that it was ‘shocking’, and that police think it was a botched robbery.”

Gabe nodded. “I spent the whole of yesterday at the scene,” he said. “Victoria’s husband flew back from New York. Poor man blamed himself for not having been there to stop this. It was hell.”

Meg could see it in his face. Gabe was a deeply empathetic person, even if he preferred for people to think he was tough and hard.

It was times like this that made Meg wish she was still there, fighting shoulder to shoulder with him, and it made her doubt the wisdom of her decision.

Then, she reminded herself that she’d stuck it out for nearly three decades, a lot of it under a toxic superior – Ferret-face – who’d disliked and resented her and done his best to make her life a misery.

“Was it a botched robbery?” she asked.

“I don’t know about botched,” Gabe said. “There were a couple of items taken, but I personally think that was more for show, because there were a lot more valuables still there. And the alarm system was disabled. We went and checked, because she had a panic button right by her bed, but the wires to the control panel downstairs were cut.”

“That’s worrying,” Meg said. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to get in – and then, it looks like murder was their main goal?”

“The body was posed,” Gabe said in a low voice.

“Posed, how?” Meg asked.

"She was lying on her back, with her left hand on her heart, fingers splayed. In a pool of blood because she'd been stabbed in the chest. Once, in the heart, by a sharp blade that wasn't at the scene," Gabe said, as Meg listened intently. "However, there was no sign of a struggle, and the coroner thinks she might have been sedated or knocked out beforehand. The postmortem will be done today, and then we'll know more."

Meg frowned. “You know, Gabe, this is reminding me of something. I didn’t make the connection until you mentioned the posing. But now, I remember a cold case where something similar happened.”

“One of the ones you photographed before you left?”

“Yes,” she said, knowing that she could trust Gabe with the information.

He speared a fry as he considered that. “Want to look it up?” he said. “This is going to be a doozy of a case for us, because the victim is one of the city’s wealthier residents, and that always means there’s going to be more media focus, more pressure.”

“You’re right about that,” Meg said. “I’ll look it up. It was a while ago, and I’d never have made the connection if I hadn’t recently read through those cases.”

“Who would have thought that your quitting might actually provide us with a lead?” Gabe mused.

Deciding not to wait until she got home, Meg moved her half-eaten chicken salad to the side of the table, and got her laptop from her bag. After nearly three decades of being a policewoman, most spent in crime investigation, Meg never traveled anywhere without it.

She opened it up and navigated to the folder where she'd arranged all the photographed documents from the cold case files.

Looking down the list, she read through the case names, which she’d filed in date order. Even the name was niggling at her mind. What had it been?

Date and name came to her simultaneously as she found the right entry in the file.

“Here it is. It’s Caroline Winthrop. That’s her name. And it was eight years ago.”

“A murder?” As Meg turned the laptop, Gabe peered at the screen.

“Yes. It was a murder.”

He shook his head. “Why don’t I remember it?”

Meg was also temporarily at a loss. She’d copied the pages of the case file mainly because it was the murder of a woman during a home invasion. It wasn’t one of the cases that she’d focused on yet, because – needing to start somewhere – she’d decided to begin in date order from the most recent one, and work back.

"It's because…" she said, looking down at the file, thoughtfully. The details were coming back to her now. Initially, the coroner had wondered if Caroline Winthrop had been lying on her back with her hand on her heart because she was trying to stem the flow of blood from the stab wound. Later, after spotting the needle mark in her arm, they realized she'd already been unconscious when she was stabbed.

That murder had gone unsolved, and Meg now remembered that her initial conclusion that the house robber might have grabbed Caroline – a beautiful, dark haired woman in her early thirties – sedated her in order to silence her during the robbery, and then in a cold-blooded moment, decided to stab her.

And then, recognition struck. “Gabe, look here. You wouldn’t remember it because it got linked to another case, just a few weeks earlier, and the FBI took over after ours was reported.”

The earlier incident had been in a more outlying area of Boston, and it hadn’t fallen under Meg’s jurisdiction, but the two cases had been linked. With sufficient similarities in the MO, they had been handed over to the FBI as potential serial crimes.

That was why the case hadn’t rung very many bells. It was because it hadn’t been theirs for very long. Now, Meg remembered how much she’d hoped the FBI would be able to make the connections and solve the crimes, but they’d clearly not succeeded, and the case had gone cold.

“We need information on the other case,” Meg said. “The first one, before Caroline Winthrop, a few weeks earlier.”

Gabe quirked an eyebrow. “So we’re in this together?”

“If you’re happy to have me in the background, then I’ll gladly work behind the scenes,” Meg said. “I don’t want to interfere with your case, and I definitely don’t want to alert Whitaker.”

“Better not do that,” Gabe rumbled in agreement.

“I do want to help solve this, for my mother’s sake. She’s frightened. And unfortunately, if this killer is targeting women on their own, then she’s at risk.”

Gabe nodded, the lines on each side of his mouth deepening as he considered that truth.

“If this killer was just targeting women on their own, you’d have thought he’d have claimed more victims by now,” he observed.

“That’s correct,” Meg agreed. “There has to be another reason why he’s choosing these women – and a common factor that we haven’t picked up yet.”

But with two cold cases and one current, Meg hoped that they’d now have more to work with.

“I’m going to get the details on the first case, and I’ll send them to you. If you’re asked about it, I never sent them,” Gabe said, with a glance at the restaurant’s door, as if looking out for watching eyes.

“And if you’re asked about it, I never received them,” Meg said.

CHAPTER THREE

Gabe was as good as his word. By the time Meg got back from their lunch, the details of the other cold case had pinged into her inbox.

With three cases to work with, she hoped that there would be some common factors emerging.

She headed up the path to her front door and opened it.

Heading straight through to the kitchen, she was treated to a disapproving gaze from Corrigan, her long-haired gray cat.

He’d belonged to her and James, who’d adored him like a second child, but since James’s murder, Corrigan had reluctantly accepted that Meg was his new person.

Now, he was lounging on the kitchen counter, a place where he wasn’t technically allowed to be. But, looking at it from the ‘always two sides’ standpoint, Meg acknowledged that technically, the kitchen counter was supposed to be a place where she did meal prep.

None of that had been happening since James had been murdered.

The old days of them working in the kitchen together, chatting and chopping and slicing and steaming after their days’ work, were gone, and now, Meg had gotten into the habit of having TV dinners.

She knew that since she wasn’t working for the police anymore, and didn’t have to be away from home for long hours at a time, she could cook for herself.

But she hadn’t achieved that yet. It felt like a big step, without James around. It would be better to simply carry on as she was – at least until her stash of TV dinners was finished. She still had about twenty left in her freezer.

She headed over to scratch Corrigan’s head, getting a purr for her efforts. When she tried to move her hand away, the cat reached out his big, hairy paws and captured her wrist with them, gently holding her in place without a hint of a claw.

“Oh, that’s very cute of you,” Meg said, feeling charmed, because he’d always done this to James.

She lingered a while, giving him a few extra head rubs, before moving away to look at the two older cases in search of parallels with the new one.

Reading through the documents, though, Meg couldn’t help feeling a sense of confusion. The MO was the same, without a doubt, as the Victoria Hammond case. Eight years ago, the first victim, Hazel Carlisle, and the second victim, Caroline Winthrop, had been murdered in identical ways. Hazel had been home alone, her husband away on business. They’d been posed with their left hands placed on their hearts after fatal stabbings. There had been no sign, in either case, of a struggle. Both had been sedated before their death. Jewelry was missing, but not a full scale robbery.

There was bruising surrounding the marks, which made Meg think that the killer must have gripped the victims’ arms for long enough for the sedative to take hold.

So, he or she – from the average sized finger marks, it could have been either – had placed a lot of emphasis on the actual murder.

The killer had broken in when he or she knew that the victims were going to be home alone. It would have been easy enough to break in when nobody was going to be home at all if jewelry theft alone had been the MO. But it clearly wasn't. There was a double motive.

What was the killer targeting these women for?

And more worryingly, how was he or she picking the victims?

Now, looking back, she saw that when she and Gabe had investigated the crime, they’d found nothing.

Meg remembered feeling stumped and frustrated by the lack of progress she’d made on the case during the short time it had been assigned to them. And when the FBI had taken over, she’d wished them the best of success with it.

Unfortunately, she and Gabe had received no positive progress reports on the case, which had gone cold. But now, Meg was wondering if there had been any other cases.

Why would there be two crimes, a few months apart, and then no other crimes for eight years?

What if there had been another one or two in the interim?

Out of interest, she looked up the MO of the crimes – ‘woman stabbed’ on a few search engines.

And when the results came in, Meg read through them carefully.

There hadn’t been any other stabbings in Boston. But a couple of years ago, there had been one further stabbing in a small town in the west of Massachusetts. Sara Planchet had been killed in the same way. The MO seemed to be identical. Reading the news report, and then researching further, Meg found that the Planchets had moved out of town after Bill Planchet, an oil and gas mogul, had remarried. They’d been living on a huge horse farm for a couple of years before the murder.

So, they had originally been Boston residents. Just not at the time of the murder.

Meg puzzled over this for a while, wondering if the FBI had linked this with the other crimes. Maybe not. It was a couple of years apart in terms of time, and it was also separated from the other cases by distance.

Although serial crimes were not Meg’s area of specialty, she knew that serial killers did have a cooling off period after they had committed their murders, and that this could last for weeks, months, or even many years.

Why was the killer choosing these women? They’d all been Boston residents originally. So far, the women’s wealth seemed to be a common factor.

Did someone have a grudge against wealthy society women?

Another thought: had the grudge been against the husbands, and the murder of their wives used to send a message?

As she toyed with that idea, turning it over in her mind while looking at news articles online, a notification jumped out at her.

“Family and Friends: The wake for Victoria Hammond will be held on Tuesday at 10 am, at the Riverside Methodist Church.”

That had just been published on Victoria’s social media, and Meg guessed that a family member might have hastily posted it, not realizing that it was reaching a wider audience than had probably been intended.

Friends and family might know more than they were telling.

She might be able to get some information at the wake.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dressed in a black pants suit, and with a dark hat covering her bright hair, Meg couldn’t help feeling like an imposter as she stood up, from a wooden pew near the back of the half-full church, and headed out with the rest of the mourners.

It was now four days after Victoria’s murder, and so far, there hadn’t been any leads on her killer.

The church was festooned with arrangements of white lilies, contrasting with the dark, somber clothing that the congregation wore.

Meg didn’t often attend the funerals of victims she’d been investigating. She had done it once or twice in the past, in her police capacity, for the same reasons she was here now – to gather more information.

Now, it brought the memory of James’s small funeral into her mind again, reminding her that the pain never really faded. Especially thanks to the lack of closure.

For now, though, Victoria’s murder was her priority.

As the mourners filed out of the church, they were speaking about the tragedy in low voices.

“Such a shame that robber is roaming the streets now,” one woman said bitterly.

“The police aren’t doing enough to control crime. It’s a real problem,” her partner grumbled in a soft voice, giving Meg a clear idea of where the friends and family believed the blame lay.

Meg greeted Victoria's husband and parents outside the church, giving her condolences without introducing herself. The salt-and-pepper-haired husband, with a tan that told Meg he'd probably done a lot of business on the golf course, looked shellshocked as he shook her hand in turn.

Then, she headed to the spacious church hall where a medley of tasty snacks was set out. There were cakes and tarts and perfect, crustless sandwiches and mini pies, as well as more sumptuous dishes – smoked salmon, caviar, beef and truffles. The crowd of mourners were already making their way to the tables.

Meg had never been able to eat after funerals. Instead, she headed over to the drinks table and got herself a glass of lemonade. With that in her hand, she circulated, moving through the crowds, picking up on people’s conversations. She had no idea who was who, apart from the immediate family members, but by watching their interactions with others, Meg picked up that there were a few close friends at the funeral.

“Oh, Donna, you’re here? Did you do the flowers, darling?” she heard someone say behind her. Without turning, Meg listened out to see if Donna, or the other speaker, would be a good source of information.

"I couldn't believe it when I got the call," Donna replied, her voice soft and husky. "It's the saddest occasion I've ever done flowers for. Victoria wasn't just a client, she was a friend. We'd see each other every week or so when I did her floral deliveries at home. If only I'd asked her to check her alarm last time we spoke. If only I'd known something was going to happen."

The pair's conversation was soon drowned out by two men who were talking in intense voices about how the murder might affect property prices in the area. Interesting, but also not what she was looking for.

Then, near the drinks table, Meg saw a woman who looked about the same age as Victoria, and had been in an intense conversation with the parents, squeezing their hands in sympathy.

When she turned away, Meg managed to get next to her.

“My mother knew Victoria, and I’m here on her behalf,” she said, giving a believable, if not precisely true, reason for her presence. “I’m Meg Thorne. Who are you?”

“I’m Jacky, and I was Victoria’s friend the whole way through school. We stayed in touch afterward and used to see each other at least twice a week.” She sighed, tugging at a strand of her perfectly highlighted hair.

“It’s terrible that she was murdered in this way, isn’t it?” Meg asked. “Do you think she was targeted purposely?”

"Of course she was," Jacky said, but just as Meg started wondering if this was going to represent a lead, Jacky continued angrily, "It's because she was wealthy. You know, there are so many problems in the city right now, and I think someone hooked on drugs did it. I'm sure they broke in and made sure they took exactly what they needed. The way they posed her? That was just to try to confuse everyone. These thieves – they're so desperate, so sophisticated, so violent. We're all at risk. I've stopped wearing my jewelry when I go out, in case that's how they're pinpointing people. Victoria always loved to wear her jewelry. It's a sad world we live in when we can't go out wearing beautiful things."

Another person who was convinced that this was an ordinary robbery. That meant that there hadn’t been anything going on in Victoria’s life that was a cause for alarm.

“Did you speak to her shortly before her death?” Meg asked.

“Just the day before,” Jacky said.

“And did she mention anything wrong, or if anyone unusual was lurking near the house?” Surely, Meg thought, a killer would have had to have cased out the house beforehand, especially if the alarm had been tampered with in a professional way.

Gabe had said that it had been purposely cut. The killer had gotten in by smashing a pane and then unlocking the front door by stretching their hand through the jagged gap.

Thinking about that, Meg realized it meant someone had prior knowledge of the house. They had been in before the night of the crime to cut the alarm wires. They’d seen how the front door had opened, and had known that if they smashed that glass, in that spot, they’d be able to get in.

Interestingly, the camera at the Hammonds’ front door had stopped working too.

According to the case file, the Hammonds had hosted Victoria’s birthday party the previous week – a large luncheon held at the mansion, with caterers and guests and entertainers all flocking in.

Maybe the camera and the alarm had been disabled at that time. The killer could have posed as a caterer, an entertainer, a delivery person – or else, Meg knew, he or she could have turned up under their own identity as a guest, and been someone that Victoria knew.

“Did the police speak to you?” she asked, wondering what Gabe would have made of Jacky.

Jacky nodded. “Yes, they did, yesterday. I wish I’d been able to help them more than I did, but like I told them, I know nothing. How I wish I did.”

“You were at the birthday lunch, weren’t you?” Meg then asked Jackie, hoping that she might get some insider information on that event.

“Yes. Seems like an age ago. How fast things can change,” Jackie said. “That was the most beautiful, special event, and it seems so shocking now, when I remember it, and think about everything that went so badly wrong afterward.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious there?” Meg asked. “Anyone who was acting strangely or who was where they weren’t supposed to be? Maybe someone was invited who you were surprised to see?”

“Actually, I was surprised that it was such a big event,” Jacky said. “Normally, they don’t have such big birthday parties, but I guess they felt it was the right time for one – it was their five-year wedding anniversary this year. So, there were a lot of people there, and I didn’t even know everyone there myself.”

Meg concluded from this that either the killer had been exceptionally lucky, or else this had been very carefully planned. At any rate, a big party the week before the murder widened the pool of suspects to check up on. Gabe was going to be run off his feet.

Meg reminded herself that it would only take one critical piece of information to change the landscape of this case.

Jacky got tapped on the arm by another well-dressed mourner, and turned away from Meg, who moved on through the room, listening out, trying to overhear any useful conversation, and if she did, waiting for the opportunity to move in and have a quiet chat to the people who could help.

But, as she headed for the corner of the room, she overheard something surprising.

A dark-haired woman in her early thirties was in conversation with a silver-haired man who'd been sitting in the front row of the church and must be a relative of Victoria's – an uncle, perhaps.

“Tell me,” the woman said, as Meg sidled closer, “did Victoria have any fights or arguments with anyone, that you know of, in the last couple of months?”

This was interesting, and Meg pricked up her ears, trying to check out the woman without her noticing.

That was the kind of question you’d ask if you were investigating a crime.

And since Meg didn’t recognize this woman as being part of the police or the local FBI team, she was curious to know what her purpose was.

CHAPTER FIVE

Meg lurked in the corner of the crowded room, growing even more curious as she realized that the dark-haired woman was deliberately lowering her voice as she spoke to Victoria's relative, turning away from Meg in a way that clearly meant she didn't want to be overheard.

Even though Meg was listening out as hard as she could, the dark-haired woman had lowered her voice to be almost inaudible, which, of course, encouraged her companion to lean closer and speak softer himself. That was a good tactic for holding a reasonably private conversation in a crowded room. But they couldn't talk forever, and Meg was waiting for the moment when the man would be called away to join another group, or someone else would come up to offer their condolences.

Her moment came after another short wait. A black-clad woman came rushing up and grabbed the man's arm with a few muttered words. He was whisked away, and for the first time, Meg got to see the dark-haired woman's face.

Tan skin, dark eyes, an intense expression that was accentuated by her high cheekbones and slim appearance. She was slightly shorter than Meg, rail-thin, and dressed in a black suit that looked more business than mourning.

She was giving Meg the same dubious look that Meg had given her.

Meg stepped closer.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” she said.

“Really?” The dark-haired woman’s eyes were filled with suspicion as she stared back at Meg. “Because I don’t remember speaking loud enough to be overheard, so I’m wondering why you felt the need to move so close that I could practically have rested my glass on your shoulder.”

She moved her empty crystal glass in Meg’s direction as if to prove her point.

“You’re here to find out information, right?” Meg asked.

“And what business is that of yours?” The woman was very defensive now. Meg considered why that might be.

Initially, Meg had wondered if she was a PI. But she thought a PI would be savvier in this situation. She’d dealt with many of them in the course of her career. They’d be circulating, working the room, and if they were questioned, they’d be sizing up Meg in turn, offering nonchalant answers while figuring out who she was.

So, her guess was that this woman wasn’t experienced in this particular type of work, but she did seem to be an experienced questioner. Meg hadn’t heard many of her actual words, but she’d admired her persistent tone, and the way she’d carefully cornered the man she wanted to speak with.

Had she seen her before? Now, looking at her, even in this different context, Meg thought she was familiar.

“Where do you work?” she asked.

“Me? Nowhere.” The dark-haired woman didn’t seem to like that question, and Meg thought she was becoming restless now. “I’ve got to go.”

But Meg stood in her way, hoping she could break through this panicked defensiveness.

“Maybe you can find a few minutes?” she asked politely.

“I’ve really got to go,” she said, now looking angry and embarrassed, as if she’d hoped that she wouldn’t be caught out, or singled out, but that hadn’t happened.

As she turned her head, there was something about the way she tilted it, the angle of her face, that rang a bell for Meg.

“I think I’ve seen you before.” Finally, memory yielded the answers she needed. “In court? Have I seen you in court?”

“Why would you have done that?” the woman replied again, but since that wasn’t a denial, Meg was going to take it as a yes.

If she imagined her with all that shiny, dark hair pulled back and a pair of tortoiseshell-framed spectacles on her face, Meg knew who she was.

“You’re a prosecutor, aren’t you?” Meg had had a couple of cases handled by her about a year ago, but hadn’t seen her for a while. “I know you.”

Now, the woman’s suspicion lessened as she stared at Meg with recognition in her eyes. It might have taken a while to get past her new hair color and style. In her days as a policewoman, Meg had worn her hair tied tightly back. Having it in loose, bright layers around her face made her look very different. Even Meg hardly recognized herself when she looked in the mirror some days.

“Alex Chan,” the woman admitted. “And I know who you are. I didn’t recognize you at first. Detective Thorne?”

“Meg Thorne. I’ve left the police.”

That prompted a raise of Alex’s eyebrows.

Meg stuck out her hand. Alex shook it. Then, they moved into the corner that Alex had recently occupied while questioning Victoria’s relative.

“Why are you here?” Meg asked. “Are you a family friend?”

“No,” Alex admitted. “I’m here because I’m trying to find out more about Victoria’s death. It seems to be linked to a couple of other suspicious deaths that have happened in this area.”

On the same mission as Meg herself?

“Why are you doing that?” Meg asked.

Alex still looked twitchy and distrustful. She shook her head.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m here for the same reason,” Meg explained.

“Why are you doing it?” Alex shot back.

“My mother lives close to Victoria, and she stays on her own. She told me about this murder, worried she would be at risk herself, and I linked it back to a couple of earlier cold cases,” Meg said. Alex nodded. Finally, her defensive attitude was settling.

“I did the same.”

Around them, the soft sound of voices provided a constant background murmur as the mourners circulated. Meg didn’t know if she was going to find any answers at this event, but she might have found someone to help her in her search.

“Are you still working as a prosecutor?” Meg asked.

Alex shook her head. "No. I took long leave a while ago, and then quit. I found it difficult. Stressful. Simply because, so often, I'd see people walk free who deserved to be jailed, and there was nothing I could do about it. The defense would get them off on a technicality, or there'd be one small piece missing in the case, and that would be enough to sink it. It wasn't fair. I believe in fairness. It's why I chose to do that job in the first place. So, right now, I'm between jobs."

Meg nodded.

"Well, good luck," she said. Then, she hesitated. "Let me know if you'd like to work together and share any information. We might get further with the two of us."

"Thanks," Alex said dismissively. Clearly not intending to take Meg's suggestion any further, she turned and headed out of the funeral gathering.

That was disappointing. She’d hoped that they might get further together, but it seemed that Alex wasn’t interested in collaborating, which was a pity.

For now, though, Meg had another idea – based on some fragments of conversation that she’d picked up during her rounds.

CHAPTER SIX

The old-fashioned bell rang as Meg walked into the shop. It had a dusty smell, and the shelves were cluttered, and there was a wide range of different collectibles and antiques displayed behind the cabinets.

This was a small, hole-in-the-wall store in the south of Boston, and it was the fourth shop she'd visited since leaving the funeral. She'd made a brief stop-off at home to change into less formal-looking gear, and she was now wearing blue jeans and a turquoise top, with gray sneakers on her feet. She'd spent so many years tramping the streets in her official police boots, that the sneakers felt as light as air.

Meg scanned the shelves, discreetly checking the photos on her phone.

At the funeral, she’d been reminded, by the guests themselves, that the robbery had been a significant part of the crime. Yes, there hadn’t been a lot taken. The house hadn’t been cleaned out. But the antique items that had been stolen were worth a sizeable amount, and Meg was wondering if the thief had put them up for sale.

Of course, secondhand stores and pawnbrokers were supposed to register all the goods that came in, and also to record all the details of the sellers. In theory, they were most definitely supposed to do that, but in practice, it sometimes didn't happen. There were certain pawnbrokers and secondhand stores who had more of a reputation for not asking questions, and so, Meg had decided that she was going to casually browse around them, and try to visit all the stores that she thought might have been complicit in such a deal.

This was the biggest of the stores, and she couldn’t see anything like the diamond earrings that Gabe’s police report had described as being missing.

However, there were still two more stores to go, and it was also possible that the storekeeper might have decided to hold suspicious items back for a while before displaying them on the shelves.

That was common practice when items came in that were obtained through less than official means.

She headed up to the counter to ask.

The attendant there was a bored looking man with straw colored hair which was tied back in a short ponytail. He seemed far more interested in his phone than in Meg, which suited her fine.

“I was wondering if you’ve had any new items coming in,” she asked.

He unglued himself from his screen. Poor man. It took quite an effort. Social media must be fascinating this afternoon.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Earrings, in particular,” Meg said, feeling relieved that she looked nothing like a policewoman right now. She didn’t think he was the most observant person in the world, but even if he had been, she shouldn’t trigger any alarms. “I’m looking for something pretty and antique. My mother had a pair of lovely diamond earrings, and I’d like to get her something similar, because she lost her pair a while ago.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. Then, with a sigh, he added, “I’ll go see.”

“Thanks,” Meg said.

She waited while he walked through into the backroom, wondering what treasures were there, and what he was seeing.

A minute later, he was back.

“We’ve got nothing like that at the moment,” he said. “We do quite often get diamonds in, so check back next week.”

“I will do,” Meg said.

Turning away, she headed out and got into her car, ready to drive the couple of city blocks to her next destination.

She was beginning to wonder if her hunch might be incorrect. But there were still two more shops on her list. She wasn’t going to give up until she’d visited all of them and made sure.

The next one on her list was a much smaller shop, but it was a good prospect, because it stocked a selection of fine jewelry, and the couple of times she’d been inside, the owner had struck her as evasive.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t recognize her now. The last time she’d walked into this store had been a couple of years ago.

Meg parked and climbed out, and headed up to the tiny store, which had a thickly barred security gate. From the gloomy depths inside the store, she saw the owner checking her out carefully from behind the counter, before he pressed the button to open the gate and allow her in.

Meg gave him a nod of greeting, turning to the shelves, pretending to be a casual browser rather than immediately approaching the counter, which might raise red flags.

She took a look at the earrings on offer. They were in a glass case which was firmly locked. That was a sign that the jewelry in here was valuable. She guessed the owner had suffered in the past with grab and run crimes.

He was standing behind the counter, watching her. Meg remembered his tall, stooped posture, and the scrubby goatee which seemed to elongate his already narrow face. She wondered if he recognized her, even though the last time she’d walked in had been when she was wearing a police uniform and accompanied by Gabe.

As she stared at the display, her heart sped up. There were the earrings – she was sure of it. They were right at the top of the display, as if they might just have been added in, and they looked identical to the description. Big diamonds set in rose gold, with a constellation of tiny sapphires and emeralds surrounding them.

Meg indicated the necklace next door to them first.

“This is nice,” she said in a conversational way to the storekeeper. She saw no sign of recognition in his face as she pointed to the fine gold chain with a large diamond pendant.

“It’s a very nice piece,” he agreed. “The diamond has certification, and the gold is nine carat.”

“Is the price negotiable?” she asked, peering at the label.

On her previous police salary, it would have been something that she’d have needed to save up for in order to buy, definitely a big-ticket purchase.

Meg didn’t like the fact that her trust fund would allow her to buy that easily. That wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Her wealth made her uncomfortable.

“It’s slightly negotiable,” he said. “I can give you five percent off.”

“Five percent,” she repeated, pretending to sound thoughtful. “And how about these?” Then, she pointed to the earrings. “They make quite a nice set with the necklace, don’t they?”

“I’m selling those on someone else’s behalf,” he said, still easily, still with a trusting note in his voice.

“Oh, really? Who, a private individual?”

“Nope. An auction house. That piece doesn’t fit with their auction stock. I get a few overflow items from them, and that’s just come in. Unfortunately, that means the price isn’t negotiable.”

“Oh, I see. That’s interesting,” Meg said chattily. She was wondering what auction house it was. She wanted to ask, but didn’t know if he’d be willing to tell her. He might think that she intended to go behind his back and approach the auction house directly. Still, if she didn’t try then she’d never know.

“Which auction house is that?” she asked.

Sure enough, she got a shake of the head. “I’m sorry, that’s confidential,” he said.

“Of course,” Meg smiled.

She took another look around the shop, and then, as soon as the owner’s attention was elsewhere, Meg took a discreet photograph of the earrings – one close up, and one wider view, so that the shop’s interior was visible, too.

Then, she wandered over to the counter and peered through that glass at the watches below, still searching for any signs of the auction house who had such a friendly relationship with this storekeeper. She wasn’t going to get answers from the storekeeper, who’d lost interest in her now, having decided that she wasn’t ready to buy after all.

There must be records somewhere in the store. Or maybe some other sign. If he did business with them regularly then perhaps there was a sign.

She looked at the shelves, scanning them for any clues but finding none. Auction houses would brand themselves. There would be a corporate identity in place.

Looking at the wall behind the counter, Meg saw a glossy calendar with an exquisite emerald bracelet as May’s picture.

At the bottom was a discreet yet well-placed logo: Worthing’s Collectibles & Auction House.

She had no idea if this was the right auction house, but since they’d given a free calendar to this small secondhand shop, Meg was going to guess that there was a relationship in place between them.

At any rate, there was no evidence of any other auction house that she could find. So, that house needed to be her next stop. She wondered where they were.

Returning to her car, Meg looked them up.

She felt optimistic when she saw that they were based just a few blocks away.

With no idea how easy or hard it was going to be to get the information she needed, she decided to go there and see. It was already four p.m., and she'd need to hustle. Town was starting to get busy, the streets filling up with the daily exodus of workers. Hopefully, this auction house would still be open. As she waited in traffic on the main road, Meg tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. She was now extremely curious to know how those earrings had ended up there.

Finally, the traffic eased, and she zoomed down a side street, parking a block away, and making sure to get herself into a legitimate, paid bay. That had been one of the upsides of police work – she could park her car wherever she found an open spot on the street, and it wouldn’t get ticketed or towed. Now, different rules applied.

She headed into the building, looking at the noticeboard on the lobby’s back wall to see where the auction house’s offices were. Fourth floor, according to the list.

Meg was about to sign in and head to the elevator when she saw a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye.

Alex Chan, still wearing her smart office-like wear from the funeral earlier, was marching into the building.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Now, what was Alex Chan doing here?

Suspicion was the first emotion that went through Meg’s mind as she hurried behind a pillar so that Alex wouldn’t see her immediately. She didn’t want to attract her attention until she’d figured out more about why she was here.

Was there more to this? Was Alex somehow involved with the auction house that Meg now suspected had acquired, and passed on, the stolen goods? Had she been casing the funeral out to see what other jewelry was on display?

Even as she had the thoughts, which became wilder and wilder as they raced through her mind, Meg decided that they were wrong.

Alex wasn’t striding into the building as if she knew exactly where she was going. She was hesitating, glancing at the list of companies and floors, and acting exactly the same way Meg had when she’d walked in.

That meant she was here for the same reason Meg was. And that was to check out the auction house.

Somehow, Alex had also figured out that the auction house was the source of the stolen goods. Meg was curious to know what route she’d taken to figure that out.

Whatever it was, having two women both bustle into Worthing’s Collectibles & Auction House, asking about the same expensive earrings, was going to ring alarm bells. Big ones.

“Alex Chan,” she said loudly, walking out from the cover of the dark, marble-lined pillar.

Alex spun around and looked at Meg in astonishment.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Same as you, I suspect,” she said. “I’m here to find out about the jewelry?”

Alex’s eyes widened and her voice dropped.

“How did you figure that out?” she asked. “And what makes you think I’m here for this, in any case?”

Meg suppressed a sigh. Really, it would be so much easier if Alex simply started cooperating, instead of being on the defensive the whole time.

“I am an ex-policewoman,” she said. “I followed the investigation protocols and they led me here.”

Alex blinked, looking surprised, as if she hadn’t expected that anyone else would be able to do this as well as she had.

"I also did that," she said. "I was able to trace one of the items online and called the store, and they told me it came from here."

“We’ve come to the same place, and I suspect that the owner may be deliberately involved in dealing stolen goods,” Meg said.

“Those are my thoughts, too.”

Meg hesitated, hoping that Alex would agree to what she was about to propose. It would benefit both of them.

“We need to go in together,” she said firmly.

Alex glanced at the noticeboard, and then at Meg, and Meg could see the expression of resignation in her eyes.

“I guess we can do, but how’s that going to work? We don’t even know each other. We’ve never worked together.”

“Then maybe now’s a good time to start?” Meg suggested. “We both have good reasons for wanting to catch this killer, and right now, there’s a likelihood that our parallel investigation might start causing problems. You need the information, I need the information, and we realistically have one chance, at the most, of getting it from the source before the source becomes suspicious and stops talking.”

“I don’t even know who the source at this company is,” Alex admitted, moving aside so that two men in business suits could head briskly to the elevators. “I’m assuming it’s the owner, but for all I know, someone else could be handling the stolen valuables.”

Meg nodded. "I also suspect it's the owner, but I also don't know for sure. So, how about the two of us go in and ask to speak to him?"

“Okay. There’s strength in numbers, I guess,” Alex said. She paused, looking at Meg in an assessing way. “Also, to be truthful, I have no idea what to ask. I haven’t been able to figure out a discreet way of posing that question.”

Meg shook her head. “In my policing experience, there isn’t going to be one,” she admitted.

“So, guns blazing it is?”

“Yes,” Meg said. “We’re going to end up having to ask a direct question and then deal with whatever happens next.”

Alex nodded. Now that she was finally dropping her blustery defensiveness, Meg saw that under it, she looked nervous.

“I wasn’t sure how to handle that on my own,” she admitted. “I’m used to it in a courtroom, but those are different circumstances. I have a feeling this is going to veer all the way off script.”

“Funny,” Meg said with a grin, “I think the same. Let’s head over, and find out more about this owner, and whether he’s in.”

Walking side by side, the two women signed in, before heading over to the elevators and riding up to the floor where Worthing’s Collectibles & Auction House was based.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a wide double doorway topped by a fancy gold signboard. Beyond was a lobby with a selection of larger antiques displayed as if they were in a showroom. There was a wooden chair with arms and legs that gleamed, there was a writing desk, there was a set of small tables, and on the wall was a magnificent oil painting of ships at sea.

At the far end of the lobby was a reception desk. There, a blond woman who had a look of the 1940s in her short, wavy hairstyle and vivid make up, was busy answering calls.

“I’m sorry,” she told the caller. “Mr. Worthing is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”

From this, Meg deduced that Mr. Worthing was the company owner. Also, that he wasn’t currently available.

As soon as the blond had wrapped up that call, she turned to Alex and Meg, giving them a practiced smile, and a flicker of her heavily mascaraed lashes.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“We’re here to see Mr. Worthing – if he’s the owner?” Meg asked.

The blonde nodded. “Yes, he’s the owner, but he’s unfortunately not available right now.”

“I heard you say he was in a meeting?” Meg asked.

“He is in a meeting – sort of. He’s preparing for a videoconference with a supplier in Brazil, so he’s unfortunately not going to be able to see you.”

As she spoke, she glanced to the left, where a passage led to a closed door. Meg guessed that was where Mr. Worthing’s office was.

“We won’t be long. This is just going to be a quick question, but we do need answers,” Meg pushed. “It’s urgent. It’s involving an antique that’s up for sale elsewhere.”

That was true but yet vague, and she hoped that it would create enough pressure for the receptionist to decide to call her boss.

“Up for sale elsewhere? What piece is it?” she asked.

“We’d rather keep that private,” Alex said, which made Meg give an inward nod of approval, because that was exactly the right answer.

“Let me call him.”

She got on the phone and spoke rapidly, conveying the situation as quickly as possible to her boss in her rather charming drawl.

She got off the phone with a nod. “He’ll see you,” she said.

Feeling pleased that teamwork had gotten them over this first hurdle, Meg hurried down the short corridor to Mr. Worthing’s office door, with Alex behind her.

She tapped on the door and then opened it without waiting for an answer. Allowing Alex through, Meg took the precaution of closing the door again. That was always a wise idea when things might get heated inside.

Mr. Worthing was sitting behind an enormous desk, so large that it made the rest of his office seem cramped. He was a large, solid man whose starched shirt collar and crisp gray tie seemed a little too small for his fleshy neck. He wore a pristine dark suit. As they walked in, he gave them a magnanimous nod and a brief smile that showed pearly white teeth. His hands were folded in front of him.

He exuded both calmness and a smug charm, but Meg had the feeling that this was a carefully curated front, and that if they scratched the surface, they might find someone quite different underneath. Perhaps it was his eyes that gave her a clue to that. They were dark and watchful, darting between them as he took the two of them in.

Meg had the feeling he was assessing her net worth from the clothing she was wearing and coming up with a disappointing conclusion.

“Ladies, ladies.” His voice was calm and soft. “Sit, please. I’m Mr. Worthing. Your names?”

“I’m Meg,” Meg said, keeping last names out of it. Following suit, Alex introduced herself by her first name only.

“I have five minutes, that’s all. What can I help you with?” He was like a lord in his domain, Meg thought. The room was filled with expensive antiques, and there were several paintings on the wall, and also, a glass-covered cabinet in the corner where some jewelry was displayed. She wondered if any of this was stolen goods, or whether he disposed of the stolen goods pronto, barely associating himself with them at all.

He didn’t have a clue who they were or why they were here, Meg guessed. His demeanor was relaxed, his expression unguarded, although she personally thought that he had a naturally superior way about him.

There was going to be no soft-soaping this.

Meg glanced at Alex, and raised her eyebrows. She was going to put her trust in the prosecutor to say it best.

"Actually, Mr. Worthing," Alex said, "Worthing's Antiques seems to have passed on expensive antique items to secondhand shops to sell on your behalf. We've just been at the funeral of a woman who was killed in a robbery. Earrings were stolen in that robbery, and they're identical to what I saw in that store. I want to know whether you know about her antique earrings and why you passed them on. Did they not go to auction because you knew they were stolen? Did you properly check their background and ownership before accepting them for sale?"

She had an aggressive style to her questioning that came across strongly, and Meg felt a surge of admiration as Alex let him have it.

Worthing was stunned by the questions. As Alex started speaking, his mouth fell open, and his gaze became even more active, ricocheting around the room as if he felt trapped, and was now desperately seeking a way out. His hands went from being loosely relaxed, to being tightly clenched.

“You’re wrong,” he got out. “You’re totally wrong. You’ve come in here and you’re committing slander, that’s what you’re doing. I’d never sell stolen goods. You must be crazy to think so. Who told you such a lie?”

“It’s not a lie, is it?” Alex pushed.

After being briefly startled, this smooth-talking man had recovered himself. He was looking in control again, staring at each of them with an analytical look on his face.

“I find it surprising that you two would come in here and start asking these questions,” he said, now sounding calmer again. “Because, to my knowledge, you’re not policewomen, are you? I challenge you to produce a badge.”

He waited, staring from one of them to the other, his confidence clearly growing with every moment that passed.

“A badge, if you want me to answer anything,” he repeated, pressuring them further. “And if you can’t do that, then your time in here is limited. In fact, it’s over.” He stood up. “I cooperate with the police, but I’m certainly not willing to sit here and to be insulted in this way by a couple of private citizens. There’s clearly a reason you haven’t called the police. Maybe that’s because you know you don’t have a shred of evidence and that all you’re doing is interfering. So, do as I asked, and get out.”

Meg glanced at Alex again. Her turn, this time.

“We’re not leaving until we get answers. So, seeing you have a conference call coming up, I’d suggest you tell us what you know about the stolen goods, because otherwise, that conference might end up being late.”

He didn’t like Meg’s cheeky tone, which she’d used intentionally. And maybe, he also didn’t like being talked to that way by a fifty-something year-old woman, because that got his back right up. He jumped to his feet, his expensive leather director’s chair rolling smoothly back on its well-oiled wheels.

“I don’t have to put up with being insulted that way. Now, get out.”

He marched around the desk, his face flushing with anger, and he grabbed hold of Meg’s arm, holding it tightly as Alex gasped.

Meg had just time to think that the killer’s MO had also been to grasp people by their arms forcefully, and to wonder if it was connected.

Then, as she was dragged to her feet, she decided that she’d had enough of Mr. Worthing, and his false charm, and his bullying ways.

Meg used his own force against him, pushing off with her feet and slamming herself into him so that he stumbled back. Then, she wrenched her arm out of his grasp, and got a foot behind those expensive, shiny black shoes, and twisted him around her so that his feet slid out from under him, and he went down with a surprisingly loud thud, landing flat on his back on the carpet.

For a moment, the only sound was his rough, ragged breathing. The fall had winded him.

Meg was poised on her feet, standing over him and staring down, and Alex quickly scrambled out of her own chair to stand beside her.

“That didn’t work out so well for you, did it?” Meg asked him.

Mr. Worthing still couldn’t speak. The breath was rasping in his throat as he battled to get it back. With too much weight at his core, he was flailing like a beetle on its back. He finally managed to get some purchase on the tiles, and pulled himself up.

He used the edge of the desk to get into a standing position again, still panting from the effort. He was deeply flushed, and he was clearly shocked that a wiry fifty-something year old had managed to put him flat on his back in a couple of seconds.

The thud must have been audible from the reception room, but the receptionist herself wasn’t bursting through demanding to know what had happened. She might be listening out and on the alert, though. Time for Meg to push forward strongly.

“You falsified records on behalf of a dead woman,” she said. “So, who gave you the jewelry, or did you steal it? Because if you stole it, then there are going to be consequences, and I’ll be delighted to help the police take this all the way.”

He still seemed shocked. Meg guessed he must feel as if his world had been turned upside down. One minute, he was the emperor of his domain, the next, he was flat on the floor and realizing that what he’d done was a criminal act.

“I – look, you must understand, I did this as a favor and I had no idea that the pieces were anything but legitimate,” he said.

“Absolutely,” Meg agreed. Now that he was at least complying with them, she could also turn on the smooth charm.

“But the problem is that my sources are confidential, and I did this as a favor to a connection of mine. I’m sure he also didn’t know,” Worthing hurried to add, still breathing heavily.

“I’m not as convinced as you are,” Meg said bluntly. “And if you don’t tell us, then I am calling the police. I’m an ex-policewoman myself. Trust me when I say I have the top detective in this precinct on speed dial. He used to be my partner.”

Now, Worthing’s eyes were bugging out of his head as Meg pushed the point home.

“You’re going to be in a lot of trouble with the police. Bad trouble. Whereas, if you give us the details we need, then we can move on to the person who might know that the jewelry was stolen. Since you claim you didn’t.”

Meg didn’t know if he was going to agree or not. She could see from his demeanor that this friend must be a very influential person in Worthing’s world. He didn’t want to give them this name, but he was going to.

It was that, or else they were going to make good on their threat. And right now, Meg had shown him that she could do that, easily. After all, she'd already put him flat on his back, and that alone had rattled him badly.

His eyes weren’t darting around so energetically anymore, and Meg could see he was reaching a decision.

“Okay,” he capitulated. “I’ll tell you – but I stand by my firm statement that I had no idea these were stolen goods. This is a trusted and respected contact.”

Every word he spoke made Meg more curious. Finally, as if he’d delayed it all he could, and anything further would end up cutting into this important, deal making, online meeting.

“It was for the Cambridge Park Heritage Society,” he said. “The society sometimes sends me items that they’ve received as donations. I then sell them, take half the proceeds, and transfer the rest to the nonprofit account that the society holds for charitable donations. That’s how it works.”

“And who’s the society’s contact person?” Meg asked, deciding that this sounded very strange and rather illegitimate. The Cambridge Park Heritage Society? She’d never heard of such an organization, and she’d grown up not far from Cambridge Park herself.

“That, I don’t know,” he said.

Meg could see that these pieces had definitely been sent on an ‘ask no questions’ basis.

She pressed her lips together. “You don’t know?” she asked.

He was showing signs of tension now, glancing at the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and then at his large computer screen, clearly thinking about his meeting.

“The heritage society used to be headed up by a Cambridge Park resident. He had a few people running the various arms of the society. I’m sure you can find out more, because I’m not disclosing it. That’s a step too far, since I had no idea these earrings were stolen – and perhaps, nor did they.”

But, looking at his face, Meg decided that wasn’t the reason for not telling them.

His eye was starting to twitch and his face was paler.

Whoever headed up the society, Worthing was afraid of them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Heading down in the elevator after that meeting, Meg flexed her shoulders. She was pleased with that throw. It had been decades since she'd put a man a head taller than her and sixty pounds heavier flat on his back. She was glad that she still had it. Admittedly, it might be mostly due to her triathlon practice. That had definitely strengthened her up.

“That was a pretty good throw,” Alex said, echoing Meg’s own satisfied thoughts. “Will you show me how to do it?”

“I can walk you through the basics of it,” Meg agreed, with a quick smile. “My advice is, though, that it’s better not to get into a situation where you’ll ever need to use it.”

“I get that,” Alex said.

The elevator opened, and they headed out. Now, after five p.m., the building's lobby was much quieter. The homeward-bound rush had come and gone. Their feet sounded loud on the tiles as they headed to the main door.

Now that the adrenaline of that confrontation was over, Meg found herself thinking about what it really meant.

Worthing hadn't been prepared to say more because he was scared of the consequences. He might say nothing, or else he might be on the phone with someone, telling them what had just happened.

Meg realized that she felt uneasily exposed.

“The Heritage Society,” Alex said. “Do you think they have offices somewhere?”

“I guess they do,” Meg said. “But at this time, they’re probably closed. We need to make an appointment to go there tomorrow. We need to be cautious, because the fact that he wouldn’t tell us more is a red flag."

Outside the building’s door, the street still felt warm with residual summer heat, after the air-conditioned coolness inside. Both of them paused. There were still some important issues to discuss.

Alex was now looking uneasy, and they were no longer in sync, the way they had been when they’d been facing down Worthing in his well decorated office.

 “I should get going,” Alex muttered, frowning.

“Do you have a place you need to be urgently?” Meg asked. She didn’t want to part ways with Alex now. They’d achieved a lot in there – more together than they’d been able to do separately.

“I just need to get going,” Alex said. Again, her gaze slid away.

“Why don’t we go and have some food?” Meg asked. “Because this crime is still unsolved, and we don’t have enough information on it yet. We need to discuss this in more detail, if you don’t have an actual appointment to go to.”

Alex thought about that for a moment, and then gave a small shrug.

“Okay,” she admitted. “Food sounds good.” But she sounded relieved, as if Meg had nudged her into making a better decision than what she’d been thinking of herself.

Whatever was bothering Alex, it would be easier to talk about it while sitting down and eating. Plus, they’d have a chance to get some food inside them.

“We could go across the road,” Meg suggested. There was an Italian restaurant there.

They headed that way. Apart from a couple that looked as if they might be harassed new parents, out for a quick meal before getting back to the babysitter, the place was empty, although several tables had Reserved signs on them.

Meg headed to the back of the restaurant, which was decorated in bright red and deep green, with Formula One pictures on the walls. She sat down at the small, square table, and put her elbows on the starched, white cloth.

Opera music in the background added to the ambiance. The waiter, dark haired and attentive, fussed around them, bringing the menus and the wine list and a bottle of water.

Meg decided to have a glass of wine with her meal. That was a rarity on an evening when she was discussing a case. Most times, when grabbing dinner with Gabe, she’d been technically still on duty, and so she and Gabe had stuck to water or soda.

Now, she ordered a glass of Chardonnay, and so did Alex.

After a glance at the menu, Meg put in her order for food, choosing spaghetti puttanesca. She loved the bold, strong flavors of the olives, garlic, anchovy and chili that the tomato sauce contained. Alex placed her order, and then, they both took a sip of their wine.

“I can tell there’s something bothering you,” Meg said. “I’m going to make a guess about what it might be. You’re welcome to tell me if I’m wrong.”

“I’ll tell you if you’re wrong,” Alex volunteered.

“Are you worried that I’m going to insist we take this to the police now?”

There it was, out in the open – the equivalent of the elephant in the room right now.

“Look,” Alex said, now sounding unsure. “I know we should probably go to the police with what we’ve found, but – well, there are reasons why I don’t really want to do that.”

“What are they?” Meg asked. She hoped that her tone reflected that she was genuinely curious, and not being critical.

“It’s that I’ve just been disappointed recently by what’s happened when the police get hold of cases,” she blurted out, and then looked deeply embarrassed, taking another sip of wine to hide her confusion. “Not you. If I remember, your cases were well prepared, but there have been others that weren’t, or else, there were small errors, and I saw how the defense was just waiting to jump on those. It – well, I don’t mind admitting that it made me give up on it, in the end. I don’t want this to happen again, and I’m worried it might.”

“Especially after what we’ve discovered, about the heritage society possibly being complicit?” Meg asked, because she thought that was part of what Alex was trying to say. Sure enough, she nodded.

“You got it,” she admitted. “It’s the society that I’m worried about. They’re part of this ultra-wealthy group, obviously, if they’re based right here. I’m worried that it will make it more difficult to investigate. Tell me I’m wrong?” she challenged Meg.

“You’re not wrong,” Meg agreed. But she thought there was more to this, and that Alex was protesting too much. She wondered if she had other reasons for not wanting to involve the police. The way she’d taken such pains to explain seemed over the top, and now, she was continuing.

“Plus, as I’ve found, when you get a defendant who hires the very best lawyers, there’s not enough evidence in the world to stand up to that, especially if you’re looking for circumstantial evidence. The lawyers find loopholes, they confuse the situation. They’re clever and brilliant, but it’s so deeply frustrating when you’re on the other side, and there’s someone who needs to go down for a crime, and they manage to avoid it.”

“I get what you’re saying,” Meg explained, deciding it would be best to agree, even though she didn’t fully agree with what Alex was saying about the lawyers. She sensed there was more behind her reasoning not to involve the police.

However, she doubted that Alex was on the run or involved in anything criminal. She didn’t seem like that person – although she could check with Gabe.

“I really do get what you mean,” Meg continued, “but there’s going to be a time when we need to hand it over to the police. And I can recommend my partner, Gabe, who’s still with the Boston PD. He’s brilliant, and he’s tenacious, and he presents cast-iron cases. But there’s no harm in doing more digging first.”

Alex looked relieved by that. She lifted her wineglass.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said.

“We also don’t want to leave it too long,” Meg warned. “All that’s going to do is make the police’s job more difficult, and also, it means we risk trouble ourselves.”

“Thanks. I am aware. And yes, that decision’s been weighing on me,” Alex said.

Their food arrived, providing a fragrant distraction from the difficult topic. Alex had ordered parmesan chicken breast, and Meg was almost jealous of her menu choice.

Almost.

She sprinkled some parmesan on her pasta, and savored the first few bites, her mind immediately going back to similar dinners with James. He’d loved Italian food. When they’d gone out on date nights, it had almost always been Italian.

Her stepdaughter Naomi had been a burger and wings girl.

And as for Gabe? Well, he’d been a rare steak guy – and still was. Meg hated thinking of him in the past. She hoped he’d soon be paired up with another investigation partner who’d give him all the support he needed – and who also loved steaks.

“Do you have a husband?” Alex asked suddenly. “Anyone in your life?”

“There was,” Meg said. “My husband died a few years ago. He was murdered. Stabbed in his car.”

Alex drew in a breath, her eyes wide. She put down her fork, and then she did something unexpected. She reached across the table and grasped Meg's hand gently.

“I’m so sorry about that,” she said. “I could see in your face that you were thinking of something sad, and you wear a wedding ring, but you didn’t mention a hubby or partner waiting at home, so I thought I’d better ask.”

“It was tough,” Meg agreed.

“Did they find the killer?” Alex asked.

“No,” Meg said.

She tested the pain. Yup, as bad as always. It felt as if it was ready to tear her heart apart again. All she could say, when looking for the positives, was that it didn’t tear her heart as often as it had done, and it was easier to avoid it. Sometimes, anyway.

“It must be difficult to live with that,” Alex said. “Especially as time goes on.”

“He was such a good person,” Meg said. “He didn’t have any enemies, we had a good network of mutual friends, and he worked as an actuarial consultant. I ended up concluding that it must have been a random crime – that he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and someone was desperately looking for cash to buy drugs. I think that’s what happened.”

Even so, she couldn’t help remembering what Naomi had told her a few weeks ago during one of their infrequent phone calls, about an angry shouted conversation that she’d overheard her father having on the phone, a few days before he’d been murdered. What had that been about?

If she were to get hold of a list of James’s calls for that month, then what would she find? Could she check the numbers and see who he’d spoken to?

Of course, she hadn’t kept any of those records. She’d cleared out his office as soon as she had the strength, throwing most of the things like phone records and invoices away. There was no need to keep them, or so she’d thought.

That meant she would have to request them, and it was nearly five years ago. The chances were high that the cell provider would no longer have that detailed information, although some companies did keep records longer.

This was making Meg think that if she was going to do something about this, she should do it soon. Because the more time that passed, the more likely it was that there would be no information available at all.

“What would you do if you found the killer now? If you were face to face with him?” Alex asked.

That was a disturbing question, and Meg shook her head. She didn’t know what she’d do. Or what she’d be capable of.

“If you want me to do anything to help you, I’ll be willing,” Alex said. “You know, I’ve got a lot of contacts in the local prison systems, and they often hear about the people who got away with things. Friends of convicts. We could even get the guards to ask around in there, and see if anyone knows anyone who was involved in a stabbing crime back then. If you want to, of course,” she said hastily, her fork poised midway between the plate and her mouth.

“I’d appreciate that,” Meg found herself saying, even though she hadn’t meant to say that, and had thought that she’d been speaking a polite refusal.

“I’ll do it,” Alex said. “I’ll get the approximate dates and other details from you – if you’re happy to give those – and we can see where it goes.”

“Thank you,” Meg said again.

This was something she hadn’t had for a while – the simple gift of friendship. After what had happened, their mutual friends had rallied round strongly for a few weeks. Meg still remembered the kindness, the way that she and Naomi had to throw out a lot of the food that people brought because there was so much of it and they were barely eating.

The roast chickens had piled up in the refrigerator. Everyone brought a chicken. There were at least three in the refrigerator at any one time, and Corrigan had been in nirvana with freshly roasted chicken for every meal.

Meg had struggled to enjoy chicken ever since, because it reminded her of that time.

She’d buried herself in work, and Naomi had plunged herself in her studies, both of them grasping at their lifelines. And Meg had blotted it from her mind as far as she could.

After the trauma, she’d gradually lost contact with all those friends, because work had been so important and she’d spent so much time involved in it, and there hadn’t been time for anything else. With James’s killer at large, she’d felt driven to hunt down every other criminal that was terrorizing Boston, putting her own situation out of her mind, not feeling ready to deal with it as the case gradually turned cold.

But maybe she was ready now.

She put her fork down, feeling surprised that she’d cleared her plate, despite the sad thoughts.

 “And now, the heritage society. That’s tomorrow’s job. Shall we research it together?” Meg asked.

“Yes,” Alex said immediately. “That’s a great idea. I’d like to do that.”

“Come around to my place,” Meg said. “We can have coffee and look up the society. I’ve got a workspace – two in fact.” Her kitchen table and dining room table were both perfect for the purpose.

“I’ll see you then,” Alex said.

Meg called for the check. She tried to pay it, but Alex insisted on splitting it, and then she gave Alex her address details.

She headed out, walking to her car, feeling happier than she had when she’d walked into the restaurant.

Now, she felt as if she had some support and a friend beside her again. That was a good feeling. She liked Alex's strength of character, and her ethics. She understood her frustration with the system. She didn't really understand her reasons for not wanting the police involved, though.

Maybe, tomorrow, their research into the heritage society would lead to a breakthrough in these puzzlingly violent murders.

CHAPTER NINE

Meg felt motivated, with adrenaline fizzing inside her as she set up her computer on the dining room table, made sure that there was a full jug of coffee ready, and got a plate of cookies on the table. Corrigan had settled himself on the sideboard, clearly ready for today’s supervisory role.

This was a familiar feeling when starting a case, and this felt like the first real case in her new life. This wasn’t just digging back into the past, but aligning it with a recent crime.

And her mother’s safety depended on the killer being caught.

Turning on the TV as she started up her laptop, Meg glanced at the news, seeing that Victoria’s stabbing had made the morning headlines again.

"There are still no leads in this troubling crime," the presenter said, her face serious, as a photo of the front gate of Victoria’s mansion flashed onto the screen. “Police are allocating every possible resource, but there are so many unanswered questions. Are the residents of Boston and surrounds safe anymore, when a criminal can break in at will, disable a panic button, and flee with valuable items of jewelry?”

They hadn’t specified what the jewelry was, and Meg guessed that would be Whitaker’s decision, wanting to keep details under wraps so that the right information would prevent false leads. And maybe it was the best decision, because if the description of the earrings had been circulated, there was a strong chance that the secondhand store owner would simply have hidden them away.

Unfortunately, people weren't always good citizens, and they didn't always take information directly to the police – especially when there was a chance of making money.

Money was on Meg’s mind as the doorbell rang. She quickly muted the TV and hurried to the front door.

Alex stood there, with an expectant expression on her face, a laptop bag slung over her shoulder, and a white cardboard box in her hand.

“Croissants,” she said, and Meg grinned in appreciation.

This morning had been a rare rest day for her, with nothing on the schedule except lifting a few weights, so she didn’t really feel she’d earned a croissant, but she was going to eat it anyway.

She led Alex through to the dining room. Today, she was wearing a cream top and dark gray jeans, paired with loafers. Meg had dressed more smartly, wearing one of the many pairs of her ubiquitous black pants and an emerald green blouse in case she needed to go out and knock on any doors. She had a feeling that the heritage society would be more open to people who arrived looking smart.

But that was assuming they got that far.

“On the news again,” Alex said, grimacing as she read the headlines on the now-muted TV. “No new information? Police still investigating?”

“I know. It may stay that way for a while, though,” Meg warned. “They won’t publicize the small details of the investigation, and will probably hold a press event when an arrest is made.”

If she needed more information in the meantime, Gabe would hopefully provide it.

“You have a cat!” Putting her laptop bag down beside one of the chairs, Alex moved over to introduce herself to Corrigan. He purred benevolently as Alex cooed over him and scratched him between his shoulder blades.

“He’s lovely,” she said, finally sitting down. “Now, the heritage society.”

“Let’s see what we can find,” Meg said.

She looked up the term on a search engine, but frowned when she saw the results.

“I’ve got something here, but I’m not sure it’s the same thing.”

“I also don’t think it’s the same,” Alex said, staring at her screen. “This is a heritage society that’s based in Massachusetts, but it’s all about saving trees and the environment. And it’s not Cambridge Park.”

“No, it isn’t.” Meg stared at the results, looking carefully to see if there was anything else there.

There was nothing. The words ‘Cambridge Park Heritage Society’ didn’t bring up any information other than the tree saving group.

“I think I need to make a call and check that out,” Alex said.

Meg poured them coffee while Alex made the call.

"Hello," she said politely. "We've got a bit of confusion here, which I'm hoping to sort out. There's a heritage society that we're looking to find out more about. It seems to accept donated jewelry from time to time, and it's based in Cambridge Park. Is this your society by any chance?"

She waited and listened, shaking her head at Meg. Then, she thanked the person she was speaking to, and hung up.

“Nope,” she said. “They don’t know anything about the Cambridge Park Heritage Society. They do have a fundraising mechanism in place, but it doesn’t involve donated items. It’s money only.”

“That’s very strange, though,” Meg said. “This society – do you think it’s a secret group? For members only?”

“Like the illuminati? Or the freemasons?” Alex said, her guesses a bit wild, but Meg was also thinking along those lines.

"Yes. The fact that it's nowhere online, and it's a so-called society, does point to the fact that it's secret," she said. "So now, we have to figure out how to find out about it without letting everyone know what we're doing."

“No knocking over trashcans or activating alarms?” Alex asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Figuratively, and literally, we need to stay away from those. But I have an idea,” she said.

“What’s that?” Alex asked. She hadn’t given up on the online search, and now had three different search engines open, and was a few pages in on each.

“I could call my mother and ask her,” Meg said.

Alex hesitated, and Meg guessed she was wondering whether her mother would insist on them calling the police.

But Meg thought it was worth it, given the impossibility of finding information on what they were dealing with.

“Let’s ask her,” she said. “I’ll try to do it in a way that doesn’t ring any alarm bells.”

She picked up the phone and dialed her mother’s number. As she’d expected, the housemaid picked up.

“Hello, Miriam. Can I speak to my mother, please?” Meg asked. “It’s Meg Thorne.”

“I’ll have to see if she’s in,” the housemaid said, confirming that Meg’s mother, in her late seventies, had a schedule that would be the envy of any socialite.

She came back on the line a moment later.

“She was heading out, but I managed to stop the driver,” the housemaid said, sounding triumphant. “I’m taking the phone to her now.”

A few breathless moments later, Meg heard her mother’s voice.

“Good morning, Meg.”

“Morning, Mom,” Meg said. “Listen, I have a difficult question, and I was wondering if you might have answers.”

“What is it?” Now her mother sounded intrigued.

“I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of the Cambridge Park Heritage Society. I’d like to find out more about them, because I was wondering if Victoria might have been a member, or involved,” Meg said. She knew she was hedging. She didn’t want her mother to know exactly why she was asking, just in case the heritage society had handed over the earrings legitimately. Or else, Worthing had been lying, which was also a possibility.

“The heritage society? I suppose they’re still around?” Her mother sounded confused. “That was very popular about ten, twenty years ago.”

“What did it involve, Mom?” Meg asked.

“They used to hold functions, collect for charity – you know how a lot of people like to give to charity for the tax breaks?” Her mother had a sly note in her voice. “I think that happened a lot. I don’t remember much more about it, but I suppose they are still operational today. I might even be a member still,” she said in surprise. “I have lifetime membership – or had. They were never very active on social media, and were much more old school, and very discreet. I think you had to be invited to become a member, that sort of thing. There was something else about them…” Now, she sounded thoughtful. “I think it was something your father said, but I can’t remember now what it was.”

“Do you know where their headquarters are?” Meg asked.

"They used to have offices out near the country club, in one of those properties there. The one with the big, white, double-story house. But it and a few others were destroyed in a big fire, and I can't remember where they moved to. That must have been at least a decade ago. I doubt I've had anything to do with them for twice that time. Your father was keener on it. I think they organized a lot of charity golf days at one point."

“And who’s the president?” Meg asked.

Her mother chuckled. “I don’t have the faintest idea. I don’t know if I ever knew.”

“Can you give me the names of other members?” Meg tried, but her mother interrupted.

“Darling, I have to go now. I’ve got a coffee meeting in town, and I don’t want to be late for it. Can we talk about this later?”

“But…” Meg began.

Too late. Miriam was the next person she heard.

“I’m so sorry about that. Ma’am needed to get into town,” the housemaid said apologetically. “I can call you when she comes back.”

“That would be helpful,” Meg said. She didn’t know how helpful it would be, though, because her mother might be out for most of the day. Still, at least she had some leads now.

“I got a bit of information,” she told Alex, who nodded.

“It sounded like you got some, but not all?” she questioned.

“I didn’t get the names of any members.” Recalling the conversation now, Meg wondered suddenly if her mother had really needed to get going so fast, or if she hadn’t wanted to answer that question. Her mother could be an expert in evasion when she wanted to. Had that coffee meeting really been so imminent?

She remembered now that she was capable of graciously changing the subject when it was heading into thorny territory.

Meg wondered if she’d just been played. Still, she’d have to work with what she had.

“My mother said that the society was more active about ten or twenty years ago, and that they used to hold social events, and help people who wanted to get tax breaks by donating to charity. They held golf days. The headquarters were on one of the properties adjoining the country club – one of those which burned down in a big fire.”

Meg vaguely remembered that fire, which had destroyed several properties. The country club grounds and the golf course had stopped it from spreading further. And she knew which property that distinctive double-story house had been on.

“That’s some usable information. I’m sure it’s going to be useful,” Alex said.

“My mother was a life member. There must be other life members. I don’t know who the president is, because she didn’t know, and when it came to asking her who else was in the society, she suddenly had to go.”

Now that Meg was replaying the conversation in her mind, she did think there had been something odd about her mother needing to stop the conversation.

“Suddenly?” Alex repeated, raising her eyebrows. “This is sounding, to me, like it might be a secret society.”

“It was below the radar, invitation only, and obviously for the elite. I guess only the ultra-wealthy were members, and maybe there was some kind of confidentiality code in place,” Meg said, feeling confused and unsure about what her mother had meant. Still, now, the path forward was clear.

“The first way forward is to research the property that burned down, where their headquarters were,” she said. “It was sold, I believe, but the records of ownership should be searchable, and we can find out who owned it beforehand.”

“Yes, that’s one angle,” Alex agreed. “I guess the other is to look up older, non-online sources, and see what information can be found about their charitable events. Members might have been named there.”

“That’s a good idea,” Meg agreed. “So, who’s going to do what?”

“Do you want to do the property search, and I’ll take a look at the old records?” Alex asked.

"Sure," Meg said. She preferred the property search because she felt there was a better chance of getting a lead.

“I guess a third option would be to knock on the doors of Cambridge Park retirees, and ask them if they know anything about the heritage society?” Alex asked.

“That would definitely be option three, but that’s coming closer to knocking over trash cans and making a huge noise. Figuratively, at least,” Meg emphasized.

“You’re right,” Alex said. She drained her coffee. “So, shall we get started now?”

“Yes,” Meg said. “If I don’t find any ownership records, or the office doesn’t let me access them, then I’m going to drive to the property itself and find out more. I seem to remember it’s a restaurant these days.”

“If it is, it’s too expensive for me,” Alex said with a smile.

They stood up gathered their things together, and headed out.

Alex walked purposefully toward a gray sedan that looked to be a good few years old and had a dent in the door.

Meg got into her car and headed in the direction of the records office, where she hoped she'd be able to pick up the details of the property.

Meg wanted to do this in person. Especially with older properties, the online records were often incomplete because they'd been digitized after the fact. She didn't know how long the heritage society had been operating from the building her mother was referring to. They might have rented the property or owned it. Maybe the owner was also the head of the society, and she'd get lucky.

The drive into town didn’t take long, because the morning traffic had already been and gone. It was strange to think that just a few weeks ago, she’d been a part of that traffic.

Her life had changed, and Meg couldn’t help another flash of pride at her textbook takedown. If there was anyone who deserved to be put flat on his back, that person was the smug Mr. Worthing.

And thinking of him reminded Meg that there were other people who weren’t saying everything they knew. Was her mother another?

With that worrying thought in mind, she reached the city’s records office, and headed in.

“I’m here to look up a property ownership record,” she said to the attendant at the front desk, breathing in the smell of floor polish and old documents that infused the air inside the building.

The attendant, whom she’d met once or twice before when she’d come in on cases, clearly didn’t recognize Meg with her new look.

“Unfortunately, ma’am, we’ve got renovations happening up there, and that floor is closed to the public,” she said.

“So police officers would be allowed in?” Meg asked, disappointment lodging inside her, because she’d hoped this would be easy.

“Yes, by appointment,” the attendant said, making Meg feel suddenly regretful about her decision. She could be forging ahead with Gabe, adding her expertise and experience to the case in an official way. Now, here she was, banned from entry.

Reminding herself that there were still more pluses than drawbacks to her decision, Meg thanked her and walked out. This had been a wasted drive, and she hoped the next one would provide her with more information.

She was going to head out of town and ask the owners of the restaurant if they knew the history – possibly checkered – of the building they'd acquired.

CHAPTER TEN

The restaurant building didn’t look as if it had been a blackened shell some years ago. As she pulled up, parking on the immaculately paved driveway, Meg took a moment to admire its serene, cream-painted façade, and its pillared porch, and the groomed grounds surrounding it, which were perfectly trimmed, and dotted with maple trees. It had been renovated in the same style of the original building.

The restaurant looked busy, and there were several other cars parked outside. Meg guessed that brunch customers did a brisk business here. For an apprehensive moment, she wondered if she might find her mother inside.

Shunting that thought firmly out of her head, Meg went in and walked across the dark, tiled floor to the front counter.

Beyond the counter, which was an oak-paneled nook, she could see and hear the restaurant. That was lighter and brighter, with huge windows overlooking the grounds. The chink of cutlery and the chorus of voices wafted toward her, together with the rich smell of sausages and bacon.

She saw a few tables of customers, but didn’t see her mother’s distinctive, silver hairdo. That was a relief.

“Good morning,” the receptionist said. “Welcome to the Clarence Restaurant. Are you joining a table?”

“No, I’m actually here to chat to the owner or the manager,” Meg said. As the receptionist raised her eyebrows in concern, Meg added quickly, “It’s to do with the history of the building. I have some questions.”

"Ah." Now, the woman's smile returned, and she indicated the paneling behind her, which Meg now saw concealed a flight of stairs, with the entrance on the side. "If you head up there, I'll ask the owner, Mr. Clarence, to join you. He's just with a table of guests now, so he might be a while. You might find some information upstairs. He's created a showroom with some old photos from before the fire and during the renovations."

Thanking her for her helpfulness, Meg headed up.

Upstairs, the double doorway ahead of her led into the room she'd been told about. It was large, wood-paneled, and also had an incredible view over the grounds. The walls contained a whole series of framed photos and newspaper cuttings, that documented the building's history from the present day, working back.

Meg moved from photo to photo, reading the news reports and magazine articles, feeling as if she’d taken a step back to an earlier age – one which she could still remember. Even when she’d first joined the police, there had been piles of magazines in the back office, mainly focused on cars and hunting and guns.

Today, everyone was on their phones.

She wondered if the owners would be mentioned in the reports of the fire. There were several photos of the charred ruins from different angles. Meg read carefully through the news articles that were framed on the wall nearby. Surely the owner would have been interviewed, and they would have mentioned his or her name?

But the news article was brief and it only mentioned that a fine, historic building had been razed to the ground by the fire, and that rebuilding plans were uncertain as yet.

Frowning, she moved up to one of the more recent reports, but again, the owner’s name wasn’t mentioned, although the article was effusive in its enthusiasm that the beautiful old place would be gaining a new lease on life in the rebuild.

Meg didn’t understand it. How could news release after news release not mention the owner?

There was only one reason, and that was that the owner didn’t want his name mentioned and had specifically stated that it must be left out.

At that moment, she heard the stairs creak behind her, and turned, to see a man with a flushed, genial face, wearing a yellow dress shirt, and a loud tweed jacket. He was ascending the stairs with some effort, puffing, thanks to the extra pounds he carried.

“Good morning, good morning,” he said, striding over and taking Meg’s hand in his own firm grip. “I’m Mr. Clarence. Delighted to meet you.”

"I'm Meg Thorne," Meg told him. "I'm researching the history of the area, and I was wondering who owned this property before you. I understand it belonged to the Cambridge Park Heritage Society?"

“That’s correct,” Mr. Clarence said. “They owned it through a holding company, and they didn’t really like publicity at all. They were very publicity-shy.”

“Why was that?” Meg asked, interested to know the reasons.

“They liked to keep a low profile because I believe there was some backlash against the society, especially in the last ten, twenty years or so. I think from what they said, people regarded the society as elitist. They were worried that it might reflect badly on the society and their family, and so they always asked that their names not be mentioned.”

“And what were their names?” Meg asked.

She’d hoped that this extrovert and chatty man would give her an immediate answer, and she was surprised when his gaze slid away, and then returned to hers, briefly and cagily.

“Now, ‘confidential’ was a reason for the sale,” he said. “And I’ve no idea who you are, ma’am. Not to be rude, but I haven’t seen you in here before.”

Maybe he thought she was a reporter. Or else, just a nosy fifty-something woman who was looking to dig up old information.

Meg hesitated, wondering which direction to go, knowing that the right response had a chance of unlocking the answers, but the wrong response might lock the door forever.

With a sense of shame, she decided that the best solution was to use her mother’s name.

"My mom mentioned it to me. She remembers this place very fondly from when my dad was alive," she said. "She's a regular here – Mrs. Ashford. Anyway, I got curious and wanted to know more. I think my mother fell out of touch with the society herself over the years."

Meg did her best to channel her mother’s self-assured way of speaking, and the manner she had of dropping important names almost intangibly into the conversation, so that you only realized afterward that they’d been mentioned at all.

“Oh, so your mother is Mrs. Ashford?”

That had changed his mind. He was now looking at her with less suspicion. Maybe she had a chance to get this right after all.

“Yes, she is.”

“I suppose if you’re her daughter, there’s no harm in it. Just don’t make it public knowledge, will you?”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Because he’s still around, you know. He still comes in here, although he has a helper these days, and he’s very frail, and he’s suffering from dementia, I believe.” Meg waited patiently, and after a thoughtful pause, Clarence continued. “His name is Mr. O’Malley. Dave O’Malley.”

“Was he the chairman of the society?” Meg asked, wondering if he’d be willing to tell her that, since he seemed to be opening up to her.

Reluctant cooperation seemed to be what he was showing her, and sure enough, she got more of the same. He sighed, as if he was now committed to answering herself, thanks to the powerful mutual connection of her mother.

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. O’Malley was the chairman. And his son, Sean, took over the reins. Mr. O’Malley told me that once, during a coherent moment. He said the society isn’t what it used to be back when he was in charge.”

Meg felt a wave of excitement. She had what she needed, thanks to the doors opened by her mother’s name. This was how things worked in the society that she’d chosen not to be part of. And she was doing this for her mother’s safety, so surely she couldn’t object to her name being used?

Even so, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt, because this society seemed very secretive. She didn’t want her mother getting into any trouble, thanks to Meg’s questioning.

Maybe it was she who should be pleading with Clarence to keep what she’d told him secret, and not the other way around?

“Do you know where the O’Malleys moved to when they sold up?” she asked, hoping that this wouldn’t end up being one question too many. But now that he’d mentioned the family, he didn’t seem to have issues with giving a little further information.

"They moved out to Cloverdale Farm," he said. "That's a few miles out of town. Beautiful place."

“Thank you,” Meg said. At least she now knew where her next stop would be.

Even so, she felt thoughtful and worried as she headed out of the restaurant and back to her car. Meg tried her best not to feel this way, telling herself that she'd achieved a goal and she'd gotten what she needed. By the time she got back home, she would have been able to trace another step of the path those earrings had followed after the crime.

The O’Malley family’s intense need for secrecy raised major red flags for Meg.

Was Sean O’Malley, heir to the secret society, the killer?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Meg headed out of town, the urban scenery gave way to verdant fields and quaint, scenic farmhouses, and traditional red barns in settings that were dotted with cows and sheep. Having found Cloverdene Farm easily on her map app, she had decided to go straight there.

After all, Clarence had told her that the Heritage Society was still operational, even though it was run on a different and lesser scale today. If she could track down Sean O’Malley, this might allow her to find out who had sent those stolen earrings to the auction house.

It might even tell her more than that, depending on who Sean really was.

Turning off the main road, she followed a winding side road that led up a hillside, past a wood, and then onto a charming lane with several small farms along it.

Cloverdene should be just after the one she was passing now, Meg estimated, double-checking the map as the pin drop grew closer.

Here it was. But as she reached it, she stared in surprise.

Every other farm along this road had been pristine, well kept, and with a signboard at the gate giving the name of the farm. Not this one.

Meg stared at the overgrown grass, the gate that was askew on its hinges, and the overgrown driveway beyond. She could see the farmhouse from the road, and although it was a smart looking, double story place, the windows were blank, with no curtains, and the carport next to the garage was empty, with the metal sheeting loose and flapping in the breeze.

The only new-looking thing in the entire farm was the 'Sold' notice that was posted proudly outside the front gate.

Meg sighed as she photographed the Sold notice, in case she’d be able to get any information from the estate agent herself. Wherever the O’Malleys were now, they’d left this prosperous looking area and had clearly been gone for a while – maybe as long as a year. Perhaps the sale had taken longer than expected, but why had they moved out?

Wondering if one of the neighbors knew more, Meg backtracked a couple of hundred yards to the previous gate, where she’d seen someone at work in the well-tended garden.

The woman, with her hair covered by a colorful scarf and wearing gardening gloves, was tending a vegetable garden near the house. Meg parked outside, and headed in, walking down the driveway, being met halfway along by an inquisitive spaniel. The dog gave a couple of barks, then sniffed Meg's hand and escorted her the rest of the way, tail wagging.

The smell of fresh, rich soil filled the air as she approached the vegetable garden, where the woman was now standing, looking at her curiously.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Meg said, “but I was wondering if you knew the neighbors at all – the O’Malleys, I believe? I see they’ve moved out.”

The woman took off her sunglasses, revealing a face that was freckled from the sun and pale green eyes.

“I never really knew them. They were here for a few years, but kept very much to themselves. They never joined in any of the community events, or our street parties, or our farm produce exchanges,” she said with a smile and a shrug.

“Did you see them at all?” Meg asked.

“Well, yes, from time to time,” the woman said. Meg’s expectant silence encouraged her to keep on talking, even though she gave Meg a quizzical look as if she was wondering why she was asking these questions.

“There was an older man, who must have been in his early seventies, his wife, who never said a word, and their son, who was maybe forty. I think the wife passed away, though. But again, they were so uninvolved here that I never knew exactly when it happened.”

“And your impression of the son?” Meg asked, but she realized she’d pushed it enough. The woman shook her head, raising a hand to adjust the colorful, green and white scarf.

“I don’t know who you are or why you’re asking, and I’d prefer not to say anything else,” she said. “I don’t want to get involved in any neighborhood disputes, thanks.”

From her reluctance to talk, Meg was deducing that this was more than an unwillingness to gossip. She sensed that she hadn’t liked her neighbors.

“This isn’t in connection with a dispute.” Meg said, keeping her tone light and casual, so that the neighbor wouldn’t think it was a serious matter. “I’m looking for information on the Cambridge Park Heritage Society, and I understand that the O’Malleys were involved in running it, and that the son took it over.”

“The heritage society?” The woman looked confused as she stared at Meg, an expression which made her think that she genuinely didn’t know about it, because so far, she had been baldly honest in her responses.

“That’s right. I think it was run from their old place, and then when they moved here, they kept on running it on a smaller scale.”

The neighbor shook her head again. "I can't tell you a thing about that. I've never heard of it, and I've no idea what it is." Now in a more suspicious tone, and releasing a sliver of information to Meg, she added, "Like I said, they kept to themselves, and I didn't want to know them, when I saw them driving those big black SUVs and with the son heading out at strange hours of the night. I never asked questions because they were the type of people that made you feel it wasn't wise to do that." She shrugged. "Like I said, I was relieved when they moved."

Meg guessed that she wasn’t going to get anything further from the neighbor, but what she’d already gotten was intriguing. It sounded as if the O’Malleys might have been more than just lovers of privacy. Was the Heritage Society a front for criminal activities? That ‘charitable account’ might be a money laundering operation.

At least she had the number of the estate agent who’d handled the sale.

Time to call her, Meg thought, as she thanked the neighbor and got back into her car.

She made the call while she was driving back, waiting for three rings before the agent, who sounded busy and breathless, picked up.

“Angie speaking,” she said.

“Hi, Angie,” Meg replied. “I’ve got a question about a house sale you made recently. Cloverdene Farm, a few miles out of town.”

“Yes?” Angie said, her eager tone now replaced by a cautiousness that made Meg immediately revise her chances of success.

“The O’Malleys. I’m trying to trace them. Do you know where they moved?”

"I'm sorry, but I can't give you that information," Angie now said, in a brisk and decisive way. "I just made the sale. I didn't organize the purchase of their subsequent home, and in any case, that forwarding information is confidential. Sorry, I can't help," she said breezily.

“No problem.”

Meg hung up, feeling even more confused. The O’Malleys had run a society that had gone from being fairly well known to becoming highly secretive – and they were doing a very good job of making sure they weren’t talked about, or traceable.

Perhaps Alex had managed to find out something, while exploring her angle.

Meg hoped she had.

As she checked her messages before heading to the coffee shop meetup that she’d arranged, her phone rang again.

Seeing it was her mother’s home number calling, Meg picked up eagerly. Her mother must have gotten back home sooner than she’d expected.

“Hello, Mom?” she said.

But the voice that replied wasn’t her mother, and hearing the different tone gave Meg a pang of trepidation that something had gone wrong.

“Meg, it’s me, the housekeeper, Miriam. I wanted to tell you something that I’ve just found out.”

“What’s that?” Meg felt cold inside, because the housekeeper sounded severely stressed.

"I've just checked all the alarms and panic buttons. We had a community notice sent out by the police that we should all do that and make sure everything's in working order."

“That’s a good idea,” Meg said. “And was everything in working order?”

“No. It wasn’t. Meg, the panic buttons aren’t working at all. Any of them. I’m getting the technician out right now to fix them. But I thought you should know.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Meg couldn’t budge the cold feeling from the pit of her stomach as she rushed to the coffee shop to meet up with Alex. Anxiety for her mother surged inside her.

She tried to tell herself that it could simply be that the panic buttons had malfunctioned a long time in the past, and that this was coincidental. It might be. Her mother had lived in a state of contented safety for years now. There could simply be a loose wire a failed switch, or some perfectly explicable reason.

But Meg wasn’t going to buy that explanation. She couldn’t, not even if she tried to force herself to. Not now, when women living alone, in the same area, had been deliberately targeted.

Was this to do with the Heritage Society?

She had a feeling that the dots were clear and obvious. It wasn’t difficult to make the connection and to conclude that the Heritage Society had to be involved in whatever was going on.

But why?

She reached the coffee shop, parked, climbed out, and hustled inside, trying her best to clamp down on the anxiety that she might lose another family member to the same gruesome crime – a stabbing.

Was it possible that James’s death was connected to this stabbing?

Meg thought about that for a moment as she hurried up the sidewalk before dismissing the idea as too farfetched. Yes, they were both knife crimes, but the victims in this serial case had been sedated and carefully arranged, after a break in at their homes. As far as Meg knew, only one clean, deep stroke of the knife had been used to kill. Accurately placed – which was easy enough to do if you had resolve, a sharp knife, and a sleeping victim.

James’s murder had involved multiple stab wounds to his chest and midriff, and he’d had a few defensive wounds too, deep slices into his palms as he’d fought for his life and lost.

Nope, two different criminals, and she mustn’t seek out connections where none existed.

These home invasions were all connected, and she was sure that the O’Malleys provided a common thread.

There was Alex, sitting at a table, and Meg hurried over to her.

“Any luck?” Alex asked.

Meg shook her head as she sat down.

“The O’Malleys have tried very hard to stay invisible. I found the farm where they moved to, but that’s recently been sold, and they moved away a few months ago.”

Alex nodded at the news Meg delivered. “You still did better than me. I found nothing – zilch, zero. I don’t know how they managed to stay out of the news, and out of the public eye, while being wealthy landowners and running a strange society. But somehow, they did.”

“My mother’s name opened the door,” Meg admitted. “But I’m not happy that the door has been opened. It seems like it’s stayed closed for a long time. And I found out that my mother’s alarm system has also not been working correctly.”

Alex caught her breath, and then they both fell silent as the waitress arrived with the jug of coffee that Alex must have ordered before Meg got there.

The coffee shop was a tiny, hole in the wall place that was tucked away between a bookstore and a secondhand clothes outlet, in a tiny suburban shopping center. Meg had never been here before. She hadn’t known it existed. Now, sitting at the round, wooden table and looking at the décor on the wall, which featured famous vintage movie posters, she was feeling as if her decision to look into these cases on her own had been a good one, because she was seeing more of Boston than she had for years.

Only now was she realizing how much her world had narrowed. It had been due to many reasons, not all of them within her control, but it had still happened.

And it would happen again if her mother was murdered by this serial killer.

The fact that her mother was being so cagey about the heritage society was a red flag all on its own.

What if she knew something, and was refusing to tell, and she’d end up in danger of being killed for it? That thought filled Meg with horror.

“The O’Malleys obviously moved somewhere, but they kept it a big secret. I guess they might even have moved out of state,” Meg said.

“Well, we can’t go and look in the property records office, because you said that was closed for renovations,” Alex said thoughtfully.

"There's another way we could try," Meg said. "It involves calling my police contact, though. I'm going to need to do that. He has access to a wider range of public records, and he might be able to get a current address if they're still in Massachusetts."

They might not be. They might have moved out of state or even out of the country.

“Do you really want to get the police involved?” Alex said immediately, just as Meg had thought she’d do.

Looking at Alex’s dubious face, Meg wondered again what her reasons really were for wanting this kept away from the police.

“My ex-partner knows I’m investigating cold cases, and he won’t necessarily need reasons if I ask him to look up a record,” Meg reassured her.

She called Gabe. It did feel like a cheat to do so, and not to be able to figure this out for themselves, but Meg reminded herself that Gabe would benefit in the end, when she finally managed to make progress on this case. Then, she’d be able to tell him more.

“What’s up, Meg?” he answered, sounding his usual gravelly voiced self. It was only thanks to long association with him, that Meg could hear the undertone of stress in his voice.

"Are you taking strain, Gabe?" she asked quietly. She didn't have the phone on speaker because she didn't want Alex to overhear the conversation with her friend and ex-investigation partner. Alex scooted her chair back and admired the movie posters, clearly making an effort to show that she wasn't listening into the conversation.

“There’s a lot to do,” Gabe said. “Somehow, there’s a mountain of work here and it’s all landing on my shoulders. I don’t have you to help me – I don’t have anyone, and Whitaker hasn’t yet organized me any other support. I must say, Meg, sometimes I wonder if he’d secretly like me out, too. He’s using every spare moment to placate the decision makers, instead of using it to bring more resources in. Morale has never been lower.”

Meg knew Whitaker had resented her because she was outspoken and tended to be a rebel, and she didn’t fit in with his concept of the tightly run ship that he wanted the police department to be.

But Gabe?

Now that she thought about it, Meg wondered if Gabe had ever fitted into Whitaker’s plan either. Maybe he was too streetwise and too irreverent and too quick to take his own shortcuts, and not quite respectful enough when it came to patently idiotic requests from on high.

“Damn it, Gabe,” she said, recognizing that maybe, Whitaker wanted to remodel his entire operation without either of them there, and now that she’d absorbed the brunt of his efforts, and left as a result, they were all being focused on Gabe.

“It’s stressful,” he said. “Especially since this story is top of the news, and it’s an easy one for people to get involved with. It has all the elements for disaster because of the theft, and the arrangement of the body, and because the victim was so high profile. A woman on her own, someone wealthy, who should be insulated from something like a home invasion – it’s tough.”

Meg felt a pang of guilt. In her efforts to trace the earrings back to the middleman, she hadn’t told Gabe about her recent discovery of the stolen jewelry, and now, that felt unforgivable. Those earrings had been sitting behind the glass in that dusty little shop, and she hadn’t let her police detective friend know where a crucial piece of evidence was.

Why had she done that?

It had partly been because of Alex, but it had also seemed like a wise idea at the time, because she hadn’t known how much the store owner knew about the origin of his own earrings. Even now, Meg didn’t think he knew that they had been obtained during a house robbery where murder had been committed. She was sure the secondhand store owner hadn’t been told that particular detail.

She should tell Gabe now, right now. She should say, “Gabe, go to the secondhand store on South Street, and you’ll find a piece of evidence you’ll need.”

But she didn't. Feeling ashamed of herself and confused by her own decisions, Meg kept quiet about that and simply offered sympathy.

“I’m so sorry that you’ve got so much on your shoulders,” she said.

“I haven’t even been able to get to the case. There are two other serious crimes on the go, and we’re two detectives short, because one’s on leave, and another took a leaf out of your book, and quit. We’re now starting to get serious pressure from the governor and senator and of course, Whitaker is holding me responsible for the lack of progress, while doing nothing to help. So far, I’ve got three appointments lined up with Victoria’s friends and relatives, and I'm heading out to the first of those right now.”

That made sense, Meg thought. Speaking to the close friends might give Gabe the information that was needed to crack the case.

But then, he said something else disturbing.

“If he has time, Whitaker says he’ll meet up with me later.”

Meg took a deep breath. She didn't want to tell Gabe anything that Whitaker would end up finding out. If Whitaker knew that she was also working on the case, he'd be mad at her, and also mad at Gabe. It would be more sensible to let the two of them investigate from a different angle while she pursued this one.

Then, if she found a better chain of evidence, that would be the time to tell Gabe.

This case rested on delicate secrets, and she was tracking a clandestine path, much of it thanks to her mother’s name. The police couldn’t do that, and if they were to get involved too soon, then the fragile thread she was following might snap.

The problem was that having decided not to tell Gabe about the jewelry store, Meg couldn’t in all conscience ask him for a favor that was going to take more of his time. Especially since he was about to head out.

She’d need to find another way to get what she needed without burdening her already pressured partner.

“I’m also working on it my side,” she said. “The minute I have anything concrete, I’ll let you know. I am making some progress.”

That was the best she could do.

“Good luck,” he rumbled, and Meg put the phone down feeling temporarily discouraged, and ashamed.

“He was busy,” she said. “I didn’t want to ask him for additional information when there’s another way we might be able to get it.”

“And what’s that?” Alex asked.

Good question. For a moment, Meg felt at a loss. And then, suddenly, she thought of a possibility. O'Malley. That was a distinctive Irish last name. And from what she'd heard about Sean's strange comings and goings and his lack of involvement in the community, she had an inkling he might be involved in something criminal.

If so, then she had a contact who might have crossed paths with them.

“I don’t want to tell you now, but if it does work out, then we’ll both know soon.”

That was the most she could say right now.

She paid for the coffee – managing to get the whole bill before Alex could argue. And then, she packed up her laptop bag and headed out of the coffee shop.

Where she was going now, Alex couldn’t come with her. Meg knew she needed to go alone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Loud music blared from the quaint Irish pub on the corner of an upscale suburban development in a fashionable suburb of Boston, even though it was only lunchtime. The Clover, it was called, and it had a sign with a four leaf clover and a pint of Guinness.

Meg didn't recognize any of the folk tunes played in this traditional-style pub. But she knew that the owner chose them because they were quaint and unremarkable, and they made the pub seem authentic.

He’d told her that before, a few years ago, in a secret meeting that she’d had with him in the office at the back. It had been a good meeting. Meg had gotten the information she’d needed from him, although it had taken some hard bargaining and a few threats.

Now, she was heading in again to see Mr. Sullivan.

She walked through the door, adjusting her ears to the louder blare of the merry folk tunes that were playing at full volume. The place was draped in green, with Irish landscape pictures and four-leaf clovers and leprechauns on each table, with lights set in their hoods.

The pub itself was doing a roaring trade, with pints of Guinness being pulled, and pies and mash being ferried from the kitchen to the tables, fragrant aromas wafting behind them.

Meg nodded to the barmaid, who clearly recognized her from the last time she'd come in with Sullivan himself. Then, without asking permission, she headed to the green-painted wooden door at the side of the bar, which was set so flush with the wall it was almost invisible. She pushed it open and headed quietly inside, closing it behind her.

The door was more soundproof than it looked, and instantly, the music faded, becoming little more than a background melody as Meg headed down the narrow passage that led to the offices at the back of the pub. This was where the real business happened. Not at the front – which the owner, Sullivan, had admitted was just that – a front.

He was at his desk in his office, which was protected by a glass security door that Meg knew was bulletproof. He saw movement and his head jerked up. He’d been working at his desk, his balding head bent over some paperwork. Then, she saw his face, which always reminded her a little of a court jester with its quirky expression. It changed from tense to cheerful, and he pressed the button under the desk that allowed the door to open. Only once Meg was inside did she see the bulky bodyguard sitting in the corner, his firearm at the ready on his hip.

“Meg Thorne.” Sullivan got up from his desk and walked around to meet her, taking her in with that casual expression that fooled a lot of people. Meg knew him better, and she saw the sharp intensity of his gaze, and the way that he checked her out, immediately clocking whether she had a weapon on her.

“I heard you left the force,” he said. He waved to a chair on the opposite side of the desk, and she sat.

“Yes,” she said. “Early retirement, but I’m keeping myself busy investigating a few things.”

“Is that so?” he asked. He picked up a pen and twiddled it between his fingers, which were slim and nimble and always made her think of a pickpocket.

“I know you know a lot of what goes on behind the scenes,” she said, the words unnecessary, but just a reminder that she knew his status.

He had been involved in crime syndicates in the past, but had fled the mean streets of his old stamping ground and come here to open a pub and start up afresh. He claimed to be retired from a life of crime, but he still dabbled in those activities, Meg knew. They were relatively minor in the eyes of the law compared to what organized crime usually involved. He’d sometimes assist in the transportation or storage of stolen goods. He’d occasionally provide a vehicle for laundering stolen money.

He was well-connected, but he'd never been a big hitter. He didn't deal in drugs, he didn't deal in women, and surprisingly, the leprechaun of a man had told Meg in the past, "I don't kill people. Nobody deserves to die. If we can't be clever enough to do a job without hurting someone, then we don't do the job."

Even so, Meg didn’t know if she believed him. She guessed the truth was that she wanted to believe him. And he was an excellent source of information on other gangs, and other criminals – and if they were violent, then he was prepared to share the information with the police, in exchange for them not digging too deeply into his activities.

It was a morally gray area, and Meg had to admit, the first time she’d sat down in front of him, she’d felt as if she had a huge conflict of interest. Really, she should be bringing this man in. But they had nothing on him. All they had was hearsay. And he had information they needed – so it was better to take it, and to make the decision not to spend valuable resources staking him out for weeks in the hopes of catching him in the act of something.

“So, you leaving the police is a loss to them. A gain to criminals.” Maybe he was referring to himself. He always spoke obliquely. Meg was very aware of that bodyguard, sitting at an angle where she couldn’t really see him without turning her head. It made her cautious.

“Well, thank you,” she said.

“A little Guinness? Just a sip?” he asked.

That had been the cue last time for the bodyguard to leave and to bring back two half-pints of the dark, white-topped brew. She didn't really like Guinness, but some things had to be done for the sake of politeness – and information.

“I’d love a half pint,” she said, and he nodded.

“Get us two, will you?” he asked.

The bodyguard got up and headed out, walking surprisingly quietly for a big, muscle-bound man.

“So. What brings you here?” His eyes were intense.

"I was hoping that you might have some information for me. I need to know where someone lives – and also if they've been in any trouble before. Or if they get into trouble."

“Interesting question,” he said. “Who’s the man?”

“It’s a father and son team. The O’Malleys,” Meg said.

As soon as she spoke the name, she saw his face change. Those elfin eyebrows rose, and his expressive mouth twisted.

“Never heard of them,” he said automatically.

“Really?” Meg pushed.

Then, Sullivan sighed. “I’ve heard of them, but they’re a secretive family. They keep their business to themselves. Our paths have seldom crossed. You want to know more about them – why?”

"I'm helping out with a case that might be related or involve them," Meg said.

Again, Sullivan’s eyes narrowed, and she had the distinct impression that he was weighing up the pros and cons of telling her everything that he knew, but that he hadn’t quite made the decision to commit to it all yet.

“You need to be more specific than that,” he challenged her. “I’m trusting you. Where’s your trust in me?”

Meg hesitated, because this might lead back to her mother. But she didn’t have to mention her mother’s name. She could start right at the beginning.

“There’s a home invasion and stabbing that’s made headlines, near Cambridge Park. That’s what the police are working on,” she said quickly, deciding not to mention the other, linked, cold cases that stretched back years.

“Ah, that,” he said, and gave a brief nod.

“I’ll have to get back to you on their business,” he said. “I have some questions to ask.” He stared at her in an assessing way. “I think I know someone who can help with the address. I’ll make a few calls.”

Meg sat back in her chair while Sullivan got on the phone, speaking in his strongly accented Irish accent. A lot of the conversations seemed to be conducted in a type of cypher-speak. Meg was sure, for example, that he wasn't really asking whoever he was speaking to now, how their flower arranging was going. That was code for something else.

She waited, knowing that it would do no harm to listen, because with her sitting there, Sullivan wouldn’t let slip anything that she could use in other ways.

And, after the third conversation, he hung up looking satisfied.

“Still no answer on the scope of the criminal activities. I’ll need more time there. But I have an address for you. They sold up that farm and they moved to a rented penthouse in town. Smart place, very fancy. Very expensive. That’s where they are now.”

He pushed a piece of paper toward her, with an address written in his inky scrawl.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

This was going to be a stakeout. Meg didn’t want to go in with guns blazing until she had more information on the O’Malley’s criminal activities, and also, exactly who occupied their penthouse. So, for the time being, she was parked a block away from the penthouse, taking a casual walk around it to check it out.

It was a big, spacious building that occupied four floors. There were smaller luxury apartments on the lower floors, and Meg guessed that the spacious penthouse occupied the whole of the top floor.

The windows were either darkly tinted, or had their blinds drawn, but she could see that the house was occupied. As she watched, a set of blinds was pulled up and another was lowered. If only she could see inside, but the angle, and the depth of the tinted glass, made it impossible. What were they up to? Who was inside right now?

She had decided not to involve Alex in this step of the investigation, although she’d told her what she was doing, and Alex was standing by in case she was needed. But scoping out a building where criminals resided was an art form, and it was easy to make mistakes.

Meg knew exactly how casual she needed to appear as she strolled along the road before turning the corner and heading down the cross street. This was where she might find the parking. That was going to be useful, especially since the neighbor out in the small farming area had mentioned big black SUVs.

There they were. Glancing through the fence, Meg could see the private parking lot, with all the cars parked under a concrete overhang. There were two big, black SUVs right at the end of the row, which Meg guessed would align with the apartment numbers. She took a look at the vanity plates, seeing that they read “OM1” and “OM2”

OM – O’Malley. So those were their cars.

As Meg walked back again, wondering if there was a better vantage point to be had higher up, perhaps on the next street, she heard the echoing slam of a car door, and looked around.

The brakes of OM2 were flashing red, and as she watched, the large vehicle reversed out of its bay.

One of the O’Malleys was on the move. That might give her the chance to find out more.

If it was the father, she guessed he’d have an assistant with him. If it was the son, who knew?

Meg strode back to her own car, not looking at the road, covering the ground as swiftly as possible. Just as she reached her car, the dark SUV swept past, heading for the main road.

As fast as she could, Meg scrambled inside, started up, and headed out.

She hadn’t tailed anyone for a while, but the rule book was fresh in her mind as she settled into the traffic, following at a discreet distance. There was a car in between her and the big SUV, which was useful. The size of the car also made it easy to spot. Its glossy black presence dominated the road as it cruised along.

The SUV turned right, and so did Meg.

It climbed up into hilly suburbia, driving purposefully along narrow and winding roads, and Meg hung back. She didn't want to be too visible in the rearview mirror, although it was difficult as the roads got quieter. This wasn't a neighborhood she was very familiar with, and she couldn't risk getting too far back.

This was a neighborhood much like Cambridge Park itself, although not as expensive or exclusive. However, it wasn’t too far away in terms of distance. Meg’s heart quickened as she considered that fact. Her mother’s house was probably a mile away, up a separate, winding network of roads.

Was he casing out another wealthy victim?

As she had the thought, the SUV’s brake lights flashed suddenly, causing Meg to hit the brakes herself. He was pulling over, parking on the grassy sidewalk, and that meant Meg had to drive past, looking firmly ahead, and turn the corner, getting out of sight as soon as she could.

She stopped the car under a tree on the next street corner, and breathed out, letting her tension ease. That hadn’t been a difficult chase, but it had felt more pressurized than any she’d done before, because she’d been on her own, without police support, with no backup.

Yup, it made it all different.

Climbing out of the car and quietly closing the door, Meg headed back.

She rounded the corner just in time to see that a man who looked in his early forties was at the front door of the house he’d stopped outside. He was wearing a stylish leather jacket, gray chinos, and he had a pair of sunglasses pushed up onto the top of his short, pale blond hair.

This must be Sean O’Malley, the son who was now the chairman of the Heritage Society.

Who would come to the door?

If Sean looked round now, she was in trouble. Meg lowered her head and focused on where she was going, while stealing glances at the home's front door. It was a well-kept, large mansion with rose bushes filling the front garden. The white-painted door was closed – but as she passed it, it opened, and she heard a woman's voice.

Standing at the door was a red-haired woman at the door. She had long, copper locks, she wore a shimmering silver tunic over a pair of dark leggings, and she was probably in her thirties, and something about her demeanor told Meg that she wasn’t pleased to see O’Malley on her front doorstep.

Sean headed inside, and the door slammed shut, but not before Meg had heard the woman’s voice, raised in anger.

Was there going to be a confrontation playing out in the house?

She crossed the road, feeling conflicted with every step she took, because this could land her in trouble for trespassing at worst – or else, O’Malley would see her lurking around, which was almost as bad.

Even so, deciding that the information was worth the risk, Meg headed through the garden gate and up the path to the front door.

Once there, she listened intently. Were they having that argument in the entrance hall, or had this woman invited Sean O’Malley somewhere to sit down?

She could hear raised voices from behind the door. Nobody was sitting down. The anger in the woman’s tone was evident, and it prickled Meg’s skin as she listened.

The woman was screaming now. Meg heard the words rising in a crescendo, the soundwaves blasting through the door.

“Get out! Get the hell out! Now!”

That conversation hadn’t taken long. She’d expected that he’d be there for far longer, and definitely hadn’t imagined that things would turn so acrimonious so fast.

Meg’s heart pounded as she realized that she was now in an exposed position, outside the front door, and with nowhere to hide.

And at that moment, from the inside, she heard the door rattle.

Sean O’Malley was leaving.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Meg ran for it. She leaped down the porch stairs, flung herself to the right, and fled through the rose garden in the opposite direction from where O’Malley had parked. A thorn snagged her shirt, ripping it, but she barely noticed as she rushed for the wall of the house.

There was another enraged scream, and as Meg dove for safety around the edge of the house, she heard Sean O’Malley’s voice in reply. The tone sounded taunting, and the laugh he let out was mocking. As she huddled against the wall, trying her best to be quiet, Meg hoped that both of them had been so involved with that argument that they hadn’t had time to notice her.

She heard the distinctive, expensive ‘thunk’ of the door opening, and then, the growl of the engine as the SUV sped away. Cringing flat against the wall, she tried to scope out her own hiding place, taking note of the neighboring windows that overlooked this spot, and wondering if she’d been unlucky.

A shout might expose her. The twitch of a curtain would show that she’d been noticed.

There was nothing from the neighboring window, but it wasn't over yet. Where was the dark-haired woman that he'd been speaking to?

Meg hadn’t heard the front door close again, and she wasn’t going to move until she heard that sound.

Listening out, she finally heard it.

It closed with a loud slam.

Now, was the woman inside or out?

Hearing no footsteps, Meg peeked around the edge of the wall again. The garden was quiet, the front door closed, and there was no sign of activity at the house at all.

What on earth had happened there? That situation had exploded, and then abruptly ended, and Meg wondered what the fight had been about.

Had the woman known that O’Malley was going to come calling?

Who was she?

She headed back, weaving her way through the rose garden, knowing with a prickle of her spine that if the woman happened to be looking out, she’d see her now.

Maybe now was a good time to talk to her?

Meg headed to the front door, not knowing whether she was doing something sensible or incredibly stupid, as she lifted the knocker and brought it down with a bang.

No answer.

Maybe this woman thought it was O’Malley himself, coming back again to continue the fight?

Meg waited, feeling tension thrumming through her as she listened out for any sounds inside. But there were none.

With a sigh, she turned. Bad timing. So soon after that screaming fight, the copper-haired woman wasn't answering the door for anyone.

And O’Malley had gone. Meg thought he’d driven in the direction of the main road.

It was too late to follow him, but perhaps she could find out the copper-haired woman's name.

Hoping that this time, a confrontation with the neighbors would end well, Meg headed to the house next door – the one who wasn’t within sight of the rose garden – and knocked on the door.

She waited a few minutes, and when it was opened, she saw she was face to face with a petite, gray-haired retiree. A gorgeous flower arrangement graced the hall, and the smell of fragrant petals wafted from the woman herself, so Meg was going to guess that this was what she was spending her golden years doing.

"Good afternoon," she said. "I have a question. I'm not sure if I'm in the right place. Do you know the name of the people who live next door?" She gestured toward the house where the copper-haired woman lived.

The florist nodded. “Yes, that’s Elizabeth Morton’s house. She doesn’t own it, but she rents it, and has done for the past few years. Has people sharing from time to time, but they never seem to last very long.”

“Ah,” Meg said, pleased by this tidbit of information. “And Elizabeth? Does she often have visitors, or get into any trouble?”

She hoped that she might be able to tempt this chatty woman into a moment of idle gossip, but to her disappointment, the woman shook her head.

“She doesn’t socialize much at home, though she’s always out and about,” she explained.

“Thank you,” Meg said.

There was still far too much of this that was a mystery, and Meg wished she knew what her next step should be.

What had Sean O’Malley been doing there?

Where had he gone afterward? Maybe that was another good question to ask.

But when Meg returned to her car and retraced her steps back to that glamorously historic apartment building, she didn’t see his car back in the penthouse parking space that he’d recently left.

Parked outside the apartment building, Meg didn’t know. But she didn’t want to show up back at the building, when Sean had seen her car drive past him on the road, earlier, outside Elizabeth’s house.

Maybe Alex could take over now – just to watch?

Meg called her, feeling conflicted about asking her at all, but deciding that they needed to start tracking O’Malley’s movements, in case he was planning another murder.

“How did it go?” Alex picked up, sounding eager and breathless, just a moment after the call connected.

“The O’Malleys are living in a penthouse apartment. I’ll send you the pin drop. Sean O’Malley recently left, and I followed him out. He went and had a confrontation with a woman that he seemed to know, and now, I don’t know where he is. Do you want to watch the place, and we can at least keep track of when he comes back?”

“Get a picture of his movements?” Alex sounded enthusiastic about that. “Good idea. I’ll come by now.”

“I’m going to leave now,” Meg said. “I’m worried that he might have noticed my car at the end of the tail when I followed him. I don’t want him to see it again. And please, be careful. Whoever he is, and whatever he’s doing, he might be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful,” Alex replied, sounding somber.

As Meg drove away, pondering what her next step should be, her phone rang.

Answering it, she saw it was her criminal connection, Sullivan.

“Well, hello there, ex-Detective Thorne,” he said, and Meg could hear the note of glee in his voice as he said the word ‘ex’. “I have some information for you on your Irish friend.”

“What have you found out?” Meg asked.

“I found out they’re in the process of leaving the country. Wrapping a few things up, I understand. I’m not sure what business they were involved in, but most of it is definitely illegal. They’ve been involved in corruption, and blackmail, and extortion, and money laundering. Those are the things I’ve heard whispers of so far. Also, he pays other people to do his dirty work. He has a team of thugs that swings into action on his behalf, so he keeps his hands clean.”

“Thanks,” Meg said. Sullivan had just confirmed that O’Malley was the most dangerous type of criminal – one she had hated trying to pin down during her career. The guys at the top who paid others to do their dirty work were notoriously hard to arrest. That prompted another question. “Do you know if he’s got a record? I mean, Sean O’Malley himself?”

Gabe would know, but Sullivan would also know – and faster.

“I believe he has been arrested in the past,” Sullivan said. “But it was clearly never taken further. Money is so influential, you know. It could be that he managed to wriggle out of any charges, so your friends who are still in the police might not know him at all.”

“I appreciate you telling me this,” Meg said.

“One other thing, in case you need it,” Sullivan said in a meaningful way.

“What’s that?” Meg asked.

"He likes his nightlife, his strip clubs, his girls. He's out almost every night, I believe. The man's a real player. So, if you wanted to catch him doing drugs or anything illegal – that might be the best time to do it."

“Thanks,” Meg said.

“Otherwise, I can’t help you. I did hear a few more things, but unfortunately, I can’t repeat them.”

She was grateful for what she’d gotten from Sullivan. He wouldn’t reveal his sources, and she didn’t want to push for further details. That might breach the strange agreement they had. It was enough for her to know that this man was involved in criminal activities.

Theft of jewelry hadn’t been mentioned by Sullivan, and nor had murder, which meant Meg still wasn’t sure if Sean O’Malley had orchestrated these murders, and if he had, what his motive was.

Sullivan's information wouldn't be wrong, but it presented Meg with a challenge because she didn't have enough detail.

Feeling anxious all over again about her mother’s safety, Meg decided that she was going to drive around there and see what was happening for herself. If she was lucky, she might even arrive at the same time as the alarm repair person. Then, she could find out more about the cause of the damage – and whether it was really sabotage.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When Meg pulled up outside the gates of her mother's home, she realized she'd hit a double-lucky jackpot. There was a repair van parked in the driveway, and also, the white Lexus that her mother's driver used was just pulling into the garage.

That meant her mother might be home, and if so, Meg wasn’t going to take no for an answer, or any of her mother’s politely evasive replies.

She climbed out and hustled up to the front door.

It was ajar, and in the entrance hall, Meg saw an arrangement of fresh flowers, bright and colorful, had been delivered. Yup, floral deliveries. Part of the society she’d grown up in, and one of the rituals that mystified her.

The banging from the kitchen area told Meg that the repairs were happening here. She headed through, to see the housemaid hovering at the kitchen door, and an overalled technician inside. He'd stripped a few wires at the electrical box and was now making a repair.

“Good afternoon,” Meg said.

The housemaid, clearly on the edge of her nerves, jumped at Meg’s voice. She spun around.

“Oh, Mrs. Thorne, I’m glad to see you. We’ve just been troubleshooting the problem.”

“And what is the problem?” Meg headed into the kitchen, looking at the electrical board where the technician was working.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, straightening up from his crouched position and giving her a respectful nod, “I’ve found two wires detached from their source, and I’m busy re-inserting them now. Once that’s done, this should all be fine.”

“And the wires themselves?” Meg asked. “How did they detach in the first place?”

He shook his head. “I can’t say. There are signs that they burned out, which might have been due to an electrical short, but I know everyone in the area is aware of sabotage right now, and I’ve been fixing units at two other homes this morning where they’ve asked me if that was the cause.”

He was speaking rapidly and enthusiastically, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin as he explained.

Meg nodded, feeling glad that he was on board with the possible reasons.

“And is sabotage likely to be the cause?” she asked.

"The problem is that many of these alarm systems were badly installed," he said. "That makes it difficult to say whether it was intentional sabotage or simply a problem that would have occurred down the line. The same company installed a lot of local alarm systems, and I believe they're no longer in business. We've been fixing alarms in this area for a few months now, and I must say, I've seen a lot of shoddy workmanship and jobs that haven't been correctly finished. So it might be that. I hate talking badly about the competition, but the fact is that they are out of business now, and I've seen a lot of problems here."

“Do you know if they installed the alarm system at the murder victim’s house – Victoria Hammond?” she asked.

“No. From what I heard, that was done by a different company, and it was definitely sabotaged.”

Meg nodded. She had to accept that there wouldn’t be an easy answer to her mother’s situation. At least it would now be fixed.

“I’ve explained to your helper what to look out for in terms of damage here at the box,” the technician said. “And I’m advising all my clients to test the buttons weekly. Even more frequently if you feel unsafe. It’s better to do extra testing than to have a problem in an emergency, right?”

Meg agreed with that.

He went back to work, and hearing her mother’s voice from the living room, Meg headed that way.

Her mother was relaxing back on her comfortable armchair, the seat she loved far more than any of the other plush, antique furnishings. She brightened when she saw Meg.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you earlier,” she said. “I was in a rush, and already late for my meeting.”

“Well,” Meg said, “I’m here now, and seeing you have some spare time, I thought we could have a chat about the Heritage Society. Because I’ve been following the trail, and from what I’ve seen, this society isn’t doing good things.”

Her mother stared at her, and Meg saw a definite look of evasion in her eyes as her gaze then swung right to one of the oil paintings on the walls.

“My darling, I really don’t know. Like I said, I was only tangentially involved with it, even when it was at its most active.”

"But you heard something?" Meg pushed. "There must have been something you heard about it. Why is it so secretive, and why was the owner so hard to trace, and why won't you tell me who any of the other members are? You must know. Dad went to golf days, you went to socials. You could probably take a deep breath and give me ten names straight off the bat."

She stared at her mother, whose lips were pressed together. She was fiddling with her rings, her hands clasped in her lap. Meg knew from experience that her mother liked to do that when she was feeling tense or uneasy.

“You know, I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“Just three names,” Meg said. “Please, give me three names. Mom, your alarm was broken. You could be at risk. I need to know more about this society.”

Eventually, her mother let out a little sigh.

“Debbie Parsons was a member for years, and a good friend of mine,” she said eventually, with extreme reluctance. “You can ask her for more information, I suppose, but don’t tell her that I asked you. I don’t want to be involved. Really, Meg.” Her mother sighed, and then, to Meg’s surprise, she added, “I should never say this. I promised myself I wouldn’t, because it might not be wise. But the society does have layers, and there are inner layers that we never got invited to. Others did, and we heard about it. We were always advised that we shouldn’t speak about it, and that what happened in the society has to remain secret. There’s a good reason for that. Be careful.”

***

Meg left her mother’s place feeling even more perplexed than she had done – but at least she had a name. Debbie Parsons. With that name in mind, Meg thought she also remembered a face. Debbie had been plump, friendly, with gorgeous blond hair, immaculately tinted and curled, and she liked wearing jewelry. When Meg had been younger, she’d been fascinated by the beauty of Debbie’s colorful necklaces, bracelets and earrings, that were made from gold and studded with precious stones.

She decided to look up Debbie’s number as soon as possible, preferably in the next few minutes, and go straight there. But, as she headed down the road, that idea was derailed by a call from Gabe.

His gravelly voice sounded even darker and grainier than it had done, and Meg knew immediately that something was very wrong.

“Gabe, what’s up?”

“I wanted to give you a heads-up, just in case this means anything to you,” Gabe said. “But we’ve just had a call-out for a suicide. It’s in the area where the other murders have been, so I wanted you to know.”

The words felt like a knife in the heart.

“Do you have any information on it?” Meg said, feeling even guiltier now that she hadn’t told Gabe about the earrings.

“Nothing as yet, but I’ve got the victim’s name. She’s Elizabeth Morton.”

Meg felt her heart pounding even harder now.

Elizabeth Morton?

That was the house where Sean O’Malley had stopped, and had the massive argument inside. Meg had knocked on the door straight afterward, and there had been no answer.

Had Sean somehow caused this? Had he murdered her and made it look like a suicide? That was her first frantic thought.

Meg tried her best to think back on the timeline, but her memories were piecemeal because she’d had to make such a hurried escape herself. She’d dived behind the wall as Sean had made his exit, and now, Meg couldn’t remember whether that front door had slammed before or after he’d strode down the garden path.

Replaying what she’d heard in her mind, she decided it would be impossible to tell.

“Gabe, please update me on that when you know more,” she said. This was getting deeper and darker than she’d ever expected. She was the only witness who’d seen O’Malley arriving. And if the police spoke to that nosy neighbor, then she might reveal that Meg herself had been at her own front door at around the time of the crime, asking specific questions about Elizabeth Morton.

That could land her in a lot of trouble.

Meg agonized again over whether she should tell Gabe that O’Malley had been knocking on Elizabeth’s door just before her death.

Maybe now was the time to hand the pieces of the case over to her poor, overworked ex-partner, even though they were still in a fragmented state, and she couldn’t see how they fitted together.

On the other hand, if she worked at it just a little longer, then perhaps she'd have more to give him. And Gabe was very overworked. Meg had more time and more flexibility, and she'd be able to move faster.

At that moment, Gabe’s radio crackled, while she was on the phone to him, and he added, “More news coming through now. Looks like it was an overdose death.”

“Overdose?” Meg felt blindsided all over again by that shock.

If it was a genuine overdose, then it must have been, because that fight she’d overheard had been too loud, intense and sudden for it to have involved Sean O’Malley forcing anyone to take an excessive amount of pills.

She listened, feeling numb with shock, as Gabe updated her.

"Apparently she called a friend in a state, crying and incoherent. The friend got there as soon as she could, but it was too late. She was already unconscious, and she flatlined on the way to the hospital. The friend has no idea what this is about, but she did say that apparently Elizabeth had been having relationship issues in the past."

Maybe that past had turned into the present when O’Malley had turned up at her door?

“I’m so sorry, Gabe,” Meg said.

“This is turning into a crappy day, that’s for sure,” he agreed.

“Did she leave a note?”

“I believe it was scrawled, and along the lines of ‘sorry, I can’t take it anymore’. We’re going to ask the friend if she knows whether that might mean anything specific. Right, I’ve gotta go. About to arrive at the scene.”

“I’ll be in touch soon.”

She hung up, feeling strangely guilty and utterly perplexed about the meeting she’d seen. Would it have helped if she’d intervened at the time – rushed up and barged her way into the conversation and demanded to know what was happening?

Unfortunately, Meg didn’t think it would have helped. All it would have done would have been to make Sean O’Malley furious, and showing him that she existed. With his propensity for hiring other people to do his dirty work, that would have been a very bad move, and Meg – and her family – would have been at risk.

Nope, that wasn’t going to work. The best solution would be to find out from O’Malley himself what was happening.

Of course, he wouldn’t tell her willingly.

That meant Meg needed another idea.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"You're not in the police any longer," she muttered as she headed out to Debbie Parsons' address. Finally, an address that she'd been able to locate. Debbie was listed in the local directory. She lived in a small, but high-end, gated residential complex just outside of town.

"What can you think of now that you're not in the police? What ideas do you have? You've got limitations, sure. But you've also got more scope. And you've got an assistant – or an accomplice."

How could she use her assets?

Meg knew that the bolder the plan, the more likely it was that she’d get into trouble with the law if she was found out. She was going to have to break the law, and the only question was how?

Breaking into the O’Malleys’ apartment came to mind. Maybe there’d be information in there.

The only problem with that idea was that the apartment was occupied by the O'Malley family, and there were likely to be people there all the time. Plus, every crime boss had his own place, armed and guarded. Meg wasn't Superwoman. Hell, she was battling to prepare for the triathlon that was now just three weeks away. She couldn't do things like shimmy up a drainpipe to the fourth floor, scramble through an unguarded window and find the secret room where he kept his records without them finding her.

Nope, that was the stuff of fantasy, but maybe this next stop would tell her more. At the moment, knowledge was power.

Meg signed in at the gate, and then headed inside the secure community, which covered a couple of blocks of well-groomed yards, neat roads, and densely packed houses. Debbie lived at number three Sycamore Avenue, which was parallel to the main road that ran through the estate.

She turned left and headed up the well-treed road until she found the house she needed. Debbie lived on a corner property, and her white-painted house was small and neat. Also, it was occupied.

Meg’s lucky streak was finally gaining traction, because Debbie was out in the garden, with a gardener, pointing out some beds that needed maintenance.

Meg parked on the sidewalk, and waited, staying out of Debbie’s sight until she’d finished giving her instructions.

Debbie was tall and long-limbed, and even though Meg estimated she must be in her seventies, she didn’t look it. Her hair was dyed strawberry blond, her face was relatively unlined, and she was wearing trendily ripped jeans that even Meg didn’t think she’d have dared to own, never mind wear.

As soon as the gardening instructions were wrapped up, and Debbie had turned toward the house, Meg scrambled from the car and hotfooted it up the short garden path, intersecting with Debbie at the front door.

“I’m not sure if you remember me,” she said by way of introduction. “I’m Meg Thorne.”

“Oh, Meg. Of course I remember you. How’s your mother doing?” Debbie sounded younger than her years, as well. She opened the front door and let Meg walk in ahead of her.

The house was cool after the warm sunniness of the afternoon, and the entrance hall was light and bright, with a white hall table and striped blue and white wallpaper, and an ornate mirror.

“Turn left into the living room,” Debbie said, closing and locking the front door immediately. This action told Meg that she must have heard about the murders. Did she feel especially at risk, or was this simply a precaution?

The living room was also light, white and bright. Meg took a seat on a pale blue armchair while Debbie sat on the side of the couch closest to her.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

She had the same practiced charm that Meg’s mother possessed. She guessed they’d learned it from the same rulebook in the same society.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Meg didn’t see any sense in hedging around the subject. Not when there had just been a murder and a suicide within two days of each other. She needed to get straight to the point, so she did.

“I want to know about the Cambridge Park Heritage Society,” she said. “I need to know the truth about it. What really happens there. It’s urgent. People are being killed.”

Watching Debbie as she spoke, Meg saw her words were having an effect. Debbie was looking shocked, her face tense, her gaze suddenly not resting on Meg in that polite way, but darting around the room.

“The Society?” she echoed, buying time.

“I need to know what it’s really about.”

“I can’t tell you that.” Debbie’s voice was totally different now. “Meg, I hoped I’d moved away from that when my husband died.”

“Was he a member?”

Debbie hesitated, her pink-manicured fingers clutching the arm of the couch as her hunted eyes roamed. Meg stared at her, pinning her with her gaze, hoping that her demeanor was convincing Debbie that she wasn’t going to leave without answers.

“He was a member,” Debbie admitted. “We were members. Most people were. It was the way society was at the time.”

“And?” Meg encouraged.

“I know there was more to it,” Debbie admitted, the words coming out in a rush.

“Did your husband get involved in the ‘more’ – whatever that was?” Meg pressured her.

Debbie shook her head. “I don’t know what it was. And Jeff, my husband, was a very good man.” Now, her gaze softened, and Meg thought she’d traveled far back in the past. “One day, he came back from a game of golf, and he mentioned that something weird had happened,” she said reflectively. “I’m trying to remember the details, because that must have been thirty years ago, but I do remember that it was disturbing.”

“What was it?” Meg asked in an encouraging way, as Debbie frowned.

“He said that after the game, Mr. O – that was the chairman at the time, Mr. O’Malley – asked him if he’d like to attend a special meeting.”

Meg nodded, taking this in. The Mr. O that Debbie was referring to must have been Mr. O’Malley senior, not the younger, blonder son who’d been having a screaming fight with Elizabeth shortly before she killed herself.

“And did he give any details?” Meg asked.

“That was the strange thing,” Debbie remembered. “He didn’t give details. He just said that Jeff had been specially chosen, and he’d like him to come along to it. It was late at night – at about nine p.m., and it was at O’Malley’s house. He was unsure about it, and in the end he decided not to go. I think one of the reasons was that it was so late, and another was that O’Malley said that he shouldn’t tell me about it.”

“He shouldn’t tell you, his wife?”

“Yes. So of course, my husband did tell me, and we discussed it, and we agreed that it was probably something seedy, and that he’d be better off not getting involved. So he never attended that meeting, and from that time onward, Mr. O never mentioned it again. It was as if that invitation had never existed. However, he noticed that he didn’t get invited to some of the dinners and events that he’d been invited to in the past. He joked that it was like a test which he’d failed.”

Meg was avidly curious to know what would have happened if the husband had attended the meeting. Maybe it would have been just a seedy evening with hookers – or maybe it would have been something more. At any rate, Jeff – whom she now admired for taking a stand – had told his wife and had rejected the invitation. But Meg was sure that an offer like that, given by one of the richest and most powerful people in that society – would have had a lot of takers. There might have been a surprising number of people involved in this inner society, and it seemed that it was a men-only enclave.

“Did anyone else ever mention it?” she asked Debbie.

Debbie shook her head. “We never heard another whisper about it. And Jeff was the kind of person that if he turned down an offer like that, he would never follow up on it or mention it again. He decided that it was wrong for him and for our life, and he was able to put it out of his mind for good. He was an incredible man,” she said sadly.

“I really appreciate what you’ve told me,” Meg said, standing up. “I won’t take up any more of your time, but if you remember any other details, or you know of anyone that you suspect might have been a member, please tell me.”

“I will,” Debbie promised.

Meg stood up and headed out.

She was getting back into her car when her phone rang. It was Alex calling, and she picked up quickly, hoping that Alex had managed to make more progress than she’d done herself.

But Alex sounded breathless and scared.

“Someone tried to get me, Meg,” she said, in a high, breathless voice.

“Get you? How?”

“He literally tried to grab me from my car when I was parked near the penthouse. I just managed to get away. This thug followed me, and I drove like hell, and now, I’m parked in a basement lot, in the shopping center where we had coffee. I think he’s still looking for me. And I’m scared.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Meg flattened her foot as she raced along the main road. If only she had a siren to clear the way. She braked hard as she saw the snarl-up ahead at the traffic light.

She’d told Alex to get out of her car and get into the center, and to go somewhere that was busy. Safety in numbers, although sometimes, crowds didn’t help, and would simply look on in shock as the worst happened.

Hopefully, she’d had time to do that, but Meg knew there might not have been enough time.

She wasn’t too far away now. Just a couple of minutes, and she’d be at the center.

What the hell had happened?

Reaching the shopping center, Meg bypassed the basement parking, instead choosing to park outside on the street. She jumped out, taking note of the traffic flow around her, looking out for any suspicious vehicles, because she didn't know how many people were on the chase. Alex had mentioned one. There might be more. But although the center was busy, she couldn't see anyone idling along and casing out the center. No cars with deeply tinted windows.

Heading to the entrance, she got on the phone and called Alex, praying that she’d answer, and that she’d be okay.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m in the clothes shop next to the grocery store.”

There it was, ahead of her. Meg clocked the passers-by as she headed that way, looking again for anyone suspicious, a thug type, the kind of hired muscle that she guessed the O’Malleys might use.

She saw one man who prickled her instincts – a big, muscular guy wearing a black shirt and gray pants, who was striding along, looking watchfully around him. Was he the person who’d followed Alex?

Meg made a beeline for the clothing store, wanting to get in there as fast as possible so that if the thug detoured that way, she could try to manage the situation.

She saw him glance in the direction of the store, and then walk on, as she hustled inside.

Although there were a few customers in the store, browsing around the clothing rails, she didn’t see Alex, and her stomach twisted as she wondered if something had already happened to her.

But then, she saw her, half crouched down behind a rail of dresses, peeking around them to watch the store door.

“This way.”

Meg grabbed a dark jacket off the rail, and headed for the change rooms.

Once the door was closed behind them, she got her first proper look at Alex. She looked pale and terrified. She was still shaking. Meg could see the tremor in her hands.

“Okay,” she said. “Breathe. Slowly now. Tell me what happened.”

“I was staking out the place. They must have seen me looking that way, and decided I was a threat, because the next thing, this guy knocked on my window. He was big, tough looking, with a shaven head.”

That was the thug she'd seen prowling the center. So, he was still around and on the lookout for her.

“I wound the window down a couple of inches,” Alex continued, “and he grabbed it and tried to get his hand in and force it all the way down. It all happened so suddenly, and I just panicked. I managed to twist his fingers and get to my ignition, and I started up and drove off. He pulled out some of my hair – he was trying to grab my jacket.”

She raised a shaking hand to her head as Meg gave her soothing encouragement.

“You did so well. That was exactly the right thing to do. Get away.”

“He tried to follow, driving some big car – maybe a Merc? It was gray. I drove like hell. I nearly crashed my car. I’ve never had to do such a thing before.” She exhaled shakily. “I managed to get away from him when a light changed and a truck started moving on the crossroad. It was pure luck, nothing more. I veered into the basement parking and called you.”

“You did everything right. They were on the lookout, and I think that means they were more alert than usual. You were just parked there, right? You weren’t walking around?”

“I was parked for an hour,” Alex said, making a face, as if she felt she’d done something wrong in staying that long.

“Did you see either of the black SUVs heading out?” Meg asked.

Alex nodded. “Yes, I did. I saw the one with OM2 on the vanity plate go in and out twice. I didn’t think anyone saw me, but clearly, they did.”

So, Sean had been busy, going in and out. Maybe that meant he was wrapping up loose ends, and while he was out, he was leaving his muscle men to guard the place back home.

“Even so, that’s a very aggressive way to engage with someone they feel is watching. My take is that they’re on the alert right now. Maybe it’s because of these murders, and they think the police are going to close in.” Meg paused, staring at Alex. “We need to involve the police.”

But Meg couldn’t make herself sound as convinced as she knew she should be.

The police were overwhelmed and understaffed. Gabe had sounded at the end of his tether, and his boss wasn’t making things easy. Whitaker was a great networker. If you needed someone to social climb at a cocktail party, he was your man, for sure. But he was a poor manager and an average investigator. He’d climbed the ranks through who he knew, not who he was.

If he was out in the field, helping with the investigation, she didn’t think he’d be doing anything but slow it down.

And Whitaker was egotistical, too. If something wasn’t his idea, then it got shunted right to the bottom of the list.

If she told Gabe that he needed to investigate O’Malley, and Gabe told Whitaker, then Whitaker would immediately push back. That was just the way he was. He’d start arguing that they should take another angle, investigate someone different, or start questioning Gabe about why he thought they should do that. And if he then found out it was because Meg had been helping in an outside capacity – well, Meg had to admit, it would do more damage than good.

“I don’t want to involve them,” Alex said. “But I also don’t know which way we should turn, or what we should do now.”

“For now,” Meg decided, “let’s leave your car where it is. I’m going to buy this jacket. It has a hood.” Not ideal for the sunny weather outside, but hopefully, Alex would only be going as far as Meg’s car with it. “I’ll check the coast is clear, and then we walk together to my car across the road. We head home to my place, and then we rethink and regroup.”

“Okay,” Alex said.

Meg’s mind was racing as she followed the steps of her plan, making sure to walk and act calmly, although she was all the way on the alert, and scanning the crowds for any sign of the man. Maybe he was down in the basement, staking out Alex’s car for when she came back. That was the best-case scenario, Meg thought, as they headed out of the store, through the center, and across the road.

She locked the doors as soon as they were inside, started up, headed off.

Nobody followed. Every muscle in her body was tense though, and she was on high alert, all her senses feeling more vivid than usual, noticing every little detail and movement. The blare of a horn on the road got her head jerking in that direction. The sudden appearance of an impatient driver behind her got her heart racing, and it only stopped hammering when the stressed looking businessman had weaved past her. Beside her, Alex was silent in her seat, looking out just as intensely as Meg was.

Finally, she turned down the road to her own house and made sure the road was clear behind her.

“Okay,” she said, keeping things calm. “That was uneventful. Now, we need to figure out what to do next. One thing we do know is that they’re on the alert, just like we are. So, whatever our plans are going to be, we need to do them fast.”

What tools did she have in her toolbox that could be used? How could she manage to use her own ammunition and connections, against a man who had a far wider reach, and was infinitely more dangerous?

As Meg climbed out of the car, and headed to her front door with Alex hustling alongside, she had the beginnings of an idea.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“This is going to sound reckless,” Meg said. “But it’s a possible idea.”

They were sitting in her living room. She’d made Alex a cup of tea. It seemed like the best thing to offer her in the circumstances – hot, sweet and soothing.

Alex was recovering fast, and that terrified demeanor had ebbed away. Corrigan, sensing that she was in a state of high emotion, had jumped onto her lap, and Alex was stroking him gently while she drank her tea.

“What is your idea?” Alex asked.

Meg pulled a notebook toward her. Time to get her thinking organized. “To start with, we need to summarize what we’re up against,” she said, picking up a pen.

Alex nodded somberly as Meg told her what she’d learned this afternoon.

"Sean O'Malley is the chairman of the Cambridge Park Heritage Society, which seems to be a front for another inner circle society with darker motives. My guess is that there has always been an overlap with organized crime and that this has gotten worse over the years. Sean is doing more than his father did on the criminal front, but he's sidelined the inner circle society. They're planning to wrap things up, and to flee. That's already had repercussions. The woman that Sean O'Malley visited today, who he had a massive argument with, took an overdose and died shortly after he left."

She said the words regretfully, as Alex paled.

“What is this family into?” she said softly.

It was a question that was at once answerable and impossible. The family was into crime, that they knew. What they didn’t know was how the heritage society, and these strange killings, were connected.

The problem was that it was going to be impossible to find out. This family had held its secrets so tightly over the years that they weren't going to let them slip in innocent conversation.

“I thought of getting into their house,” Meg said. “But the problem with that is it’s very well secured, and there’s no way of telling what’s inside. There might be alarm systems, there might be guards, and that’s not within our scope.”

Was there even enough evidence linking the O'Malleys to the current crimes for the police to get a warrant? Meg doubted it. Whatever was in that house was going to stay there.

“I understand he’s into drugs, and partying, and nightlife. I thought of setting up a sting operation and getting him arrested,” she said. “But the problem is that you need manpower to do that. If you go into a club like that, you’d better be sure you’ve got enough backup to deal with the fallout. And even if we involved the police, which probably wouldn’t be possible at short notice, they’re overstretched as it is, and I doubt there’s enough manpower for such an operation.”

Plus, running it past Whitaker and getting his approval would be impossible. That was where Meg reluctantly acknowledged it was going to fail.

“I don’t see a way to do it,” Alex agreed.

Meg could only see one way forward, reckless as it was. The people who held the information they needed were the O'Malleys themselves. And if Meg and Alex wanted to figure out what they'd been doing, then they were going to have to get one of them alone and do it in a way that forced them to talk.

“Sean O’Malley might talk if he’s scared,” she said thoughtfully. “He hides himself away, he’s got other people doing his dirty work, and I don’t think he believes that he’s touchable. He went out alone when I followed him. No bodyguards. He doesn’t take backup with him.”

“So, what does that all mean?” Alex asked. “He certainly has bodyguards looking out for him near his place.” She shuddered.

“Yes, he does, so we have to get around that,” Meg said.

“And what’s your plan?”

“We need to wait until he goes out alone,” Meg decided. “And then, we need to grab him.”

Alex’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean by that? Do you mean what I think you do?”

“We need to somehow abduct Sean O’Malley,” Meg said slowly.

Alex nearly choked on her tea. “Do what?” she asked, setting the cup down hastily in a way that didn’t disturb Corrigan. “How are we going to do that? Never even mind that – when are we going to do it?”

She was shaking her head in a way that told Meg although she’d given up on the police’s ability to get results, the alternative that Meg was proposing seemed worse.

"He seems to like to go out alone," Meg said. "He went out alone to talk to Elizabeth. You said he went out a couple more times while you were there. Maybe he has other women on his to-do list, or else, if he's all out of women to visit, I understand he likes to party almost every evening. Either way, I feel he's likely to continue his pattern of going out frequently. I think he's busy wrapping things up if he and his father are due to leave the country soon. He could be cutting off loose ends. He's not threatened by women. He does the threatening."

And that meant he was even less likely to comply with anything except brute force. He’d laugh in their faces, invulnerable, knowing he was protected.

“So, how exactly are we going to do this?” Alex asked with a worried frown.

“We need to use what we have,” Meg said.

“And what’s that?” Alex asked.

“We have…” Meg counted off on her fingers. “We have a taser that I own, and we have the element of surprise. Plus, we have a secret weapon.”

“And what’s that?” Alex asked.

“It’s time to involve the police at last – but not in the way you think. I reckon that right now, my ex-partner would be willing to help us.”

This was as risky as hell, she knew it. The likelihood of it going bad was high. But she had to try to get this information – and now, it was time to bring Gabe into the picture.

***

It was evening, and getting dark.

Meg and Gabe were waiting in Meg’s car, parked down the road from the apartment building. Meg hoped that they were far enough from it for the O’Malleys’ goons to overlook them. She knew there were probably a hundred flaws in their plan, and it hadn’t even gotten going yet.

It might not work at all, because it all depended on their target, Sean O’Malley, following the pattern that he’d done so far, which was to head out alone at random times throughout the day.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Gabe grumbled. “It’s a crazy plan. I’ll be fired, you’ll be jailed.”

“It’s going to give us a breakthrough in the case, I promise,” Meg said.

She hadn’t wanted to involve both Alex and Gabe in something that was both risky and illegal. And she needed Gabe. Although she’d been prepared for him to turn down the idea, to her surprise, he’d agreed to it.

She hadn’t told Alex any of the details after explaining her initial idea.

It was just her and Gabe, and it felt like old times, even though it was completely different.

"You have no idea what it's like there in the office at the moment," Gabe explained to Meg. "It feels like a cauldron that's about to boil over. All the high-ups are pressuring us, the senator is calling on the hour, and Whitaker's being no help at all. He's just crumbling under the pressure, and resorting to bullying."

Meg felt desperately sorry for Gabe, with the workplace having become more toxic since she’d left it, not less. But it showed how desperate he was for results, that he’d agreed to her plan.

"Listen, if anyone sees us, or this thing is blown wide open, then you say you went along with it in order to arrest me," Meg said firmly. "I'm not having you fired or jailed. You'll be promoted if anything goes wrong."

“Now you want me to lie for you like that? Throwing you to the wolves?” Gabe said, with a note of incredulity in his voice.

Meg poked him in the ribs, and he grinned reluctantly. “If it comes to the crunch, then yes, you lie for me. But hopefully, nothing will go wrong,” she said.

Meg spoke with a confidence that she didn’t feel. Never, in her fifty-four years, had she trodden so far outside the territory of the law. It was a new and scary experience for her, and it was made worse by the fact that she knew from investigating countless cases, how many mistakes were made in a situation like this.

"Even though the situation's not ideal," Gabe admitted, "it is damned nice to be sitting with you and watching out for suspects. I've missed it these past few weeks."

“So have I,” Meg agreed.

“We should do it more often,” Gabe said thoughtfully.

“Well, if you’re prepared to join me in risky, illegal activities in your spare time, I’d appreciate the help,” Meg quipped.

At least, a slippery criminal, with organized crime connections, was unlikely to run to the police if he did get away from them. He’d probably take his own revenge on them, but that might end up being worse.

As these thoughts flashed through Meg’s worried mind, she saw the sweep of headlights from inside the apartment’s parking lot.

OM2 was on the move again. Time to follow.

CHAPTER TWENTY

With her heart pounding, and adrenaline flooding her veins, Meg started up the car, and got ready to keep O’Malley in sight as the dark SUV cruised purposefully down the road. Where would he be going this time? And would there be a chance to grab him?

Meg was pinning her hopes on what Sullivan had said – that Sean enjoyed nights out at strip clubs when he was off-duty from his organized crime activities. Heading out after dark would hopefully mean that he was going to let off some steam. But it wasn't certain. He could be going somewhere else to knock on another woman's door.

Her plan was reckless, and it was based on far too little observation, which amped up the risk a hundredfold. 

“He’s heading onto the main road, and it looks as if he’s going downtown,” Gabe said.

“I wonder if he’s going to a club.” A club would make things more difficult, because the parking was likely to be secured, and well-guarded. It might not be as easy for them to do what they needed to.

“I doubt it,” Gabe said. “The clubs aren’t in this direction. Not the ones I know of, anyway.”

"Done any good raids lately?" Meg quipped, keeping it light so that she didn't have to think about the implications of what they were doing.

“Not enough,” Gabe said. “Drugs? I wish we could win that war, but it gets more and more aggressive and violent. I wish we could get to the kingpins. I wonder if O’Malley is one of them?”

“Sullivan didn’t mention drugs,” Meg said. “O’Malley might launder money on behalf of the industry, though.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s a possibility,” Gabe said. Meg could hear the tension in his voice, thrumming below the usual grainy tone. She was far outside her comfort zone, but her trusted partner was, too.

Meg narrowed her eyes as, without indicating, the big SUV turned, and sped down a quiet side road. Where was he going? Was this another visit to a woman?

There were going to be no more suicides on her watch. She still felt devastated by what had played out earlier, and wished that she’d been able to do more to intervene.

“He’s seeing a prostitute?” Gabe murmured, as the car slowed after another turn. Meg was hanging back now. This was a quiet road, and she worried that her headlights behind him would be too vivid and obvious. He might think he was being trapped. And there was always the danger that he’d set a trap.

Cameras? Were there any? She didn’t see any. That was a bonus, because she knew that police weren’t the only people that could access camera footage.

“He’s stopping ahead,” Gabe murmured. “Be careful.”

“No,” Meg said. “I think now’s the time to get him.”

She stopped her car, killed the lights, and eased the door open. And then, she was on the move, rushing fast, heading down the alley where he was now walking. He’d parked his SUV on the street, and he was heading for one of the apartment buildings down this narrow street, and she reckoned Gabe was absolutely right, and he was going to see a prostitute.

She took a look around her, the blood storming in her veins. Only Gabe behind her. He was focused on what lay ahead, his thoughts in that direction, the arrogance he wore surrounding him like a shield. It was the reason that they’d been able to get to him alone – because he thought himself invulnerable. They’d found his Achilles heel.

Meg yanked down the hood of her top so that he wouldn't recognize her if the next few chaotic moments allowed him any fragments of memory. And then, she rushed forward with her taser at the ready. He heard her footsteps, and he swung around, but before he could turn completely, she thrust the taser at him and got him squarely in the back, pressing the button as she shoved it into him, hearing the fizz and pop of the electricity as he crumpled.

Gabe rushed forward with a black hood they'd bought for the occasion. He put it over Sean's head. First things first – he must never be able to identify them. Next, Gabe grabbed a cable tie from off his belt, securing Sean's hands behind him, and then, his feet together.

And then, they grabbed him and took him back down the alley to Meg’s car.

Meg had his legs, Gabe had his shoulders, and this was the riskiest part of their operation. A taser didn’t subdue people for long. And it was vital that he didn’t manage to get his head cover off. Meg wasn’t prepared to drug him or sedate him in any way. One taser blast, and then darkness, was all she had within her to do.

They dumped him in the trunk and searched him, removing two cellphones, one from his pants pocket and another from his jacket pocket. Meg carried them to the SUV in her gloved hands, placing them under the car.

Returning to her own car, she shut the lid, and then, they drove. Meg headed back to the main road via a different route, trying to avoid all the cameras she knew about as much as possible. The car felt heavier with the man in the trunk.

“Where are we heading?” she muttered to Gabe.

“Closest woodland trail,” he said. “I think we need to get him somewhere very quiet, but where the trees will provide some insulation if he shouts. We don’t want people nearby to be alerted.”

“Good plan,” Meg said.

"Listen," Gabe said, his voice urgent, "whatever happens, you don't speak a word. Not a word. If he hears your voice as a woman, then this entire operation is going to be at risk. You've told me what you want to know. I'll ask the questions."

“I won’t speak a word,” Meg promised. Gabe’s tone drove home to her how important this was.

He headed out of town via a winding route, and Meg tried not to think about the thumps and the banging that were coming from the back of the car.

It was unsettling. She’d never veered this far into the world of criminality before. And they’d only just started their operation, with no guarantee that it wouldn’t veer into disaster.

“Okay,” Gabe said, when Meg had driven into a tract of woodland, stopping about half a mile from the main road. “I think this is far enough. Now remember, let me handle it.”

Meg nodded. Nerves flared inside her as they put the handbrake on, and then headed around to the trunk, and popped the trunk.

Immediately, O’Malley started writhing, kicking at the interior of her trunk, doing his best to yank that head cover off. Meg felt a moment of horror as she saw that he’d gotten it halfway up his face. If he saw them, if he even glimpsed them, then all of this was in jeopardy, and more.

But Gabe stretched forward with his big arm, and with a practiced yank, he pulled it back into place.

“You know why you’re here?”

Meg gasped in amazement at the words. Gabe didn’t sound like himself at all. The drawling rasp was gone, and instead, his voice sounded higher pitched, rough and aggressive. Briefly, her mind rushed back to those moments in the interview room where he’d been able to perfectly mimic a suspect’s voice.

That wasn’t just coincidence, it was a talent he had, one that he was making use of now, to ensure that Sean O’Malley never recognized his voice again.

“I know that I’m talking to a dead man. Get me out of here!” His heels hit the side of her trunk again with a resounding thud.

“Wrong answer. You need some cooling off time.”

Gabe slammed the lid, hard. Then, he put his finger on his lips, and he and Meg walked quietly away.

They sat down, side by side, their backs against a tree.

Sean shouted and thumped for a while, and Meg tried not to think about the trace evidence he was depositing in her car, the hairs, the residue of skin. He might be scraping his fingers raw against her carpets. If forensics were to examine it closely, the trunk would be a treasure trove of evidence.

But then, on the bright side, Sean O’Malley himself was a treasure trove of evidence for a keen police detective looking to dig into organized crime activities.

“Let’s wait a while,” Gabe whispered. “Let him cool off, calm down. Then, we try again.”

Meg nodded, feeling reassured by Gabe’s calm confidence. It was strange that she, as a retired police officer, was more worried than he.

She was the one who’d driven this forward until now. When she’d finally run out of momentum and will, Gabe had taken over. It made her remember the way they’d worked together for nearly two decades, and the camaraderie they’d shared, and how each had intuitively covered for the other’s weak points.

When the shouting and banging had finally stopped, Gabe popped the trunk again. Meg’s eyes went immediately to that head cover. This time, it was firmly in place.

“One more chance. We want information. We know you’re leaving the country. Trust me, we don’t want to stop you. We just want something before you go.”

“How can I trust you in that?” Now, his voice was high and panicked, and Meg realized that the time he’d spent in the trunk had broken what little resistance he’d had. He was a frightened – no, terrified man. And all he wanted to do was to get out of this situation alive.

“Your society,” Gabe said, still in that fake voice. The woods were silent and dark, but Gabe had been right. The thick trees swallowed the sound, and his voice wasn’t carrying. “You’ve gotten yourself into some trouble.”

“What society?” Sean asked, defiance in his voice.

Gabe didn’t answer. He simply slammed the trunk.

More thumps and pleas, this time, hysterical sounding. Gabe had gotten to the essence of what Sean feared. He’d always had his ‘people’ around him, always done things secondhand. Now, he was the one to be exposed. And the darkness and silence was working on him in bad ways.

Gabe and Meg retreated to their tree, and sat for a while. From his pocket, Gabe produced a chocolate chip cookie in a plastic wrapper.

Meg stared at it, feeling mystified. Cookies, at such a time? She didn’t think she could stomach one. But, to her surprise, when Gabe broke it in half, she found herself able to eat it.

She must have more resilience than she’d believed.

But then, from far away down the trail, she heard the noise she’d never, ever wanted to hear.

It sent a shiver of dread rippling through her.

It was the happy, faraway bark of a dog and the faint shout of its owner.

Someone was heading their way, and that could blow this all the way out of the water.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

"I'll handle it," Meg breathed. Fear and adrenaline surged inside her as she grabbed her flashlight and her phone and headed down the trail, feeling her heart accelerating faster than she'd ever believed possible.

Had she ever experienced this level of pressure on a case? She doubted it. Right now, one innocent dog walker could blast this into oblivion, and that harsh fact brought home to her the consequences of what they were doing.

Never mind that they were interviewing a known criminal with a long and checkered history. The manner in which they were doing it would get them instantly jailed.

Stones slid under her shoes as she hustled toward the sound, praying that the trunk of the car, and Sean’s head cover, provided more insulation from outside noises, and that he wouldn’t have overhead it in there. If he started shouting, and this dog walker heard him, then this was all going to go to hell in a handbasket.

She didn’t hear any more barks, but she did hear the voice – louder, this time. Whoever this was, they were approaching fast along the trail. As she broke into a job, sweat dampening her armpits, Meg wondered what excuse she could possibly give that would head off the dog walker.

There he was, ahead. She saw him now. He was a young man wearing blue jeans and a hooded fleece top. Her flashlight danced over his spiky brown hair, and then darted sideways to take in the fluffy, happy face of the collie-type dog that was now heading toward her to greet her.

In his innocence, this good citizen could destroy them. How could she head him off?

At that moment, her panicked mind devised a solution that she hoped might just work.

“Hello there,” she said, in a friendly but hushed voice, as he gave a nod of greeting.

She saw that behind him was a fork in the trail. There was a different route he could take if he decided to. Now, she had to nudge him in that direction.

“Hi,” he said in a distracted way.

“I wonder if I could ask you a favor,” Meg said, still in the same hushed voice.

“What’s that?” Now, he was looking at her dubiously.

"We're doing a video up the track there. We're filming a squirrel in the wild for my granddaughter's school project. This is the third time we've been out here, and we've finally found a squirrel, and we've got the flashlight on it. I'm worried your dog might startle it. Would you mind possibly taking a different route so that we can finally get this video footage?"

Meg did her best to sound like a harassed grandma who was on the point of breaking.

For a long moment, she didn’t know if her excuse had worked, or whether it had made things a hundred times worse. And then, the young man nodded.

“Sure,” he said, still in a distracted tone, as if he had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts that it had taken a while for the squirrel story to penetrate, but now it had, he’d accepted it without question. “Come, Sandy.”

He turned, headed back the way he’d come, and went down the other trail, with the dog trotting happily alongside him.

Meg felt as if her head was about to explode. She’d managed to buy them time. Now, they needed to use it, because the next late evening walker might not announce themselves in advance with the help of a dog, and then, it would be too late.

She hurried back, making sure to tread quietly as she neared the parked vehicle. She gave a thumbs-up sign to Gabe, who was still leaning against the tree.

He replied in kind. There was silence, and the faint barking of the dog disappeared entirely, and yet again, Meg’s heart rate slowed from something that could probably kill her, back down to a more sustainable rate.

Then, Gabe returned to the trunk again and opened it. This time, the wait had done an even better job of working on Sean O’Malley’s nerves.

“Stop it,” he gasped, as soon as the trunk was opened. “Just stop it. I’m suffocating in here!”

“Then tell us about the heritage society, and this time, we need to know. Because you don’t know it, but Victoria had some powerful friends, and we’ve been hired to figure out who was behind her death. We know your society is involved.”

Yet again, Gabe had the fake voice and accent pitch-perfect. And now, he let out the piece of information that Meg had given him earlier. Gabe had been mad that she hadn’t given the info to him sooner, but he had understood. He hadn’t stayed mad for long.

“Someone stole jewelry from her home, and it’s being sold in the name of the heritage society’s charity account. You must know about that, seeing you’re the chairman.”

This time, since his claustrophobia was getting the better of him, Sean had clearly decided that talking was better than stalling, and damn the consequences.

"Jewelry being sold? I know nothing about that," he protested. "Why would I do that? Sell jewelry? I don't need to do that. That charity account is dormant, and it has been for years. Someone must be using some other account."

That, Meg acknowledged, was true enough, and it was the first thing he’d said that had actually planted a seed of doubt in her mind. But Gabe was pushing forward with the questions regardless.

“Why don’t you know about this sale?” Gabe terrorized him. “Do you not know what’s happening in your own organization?”

There was silence, broken only by Sean’s rough panting. No other noises or lights. Meg was keeping a lookout, while Gabe focused on the questions.

"The Heritage Society was a good organization. It's the other one you want to know about it, isn't it? The one my father started?" Sean asked, his voice hoarse.

“What’s that other society called?” Gabe asked.

"It's called the Circle, and all it was was a bit of fun. It was just a way of having some fun with some willing girls, that was all." His voice was panicked as he threw his dad under the bus. "You must understand, my father started this. He was the founder. All I did was continue it, and I was trying to wind it down, I really was, and my father's ill now, he's got Alzheimer's. That's why we're leaving. So he can have a happy retirement."

“You went and spoke to a woman today, and she committed suicide straight after. Why’s that?”

“What? She killed herself?” His voice sounded shrill. “How do you know?”

“We’ve been watching you,” Gabe said. “We saw the police arrive, and then the coroner.”

That was clever, Meg thought. He'd managed to sound convincingly like a gang member rather than a policeman.

“She – she – look, when she found out I was leaving, she wanted to take me for a lot of money. I threatened her. She lost it. I know it’s terrible… oh, I can’t breathe.”

He broke off speaking to gasp for a while. Meg stared at him without compassion. Too bad he was feeling some discomfort under that head cover. He was still breathing better than Elizabeth was right now. He might be painting himself as the good guy, but that was what people did. Nobody believed they were evil.

“Continue,” Gabe commanded him.

With another rough gasp, Sean complied.

“She lost it and she must have killed herself when I left, but she’d been on drugs, and she wasn’t well, and she’d tried twice before.”

“She killed herself, just a couple of days after a Heritage Society member was murdered, and you’re saying it’s not related?” Gabe sounded cynical.

“I swear!” Sean pleaded. “I was just having a bit of fun with her, and she wanted more. She wanted money. She was greedy for what wasn’t hers.”

Meg was sure he wasn’t saying everything, but she was equally convinced that in his panicked mindset, this wealthy criminal was giving away some hints. She thought that this was linked to the Circle, and that this poor woman might have been one of the ‘willing girls’. Maybe not so willing. Maybe bullied and bribed and blackmailed, and then cut loose with broken promises.

“What did the women do?” Gabe then asked, twisting the conversation back into the past again.

“Whatever their sponsors made them do. You know, they approached beautiful girls and made them this offer, and they became the – well, playthings – of the men who used them. They got money out of it,” he said defensively.

Meg wasn’t so sure that Elizabeth had gotten money. That screaming fight didn’t point to it. She thought Elizabeth had gotten humiliation and disappointment and false promises.

“And your father invented this?”

“He did. You must understand, these men asked for it. They wanted something more than money could buy, and to swap stories with each other, and to have some thrills. That’s why the Circle was invented. It was the men who needed it. We just gave them what they needed.”

“Why did you have Victoria killed?” Gabe said, his voice like a lance. If Meg had closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have known who was speaking.

“I didn’t, I swear it,” he replied, his voice rising to a crescendo again. “I have no idea why she was killed, and if there was any jewelry sold through the Heritage Society, I know nothing about it. Trust me when I say I wouldn’t do that! I wouldn’t. What a dumb thing to do!”

He started gasping for breath again, and Meg stared at Gabe.

Of all the things that he'd said so far, that one seemed to have the ring of truth about it. Sean was a criminal and a nasty one, but he was also a clever one. He wouldn't have done something to expose himself when his entire career and his family's history had been centered around the inherent need for secrecy.

Unfortunately, Meg believed him.

But someone had known about the heritage society, and that meant they must have known about the Circle, too.

“How long has this been going on for?” Gabe pressured him.

“Maybe thirty years. My dad started it about thirty years ago.”

“And where are the other women now?”

“I don’t know! How would I know that? I don’t even know their names. They were, like, invisible women. The guys picked their own – you see, my dad just told them how to do it. There was this ceremony where they promised to abide by the society’s rules, and that’s what the rules were.”

“Who else is involved in your show?” Gabe asked.

“I – I can’t –” He paused. Meg didn’t know if he’d been about to say he couldn’t tell them or he couldn’t remember, but either way, he rethought, deciding on a more coherent answer. “I can’t remember all the names. There was a secretary called Mrs. Dalgleish, but she quit at around the time the old building burned down.” Again, his voice ended in a crescendo, reminding Meg that his fear was still peaking.

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. She used to live in Hudson Road. That’s all I remember.”

“And anyone else involved?”

"We kept it in-house after that. There were reasons. Look, I've told you all I know! I don't know more, and the society wasn't responsible for that murder. Or any others. That wasn't in the rules. The gents were only allowed to take things so far with their girls, and no further."

He hadn’t told them much, but the problem was that Meg believed his reasoning that he wouldn’t have sold Victoria’s jewelry. Out of all the things he’d said, most in a terrified gasp, that was the one that persuaded her that he really was telling the truth.

And if that was so, then it meant that these murders had been committed in the heritage society’s name.

Gabe glanced at Meg, and she nodded, and Gabe slammed the door of the trunk. They climbed inside, and Gabe drove out of the woods, heading to another trail, this one dry and rocky and baked, but also nearer the road.

They parked far enough from the road that they couldn't be seen, and then, they headed around to the trunk again and opened it. Knowing he'd been transported, Sean was now silent, his breaths nothing more than stifled gasps. This reaction made Meg wonder what he'd done to people he'd transported after they'd spilled their secrets – or maybe he'd just watched while his people had done those things.

At any rate, she didn't have the stomach for any violence. She and Gabe dragged him out of the car and deposited him on the ground. Meg was sure that he'd manage to get the hood off in due course and that someone would find him soon.

They drove off, with Meg's mind on the possible tracks her car was leaving, while trying to remind herself that the last thing Sean was going to do now was call the police.

When they were back on the main road, Gabe let out a sigh.

"That was – well, it made me feel conflicted, Meg. On the one hand, we'd never have gotten that reaction as police officers. He was so ready to talk just because he thought he was faced with a bigger thug than he was. Seems there's a kind of code between them. On the other, I felt horrified."

“Me, too,” Meg said.

She felt simultaneously exhausted and boiling with adrenaline, and there was now an uneasy prickle in her conscience that reminded her this might not be over, and there could still be consequences ahead for what they had done. They'd stepped outside of the law and would have to face them if they landed.

"We didn't get much," Gabe said regretfully. "What he said made sense to me. Given what the society did and what else he's doing, there's no reason for him to be involved, is there?"

But Meg shook her head. The drive had cleared her thoughts, and now, she thought she did see another way forward.

This career criminal had given her an important lead. And it was rooted firmly in the past.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Meg dropped Gabe off at home with a quiet thank you. She didn’t offer to come in and say hi to the wife and kids, as she’d usually do after working late, and nor did he ask. After what they’d spent their evening doing, it didn’t seem appropriate.

Instead, she headed back home and climbed out of the car. She couldn't bring herself to open the trunk. She didn't think she'd be able to do that for a while. Instead, she let herself into her apartment, glad of Corrigan's quietly disapproving presence as he glared at her from his perch on the counter. Probably, he expected to be ousted from it now that Meg was about to do what passed for cooking. But she didn't have the energy to banish the cat.

"Good boy." She scratched his head, opened the refrigerator, took out a piece of bread, and headed for the cupboard. She smeared it with peanut butter, licked the knife, and then, slumped down on the counter, her mind too full of different thoughts for any one to have precedence.

The murders.

The victims.

And, way back in the past, a dangerous game that Mr. O’Malley senior had played, a fun game, a secret among the rich men of the society. They’d gotten young women, used them for their own twisted needs, humiliated them, promised them money, and then, many times, they had gloatingly defaulted on their agreements, adding to the humiliation and anguish that the women had suffered.

Meg let rage fill her now. She’d been too busy feeling every other emotion during that hectic car trunk interview, to allow her anger at this to dominate. Now, it was rising up in force. How dare he do that. And create an actual society that specialized in using and abusing those women.

Meg resolved that no matter what happened with this case, Sean wasn’t leaving the country. He didn’t deserve to walk free after having been one of the Circle, and caused Elizabeth’s suicide.

Thinking of the timeline, Meg reached for her purse and took out the notebook.

These women were invisible, but what if one of them hadn't been? One of them might have endured this abuse and then decided on payback.

There might even be a network of women – but if so, how was she going to crack it? There clearly was a code of secrecy surrounding them. They might be literally invisible or impossible to find.

How about the secretary? Mrs. Dalgleish, her name had been.

Gabe had said he’d look her up. But as Meg jotted down her notes from their confrontation, a message came through from Gabe.

“No record of any home ownership by a Mr. or Mrs. Dalgliesh in Hudson Road. Maybe she rented or shared?”

So the secretary, who might have had information on the inner circle, was going to be difficult to trace. And in any case, when Sean had taken over from his father, she might have thought it was a good time to make a fresh start, and moved out of state.

Just in case, Meg did an internet search, looking for any old newsletters, any lists of teams or historic reports on events that had been held in the Cambridge Park area. Perhaps there was a mention of her somewhere.

But she couldn’t find any mention of a Mrs. Dalgleish. So, she must have been a worker, one of the invisible people, and not a member of the ultra-wealthy elite who had populated the society.

Trying not to feel discouraged about this dead end, Meg kept thinking.

Maybe there was another place to start, though.

She wrote down one word in her notebook – a word that she thought might be the key to solving the mystery now.

Payback.

***

“Did it go okay last night?” Alex was sitting at Meg’s dining room table. There was a jug of coffee on the sideboard, as well as a cat. Corrigan was stretched out, occupying close to half the available space, shoving a candle holder toward the edge as he extended his paws in a pleased way.

“It went as okay as it could have done.” Meg had decided not to share any details with Alex. The less she knew, the less she could tell.

And also, although Meg trusted her almost completely, she knew that there were things Alex hadn’t told her yet – like the reason she was so vehemently opposed to involving the police.

“We got some details on the society, and based on those, we now know that the Heritage Society had an inner circle – called The Circle. And that society’s membership, that was kept secret, used and abused young women. They would pick a woman, try to encourage her to do whatever they wanted with the promise of payment, including humiliating acts, and then the women would be discarded, and they weren’t paid what they were promised. It’s a sick example of what bored, ultra-wealthy men who have everything money can buy, and are now looking for more, can do.” Meg shook her head. This was horrible to speak about.

Alex’s lips tightened. “That’s the most evil thing I’ve ever heard of.” She shook her head. “Well, as a prosecutor, I admit, it’s one of the evilest things. Right up there with the others. How can people do that? How can powerful men just lose their conscience this way?”

“I wish I knew the answers,” Meg said. “But I was wondering, what if one of these women had decided on payback?”

She was thinking now about Sean’s heartfelt explanation of the suicide attempt, following his heated argument with the woman he’d visited.

“Elizabeth’s suicide is making me think in that direction,” she said. “Of how badly someone might have been affected by this.”

Alex nodded. “Speaking of suicide, have you thought about that? One of those women who was used and abused might have committed suicide, and a friend or family member could have found out? Maybe that friend or family member is now looking for payback.”

“So, that gives us two new directions. Direct revenge by one of the victims, and also, revenge by a friend or family of a victim who ended up committing suicide?”

“How are we going to pinpoint both of those?” Alex asked, sounding thoughtful.

“Suicides will be searchable, and we could look for any suicide victims who fit the parameters – young, beautiful, vulnerable.” The suicide angle would be the easier one to research, because there would be records. And since the murders had started eight years ago, the suicide that triggered them would have had to be earlier than that.

“Gabe will be able to look up the records,” Meg said. Since her partner was now neck-deep in the case, along with Meg and Alex, she knew that he’d be on board to do it.

“I also have a connection who might be able to help,” Alex said. “I’ve got a coroner friend who’s retired now, but who was employed until five years ago. He would know if there were any suicides that might fit that profile.”

“The murders started eight years ago. So, if one of the Circle’s used and abused women did commit suicide, then that’s the timeframe we’re looking for – or going back from there,” Meg said.

The more difficult angle was going to be the theory that one of the women themselves had begun committing these crimes. That would take even more research.

Quickly, Meg messaged Gabe asking if he could look up that information, while Alex got on the phone to her retired coroner friend.

With the friend-of-a-victim angle in progress, Meg knew that the tougher job would be finding the victims who had been directly affected. How would that be searchable?

“Someone who was abused by a Circle member twenty or thirty years ago would now be in her forties or early fifties,” Meg muttered to herself. “She would still be in the area, and connected with the families. She wouldn’t be a wealthy person herself. They didn’t target wealthy people, but deliberately targeted poorer, vulnerable people. Would someone like that have a criminal record?”

Meg shook her head. Unless the troubled woman had veered into the world of drugs, or started committing petty crime in order to pay the bills, it wasn’t a certainty at all. And she might have tried very hard to keep her name clear if she’d had this plan in mind for a while.

So – young, beautiful, vulnerable. Maybe a woman like that would have been known in society. She might have been an amateur actress or a part time model, Meg theorized. That small claim to fame might have meant she was even more sought after by a wealthy man who was about to get her in his clutches and ruin her life.

Deciding that the local library might be the best place to search, Meg told Alex where she was going. “I need to look through old newspapers, old magazines, to see who was who on the social scene, that might have caught these people’s attention,” she explained.

Alex nodded. “I’m waiting for my friend to call back. Shall I stay here?”

“Yes. I’ll be back soon, hopefully,” Meg said.

She headed out, checking the street carefully for any sign of black SUVs. There was still a knot of guilt in her stomach when she thought about what they’d done, and what it had taken to get that information.

She guessed that by now, Sean would have been found, and that he’d be back home – traumatized and battered, but hopefully ignorant of who his attackers really were. He’d only heard a man’s voice, and he was probably going through his dad’s list of members and wondering who’d had a grudge against one of them and why.

Nobody followed her on the way to the local library. Meg headed inside and went to the desk, to ask where she could find copies of old newspapers, and local magazines.

The librarian directed her to a back room, where piles of old magazines and newspapers were neatly filed away, in labeled boxes on shelves.

“We don’t have all the physical copies,” she explained in a kind voice, “but we do have a lot more which have been scanned, or are on those old-fashioned microfiches. And they’re in that room there, where the screen is.”

“Thanks,” Meg said.

The library's back room had a quiet, peaceful feel to it. She could hear the soft footsteps from the library's main room, as people came and went. She hadn't stepped into a library for years, and it was good to see that the place was still being well-used. People were coming in to check out books, to sit and work, to relax and read, and to do research.

Maybe her own research would shed some light into the crimes of the past. Hoping that she’d find a few likely suspects, Meg began scrolling back into history.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

An hour later, Meg stretched her neck, rolling her shoulders, easing the stiffness out of them as she raised her head. That had been an intensive stint of research, and she was pleased that she’d gotten some results from it.

There were three young women who Meg wanted to research further. One was Sonia Hattingh, a young model who had done some work at Cambridge Park events. She’d made it into the finals of Miss Massachusetts, but hadn’t been a winner. She was blond, beautiful, with an all-American charm about her.

The second was Caroline Burke, who was dark haired and more mysterious looking, and who had achieved fame as an amateur actress in some of the local Boston theater productions at about that time. She'd been labeled by the media as a local beauty and a modern-day Cleopatra. Maybe those taglines had made her attractive to the Circle society members?

The third was Emma Ranger, who’d gotten into the press because she was a ‘beautiful rebel’, who had been hired as a hostess at a few of the functions and events that were run for wealthy society members.

Three women, all of whom might have caught the eye of an amoral, ultra-wealthy man, seeking to use and abuse and exercise his power over them. Meg needed to figure out where those women were now.

She moved to one of the wooden tables in the front of the library, and put the names into a more modern search engine, adding key words like the area, and different timeframes, to narrow down her search.

She caught her breath as she saw that ‘beautiful rebel’ Emma Ranger was the first to come up in the news. Emma Ranger wasn’t in the area anymore. Ten years ago, she’d committed suicide.

This was an overlap with Alex’s research, and it was exactly the type of incident that Meg had thought might trigger the murders.

The only problem was that she didn’t know who would have acted on Emma’s behalf, because she had been orphaned at the age of seventeen, she was an only child, and the report on her suicide had said that she had died ‘alone and friendless.’

That was sad – tragic, in fact, and Meg was sure that this bruised and scarred woman had been driven to suicide because of her ordeal.

But it wasn’t helpful in terms of close connections who might have decided to avenge Emma’s death. She was a victim who might well have been chosen by the Circle, but there didn’t seem to be anyone who would have rushed out to get payback.

Meg frowned, deciding to put Emma on ice for a while as she moved on to her next possibility. There was information on the blond, beautiful Sonia Hattingh. But it also wasn’t helpful to Meg. Sonia had gotten married to a wealthy businessman in a society wedding, when she was twenty-five years old, and the couple had since moved to Texas.

So, that was Sonia off the list. There were current postings and news on them. She had three daughters, a happy life, and Meg was wondering if she’d been targeted by the Circle at all. That might have been a wrong guess. With the amount of secrecy surrounding the organization, there were going to be lots of those, and no easy answers, she knew.

How about the third woman? Caroline Burke?

Doing a search for Caroline Burke, Meg frowned in utter consternation.

Caroline Burke had risen in status after her acting career. Fifteen years ago, she’d ended up marrying one of the wealthiest men in Cambridge Park – an investment manager who was substantially older than she was.

But that wasn’t all.

Eight years ago, Caroline had been murdered.

No wonder the name had sounded familiar to her. It was because she’d been the second robbery-murder victim. The one in the cold case file that Meg had taken. She hadn’t been Caroline Burke anymore, which was why Meg hadn’t made the connection immediately. She’d been Caroline Winthrop.

“She was the second victim? And there I was, thinking that she might be a killer?” Meg muttered to herself, feeling that if this case did any more twists and turns, it would tie itself in an actual knot.

“She fit the exact profile of a Circle woman,” Meg muttered. “She wasn’t from wealth. She wasn’t from a rich family. She was much younger than her husband, too – was she a second wife? At any rate, I’m all out of ideas in terms of potential victims. The one who would definitely have been able to tell us more, unfortunately killed herself. And that leaves us with nothing.”

She sighed, deciding instead to focus on the secretary.

Sitting there in the library, she researched Mrs. Dalgleish, looking for any fifty-something year old women, who had worked in the local area, and who’d had any links with the wealthy, elite circles in Boston.

A few minutes later, Meg got a hit, but she shook her head as she looked at the information on the screen. Mrs. Dalgliesh had worked for an unspecified employer in Cambridge Park, but had then emigrated to Scotland five years ago, and according to her work profile, she was still there, living in Edinburgh and working as a secretary for a tourism firm.

Meg packed up her belongings, ready to leave the library. She’d managed to trace a few possibilities, but so far, she hadn’t been able to dig up any real reason for revenge. These cold cases were frustrating, because of the time gap. Digging into the past meant that facts, as well as motives, were obscured by the passage of time.

If she was going to get answers, then she would need to think of another route. Right now, she was starting to think that all this had been in vain, and that she and Gabe had illegally abducted someone for no good reason, and that the secrets surrounding the Circle were so deeply buried and carefully hidden that they were never going to root them out at all.

Or maybe not. Maybe someone else had done better. Because Alex was calling her, and when Meg picked up, she could hear that she sounded excited.

“I’ve found a possible perpetrator,” she said. “The brother of a Cambridge Park housemaid. His name is Ben Jones, and she was Clara Jones.”

“She was?” Meg asked.

“She isn’t alive anymore. She committed suicide fifteen years ago, after working for a few high profile Cambridge Park families. I can’t find the names of the families she worked for – I guess they tried very hard to keep those names out of the media. But her brother was angry, and publicly stated that she’d been mistreated by the society who had taken advantage of her. He said that there was more to it, and that he suspected their abuse of her ran deeper.”

Shivers prickled Meg’s spine as she thought about the Circle. She’d thought of high profile people being targeted, but now she was realizing that some of the Circle members might simply have preyed on beautiful women who were already working closely with them, and who were doubly vulnerable as a household employee. She listened intently as Alex continued.

“He wasn’t quiet and he wouldn’t be silenced – not at first, anyway. I believe, from this news release, that Ben threatened a few of the families with damage and harm. One family, who isn’t named even got a restraining order against him, which I found out from my friends at court.”

“This is sounding more and more promising,” Meg said.

“Best of all,” Alex said triumphantly, “I’ve got his address.”

Decisively, Meg stood up. Maybe this was their break at last.

“Let’s go see him – now,” she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Meg pulled up at the meeting place where Alex was waiting – a local shopping center that was equidistant between the library and her house, and which was on the way to Ben’s address.

Finally, she hoped, they were closing in on the truth.

Ben Jones had a clear motive to want to harm the Cambridge Park families, who he believed had done his sister harm. And maybe his sister, Clara, had been preyed on by multiple employers, all keen to take advantage of the license given to them by their secret Circle membership.

Meg wondered if the families for whom Clara had worked were the same families who’d been targeted in these strange, symbolic stabbings.

Alex scrambled in, and Meg hit the gas.

“Ten minutes, and we should arrive at his home,” she said.

“What’s our plan for making him talk?” Alex asked.

Meg considered that as she drove. It wouldn’t be easy. It might not be as difficult as getting Sean O’Malley to talk, but then again, it might.

“I think we need to get face to face with him first,” she said, “and then see what happens.”

They were both quiet for a while, as Meg focused on her driving, and getting there as fast as she could. What would happen then? Would Ben Jones be violent or defensive? Would he aggressively deny what he’d done, or would he simply be silent?

And what power would the two of them have to make him talk?

She guessed they’d have to figure that out as they went along. But maybe now, while they were driving, was a good time to raise another thorny topic.

“Why are you so eager not to involve the police?” Meg asked.

Alex glanced at her, with a dubious look.

“I already told you that,” she said.

“I don’t know if you told me the full story.” Meg carefully didn’t look at Alex as she said the words. She glanced at the map to make sure she was on the right route, and then focused on her driving again. “You told me that you’d had a couple of bad experiences with the police presenting cases that weren’t watertight, and that you were feeling burned out from the fact that the bad guys had good lawyers and they always ended up winning.”

“That’s right,” Alex said.

“But it’s not all, is it?” Meg asked.

There was a silence for a while. Meg breathed in the piney smell of the air freshener in her car. With a shiver, she realized it reminded her of the smell in the woods last night.

“You’re right,” Alex admitted. “It isn’t all.”

“You want to tell me what else this is about?” Meg asked. “And why it’s relevant now?”

For a moment, she thought Alex was going to spill the truth – whatever it was. But then, she shook her head.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “I’ll tell you later. Besides, we’re nearly at Ben Jones’s house now.”

Meg tried not to show how frustrated she felt. This was a critical moment in the case, and right now, her investigation partner wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

She felt like snapping out an angry reply, demanding to know why Alex was unwilling to talk about it, and asking her if she thought this was fair. But then, she decided not to. Whatever Alex’s motivation was, they were already too deeply in this case for her to go back, or to change what she was doing. And the fact that her mother was possibly in danger meant she’d need to push forward as fast as possible.

Plus, the house they needed was now only a couple of minutes’ drive away, and Meg needed to focus on that now.

She swung the car off the main road and headed up a hill and along a road that was lined with shabby-looking apartment buildings, with a few warehouses interspersed along the way.

Ben wasn’t one of the ultra-wealthy. He was working class. This was the scenario that Meg had imagined – a woman who hadn’t had any power to push back, and who’d been afraid of losing her job, maybe even afraid of losing her means of living if she reported her employers to the police, or told anyone what they were asking her to do.

And of course ‘paying’ a woman to do humiliating acts, meant that she felt complicit in them, because she’d received money, even though the money was probably never what was promised. Meg felt sure that the Circle had known all the tricks there were for manipulating people.

“This is the apartment,” she said. “And his place is on the first floor. Right at the end.”

The shabby building was three stories high and looked in need of some serious refurbishment. Meg's car bumped over uneven paving as she wedged it into a narrow space between a grimy delivery truck, and an ancient Buick that was held together by patches of rust.

They got out and headed to the lobby. There wasn't any form of security there, just a list of apartments and tenants on the wall, with many of the names scratched out, and new stickers put over them. Meg guessed that in a place like this, there might be a high turnover and a few evictions every month. That gave her some preconceptions about Ben Jones himself.

She and Alex headed along the corridor, walking over scuffed paving stones, to the apartment they wanted, at the end of the row.

“Well, we might be at the right place now,” she said in a low voice, as they approached the scuffed door. Better to think positive, that Ben would be home, and that he’d be willing to talk about Clara.

Alex nodded. She hadn’t said much since Meg had asked her about her real reasons for not wanting to involve the police. That was worrying, but right now, Meg had more important things to worry about.

She lifted her hand and knocked on the door. Then, from the other side, she heard footsteps approach – a loud, fast tread. A moment later, the door swung open, and she was face to face with a tall, heavyset man. He was built like a bodybuilder, muscular and strong even though he must be in his early fifties. And he didn’t look pleased to see two women standing on his doorstep.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

Aggressive straight away, Meg saw. Did he know what this was about? If he was guilty, he’d be looking out for anyone on his trail. He might be expecting the police, but anyone would be a red flag.

“Can we come in?” she asked. “It’s about your sister.”

She wanted to get a foot in the door, but it wouldn’t be that easy. He glowered at her.

“My sister has been dead for years. Why are you on my doorstep, asking about her?”

The front door opened into a living room which was well furnished, even if the furniture itself looked somewhat battered. There was a brown leather couch, two armchairs, and a large TV, as well as some framed paintings on the wall. They were of trees and looked like they had been painted by a talented amateur. Meg wondered briefly if the artist had been Clara.

"I know this is painful," Meg said. She could see that in his eyes. The pain was still there, vivid and obvious in every line of his face. It never went away. Even if he'd committed murders to try to mete out his own justice, it wouldn't stop the pain he must feel. "But we need to know more details about what happened and who she worked for."

He looked distrustfully at her and Alex once more, this time taking in their clothing. Meg was wishing she’d dressed down. He clearly thought they were smart, and wealthy, and on the side of the ‘haves’.

“You want to cause trouble? Is someone blaming me for something?” were his next, immediate words. Yup, he was angry, defensive, and he was looking to point a finger at them.

That could be deflecting his own guilt.

“Please can we come in?” Meg repeated.

His arms flexed, as if he’d have loved nothing more than to slam the door in their faces, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave an angry grimace and said, “Five minutes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Marching across the living room, Ben slumped into one of the armchairs, his arms folded, his mouth set. Meg followed quickly, relieved that her polite request had gotten them inside. Now, she and Alex needed to make the most of the time they had with a suspect who was clearly evasive and defensive.

The room smelled of musty carpet and furniture polish. Now that Meg was inside, she could see some framed photos on the coffee table. One of them was of Clara. She was a real beauty – with wavy brown hair, a heart-shaped face, and intense green eyes. Her lips were full, her skin was flawless, and Meg could see why she'd attracted the attentions of men who were looking for a beauty to use, as permitted by their secret community.

"These are my most important questions," Meg said. "Firstly, who was your sister working for? And secondly, what happened to her? I know it must have been bad and that whatever it was, she couldn't endure. But please, tell me what it was?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then, perhaps disarmed by her gentle tone, he sighed.

“She worked for a few wealthy families. The Thompsons, I know that for sure, and the Stegmanns, and one other. I don’t remember the name. The other was her first job. It was with the Thompsons that the problems started.”

As he talked, he stared down angrily at his hands. Meg didn’t think he was evading the question. He was looking down because he was immersed in bad memories, going back to a time in his past that he didn’t want to think of again.

“And how did you know there were problems?”

“She wouldn’t talk about work. She became very anxious when I asked her, and all that I could get out of her was that there might be more money coming in soon, and that this would make everything worthwhile. I asked her what was going to be worthwhile, and she got really evasive. She said there were things that she wasn’t comfortable with, but that she was going ahead with them because it would represent her ticket out.”

“And it never did?” Meg asked.

“Never,” he said angrily. “I think that whole conversation was based on lies. Whatever she was being forced to do – I imagine it was some sort of sexual favor for the husband – they didn’t pay her what they promised. She was a beautiful woman, you know. She was talented.” He glanced at the paintings, confirming Meg’s hunch that Clara was the artist.

“And once she was in, she couldn’t get out?” Meg asked.

“She tried, I think. When I talked to her on the phone, she was in tears. She said that she was being humiliated, degraded, and that she felt trapped, like a prisoner, that there was no way out.”

His voice was rough and angry.

“Did you give her any advice?” Meg asked.

“Sure, I did,” Ben said. “I told her to resign. I begged her to. I said she needed to. Even if she didn’t go to the police – which she refused to do because she said they had incriminating photos of her – I said she should resign for her own mental health. And in the end, she did. She managed to get the courage to quit, and she even wrote an account of her abuse, with some dates and times, and one of the photos of them together that the husband had taken without her knowledge.”

So there was a record of all of this? Meg hoped that would be useful.

“Let me get the timeline right. She then started working for the Stegmanns, and within a week, she was in tears again. She called me, and she was in such despair, it made me feel sick. She said the same thing was happening again. That the husband knew what she’d been doing with the last family – that Mr. Thompson must have told Mr. Stegmann. I was furious. I begged her to go to the police, and she said that she would, when she’d gotten some proof.”

“Did she get the proof?” Alex asked the question, sounding curious, and Meg could tell that her prosecutor’s instincts were flaring at that possibility.

"She sent a few photos and messages to me. And they were disgusting. That guy was a savage. I'd call him an animal, but that would be an insult to animals," he raged, fury seething. "I knew that this needed to stop and that I had to help her. But then, the next time I called Clara, she was a crying mess. She begged me not to do anything, said that Mr. Stegmann had threatened her, said that he would prove to the police that she'd seduced him, and that he'd make sure she sat in jail for decades, that he would frame her for theft and worse. She was so terrified. I wished that I could make her see that these men thought they were rich and powerful, but that the law would apply to them just as it would to anyone else. But she didn't seem able to see that, and the next thing, she'd killed herself. She overdosed massively on alcohol and tranquilizers, and that was a fatal mix. She was gone." He let out a depressed breath.

Time for the question that Meg had been wanting to ask ever since these details had unfolded.

“If you had all the evidence, why didn’t you go to the police? Or did you think there would be a better way of revenge?”

The only problem with her theory was that, to Meg's knowledge, the Thompsons and the Stegmanns had not been among the murder victims. That didn't make sense. But then again, he might have had difficulty getting close to those families and decided to start with others. Maybe he was working up to killing his sister's tormentors.

“To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to the police, but I was also worried about Clara’s reputation, and what my parents would think if it hit the press, and if Mr. Stegmann came back and falsely insisted she’d been stealing. I thought something like that might destroy my folks, so I just raged.”

“Are your folks still alive?” Meg asked sympathetically. She guessed she believed the excuse of protecting them. It made sense.

“My mother is,” he said, with another glance at the photos on the side table, as if he still wanted her to treasure the memories of her daughter, and not be caught up in a whirlwind of false accusations.

“And these murders that have been happening in the wealthy households. You know anything about them?” Alex asked.

He shook his head, with an expression of grim satisfaction now on his face.

“I’ve heard about them, and all I can say is that they deserve that. What a corrupt bunch of people. Whoever is killing those family members, I’m sure that he knew someone who’d suffered the same.”

Ideas were crowding Meg's mind. Had there been a servant in common between the affected households so far, and if so, how could she find out who it was? The families would close ranks, and she was sure that a lot of them paid under the table rather than having formal employment contracts in place. Especially seeing the husbands were ready to use and abuse the help.

Then, another question occurred to Meg.

“The first family she worked for. You said nothing happened to her there? Why did she leave that workplace?”

She only asked the question so that she could get a full picture of what poor Clara’s ordeal as a housemaid to members of the Circle had been. But to her surprise, something about the question jogged Ben’s memory.

“You know, I remember now,” he said. “I remember the name of the first family she worked for. They were the Winthrops. And the reason she left is that Mr. Winthrop had a nasty divorce. He kicked his wife to the curb – Donna was her name – and married some other young girlfriend he’d been seeing on the side. I remember her name, too. She was Caroline. And when Caroline saw that Clara was working there, she fired her.” He shook his head, feeling angry. “I guess that having been a piece on the side herself, she didn’t want a pretty housemaid in the picture.”

Meg listened to his words intently, and as she did, she felt shivers cascade down her spine.

This was a detail that she hadn’t thought about, and now, she realized how important it might be.

Mr. Winthrop had gone rogue. He’d married the woman that he’d been supposed to abuse. Love had found a way around the Circle’s rules. She guessed it was the exception, and not common among these men, but it had happened all the same.

And he’d left behind him an angry, bitter ex-wife – who might well have known exactly what was going on, and where her husband and Caroline had met.

Then, Caroline had been the first victim. But Meg remembered Donna. She’d heard the name at Victoria’s wake.

Now, at last, she was joining the dots.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

It was time to get out, and fast, to follow this new lead.

“You’ve been a great help,” Meg said to Ben, standing up from the leather couch where she’d been sitting, so suddenly that the springs gave a loud, protesting squeak. “You’ve given me a lot of information. Please, if you’re ready – would you be willing to give your sister’s records to the police? Because there’s likely to be an arrest soon, and when there is, then these people will be exposed.”

Alex gave Meg a surprised glance, clearly wondering why she was suddenly so eager to leave. Checking his watch, Ben nodded. "You've had your five minutes," he said, confirming that their time here would have ended anyway. "And yeah, I'll keep those photos and those records for you. Someone needs to make sure those men are punished. And yes, it's time."

Meg couldn’t leave fast enough. A sense of urgency filled her as she rushed out of the musty smelling apartment, breathing in the afternoon air which was now flavored with gasoline fumes as people headed home.

“Meg, what was that about?” Alex asked the question breathlessly as they hustled down the corridor, heading back to the car. “Have you figured something out? You look like you have.”

“I have,” Meg said. “You’re right. I think I know who did this.”

She climbed into the car, and Alex got in the other side, and as Meg started searching frantically on her phone for Gabe’s number, she guessed that Alex had been processing what had played out at the apartment, and putting two and two together.

“I think I get it, Meg. It’s that divorcee, isn’t it? She’s the one who’s been committing the murders. That’s why Caroline was murdered?” Alex let out a long, disbelieving breath.

Meg nodded. "That's exactly what I think has happened. That divorce must have been totally traumatic for Donna Winthrop. Imagine finding out that your husband has been part of a sordid circle abusing young women, and then he divorces you after falling in love with one of them?"

“Why didn’t she say anything?” Alex asked, puzzled. “She should have exposed them.”

Meg shook her head. “I think she had revenge in mind, even then. She knew enough about the Circle to be able to do it. And since then, that’s exactly what she’s been doing. She’s been murdering the wives of the Circle men – and now, looking back, I see that they are all younger wives. Second wives.”

Alex gasped. “You’re right about that. Hazel Carlisle was much younger than her husband – I found that information in the social pages when I was looking for evidence of the society. You don’t think all the victims were women who were – acquired – by the Circle?”

What a chilling thought. As she was looking up the address of Donna Winthrop, Meg considered it, but she shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so, I think that to fall in love like that was very rare, but Donna has been doing the next best thing by murdering any women who replaced the original wives in the Heritage Society husband’s families. That’s who she’s ragingly, illogically jealous of – maybe even the more so because in her husband’s case, he met his second wife through such a sordid organization.”

“That makes sense,” Alex said.

“No matter the reasons for the original divorce, or how the men met their second wives, or even if the first wives were glad to get out of the marriage, Donna believes they should die. And she’s kept in touch with the families through her little business. She’s provided the flowers for a lot of the households, and they’ve probably kept using her through kindness, and because it feels as If they’re doing her a favor. Little do all the second wives know that when she delivers the flowers, she’s been disabling their panic buttons and finding out their habits so that she can target them.”

It all made horrible sense. At last the strands of this mystery were coming together, and Meg was understanding the true motive for the crimes.

Alex nodded. "If it was a victim of abuse doing the murders, then the men would surely have been targeted. That's what's been confusing me about this case all along."

"Exactly," Meg said. "Donna wasn't a victim of abuse. She was an angry ex-wife, hell-bent on revenge, and she got it by killing the women that she perceives have stolen husbands away from their original wives." She drew in a sharp breath. "And I've found her address."

The address she had was for a small homestead, a few miles out of town and a world away from the fancy, expensive properties where the Cambridge Park Heritage Society members made their homes. They needed to go there, fast, and get face to face with Donna.

“We need to call Gabe,” Meg insisted. “He has to come along for the arrest.”

“Sure,” Alex said. “Sure. But we can get there first, can’t we? The sooner, the better. Someone as sneaky as this might be planning her next murder soon. And she might be less prepared for us than for the police. If we end up on her doorstep, perhaps she’d drop her defenses and brag.”

“We can get going now,” Meg agreed. “And yes, I don’t think there will be any harm in questioning her first. If she starts fighting or trying to throw us out, it might even provide more of a reason for the police to intervene.”

And what about the proof itself? Meg also saw merit in trying to get a confession of some kind before the police arrived, because it would double their chance of proving what had happened. Donna had been sneaky and intelligent, operating under the radar, cutting panic buttons, chatting to the wives who never suspected a thing, because she was an ex-member of the society herself, and therefore, to be trusted.

She hadn’t left evidence behind her. The police could search her house for a murder weapon – but what woman didn’t have a good set of sharp knives? They could highlight the evidence that she’d delivered flowers to households in the past, but that was simply coincidental, and wouldn’t be enough to take her down.

Plus, the divorce had happened so long in the past that the police had clearly not thought it relevant. And she’d been clever even then, timing the murder of Caroline Winthrop as the second in her series, so that an old divorce wouldn’t seem like a motive at all.

But crimes and losses and injustices of the past festered. Meg knew that. Her work in cold cases had proved it time and time again.

So, two chances were better than one.

It was time to make the call that she hoped would lead them on the road to an arrest.

“Gabe?” she said, as soon as he picked up.

“Meg?” There was a note of anxiety in his deep, booming voice, and she knew that he was probably also worried about repercussions after last night.

“I think we’ve got the killer. I’m going to send you the address. We don’t have any tangible link, so it’s going to take some trickery.”

"Understood," Gabe rumbled. Meg knew that he'd know exactly what she meant and what it would take. "You going to go in and have a chat? I'm north of the city, helping out with a raid that isn't really my job, so it'll probably take me half an hour to get going."

“That sounds great,” Meg said. With any luck, that would give them enough time to do what they needed.

She headed out onto the road, impatiently navigating the heavy traffic, wondering how long it would take to reach the farmhouse. Probably close to half an hour.

Meg knew there was a lot riding on this. They’d taken a few wrong turns so far in the case. They’d uncovered a level of evil in this secret society of the ultra-wealthy, that was terrifying. She was appalled that her mother and father had been involved in this society, even if it was at a lower level, the level that had participated in innocent golf days and events and charity functions.

But that level had been there, partly, to narrow down the prospects for the elite group, the one that was closest to O’Malley senior’s stony heart. He’d wanted to offer his special group members the chance to enjoy benefits that they couldn’t find anywhere outside this cloistered and protected world.

“Here,” Alex said. Meg could hear there was a thread of nerves in her voice, too. “We turn here, Meg.”

“On it,” Meg said. She had been immersed in her thoughts, but she hadn’t been going to overshoot the turnoff from the main road, which led them onto a narrow, country road. It was still a few hundred yards away, but Alex seemed to be as keyed up about it as Meg herself.

“Right. It’s another two miles down this road, and then, we’re there.”

This scenery reminded her of the other area of small farms, except it was a little wilder and more ungroomed. The homes were smaller, and the yards more unkept, and if Meg was honest with herself, it was more of a place she’d like to live.

Donna rented a cottage on a farm, and Meg guessed that she probably rented additional space to use in her florist’s business. A business that had given her the legitimate entry into the society she could no longer afford to be part of, after her husband decided that he preferred the beautiful, mysterious Caroline. The predator had been tamed. He’d fallen in love, and the fact that he’d done so had warped Donna into a murderous fury.

“This is it,” Meg said.

The wooden gate was standing wide open. Beyond it, the driveway forked, with a signboard in the middle of the fork. On one side was a hand-painted signpost saying “Farmhouse”. On the other, was a sign saying “Cottage/Florist”.

That was the one they wanted.

Was Donna going to be out doing deliveries? That worrying thought loomed in Meg’s mind before she saw the white van parked outside the red barn by the thatched cottage.

She parked behind the van, her strategic investigator’s brain planning ahead to block off the exit route. Would Donna be in the barn or the house?

The barn's door was firmly closed, and she saw the silver glint of a padlock on the outside. So, she'd finished off with her sympathy bouquets for the day and must be in the cottage.

“Let’s go get her,” she said to Alex.

Alex tried to smile, but it came out wobbly.

Then, she climbed out of the car and headed up to the cottage's wooden front door.

Alex walked beside her, silent and tense.

Meg raised her hand and brought the brass knocker down with a sharp tap. She waited and listened. Footsteps approached the door, soft and muffled. The owner was wearing sneakers or moccasins, not high heels or boots.

Just another small addition to the picture that she was feverishly assembling. Any detail could add to it, and the way she used the information she had, might make the difference between success and failure.

The door opened, and there she was.

She was probably fifty, and Meg’s first thought was that she looked her years. Maybe it wasn’t only financial, but intentional, that she’d allowed the gray in her hair to grow out so that it stood in a frizzy halo around her head.

Donna still had the bone structure that told Meg she’d been a beauty in her day, but she personally thought the lines on her face now spoke of bitterness and anger. Although she seemed like a slim, almost skinny woman, she wore a loose gray jacket that looked a couple of sizes too large, hiding her figure so that only her thin legs and her bony hands were visible.

“Good afternoon,” Meg said. She’d toyed with a few different approaches on the drive, but now that she was here, the direct one seemed the best. “I’m Meg Thorne. This is Alex Chen. We’d like to speak to you about these murders that have been happening.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Meg watched emotions chase over Donna’s face. Horror made a very brief appearance, but Meg had guessed that someone as schooled in society’s ways as Donna was, would have no problem in suppressing this.

Sure enough, it was replaced by deliberate sadness, and then surprise. Her eyebrows raised, her brow creased, and her mouth settled in a questioning quirk.

“And you’re speaking to me?” she said. Her voice was light and soft, but Meg picked up the sharpness in it, too. “Why? Who are you, anyway? Are you concerned citizens?”

“Absolutely,” Meg said. The first step was getting inside. Then, they’d have more time. Right now, she didn’t want Donna to slam her front door on them. “We want to know if you saw or heard anything.”

"We're trying to help the police," Alex said, her eyes bugging out of her head and amateur enthusiasm flavoring every note of the words. "We're just trying to make sure that society is safe, and you may hold the key to it. Would you mind answering a couple of our questions?"

Meg was filled with admiration. Alex had done a brilliant job in confirming their amateur credentials. She sounded completely hapless. If Meg had found her at her front door, she’d have let her in, no questions asked. And Donna did exactly that.

“Sure,” she said in a monosyllabic tone that clued Meg she’d already pigeonholed this as something she’d easily be able to work around. “I’m heading out just now, but I’m traumatized by this murder, of course, and I’m glad to help. Caroline wasn’t a client of mine, but of course, many of her friends are my valued clients, and ordered bouquets.”

She turned and headed into a small living room that was surprisingly dark. The cottage windows were small, and this one faced north. The dark tiles and furniture didn't help. Meg perched herself on one of the two couches. Alex sat next to her. Donna took her place on the other.

A glance around the room told Meg that there were no signs of Donna’s family or social life. Apart from the furniture, the room was surprisingly barren. There weren’t any paintings on the walls, or clusters of photographs, or any memorabilia from travels.

"So, Caroline wasn't a client of yours?" Meg asked. She was now clocking Donna's body language carefully. She wasn't showing any signs of stress – yet. But she was wary. Meg was wondering whether she should hold back or go in guns blazing. What would be the best way to wrench the secrets out of this woman – the ones that she was now convinced she held?

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Why’s that?” Meg asked innocently.

Immediately, Donna got defensive.

“How should I know? I’m just a humble small business owner who used to be part of this society, and now, I’m still grateful to be included. They are my friends, as well as my clients.”

“I guess it’s because of the divorce, isn’t it?” Meg made sure to keep her voice sympathetic as she asked the question. As she’d expected, that flared things up.

“It’s got nothing to do with that! We divorced amicably. There were irreparable differences, and he fell in love. I’ve been contented since.”

“Really?” Meg said. She was conscious of Alex by her side, as tense as a bowstring. Now was the time to let rip. She sensed that Donna’s veneer was cracking, and that if she pushed it now, she had the chance to shatter it. Use your words wisely, she told herself. And don’t hold back.

“Because,” she continued, “I think you were absolutely devastated by the divorce.”

Watching Donna’s face, Meg saw her flinch at the words, and she pushed forward strongly.

"I think it shattered your world and your future. It wasn't just that your husband had cheated on you, it was the way in which he did it, and the person he did it with, and the fact that a woman you probably perceived to be a piece of trash, who he met through a sordid secret society, was able to capture his heart and his loyalty and persuade him to kick you out with nothing."

Donna's face was flushing now, and Meg saw that her words were getting to her as she continued. You're a smart woman. It's obvious that you would have found out what he was involved in. You knew, didn't you? How humiliating it must have been. You must have held so much hatred in your heart for so long. Not for your husband, but for the woman who turned him toward herself and against you. And for all other women who did the same. You wanted to rid this society of them. Not only the Circle members, or the Heritage Society members, though most of them probably were Heritage Society members by default. But any woman who captured herself a married man." Meg paused, choosing her words carefully as she flung them toward her adversary. "And the hand on the heart? That was very apt, because you ripped their hearts apart with your knife, the same way they'd ripped yours. I guess the piece of jewelry was a token, and the Heritage Society association was clever. Nobody questioned it, and it deflected suspicion from you. Nobody questioned the payments because there was enough illegal money flowing into that society's account. And it deflected suspicion – for a while, anyway. But now, we're closing in. Now that we know who you are, there are a hundred ways to find the route you took."

As Meg spoke the words, she was tensing, ready to spring to her feet. Ready for anything, or so she thought.

Donna looked as taut as a bowstring, her eyes wild. stared at her, her eyes wild.

“You have no proof,” she spat.

“And why should I need it?” Meg retaliated. “Do you think I need proof? The police are the ones who need that, and they’ll find it. Do you really think you’ve been so secretive, Donna?”

“I have done. I didn’t want the money from selling those stupid pieces of jewelry. That really did go to charity, but I know that isn’t what this is about,” the other woman hissed. Now, to Meg’s shock, Donna sprang to her feet. She groped under that shapeless jacket, and too late, Meg realized why.

In shock, she watched as Donna got her hand onto a silver pistol. Her hand wrapped around it, and she raised it in a remarkably steady grip, her knuckles white. Especially the trigger finger. Meg had all her attention fixed on that finger because it was ready to shoot, and she was at exactly the wrong distance away.

About four yards. Too far away to make a run toward Donna and disarm her, but close enough that one of those bullets might find their mark.

“Drop your gun!” Meg shouted to Donna. “Don’t shoot!”

Her hand was rock steady. But her voice was a shriek.

“You think I care what you say?” She adjusted her posture, leaning toward Meg as she screamed out the words. “All I lived for was killing them. The divorce broke me. We were happy, I was happy, until I found out he wasn’t the man I thought he was. I knew she was supposed to be a little piece on the side, someone that he used. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she somehow seduced him, and I hated her. I rejoiced in those kills, all those second wives, with their youth and beauty and confidence. I loved it each time I stabbed them. And I decided that if the time came one day when I had to defend myself, I was going to take it a step further, because I might as well. You think I’m wrong to kill them? Then you die!”

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Never had Meg wished so hard that she’d had a service pistol on her belt. Without it, she might dodge the first bullet, but she wouldn’t dodge the second. And there was also Alex to think of.

Except, Meg saw movement out of the corner of her eye, just as she saw Donna’s knuckle whiten further. There was no time to clock what she saw, because she was diving sideways to avoid the shot that she knew was coming.

Live for a moment longer, and you'll have more options, she told herself as she flung herself down onto the worn but serviceable rug. The explosion followed just a nanosecond later.

Not an explosion.

A double explosion. Two ear-splitting bangs in quick succession.

Then, a high, shrill scream pierced her ringing eardrums as she scrambled to her feet as fast as she could.

To her astonishment, the entire scenario had changed in the last split second.

Donna’s bullet must have gone wide, because she was unharmed. But Donna herself was cringing back, leaning against the leather chair, grasping her right shoulder with her left hand. Blood was seeping from the wound, and she grimaced as she fought to regain control of her gun hand.

“Alex!” The words burst from Meg, but it was as if Alex hadn’t even heard them. Her gun was still at the ready as she advanced toward Donna, and Meg felt a chill of horror as she heard the furious intent in her partner’s voice.

“You murderess! You might think Victoria Hammond was just a second wife, just someone you could murder for no reason. But she wasn’t. She was my mentor’s sister. The woman who guided me through my whole legal career is broken. She’s lost her family because of you. And you’re going to lose your life because of me. I don’t care what happens next. Donna, you deserve to die!”

Alex raised her gun at the same time that Donna managed to get control of her own gun hand. She raised it again, and this time, Alex cried out, dropping her own gun, as the bullet tore into her wrist.

Shock ricocheted through Meg as she finally realized what Alex’s motive was for hunting this killer herself.

She’d been on a path to revenge, just the same way Donna herself had.

And Meg rushed forward, knowing that this situation had spiraled all the way into disaster. She had to stop this! She had to.

Alex was disarmed and injured, Donna was in a killing rage, and this had spiraled

She slammed her shoulder into Alex’s shoulder, causing her to sprawl sideways. She fell heavily, with Meg landing half on top of her, just as another gunshot split the air.

That was Donna again, and Meg had no idea whether it had been a hit. She hadn’t felt the thudding, stinging pain of a bullet herself. Now that both of them were down, Donna was rushing forward – maddened by rage, blinded to the consequences.

She was going to shoot again, and this time, they were sitting ducks.

Meg writhed sideways, grabbing the first piece of furniture she could get her hands on. It was a side table, and she managed to fling it in Donna's direction, the throw clumsy and weak, the wooden table tumbling across the floor, but it slithered into Donna's leg, heavily, as she raised the gun again. That caused her to stumble, and that gave Meg the chance to jump to her feet. In the same move, she lunged across the floor and tackled her.

Like clockwork, muscle memory kicked in, and the moves of her training came back to her, even though she hadn’t done this maneuver for years.

She rammed her knee into Donna’s thigh, while sweeping her gun hand aside and up. As she did that, another shot exploded in the room, but Meg kept going, completing the maneuver, knocking Donna back.

The woman stumbled and fell, letting out a pained shriek as Meg’s tackle wrenched her injured shoulder.

Even that pain wasn’t enough to subdue her. Struggling violently, she clawed at Meg with her left hand. Meg writhed sideways to avoid Donna’s flailing foot, trying her best to subdue her in the shortest possible time, because she had no idea what Alex was doing behind her.

If she got to her gun again with her left hand, she might try to shoot again. Alex had been as angry, as hellbent on revenge, as Donna herself.

Meg managed to get Donna’s left hand up behind her back, and she yanked at it hard, causing Donna to cry out again, the sound harsh and despairing.

And then, from behind her, she heard the crash of the front door opening.

A moment later, Gabe’s growling voice filled the air.

“Police! Hands in the air, everyone. Hands in the air.”

After checking that Donna’s gun was not within grabbing distance, Meg moved away, raising her own hands. She wasn’t used to being on the other side of these orders.

Alex hadn’t gone for her gun again, but had grabbed her wrist with her other hand. Gasping, she was trying to stem the flow of blood.

Gabe was holding his own weapon with an assured confidence as he surveyed the scene.

And behind him, with his eyes wide and his face drawn in shock, was Detective Whitaker – Ferret-face looking as if he’d far rather be back in his cozy office, than participating in a takedown after a gunfight.

***

This was a day for being on the other side, Meg thought wryly. After having been on the other side of Gabe’s service weapon, she was on the wrong side of the police interview table again. Her debriefing had continued well into the night. Then, she’d been allowed to go home, and had returned to spend another full day in the police station.

Luckily, thanks to her account of the scene, Alex was not being charged with any crime. She’d had her weapon with her, but had only drawn it after Donna had threatened her, and the shot she’d fired was classified as a self-defense attempt.

Meg had managed to speak a few words to her before Alex had been taken off to the hospital to have her wrist repaired.

“I’m sorry,” Alex had whispered. “I know I should have told you why I wanted to find her.”

Meg had shaken her head in sympathy. The fact remained that if Alex hadn’t had a weapon on her, then the damage Donna had caused could have been much worse. Meg had never expected the angry divorcee to become so violent.

They’d made a good team, Meg thought, give or take the withholding of a few crucial pieces of information.

And thanks to this takedown, there would be a lot more justice done. While Gabe had been debriefing her, other officers were already moving on the old crimes committed by the Circle. Sean O’Malley had been arrested – it wasn’t a good week for him, Meg acknowledged – together with his father. They wouldn’t be leaving the country anytime soon. From the panicked statement that Sean O’Malley had made, it was clear that he blamed ‘the Mob’ for his abduction and was protesting that they had framed him.

At least Meg and Gabe had gotten away with that.

And thanks to the information from Clara, which Ben Jones had handed over to the police, together with the information from the Circle's secret records kept by O'Malley senior, there were high profile arrests happening right now. The police were moving fast before the wealthy offenders could figure out what was happening and flee the country. Meg was particularly glad that Mr. Winthrop had turned state witness, devastated by the truth that his own actions had caused the murders, and giving out the names of the others who'd been part of the inner circle.

Meg was confident that all the men would face justice at last for what they’d done in the past.

And at least she knew that her mother’s alarm system failure hadn’t been deliberate sabotage, but a genuine breakage. As a first wife, and an innocent member of the heritage society, she’d never been on Donna’s list, although she had received her flowers weekly.

Now in a guarded hospital ward, Donna would be transferred to prison and spend the rest of her life inside.

“Well,” Gabe said, switching off the recording device, “that’s a wrap. Thanks for the information, Meg. I know it was a long-haul session.”

The empty coffee cups on the table bore testament to that.

“I’d better get home to my cat,” Meg said.

“And I’d better get home to my wife and girls,” Gabe agreed.

“I’ll visit Alex tomorrow. Check on her,” Meg said.

She liked the ex-prosecutor, despite the fact she’d withheld a key piece of information. And she wanted to make sure Alex was okay. If there were any medical bills she was going to struggle with, Meg had already decided she’d be covering those. It was the least she could do.

They stood up. Meg stretched.

“Dinner at mine, on the weekend?” she offered, and Gabe nodded.

“I’ll check in with Mindy, but it’s definitely a yes for one of the days.”

He slung an arm around her as they headed for the door, and they gave each other an awkward hug. Neither of them were huggers, but Meg felt the situation called for it.

And as she left, she made a promise to herself, with a deadline attached to it.

Before Gabe came for dinner, she resolved that she was going to request the phone logs for James’s last billing cycle.

She felt ready now.

It was time to find out what James’s angry conversation had been about, just a few days before his murder.

NOW AVAILABLE!

NEXT TIME

(A Meg Thorne Suspense Thriller—Book Three)

“This is an excellent book… When you start reading, be sure you don’t have to wake up early!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

Detective Meg Thorne, haunted by the years of cold cases she could not solve, retires early, in her 50s, feeling stifled by the limits of the law and determined to do whatever she has to to solve them on her own, stop these killers, and rescue any victims. Outside of the red tape, she will be free to cross all lines, and do whatever must be done—as long as she doesn’t find herself, alone, in a killer's sights…

When a string of art-inspired murders resurfaces, Meg Thorne is drawn back into the shadows of her unresolved past. As she struggles to confront a potentially innocent man's fate, it's a race against the brushstrokes of a killer she may have set free.

NEXT TIME is BOOK #3 in a new series by #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Kate Bold, whose bestseller NOT ME (a free download) has received over 3,000 five star ratings and reviews. The series begins with NEXT GIRL (BOOK #1).

The Meg Thorne series delivers an exhilarating rush with non-stop action, gripping suspense, and enigmatic puzzles that will keep you captivated well past bedtime, featuring a compelling protagonist eager to decipher the mystery. Fans of Lisa Gardner, Kendra Elliot, and Teresa Driscoll are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are also available!

“This book moved very fast and every page was exciting. Plenty of dialogue, you absolutely love the characters, and you were rooting for the good guy throughout the whole story… I look forward to reading the next in the series.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Kate did an amazing job on this book and I was hooked from the first chapter!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“I really enjoyed this book. The characters were authentic, and I see the bad guys as something we hear about daily on the news... Looking forward to book 2.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“This was a really good book. The main characters were real, flawed and human. The story went along quickly and wasn't mired in too many unnecessary details. I really enjoyed it.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Alexa Chase is headstrong, impatient, but most of all brave with a capital B. She never, repeat never, backs down until the bad guys are put where they belong. Clearly five stars!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“WOW what a great read! Talk about a diabolical killer! Really enjoyed this book. Looking forward to reading others by this author as well.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Page turner for sure. Great characters and relationships. I got into the middle of this story and couldn’t put it down. Looking forward to more from Kate Bold.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Hard to put down. It has an excellent plot and has the right amount of suspense. I really enjoyed this book.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

NEXT TIME

(A Meg Thorne Suspense Thriller—Book Three)

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

SERIES BY KATE BOLD

MEG THORNE

HEATHER KING

BRYNN JUSTICE

BETH DRAKE

MAGGIE FLIGHT

ADDISON SHINE

BARREN PINES

NINA VEIL

NORA PRICE

KELSEY HAWK

ALEXA CHASE

ASHLEY HOPE

CAMILLE GRACE

HARLEY COLE

KAYLIE BROOKS

EVE HOPE

DYLAN FIRST

LAUREN LAMB