Page 20 of Darkwater Lane

Miranda had been the female equivalent of Sam: bitter, angry, resentful, and bent on retribution. She and Sam had fed off each other, encouraging their worst impulses. She’d supported him in his quest to track me and the kids down, even going so far as to fund the cost of his rental in Stillhouse Lake.

But whereas Sam found a way out of the pain and rage, Miranda never did. When she learned that Sam not only believed in my innocence, but had also fallen in love with me, she went ballistic and vowed to take us down.

She got murdered in the process.

Not before converting Leo to her beliefs, unfortunately. By the time she passed away, he’d become a true believer in my guilt and despised Sam for sleeping with the enemy.

At her death, Miranda left her rather sizable estate to Leo with the understanding that he would take over running the organization and fulfill her mission. He’d been the one to fundThe Royal Murderspodcast.

Then, he disappeared, leaving behind a fake crime scene and a false trail of evidence leading directly to Sam.

The problem was, it didn’t make sense. It all seemed too sophisticated for a man like him to pull off, which meant someone else had to be involved, helping him behind the scenes. I’d tried looking into the other Lost Angels, but none of them had backgrounds that seemed applicable.

Now, though, it occurs to me that there’s another connection I should look into: someone new on my radar with an axe to grind against me and my family. Rowan Applegate. Callie’s sister and the co-host ofThe Royal Murders.

Pulling my jacket tighter around me, I connect my laptop to my cellphone hotspot and type Rowan’s name into the search engine. The first few pages of hits are all related to the podcast. I skim through them until I come across a photo from a charity event raising money for families of missing kids. It’s a picture of the major donor sponsors for the event, and Rowan’s name is listed in the caption as: “Rowan Applegate: Vice President, Lost Angels.”

I let out a breath. I had no idea she was so involved with the Lost Angels beyond the podcast. Given that Leo was the president and is now MIA, that would make Rowan the de facto head of the organization.

I study the photo, trying to figure out which of the dozen people pictured she might be. Eventually, I give up and continue my search, coming across something else: a profile on one of thoseprofessional networking sites where you post your resume. There’s a picture at the top, from what’s clearly a professional photoshoot. She’s wearing a smart gray suit with a red silk blouse, her dark hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are a stunning light blue, and there’s a studied seriousness to her expression as she stares down the lens of the camera.

I glance at her most recent job: Cybersecurity Lead Consultant at DevTech. I sit back, tucking my chilly fingers into my sleeves as I skim her list of qualifications and skills: extensive experience with ethical hacking, expertise in penetration testing frameworks, familiarity with vulnerability assessment tools.

Basically, she’s a hacker, but the kind companies hire to test their own security defenses. Which makes her an expert in technology. As in the kind of skills that might come in handy when trying to help someone disappear online.

Dopamine floods my system, causing my fingertips to tingle and my stomach to soar. I love this feeling. It’s one of the best parts of being a private investigator: the physical reward of finding a clue or fitting a piece to the puzzle. My gut knows this is important. I’m on to something that will get me closer to the truth.

Pulse pounding with anticipation, I pull up the encrypted messaging app on my phone Taylor always insists I use to contact her. I copy the link to Rowan’s profile and send it to her, along with a message.She has a connection to Varrus. Any chance she may be involved?

Taylor responds within seconds.If she is, I’ll find out. Talk soon.

I give myself a few minutes to bask in this feeling. It’s the closestI’ve felt to success in a while, and if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s to enjoy the wins when and where you can.

Unfortunately, it’s short-lived. Less than a minute later, my phone buzzes with an alert. I check the screen, and my heart stutters. It’s from my podcast app. The second episode ofThe Royal Murdersjust dropped.

I check the time. It will be at least an hour before Connor’s done with his shift. A part of me thinks I should maybe wait to listen to it with Sam this evening, but what if Lanny gets a chance to listen before then?

My stomach churns with dread as I slide my laptop into my bag and pull out my headphones. I put them on and tug my hat down over my ears before taking a deep breath and pressing play. There are a few ads before the intro music, and then I’m met with the sound of my ex-husband’s voice.

“I’m going to get you!” he calls in a taunting, sing-song voice. “You can run, but I’ll run faster!”

I gasp, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, freezing me to the spot. I jam my finger against the screen, desperate to end the assault. When that doesn’t work, I rip the earphones free and fling them to the ground. The podcast continues to play through the phone’s speaker, Melvin’s voice now tinny and distant. I turn the volume all the way down, finally silencing him.

I’m panting by this point, sweat beading on my forehead and trailing down the back of my neck despite the cold weather. I close my eyes, drawing deep breaths to ground myself. But I can’t stop my mind from spinning back to the last time I heard that voice.

We’d been in an old, abandoned plantation house in the Louisiana bayou. He’d just finished beating a woman’s head against the doorjamb before driving a screwdriver through her skull, killing her. Then, he’d turned to me, his face smeared with blood. He’d looked at me hungrily, ready to torture and kill me.

“Gina, I’m sorry, but this is how it has to?—”

To be.

That’s what I always assumed he meant to say. Not that it matters. They were the last words he ever spoke before I shot him dead.

I’m about to throw up. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, rifling through my purse with my free hand for my water bottle. I take several swallows, focusing on the feel of the cold water flowing down my throat.

I’m okay, I tell myself.I’m safe. I force myself to look around, to ground myself in my present reality. I’m at a horse farm in Tennessee. Melvin is dead and buried.

Though his bones are no longer there, a small voice reminds me.He’s still out there, pieces of him being used for some unknown, sick purpose.

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