The resulting flood had picked up the white bath mats and floated them forward on a pond that was churning, the soggy squares jamming at the lip of the marble floor at the doorjamb. Meanwhile, on the walls, all the mirrors and the window were streaked with condensation and two framed photographs were dripping at the corners.

This had started out hot, she thought. The dense, humid air was cold now, though. How long had it all been running?

More important, why had someone done this?

Glancing around again, she saw a toothbrush was still set upright in a white holder between the twin sinks, and monogrammed towels were hanging on rods, and the toilet and bidet had their lids down.

Lydia breathed in deep, but she wasn’t sure what she expected to smell.

That was a lie.

Blood … she was looking for the copper bouquet of blood—but she was not a search and rescue dog. All she got was some vague kind of chlorine tinge from the water having been treated.

“Someone’s covered it up,” she said grimly.

She didn’t feel the need to define “it” out loud. But she knew Peter Wynne was dead, and she had a feeling that he’d been killed in here.

Wheeling away, she stumbled—and saw the glass door to a walk-in closet. The order inside, compared to the chaos elsewhere in the house, was eerie. Like a car radio playing after a crash.

But not everything was tidy in there. As she entered the shallow room, over in the corner on the white carpet, there was a twisted pile of monogrammed PJs, as if the wearer had had night sweats and been disgusted by his lack of sleep. There were also undershirts mixed in that were stained with what looked like food. Boxer shorts. Socks.

She went back out. Daniel was over by the bed, bending down, looking under the mattress without touching anything.

“Do we turn off the water?” she asked as she glanced to the second-floor windows.

The back of the property was on a gentle slope to a man-made pond—or at least she assumed it was man-made given its cement-and-stone shoreline. The trees had been trimmed back, and just into the edge of the forest, she could see the remnants of an old horse pen and shelter.

“Let’s check the rest of the house,” Daniel said. “But no, we don’t touch a damn thing.”

They went down the river of stairs together and took a right into a library that yielded nothing in particular. Out the far side, there was a hall that led back to the main area.

“What do we do?” she said as they reemerged into the family room. “I mean, I know we should call the—”

From out of the corner of her eye, the muted TV screen registered. It had been tuned to the Plattsburgh affiliate and a newscaster was looking into the camera—with an image of the WSP’s headquarters floating by his head.

“Where’s the remote.” She looked around. “Where’s the—”

Daniel went over to the flat-screen. “I’ve got it.”

He covered his knuckle with his sleeve and upped the volume on the side of the TV itself.

“—reporting on a developing story. A source at the Wolf Study Project has accused the developers of the five-hundred-acre McBridge property on Bread Loaf Mountain of poisoning wildlife. The Corrington Hotel chain, well known for its luxury sites around the world, is building a resort on the land, having received zoning approval just two months ago. Concerns about the neighboring preserve and its population of wolves with regard to the safety of visitors to the spa and retreat have been noted in internal memos obtained by WNDK. Tune in for the full story from the award-winning Live at Five team—”

With a curse, Lydia stared out at the backyard. Then she frowned as she tried to see those structures inside the tree line.

“We need to go back and look there.”

“Look where?”

“There,” she said, pointing to the forest—

Somewhere in the house, a phone started ringing, the electronic brrrrrring’ing echoing around empty rooms, cutting through the dripping coming from the front hall.

“We need to leave,” Daniel said.

He was standing over the red couch, his arms crossed on his big chest, his head shaking back and forth as he focused on the television. Then his eyes locked on hers.

“We really have to go now, Lydia. We can talk about next steps in the car, but … we’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

She wanted to argue—but for no good reason. He was right. Hell, they never should have come in.

“Okay.”

They left without another word, filing out of the back door he’d broken in through. After he closed things tight, he took her arm and rushed her to her car—and the way he was looking around made the nape of her neck tingle. Or maybe it was doing that anyway. At the hatchback, she went to the driver’s side out of habit, and he didn’t seem to care who was behind the wheel. As she fell into her seat with a thump, she was twelve feet from the dashboard, so she reached between her legs, yanked up the bar, and shoved things forward manually.

He handed her the keys. She started the engine.

Her heart was pounding so hard that she could swear he heard it, too, and she found herself compulsively swallowing even though her mouth was dry.

Hitting the gas, the tires skidded on the gravel, and then she was whipping around the circular drive and careening her little POS down the allée of maples. Up at the lip of the county road, she didn’t bother putting her blinker on. She just gunned it and shot out into all the absolutely-no-traffic.

“Slow down,” he said. “You’re going to wreck us.”

Lydia let off on the pedal and glanced over to find him braced against the window and the dash. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay—”

“Wait, that van coming toward us.” She leaned forward. “Is that the news crew?”

Sure enough, over in the opposite lane, a white van with a satellite dish mounted on its roof was going like a bat out of hell. As it passed by, the NBC logo was a splash of color. WNDK.

“They’re going to Peter’s.” She checked the rear view. “I swear they’re going to Peter’s—”

As the vehicle went around the curve in the road, she pounded the brakes and did a U-ie. Stomping on the gas, the engine whirred under the hood.

“We’re not going back there,” Daniel said as he braced himself again.

“I have to know if they’re going to Peter’s.”

“Don’t be crazy. We just broke into the damn house. You want to explain to them, on camera, how we walked around? And didn’t call the police?”

“We have a sheriff in this town,” she muttered. “Not police.”

Before Daniel could go any further, she yanked the wheel to the right and shot them onto a rough dirt road that was one car wide. Holding on to the steering wheel so her head didn’t bang on the roof, she fought against the bumps as Daniel threw out his hands and grabbed on to the door and the console. For the third time.

“Where the—hell are we—going?” he gritted as they rattled around.

“This parallels Peter’s property,” she said over the din. “We’ll be able to see—”

“Jesus—Lydia. We’re going—to get caught.”

“They won’t—know we’re here.”