She typed up her movements of the morning, the time involved, then put on earbuds, cued up her current audiobook.

She spent the next hour in the Scottish Highlands and nibbling on Fritos—a big weakness.

When the rugged chieftain and the fiery woman he loved finished their adventure, she checked in with her husband, with her office, then started to scroll through more audio choices.

The sedate black Mercedes pulled up to the dignified house.

Nikki Bennett, her short brown hair fluttering a bit in the breeze, got out. She wore a summer suit of pale gray, darker gray pumps with short, stubby heels. She swung a black briefcase on her shoulder before reaching in the back for a cloth market tote.

Rachael waited until she reached the door before she left her car, hit the locks, then crossed the street.

She rang the bell.

Moments later, Nikki opened it, studied Rachael with tired, suspicious eyes. “Yes?”

“Ms. Bennett, I’m Rachael McNee.” She held up her identification. “I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes. May I come in?”

“No. What’s this about? I’ve been out of town. I haven’t heard anything about any trouble in the neighborhood.”

“None that I know of. Your name’s come up in a matter I’m investigating.”

“What matter?”

“Poetry.”

Nikki stared straight through her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have work.”

Before she could shut the door, Rachael moved in enough to block it. “Ms. Bennett,” she began, and recited several names from the list, ending with the five murdered women.

“I don’t know any of those people. If they’re clients of mine or my firm, make an appointment with my office. This is my home.”

“Adrian Rizzo.”

That got a reaction, just a quick flicker in the tired eyes. “If you’re a reporter looking to dredge all that up, I’m not—”

“I’m not a reporter.” Again, Rachael held up her identification. “I’m investigating a series of threats, and a series of deaths, all of which connect to your father.”

“My father’s been dead for over twenty years. Now, if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

“That’s fine. If you don’t speak with me, that’s where I’m going. To the authorities. I can come in, you can answer some questions. We’ll clear this up. Or you’ll talk to the cops.”

“You’re not coming into my house.” But Nikki stepped out, crossed her arms in front of the open door. “I was a child when my father died. My brother and I were children.”

“So was Adrian Rizzo. Younger, in fact, than either of you.”

“None of that had or has anything to do with me. But we paid for it anyway. We lost our father. We lived with the scandal, the press, the questions. We paid. My mother finally broke and killed herself over it. We paid, and it’s done.”

“Someone doesn’t think so. Five of the names I gave you, five of those women, are dead, through violence. Murdered. All of the names I listed, and more, had affairs with your father.”

Nikki’s eyes shifted now, right, left, back. Nerves lived in them.

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“You don’t find that curious?”

“People die. My father did. My mother did.”

“Murdered, Nikki, those names on a list your mother compiled.”

“You’re a liar.” Heat rose now. “My mother knew nothing about it. She didn’t know about the other women. She didn’t have any list.”

“She took that list to the reporter who broke the story the day before your father attacked Lina and Adrian Rizzo and Mimi Krentz.”

“That’s a lie.” But the flicker came back.

“I have no reason to lie. You travel a great deal.”

“So what? It’s none of your business.” Her voice pitched up. “It’s my job. I’ve built a career, I’ve built a life. I’m not going to have you come around here and try to ruin it over something my father did when I was a child.”

“Do you write poetry, Nikki?”

“I’ve had enough of this, and you.”

“For the past thirteen years, right after your mother died, Adrian Rizzo has received an anonymous, threatening poem. The postmarks vary, as they would with someone who travels. Your father taught poetry, among other things.”

“I don’t write poetry. I don’t send anonymous threats.” But her breathing began to quicken, thicken. “My father’s dead because he thought he could cheat on my mother with impunity. He’s dead because he got drunk and violent. He’s dead because he got one of his whores pregnant and fathered a bastard and wouldn’t own up to it like a man.”

“And that hurt you. It hurt you, and when your mother killed herself, it hurt all over again. More. All those women caused your mother pain, so much pain. And that child he fathered, a living reminder of the pain. You paid, you said. Do you think they need to pay?”

“They can all rot in hell as far as I’m concerned. I don’t give them a thought. They’re nothing to me.”

“The last poem came from Omaha. Did you swing through Omaha on your recent trip, Nikki?”

“No. But it’s none of your business. Get off my property or I’ll have you charged with trespassing and harassment.”

“Where’s your brother, Nikki?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Go to hell!”

She stepped back inside, slammed the door.

Rachael took one of the cards out of her case, slid it under the door. You just never knew.

One thing she did know, she corrected as she walked back to her car.

Nikki Bennett was a liar, and not a very good one.

On the other side of the door, Nikki began to shake. Primarily from anger. She wouldn’t, she would not let any part of her life upend again because of people she didn’t care about, because of what her drunken cheat of a father had done when she’d been a teenager, for God’s sake.

And she didn’t believe for one minute her mother had known about all those sluts her father screwed around with.

Except she did. Except she did, she admitted, and covered her face with her hands.

All those years, just more lies.

Lies and betrayals and booze and pills. Her whole life, built on lies.

No, no, no, not her life. She’d built her own damn life. The hell with the rest of them.

When she dropped her hands, her eyes widened with shock as her brother strolled down the elegant curve of the steps.

“Hi, Sis. You got a sad?”

“JJ.” She barely recognized him with the unkempt beard, the hair halfway to his shoulders. In the scarred cowboy boots and gun belt he looked like a blur of redneck and apostle with the shadow of their father underneath. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. And plowed a fist into her face.

Rachael stopped at a Sheetz to top off her tank, grab a cold drink, and once again empty her bladder. She sat in her car to contact Adrian.

“Rachael here. I wanted to let you know I’ve just spoken with Nikki Bennett.”