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herself up the stairs and into the bathroom, where she turned the hot water tap on as far as it would go. Her mother had sent her some Crabtree and Evelyn bath oil for Christmas that she hadn’t opened yet. She ripped the plastic wrapping off now and poured a sizeable amount into the tub. Perfumed, fragrant steam soon filled the bathroom.
    Monica was retrieving her robe from the bedroom when there was a knock on the door. She pushed aside the curtains and peered out her bedroom window. She could see the top of a dark-colored car pulled up in front of her door.
    Who on earth . . . ?
    Monica dropped her bathrobe on the bed, quickly turned off the taps in the bathroom and headed down the stairs toward the foyer. She yanked open the door, ready to tell whateversalesman was standing there that she was decidedly not interested in his or her wares. The words died on her lips.
    Standing on the front step, one hand supporting her back, was Detective Stevens. The breeze, damp from their proximity to the lake, had curled the ends of her hair and sent a lock blowing across her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently.
    â€œMind if I come in for a moment?”
    â€œNo. No, of course not.” Monica stepped aside.
    Stevens grunted slightly as she mounted the single step to Monica’s tiny foyer. They stood facing each other in the small space.
    â€œPlease come in,” Monica said gesturing toward the living room.
    Stevens eyed Monica’s overstuffed sofa warily and dropped into one of the armchairs instead. She stuck her feet out in front of her and rotated her ankles, briefly leaning her head against the back of the chair.
    â€œI’ve got a month to go,” Stevens said, rubbing her stomach, “and I was hoping for a nice, uneventful couple of weeks. Maybe some idiot trying to rob an ATM or a radio stolen from someone’s car. Not murder.” She blew out a breath of air and her bangs flopped up and down.
    â€œYou’re sure it was murder?” Monica perched on the edge of the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. All she could think about was the rapidly cooling water in her bathtub upstairs.
    Stevens grunted and struggled to sit upright. “The autopsy hasn’t been performed yet, but there’s a sizeable dent in Culbert’s skull that suggests he was hit with the proverbial blunt instrument before being dumped in the bog.” Stevens leveled her gaze at Monica. “The pathologist estimates time of deathto be between nine o’clock and midnight. Of course he won’t swear to it.” Stevens sighed. “Pathologists won’t swear to much of anything unless maybe it’s that the corpse is definitely dead. Even then . . .” Stevens rolled her eyes. She smiled and leaned as far forward as her stomach would allow. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to give your brother an alibi for that time period would you?”

Chapter 6

    Monica stared at Stevens. She suspected her mouth was hanging open, and she hastened to shut it. An alibi? For Jeff? Monica had to clear her throat several times before finding her voice.
    â€œJeff came over for dinner. He’s not been eating well so I made him a steak and . . .” Monica’s voice trailed off. She suspected Stevens wasn’t interested in hearing all the details. She desperately wished she could tell the detective that Jeff had been with her the whole time, but she couldn’t lie. Not to the police. Not to anyone. She’d been brought up to tell the truth.
    Stevens massaged the small of her back, her head cocked, waiting for the rest of Monica’s reply.
    Monica wet her lips and cleared her throat, attempting to delay the moment when she would land Jeff in the soup. She couldn’t imagine Jeff killing anyone, but she’d read aboutsoldiers who had come back from the war with post-traumatic stress disorder snapping and behaving in unlikely ways.
    â€œJeff left here