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missed him, and that was sick. According to Wes, there was a chance he wanted to kill me.
    “How?” I asked, trying to hide my fear from Wes.
    “I have sources working on it,” he said, sounding important.
    I nodded, knowing enough not to ask for details. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t want to tell me; it was also that I didn’t want to know. I maintained a calm exterior, but the truth was that I was seriously shaken.
    Until Wes put a name to the threat, it had seemed absurd to think that someone wanted me dead. But now I wasn’t so sure. Sitting on a seaweed-strewn beach in New Hampshire, I’d assumed that I was safe. According to Wes, there was a good chance that I’d been wrong.
    I kicked myself for not tracking Trevor’s status, shaking my head in mute astonishment—it seemed that denial was a more powerful force than I’d realized. Despite Detective Rowcliff raising the potential that I, not Maisy, had been the target, it hadn’t occurred to me that Trevor might be behind the murder.
    Still, Trevor as cold-blooded murderer seemed incredible. Trevor was a thief, not a killer. But considering what I knew about Trevor Woodleigh, I began to question my automatic denial that he would plan and execute murder. My heart began to race.
    Trevor was a man of impressive intellect, guided more by passion than reason. And he loathed me. If the anger that had simmered just below the surface throughout his trial had boiled over while he was in prison, I had no doubt that he’d have both the impulse to kill me and the smarts to pull it off. It was a terrifying realization.
    “So what now?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
    Wes stood up and stretched, preparing to leave. “Now I keep digging,” he said.
    Me, too , I thought. I’ve got to know where Trevor is and what he’s up to—and I’ve got to find out quickly .
    “You’ll keep me posted?” I asked.
    “Give me an exclusive.”
    “Who else would I talk to, Wes?”
    “Deal.”
    He flashed a quick V for victory and lumbered through the sand to his car. Whose victory is he hoping to inspire? I wondered. Mine for my survival? Or his for writing a Pulitzer Prize–winning feature?

    I sat for several minutes trying to decide what to do first—follow up on Trevor or try to learn more about Maisy—but I reached no conclusion. And , I wondered, is Trevor an immediate threat? Do I need a bodyguard? I shook out the blanket, folded it up, and made my way across the sand to my car, all the while considering my options.
    My father once told me that no matter what, it was always better to know the truth than not. He never said it wasn’t frightening, just that it was better than the alternative. Ignorance , he said, is never bliss .

    Leaves crunched under my tires as I drove through my parking lot.
    The sound was evocative, bringing forth happy childhood memories of jumping into towering piles of raked leaves before my dad and I stuffed them into oversized trash bags. Life was easy then.
    I saw that Gretchen, my assistant, was just getting out of her car, her ginger-colored hair hanging in gentle waves almost to her waist.
    “You’re here bright and early,” I called. “It’s not even eight thirty!”
    “I couldn’t sleep, so I finally gave up and decided to come in. It was either that or do laundry,” she said, making a funny face.
    I laughed, appreciating her lighthearted take on the world, even in the face of strife.
    “Well, Prescott’s appreciates being the beneficiary of your insomnia, even if you rank us just slightly above laundry.” I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The chimes tinkled as I punched the code to turn off the alarm.
    “I wouldn’t put it that way,” she responded with a giggle. “Laundry is way more important than work, but I finished it as a result of yesterday’s insomnia, so I had no choice but to come in.”
    I smiled, signaling that I got the joke. “Why are you having trouble sleeping?” I