She took a careful step back, trying to figure out the best way to choreograph this.

“What is your problem, lady?” Brianna’s voice was shaky, but anger was already taking over fear. Solange had little time.

“You are my problem, I’m afraid.”

“What?” She scowled, but then her face softened. “Look, Mrs. Bettencourt, you’re not well. You need to put that gun down and let us both get out of this place.”

“Actually, I’m fine.” She aimed at Brianna’s heart, bracing herself against the wall for more balance.

“Please.” Brianna tried to swallow, her gaze moving from Solange’s face to the gun and back, her lip beginning to quiver. “I can help you. Put the gun down and we’ll talk. You need help.”

Solange scowled. “I don’t need anything.” Except the nerve to murder in cold blood. Again. She tightened her finger on the trigger and Brianna’s eyes widened.

“What do you want?” Brianna asked. “I haven’t done anything! Why could you possibly want to kill me?”

“I don’t.” Once the words were out, Solange regretted them. She’d just given away some power, and that was never a good thing.

Instantly, Brianna’s face changed. She started to back up toward the door, nudging it.

“Don’t,” Solange said sharply. She couldn’t risk someone else going over the edge. “Don’t go out there unless you want to fall.”

“Like Ana did?” she shot back. “You killed her, didn’t you? You freaking psychopath-you killed her!”

“Stop it!” She waved the gun. “Shut up.”

But Brianna kicked the door open enough for a powerful gust to blow in, stepping toward the balcony. Outside, a motor scooter climbing up the hill caught Solange’s eye.

Oh, Lord, this was not good. Tourists always stopped and took pictures of the windmill. If they saw a body fall, she’d be forced to explain another death over the cliff.

Brianna turned to follow her gaze and Solange grabbed her arm, yanking her back into the windmill with so much force they damn near both went over the ledge.

“Hey!” Brianna lunged at Solange to knock the gun away.

She squeezed the trigger and the shot exploded through the stone mill.

Instantly Brianna froze, her eyes wide in stunned disbelief, her hands clamping to her shoulder as her legs gave way. She buckled to her knees, a gasp catching in her throat as she hit the stone, blood seeping through her fingers.

In the distance, Solange heard the soft whine of the motor scooter, closer now. She didn’t dare fire another shot.

Brianna moaned in misery, folded in half now, her face to the ground, her body perilously close to the ledge where the gears turned. In there, the giant cogs would crush her, breaking every bone in her body. She couldn’t possibly be strong enough to hold them in place, especially wounded.

But if she bled on the gears then Solange would have to clean them off, and she didn’t want to even think about that. The motor scooter grew louder, nearing the house. Damn it!

Just as she lifted the gun to take the chance and finish the girl off, Brianna slumped completely, inches from the edge.

Voices rose from below as the engine quieted. Solange bent over, trying to see if Brianna was still breathing, but couldn’t tell.

She had to take the chance and leave her here long enough to get rid of the bothersome tourists. Then, she’d come back and finish the job of killing Brianna Dare and hiding her body.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CON GAVE LIZZIE a hand off the bike, looking around at the picturesque farmland rolling toward a stone windmill perched on a cliff above the sea.

“Pretty,” Lizzie said, turning to follow his gaze. In the distance, a few boats dotted the water between Corvo and the slightly larger Flores, but then it was clear for the thousands of miles straight out to North America.

“Pretty deserted,” he replied.

“I know,” she agreed, turning to the stucco farmhouse. “I was kind of hoping Bree would come running out to hug me.”

The whole place was silent but for the steady thump of the windmill sweeps and the distant pounding of the surf. Other than that, Con heard no signs of life at all.

Lizzie bounded toward the door, and he caught up with her in one stride.

“Easy, there.” He moved her a little behind him. “Let me go first. We have no idea what we’re going to find.”

“My sister, I hope.”

“You never know.”

She gave him a tentative glance, then let him stand in front as he knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” The voice came across the open field, sharp and strident. Exiting the windmill, a woman strode toward them like she was modeling on a runway, shoulders square, head held high, with an air of authority and haughtiness that was laughably out of place on a farm in the Azores.

This was no country woman.

“I hope you can,” Con replied, walking toward her and automatically blocking Lizzie. “We’re looking for a houseguest of yours. Brianna Dare.”

She slowed her step, an imperceptible change in her body taking her from in control to on guard.

“Are you Mrs. Bettencourt?” he asked when she didn’t respond.

As she got closer, he took in the cheekbones, square jaw, and pricey clothes, a jarring contradiction to the rugged stone windmill behind her. Blond hair with darker roots was pulled back in a hasty ponytail.

“Yes, I am,” she finally said. She stood with her hands in the side pockets of a full skirt that covered her knees, tense enough that he suspected her fists were balled in those pleats.

“My name’s Con Xenakis. This is Elizabeth Dare. We’re looking for her sister, who we understand is staying with you.”

She kept her gaze on Con, slowly shaking her head and looking confused. Then her eyes widened and the closest thing to a smile he’d seen yet pulled at her hollow cheeks.

“Brianna! The girl from America who was here yesterday?”

“Was?” Lizzie stepped forward. “She’s gone?”

“Oh, I’m afraid so. Early this morning on the first ferry to Flores.” She looked at her watch and then glanced toward the water, where a boat chugged toward the other island. “And it looks like you’ve missed the afternoon ferry. I wish I could help you.”

“Maybe you can,” Con said. “We’re looking for the same genealogical information. Could you tell us what you told her?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t tell her anything. I’m only a Bettencourt by marriage. I live here alone and have no access to any of the family information. Maybe the church in the village? That’s what I told her. Sorry.”

She stepped forward, nodding like a queen dismissing the messenger.

Con stepped sideways and blocked her. “She flew into Corvo, Mrs. Bettencourt. It makes no sense that she’d take the ferry to leave.”

Through narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, she made her distaste clear. “It makes perfect sense. She is on a lineage search, as are many Americans who come to the Azores. Bettencourt is as common a name on these islands as Smith is in the United States. Perhaps she went sightseeing to the other island. There’s absolutely no reason to accuse me of anything.”

He notched a brow. “I didn’t accuse you. I questioned your logic.”

“Well, I don’t like your tone.” She finally glanced at Lizzie. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

It sounded oddly like a condolence. Solange walked around Con, marching to the front porch without a glance back. As much as he wanted to grab her arm and demand entry, he knew he couldn’t. He had no right or reason.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder to guide her toward the bike, slowly. The front door closed with a deliberate slam.

“Jeez,” she said.

“Give it a sec,” he said, getting on the bike and waiting for her to settle in before he started it up and headed toward the road. At the last second, he turned toward the windmill.