I head for the front door out of habit—Louisa’s got me trained—and, as usual, it’s unlocked. I let myself in and walk quickly through the foyer to the living room, then check the kitchen and sunroom. Everything’s in order; the place is tidy. And the rooms are unoccupied, the house still. No one’s home, not even the beast.

With the exception of the unmade bed, the master bedroom is tidy too. It’s lit only by moonlight streaming through the veranda’s double doors. They’re closed and locked, but I check out there anyway. Empty.

The Queen’s Spa is dimmer than the bedroom, the moonbeams muted by the block glass behind the hot tub. I don’t turn a light on, though. I don’t need one.

The crunch of oyster shells in the driveway paralyzes me. But it isn’t a car pulling in. It’s not loud enough, and it’s not the crushing sound made by tires.

Footsteps. They move from the shell driveway to the wooden deck. And it isn’t one of the neighborhood foxes passing through, either. I have company. Human company. And whoever it is didn’t drive here.

I force myself to leave the Queen’s Spa and move to a window in the bedroom, where I’ll be able to see anyone who approaches the front door. The footsteps don’t travel in that direction, though. They head toward the side of the house. And they stop. There’s no sound at all. Anywhere.

Now there is. There’s a new noise—a rustling—and it’s in the kitchen. Someone is opening the kitchen door. Whoever is here lives on Cape Cod, enters houses the way the locals do. And now the Cape Codder is inside. Walking in this direction.

The only real exit from this room is the veranda. Its double doors have two locks, though. The Kydd opened them easily when we were here with Louisa on Sunday, but I didn’t pay attention to the mechanics. I won’t be able to do it that fast. I could climb out a window, but I wouldn’t make it in time. The footsteps are too close.

I move back into the Queen’s Spa. Maybe my visitor will stop in the foyer, or the bedroom. But maybe not. The steam room would buy me thirty seconds or so. The glass is frosted, but it is glass. I’d be spotted pretty quickly. And I’d be cornered. Now I’m battling panic. Deep breaths, I remind myself. Silent ones.

The Kydd’s words come back to me as my eyes find the other door. A completely separate room for the throne. That’s my only option—the throne room. If the caller decides to use the facilities, I’m trapped, of course. But at this point, that’s a risk I have to take.

I move inside and pull the door almost closed, but not completely. I can see only the far wall from in here—the tub and the block glass behind it—and I realize that means I probably won’t see much of anything. It’s unlikely the visitor came here to take a hot bath. But still, I leave the door open a crack, just in case I can steal a peek at the intruder.

I can. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when the gentleman caller comes into view. He doesn’t turn a light on either. He’s facing the hot tub, his back toward me, but I know who he is; I’d recognize that lanky silhouette anywhere. He’s staring down into the tub and for a second I wonder if he did come here to take a bath.

I’m about to push the throne-room door open, to chastise the Kydd for shaving a solid year off my life, but something makes me pause. The Kydd is dressed exactly as I am—completely in black, head to toe. And he parked somewhere else too, just as I did. He didn’t want to drive his pickup into the Rawlings’s oyster-shell driveway. He stands perfectly still, staring downward.

I can’t see his face but I’m nonetheless certain he’s not looking into the hot tub. He doesn’t give a damn about the tub right now; he’s interested in the mother swan. He has the same question I have. And he came here—just as I did—to get the answer. My gut tells me to stay put while he does.

He reaches down toward one of the brass handles and hesitates. Then he takes a deep breath and turns it hard, as far as it will go. Water rockets from the swan’s beak and pelts the marble tub below, filling the entire room with gushing noise. The Kydd stares for a few seconds, standing perfectly still again.

He leans down after a moment, the water still pounding, and clutches the rim of the tub with both hands as if he needs more than just his legs to support himself. As he moves, I get a glimpse of what he’s already seen. It explains his weak knees. A leak.

A small stream trickles from the base of Mother Swan’s neck and meanders down the outer casing of the hot tub to the pale oak below. It pools first in the ten-by-ten cutout, where portions of the planks were excised by the guys from the state crime lab, and then it spills over to the rest of the floor. The Kydd has his answer now. And so do I.

But that’s not all we have. We also have a problem. Gushing water isn’t the only sound I hear anymore. There’s a new one—a higher-pitched noise—and I’m pretty sure I know what it is. The Kydd shuts off the water and erases all doubt.

Yip-yip-wail.

“Mr. Kydd.” I can’t see her—she’s on the other side of my door—but there’s no mistaking Anastasia’s baritone. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she says. “I told you earlier. You’re not welcome.”

“Why don’t you call the po-lice?” he answers, turning to face her.

Bad brother-from-the-’hood talk sounds even worse in Southern-speak. It’s a fine idea the Kydd has, though; Tommy Fitzpatrick and a few of his officers would be a welcome sight right about now. But Anastasia won’t call the po-lice, of course. Not now and not later. Cops are the last people on the planet she wants to see.

“No time for that,” she tells him. “After all, a woman who arrives home to find an intruder in the house needs to defend herself. I’ll have to get rid of you right away. For my own protection.”

The Kydd actually laughs out loud. I wish he wouldn’t. Geraldine was right about one thing. If Louisa had attacked her husband here in the Queen’s Spa, she wouldn’t have been able to dump his body by herself. Anastasia couldn’t have either. She had help. And the most likely helper—Lance Phillips—is undoubtedly around here somewhere.

My certainty about this has nothing to do with Anastasia’s physical strength. For all I know, she’s entirely capable of lifting her father’s weight. Even if she is, though, she couldn’t have dumped him in the Great South Channel alone. No one person could have. Because, somehow, that person had to get back to shore. The Carolina Girl never made it. Another vessel did.

The Kydd has stopped laughing, but he still looks a little more amused than he should. “What are you going to do,” he asks, “sic Lucifer on me?”

Upon hearing its name, the beast emits another yip-yip-wail.

Anastasia doesn’t utter a word, but the Kydd’s demeanor does a one-eighty. It’s in his eyes. Suddenly I’m panicked. His hands fly up in a “don’t do it” gesture and then he dives to the floor. A gunshot blast shatters the silence along with a single block of glass behind the tub.

I release the safety on the Lady Smith. God only knows how it got from my pocket to my hand.

When I can hear again, I realize Anastasia is laughing. “Very impressive,” she says. “Encore.”

At first I think she’s speaking to the Kydd. But now I hear another laugh—one that’s not Anastasia’s—and I realize she’s not the shooter. She’s talking to the person who is.

“Okay,” he says, and he repeats his performance. The Kydd lunges toward the side wall and takes cover beside the marble vanity of the sink in front of my door. A second glass block takes a bullet.

Again, momentary deafness. When it lifts I hear clapping, applause. “And I thought we were just going to watch TV tonight,” Anastasia gushes. “This is way better.”

It’s not Anastasia’s voice that interests me at the moment, though. It’s the other one—the man’s. I heard only a short laugh and a single okay, but I know who’s shooting. And it’s not Lance Phillips.