I went through it, into a small mudroom. There were potted plants and gardening gloves and an umbrella. The door leading from the mudroom into the kitchen was open as well. Inside the kitchen, I saw a few dishes in the sink, a pot on the stove, and a small cat bowl with food in it.

From the kitchen, I went through a doorway into a small dining room and off the dining room was a living room. The place was furnished with big, overstuffed chairs and throw rugs. A small fireplace sat off to one side of the living room. I saw on the mantle a collection of photographs.

To my right, I saw a stairwell and heard a bumping noise from above me.

“Hello!” I yelled up. No one answered.

I climbed the stairs two at a time and came to a hallway with three doors. The first door on my right was open, and I could see tile as well as the edge of a pedestal sink.

To my left was another door, closed. And straight ahead, the third door was open, and I could see shadows moving inside. I walked forward, my heart beating from exertion and fear.

For the first time in my career, I desperately wished for a gun.

I peeked into the room and immediately understood the bumping sound and the moving shadows.

Memphis hung from the ceiling fan, her neck stretched in a way that could mean only one thing. The ceiling fan was on, slowly spinning her body, her foot occasionally bumping against the bed’s footboard.

I froze, unable to tear myself away from the image of Memphis’ face, her lips frozen in a look of terror, blood dripping from her nose—

Blood dripping . . .

Fresh blood . . .

An electric spike shot down my spine just as I heard the whisper of a shoe on carpet, and I ducked, but the blow cracked along my vertebrae between my shoulder blades. I hit the floor. I rolled and caught the sight of Erma’s—or was it Freda’s?—face flushed red, her teeth gritted, a Taser in her hand.

She cursed in German, and I rolled into the bedroom where Memphis hung.

And I rolled right under Freda.

She’d been standing behind the door. While her sister had been in the bedroom with the door closed. As I watched them descend on me, I realized they knew I was coming. Somehow, they knew. They’d staged the scene to lure me in.

The first one pounced on me, sat on my chest, and pinned my arms under her knees. I tried to head-butt her in the face, but she pulled back easily, and all I caught was air. I felt an incredible weight on my legs and realized the other one was kneeling on them.

If I had any doubts about what they were trying to do, those doubts ended when the first one grabbed a handful of my hair and brought her gun up toward my mouth. I gritted my teeth, but she let go of my hair, brought her forearm down and pinched my nose shut.

I held my breath, knowing what was going to happen. When I opened my mouth to breathe, she would jam the gun in and blow off the top of my head.

Then they would jot a little note.

Double suicide. Or murder/suicide depending on which story they went with.

I’d killed Memphis for some reason, and then they’d bring out my past. An ex-cop ate his gun. Happens all the fucking time. Every day, in fact.

I didn’t think my sister would let it ride, but hey, these two fuckers were pros. They’d make it look very good, very real.

My lungs were on fire, and I knew I couldn’t hold my breath very much longer. The first one had a little smile on her face. She looked like a mean little kid who’d pulled the wings off a fly and was now happily watching it die a pathetic little spasmodic death.

It pissed me off.

Every muscle in my body slammed into place, and I bucked with everything I had.

The first one barely moved.

But move she did.

Just enough to free my left arm.

I reached up and got her neck and bucked again, this time bringing her head toward me as I rammed my head forward. I heard and felt her nose squash against my forehead. Blood sprayed, and now my right arm was loose. I grabbed the gun as the woman on top of me sagged. The gun fired a round, and the explosion brought the three of us into a burst of frantic energy.

I’d hoped that I’d knocked the first one out, but her eyes cleared just as I was bringing the gun around. She had the advantage, but I had momentum on my side. I gave one more shove, and the gun came around toward her chest.

I pulled the trigger.

Just as she was knocked back, the second one let go of my legs and reached for her gun. I put three rounds into her chest, and she staggered back into the hallway and fell on her ass, her feet still in the room. She had a look of utter sadness, looking down at her dead sister. She toppled over then, her big body landing with a thud.

The smell of gunpowder was overwhelming, and I felt stars shooting across my forehead.

Everything started to go black, and I was suddenly scared I’d been shot.

But then I realized why.

I was still holding my breath.

Chapter Forty-Two

The first thing I did was vomit. I made it to the toilet, worrying about destroying evidence, but hurl I did. My whole body was shaking, probably from both fear and the aftermath of having an ungodly amount of volts shot through my system. I was having a near-death and an out-of-body experience at the same time.

Somehow, I found my way back to the first bedroom, where one of the twins had been hiding. I assumed the note was meant to be written in my hand, and sure enough, there was a slip of paper. It was the one on which I’d jotted down my name and phone number and given to someone in Shannon’s entourage, maybe Molly?

It was standard, depressed prose: “God forgive me, I’m a failure . . .” The note said I had begun an affair with Memphis, fallen in love, and when I told her it was over because I was a relatively happily married man, she killed herself. Which then weighed so heavily on me that I could only deal with it by killing myself as well.

The note stopped there, probably when I entered the house and interrupted the forger at work.

I thought about what to do next. I should call the police. Yes, call the police. They would arrive, I’d make my statement, a few hours of questioning, and I’d be released around midnight. No, don’t call the police. I stood there, shaking, trying to pull myself together.

Shit. I checked my watch. It was late—I would have to hurry to make my meeting with Shannon.

Leaving the scene of a crime was a felony. So was killing people, and I had two dead bodies to my name, and a third hanging from a ceiling fan.

With the old woman and the hound, and the people on the ferry, I knew there was no way I could avoid facing the cops. The question was: when did I want to face them? Leaving the scene of a crime would be more than enough to have my PI license revoked.

Still, I was hot on this thing, and I had a feeling that my meeting with Shannon would bring it to an end.

I decided to compromise. First, I did a quick run-through of Memphis’ house, looking for anything that I could use with Shannon. It felt good to be moving, to be doing something.

I went through every room in the house but came up empty. There was no other choice. I left the house and made a beeline for the silver BMW. It was either Memphis’ or the twins’, but I didn’t know which.

I looked inside and saw a bag in the front passenger seat’s floor space. It struck a chord with me, and for some reason, I didn’t think it belonged to one of the twins.

In fact, I could’ve sworn that I’d seen the bag somewhere. It looked neat and organized, made of brown leather. I could see the Franklin planner inside.