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He let out a low whistle. “That’s an awful lot of water. No wonder it reeks in here.”

“I don’t think it’s from the water. It’s the fish.”

Considering the odor, they’d been dead for at least a day, maybe two. She didn’t know the exact number that had been in the tank, but she remembered there being a pair of black angel fish, a school of little silver and red fish, and a small brown one that spent most of its time stuck to the glass.

In the end, they found eight, which seemed a little low. She gave each one a porcelain funeral, which probably would have horrified her sister, who was sentimental about her fish and had given names to them all. The water took over an hour to clean, and it took every single towel in the house—plus a couple of blankets—to soak the mess up.

“Do you want to keep going or call it a night?” Nate asked as he tossed a sopping wet towel into the washer.

Dorcas glanced out the window, surprised to see that the sun had begun its descent toward the horizon. She checked the time. It was a few minutes after five, deep in the heart of rush hour. If they left now, it would take forever to cross town. “Would you mind if we stayed a little longer? There’s no way I can fix all this today, but I’d like to clear some more of the stuff off the floor.”

“Sure, no problem.” He gave a smile that reached his eyes and did funny things to her insides.

Methodically, they went from room to room, righting furniture and making neat piles for Rita to go through when she returned.

“Man, what a mess.” Nate stood by the bed in the master bedroom. He picked up a broken glass figurine and dumped it into the cardboard box he’d found in the garage. “Do you have any idea what they were looking for?”

“No. I wish I did.” Then she’d have something to work with. Not knowing anything left her walking a fine line between frustration and despair.

So far, the only thing she’d noticed missing was Rita’s laptop, but it was possible she’d taken it with her. The rest of the electronics were still in the house, along with Rita’s checkbook, jewelry, and the credit card she kept at the bottom of her underwear drawer.

Nate grabbed a pair of pants off the floor and tossed them onto the rapidly growing pile of clothing by the closet. “Does your sister have any enemies? Maybe someone from work, or an old boyfriend who turned to the stalker side?”

“It’s possible, but she never said anything about it.” Dorcas picked up a picture that had been knocked off the wall and hung it back on its hook. “I mean, Rita can come across as...I don’t know...abrasive, I guess, to people who don’t know her well. But I can’t imagine her getting someone angry enough to do this to her house.”

“You never know what’ll make people flip. Just look at the crazy shit some people do when they get cut off in traffic.”

True, but this felt far worse than a case of road rage or crazy ex-boyfriend.

She looked over and saw Nate holding an old family portrait from the last time they all went to Morey’s Pier. The glass was cracked, the frame broken, much like the smiling family standing in front of the big roller coaster.

“When was this taken?” he asked.

“I was twelve. Rita was eight.” Their father had skipped town a month or so after the photo was taken, but she didn’t share that part. Too many bad memories she’d rather forget. Too many nights of watching her mother pretend not to cry.

Needing a distraction, Dorcas checked her phone, frowning when she saw no notifications of incoming texts or voicemail messages. For a moment, she considered calling Rita again, but she’d already left three voicemails and a half dozen texts, and she didn’t think one more would make a damn bit of difference.

Just thinking about her sister had anxiety gnawing at her belly. What if Rita never answered? What if she was bleeding in a ditch somewhere? What if she wasn’t—no. She refused to consider the possibility. That kind of thinking wouldn’t accomplish anything but give her an ulcer.

Shoving the unpleasant thoughts from her mind, Dorcas bent to pick up a blouse off the floor, but jumped back when it moved. And hissed.

“What’s wrong?” Nate asked, a lamp in his hand.

“Something just hissed at me.”

“Where?”

Inching back, she pointed to a pile of clothes on the floor. “Over there.”

He set the lamp on the nightstand and crossed the room. Bending, he gripped the shirt by the edge of the fabric as though it were rigged with explosives and slowly peeled it away.

Confusion lined the corners of his eyes for an instant, and then his broad shoulders relaxed. “I thought your sister didn’t have any pets aside from the fish.”

“She doesn’t, not as far as I know.” She didn’t recall seeing a food or water bowl anywhere, but with the house such a wreck, that didn’t mean a thing.

The kitten couldn’t have been more than two or three months old, a small, thin black ball of fur with huge ice-blue eyes and a patch of white on its chest. It stretched forward to sniff her hand, but then cowered back and hissed again when she tried to pick it up.

“Poor thing’s scared to death. Maybe it wandered inside during the break-in.”