Page 36 of Darkwater Lane

“Are those the only two cameras? The ones on each corner?” Gutierrez asks.

I shake my head, my forehead furrowed in concentration. “No, we have two more that are hidden in case someone decides to mess with the main cameras. They’re on a different system too.”

I switch to another app. We run through the same routine, but again…nothing. The recording goes blank soon after I leave, starting up again right as Lanny and Connor return home.

Pressure mounts in my skull, causing a throbbing ache. “This doesn’t make sense.” I click through the camera settings, trying to figure out what happened to the missing recording. Perhaps some sort of setting was changed or the recording saved somewhere else. “The cameras are set to run anytime the system is armed. Lanny said it was on when she got home…”

I trail off, clicking back to the first app to check the log again. We each have our own code so the system can track who arms and disarms the system. I trail my finger down the screen—Lanny and Sam leaving for school this morning, Connor going for a walk, Sam running errands. Lanny returning home from school and then leaving again to take Connor to the barn. Sam leaving. Then me, on my way to meet Madison at the hotel.

I should have been the last user to arm the system until Lanny and Connor got home. Except there’s one more name after mine: Sam Cade.

I note the time: He disarmed the system only a few minutes after I left, then rearmed it twenty minutes later. Right around the time I was at the hotel bar waiting to meet Madison.

What the actual fuck?

I quickly flick my finger across the screen, shifting to a different window. I’m hoping Gutierrez didn’t have a chance to see Sam’s name on the log as the last one to have accessed the system. I want a chance to ask Sam about it myself before handing that piece of information over to the authorities.

But when I glance over at the detective, I notice that his lips are pressed tight. Something in his demeanor has shifted, and I have a sinking feeling I wasn’t able to close the log before he noted Sam’s name.

“Can we get a copy of that?” he asks, nodding at my phone.

“I’ll have to figure out how to download the file first.” It’s a lie. I know how to use this system forward and backward, but something makes me hesitant about handing it over.

“My forensics team can take care of it if you’d like.”

I dodge the offer. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

He considers us closely as if trying to determine how much to share. Then he asks, “Does the name Leonard Varrus mean anything to either of you?”

11

GWEN

It’s the last name I expect to hear, and it takes a moment for it to register. When it does, it feels as though the ground has dropped away beneath me. “Leo Varrus?That’sthe dead man in my house?”

“We still have to wait for a formal identification, but we found his license and the photo appears to match.”

I turn to Sam. He’s frozen beside me, staring at the house. He shakes his head slowly. “Leo fucking Varrus,” he says softly, almost to himself. “And you’re sure he’s dead?”

“Quite sure,” Gutierrez confirms. “His throat was slit.”

There’s no way the detective misses how Sam nearly stumbles back a step, nor the fact that he mutters the wordfinallyunder his breath. Sam clearly appears relieved. It’s definitely not the response Gutierrez expected, and he’s suddenly way more interested in Sam than before.

“I take it you knew him?” Gutierrez asks.

I’m just as staggered as Sam is by the news that Leo Varrus was apparently murdered in our house, but I’m able to recover faster. I nod. “Yeah, we knew him.”

He waits for me to elaborate, but how in the world can I explainwho Varrus is to us? My first instinct is to give as brief an answer as possible, but Gutierrez is obviously going to learn about the connection between us. And then what will he think?

Varrus was an enemy. He faked his own murder and tried to pin it on Sam. Now, he’s dead—murdered—in our house.

Which makes Sam and me pretty obvious suspects.

Sam was the last to use the alarm, I remind myself. At least, that’s what the records indicate.

Fuck.

“If you’re worried that either of us had anything to do with this, let me assure you that we did not,” I tell the detective. I realize the futility of the statement. Of course, we’d deny any involvement. The real murderer would too.