“Did I mention that Garrett is really pissed?”

“Oh! I just found out that Ingrid Yost’s mother died one month before she did.”

“No way. Who’s Ingrid again?”

“Dr. Yost’s first wife?”

“Right. I knew that. Wait, how did her mother die?”

“Same way she did. Heart attack.”

“That was convenient.” Nathan Yost was turning into quite the serial killer.

“And I talked to your uncle. Are you ready?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Nathan Yost has property in Pecos.”

“Really?” Score. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”

* * *

Since I had quite the drive ahead of me, I decided to call my BFF at the FBI.

“Agent Carson,” she said, all sharp and professional sounding.

“Dude, you’re so good at that.”

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly perky.

“Did you know that Dr. Yost might have tried to kill Yolanda Pope’s niece as a way to get revenge on her?”

“No,” she admitted.

“And that he killed Ingrid Yost’s mother one month before he flew to the Cayman Islands and killed her?”

After a moment of thought, she asked, “Can you prove any of that?”

“Not even. But the bodies are racking up. This guy needs to be stopped. Have you found any evidence that Teresa Yost was planning on leaving him before she disappeared?”

“None. According to everyone on the planet, they were the perfect couple.”

“Yeah, didn’t everybody think the same thing about him and his first wife as well, until she fled the country and filed for divorce?”

“Pretty much.”

“She knew she was in danger,” I said. “That’s why she went to the Cayman Islands. To get away from him. Apparently, he has abandonment issues.”

I filled her in on everything Yolanda told me, including the part about her niece and what we’d found out since; then I told her about Yost’s alter ego, his alias Keith Jacoby, before adding, “Again, I can’t actually prove any of that. We should try to get ahold of that forger. He was doing business in Jackson, Mississippi, last we heard.”

“So, this Keith Jacoby was in the Cayman Islands at the same time as the late Mrs. Yost?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, I’ll try to get someone in the Jackson office to have a talk with your forger.”

“Yost also has land in Pecos.”

“Yeah,” she said absently, clicking away on a keyboard, “we had a team check it out. He has a cabin there, but we couldn’t find anything.”

“I’m on my way to interview a biker gang right now. I want to look the property over, just in case, but it may be tomorrow before I get to it.”

“Knock yourself out,” she said, then added, “Wait, you’re joining a biker gang?”

19

I am an instrument God uses to annoy people.

—T-SHIRT

With an extremely annoyed Garrett back on my ass, I took the Coal Street exit and steered Misery toward the Bandits’ hangout. The sun hovered low over the horizon, preparing for a good night’s rest, when I pulled to a stop in the front of their house. It sat beside the asylum itself, which was kind of cool, but I’d always wondered how a biker gang went about buying property. Whose name goes on the mortgage? A handful of leather-clad bikers sat on the front porch. A few more tinkered with their bikes in the dusky light. Loud music leached outside the cracks in the walls, of which there were many. Bikers were probably really hard on dwellings. Either that or this really was a crack house.

I’d never seen so many bikers there at one time before. Donovan must have called them in for the witch hunt.

“You’re late,” one of them said from a shadowy porch. I couldn’t tell who was talking to me, but every man there stopped what he was doing and turned toward me.

I pulled my jacket tight and stepped closer until I spotted Donovan. He sat leaning back in a lawn chair on the porch, his booted foot on the railing, a beer in hand.

“How is she?” I asked, stepping past several unsavory-looking fellows, my very favorite kind. They were probably all sweethearts deep down inside.

The prince was there. He braced an arm on the railing as I tried to get past and spent a very long minute checking out the girls.

I faced him head-on, refusing to be intimidated, though I couldn’t keep the wave of anxiety from rushing over my skin any more than I could keep the sun from rising the next day. Mafioso patted him on the shoulder and led him back so I could pass.

“Beer?” Donovan asked.

“No, thank you. Is she okay? Did something happen?”

“No,” he said, taking a long swig. “She’s still at the animal hospital. They wanted me to put her down. I said no.”

I sank into a rickety chair beside him. “I’m so sorry, Donovan.”

“Who’s the tail?”

I glanced toward the big black truck parked down the block. “Just one of my many fans. He’s harmless.”

He put his feet down with a loud thud. “Well, we were just about to go find out who did this. Want to come?”

When he started to stand, I put a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. “I thought you were going to let me handle this?”

“I was. You didn’t show.” He pulled his arm away and stood.