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could eat. Not that he’d appreciate her efforts—he hadn’t since he’d come home.
    Home. As if Caleb would ever consider her house home. In spite of her numerous attempts the previous day, he’d made it perfectly clear he had no desire to seek out any type of relationship with her. Period. Stony silence and simple yes-and-no answers were the extent of their rapport.
    Sadie sighed and grabbed the mail before reaching for the front door. Caleb couldn’t be bothered to bring in the mail. She turned the knob. Or lock the door, apparently. She nearly tripped over his size-twelve sneakers lying just inside the foyer.
    â€œCaleb!”
    â€œYo.” The grunt came from the living room.
    As if she didn’t know where to find him. The television blared screeching guitars from some music station. For the millionth time in barely forty-eight hours, she considered canceling her satellite service. The constant rock video after rock video would drive her insane.
    â€œYou need to keep your shoes out from in front of the door.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    She clenched her jaw and headed to the kitchen. No matter what she did, nothing reached him. Caleb just didn’t care.
    Tossing her purse onto the buffet, she sifted through the mail. Sale papers and envelopes addressed to resident found their way into the trash. Oh, yippee, an insurance premium notice—how lucky could she be?
    She stopped at the last envelope. Plain white, no return address. Closer inspection revealed no stamp or postmark, either. Just her name and address in bold, block letters in black on the front. Odd.
    Sadie slit open the back and withdrew the contents.
    A Polaroid fell facedown on the counter. She turned over the picture and gasped. A man with lifeless eyes stared into the camera. What in the world? She dropped the photograph and reached for the newspaper clipping.
    Not just a clipping—an obituary with today’s date. A Harold Daniels. She stared at the man’s grainy picture in the paper. She didn’t recognize him.
    Wait a minute, she knew that name…he worked for her company, but she’d never met him before. Why would someone send her an obituary of someone she didn’t know?
    She grabbed the Polaroid and compared the photographs.
    Same man!
    Icy fingers trailed her back.
    She set the clipping on the counter and unfolded the piece of paper. Her hands trembled so badly, she almost couldn’t read the letter.
    Same bold, black, block letters as on the envelope. Sadie pressed her lips together, holding her breath as she read.
    YOUR BROTHER WILL BE NEXT IF YOU DON’T DO EXACTLY AS YOU ARE TOLD. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW SOON. DO NOT NOTIFY THE POLICE. WAIT TO HEAR FROM US.
    The paper drifted from her slack fingers.
    Dear Lord, help me.

FOUR
    T he sun crested to midsky, shining down on the little town of Lagniappe. Midweek. Not that Sadie took the time to notice.
    The letter, obituary and photograph invaded her mind this Wednesday morning, just as it had tormented her all night.
    Sadie sat at her desk on the third floor. Drilling production reports littered her in-box, but she couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t even think.
    Georgia dropped a folder onto the desk. “That’s the info on the laid-off workers you wanted. I couldn’t see anything important in there.”
    â€œMerci.” She opened the file and scrolled through the names. Most were men she’d known for years, some intimately. Reaching for her pen, she crossed off the names of those who’d already found alternate work. When she’d finished, she marked off those who had officially retired. That left a total of twenty-nine names. She shoved the list into her purse.
    But Sadie couldn’t concentrate on the next step in the investigation. Her mind couldn’t focus on Vermilion Oil and its problems. Instead, her mind filled with words from the letter.
    What could they want? She didn’t have any