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woman’s stocking. A box of crayons and a Peter Rabbit coloring book in a house where there are no children. A “lucky” rabbit’s foot on the victim’s key chain. Astrid Spencer-Turner’s bedroom was not to prove the exception. Almost lost among broken furniture, fractured glass, and torn bedclothes, at the edge of a slightly dusty rectangle of carpet that defined the place where the overturned bed had stood—there was something else. Something that simply did not belong; something a passerby might have left behind.
    A single, lusciously plump, red-ripe strawberry.
    Though riveting, such details rarely have anything to do with the crime.
    The first order of business was to call in whatever help Scott Parris could muster from his understaffed department—which would require waking every officer who was not already on night duty. The harder part would be notifying the deceased’s nearest of kin.

    Approaching an exit to the Air Force Academy, Andrew Turner could see the glow of Colorado Springs. He was about to place another call to the police station in Granite Creek when his cell phone vibrated in his hand. “Yes?”
    “Andy, this is Scott Parris. GCPD.”
    Astrid Spencer’s husband listened to a slight electronic buzz that hung over the dark silence. “What is it, Scott?”
    “I’m awfully sorry to have to tell you this on the telephone, but I didn’t want you to show up and—” Parris cleared his throat, tried again: “I’m afraid it’s very bad news.” He inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry.”
    “Then Astrid is…”
    “Yes. Yes, sir. She is.”

    Trailed by the pair of German shepherds, Beatrice was entering the mud room from the garage when she heard the telephone in the hallway ringing. The lady of the house picked it up, checked the caller ID. “Hello, Andy.” She listened to the monotonic voice. “I’m sorry you’ve been having trouble reaching us. Cassie must have her telephone turned off. I’ve been outside, exercising Ike and Spike.” She referred to the dogs.
    Andrew Turner broke the bad news.
    “Are you absolutely certain?”
    He was.
    Starting with her hands and feet, Beatrice felt a dull chill begin to creep over her entire body. “I’ll leave immediately for Yellow Pines, pick up Cassie on the way.” She hung up, looked at herself in the mirror. No, immediately was not an option. I’ll take a quick shower. Change clothes.

    It was a blessing (which Scott Parris would later thank God for) that he and Charlie Moon had arrived before Beatrice and Cassandra—the surviving Spencer sisters.
    When Parris saw the headlights approaching, he was in his unit, verifying that Clara Tavishuts had dispatched the requested uniformed officers and the county medical examiner. Almost as an afterthought, he asked her to notify the state police. Diplomacy was part of the job. Next time, the state cops might get the hot call, and the chief of the Granite Creek PD did not intend to provide the troopers any reason to leave his department out in the cold.
    Beatrice steered her Mercedes around the sleek black-and-white, which once again pulsated with red and blue lights. The sisters seemed to hit the ground running.
    Parris yelled, was ignored by the women, who were sprinting toward the house.
    Charlie Moon had stationed himself on the brick walk that led to the porch. The recently conscripted deputy raised both hands, boomed, “Stop!”
    They stopped.
    Though Cassandra had a mouthful of questions, it was Beatrice who addressed this exceptionally tall, lean man they had occasionally seen on the streets of Granite Creek. “We’re Astrid’s sisters—what has happened?”
    Moon’s voice was deep, somber. “I’m sorry.” And he meant it.
    Beatrice heard herself say, “Get out of our way—we’re going inside.” And she meant it.
    The Ute shook his head. “Nobody’s going in.”
    “We most certainly are.” Beatrice took her older sister firmly by the hand. “And you are not going to prevent