BRETT FLIPPED THE switch that operated the microphone. “Good afternoon,” he said.

Chelsea did her predictable shuffle and spin as she searched for the source of his voice. Her movements were more languid today—she hadn’t been eating any of the meals he’d left for her. Her hair hung in greasy clumps, and the bottoms of her feet were dirty. “Don’t you look lovely,” he said icily.

Her eyes were large and wet. “Can’t you just let me go?”

“Now, now. I wanted to let you know that you’ve gained quite a few Instagram followers. Would you like to know how many?”

She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t care about Instagram. I just want to go home. See my family.”

“Turn to your left.”

Chelsea peeked in that direction. A new full-length mirror stood near the window. Brett had placed it there while she was sleeping last night, finally knocked out from the sedative he’d given her. When she took in her bleary-eyed, withered reflection, she winced and looked away.

“Perhaps that might inspire you to finally shower and change,” Brett said gently. “Have you noticed I left makeup in the bathroom for you? And there’s a hair dryer in the cabinet, and a curling iron, and some styling products, too. All the brands you like.”

Chelsea flung herself onto a pillow. “If you’re going to kill me, you should just do it. Get it over with.”

“I know you like to look pretty.”

She glanced up. Her features sharpened. “If you think I’m going to make myself look good for you, you’re insane.”

Brett tried not to feel offended. “This isn’t for me.”

“Yeah right. Who are you, anyway? What do you want with me? Do you think I’m going to have sex with you? Do you watch me sleep and fantasize about what we’d do together? Is that what you do, you sick asshole?”

Brett rolled his eyes. “You’re all over the news. Everyone in the country knows who you are. Isn’t that exciting? Doesn’t that make you want to…oh, I don’t know, fix yourself up?”

“It’s not like they’re going to come here for an interview,” Chelsea spat. It was a while before she spoke again, but Brett could tell she was mulling something over. “Which news channels, anyway?” she mumbled. “If that’s not all bullshit.”

“All of them. I promise I’m not lying. All the newscasters talk about is how pretty you are. That you’re a social media icon. Your name is trending on Twitter. Memorials to you are all over Snapchat. Avignon is teeming with press and police and gawkers. You should be so proud.”

Chelsea stared at her lap, the tough expression fading. Something to his left caught Brett’s eye. Last night, he’d installed a camera in the entrance of Conch B&B, next to a prince frog statue among all the knickknacks in the curio cabinet. Maddox and Seneca appeared on the screen. He wheeled his chair closer, his nose almost bumping the little monitor. The feed had shown the two entering the B&B a few minutes before, Seneca looking harried and freaked. Surely they’d discovered her ruined treasure by now—and his note. Now for the aftermath.

His eyes narrowed at the pixelated image. Seneca’s hair bounced. Maddox laughed. They both practically skipped back out the door and onto the porch. Brett felt his lips pucker. Where was the fear? Where was their panic?

He slumped back in the chair, feeling sour and sick. Clutching his cell phone, he checked Case Not Closed. No new messages. Fine. Whatever. You’re hiding it well, but I know this kills you, he mouthed to Seneca’s tall, straight back as she waltzed into the sunshine. And what’s coming next will bring you to your knees.

“Um, hello?”

On Camera A, Chelsea sat on the couch with perfect posture, staring at a brush in her hand—a brush he’d left for her on the bedside table. It made a pretty sound as she pulled it through the knots in her hair. “How many new followers?” she said in a quiet, sheepish voice. “If you don’t mind telling me.”

Brett smiled deliciously, his mood slowly shifting. “Nothing would delight me more.”