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Now she has validation.

“So the peanut allergy didn’t actually kill her?” Ariana asks.

“Not only did the peanut allergy not kill her,” Freddy says, “I think it was used as a decoy. A distraction.”

“I’m not following,” Ariana says.

Freddy believes whoever killed Susan Snyder gave her food that was laced with both peanut oil and belladonna. The person would have known she’d use her EpiPen, so the peanuts would not be enough. But anyone examining the body would assume that her allergic reaction to peanuts was what killed her. No one would bother looking deeper and noticing there was another toxic substance that actually did her in.

“Belladonna isn’t the kind of poison a medical examiner routinely searches for,” Freddy says. “If the body shows symptoms that point in that direction, a medical examiner might check. But in this case, whoever looked at her would have been distracted by all the swelling and redness of the skin. Belladonna actually causes a paralysis of muscle function. She probably died because her lungs stopped working. Or her heart.”

He explains that every part of the plant—seeds, roots, stems, flowers—is toxic. The berries are sweet and could be used in sugary desserts. The plant itself is dark green with either purple or yellow flowers and berries that resemble blueberries.

“Apparently,” Freddy says, “just brushing up against the plant can cause a terrible rash for some people. It’s that noxious.”

Ariana thinks of the rash on Rory’s hand and how they assumed he’d had an allergic reaction to something out on McCormack’s property. Maybe he’d brushed up against this deadly nightshade, not realizing what it was. She tries to remember if they saw any plants with berries or purple or yellow flowers when they were walking that path through the trees.

“So this grows naturally in West Texas?” Ariana asks.

“Oh, no,” Freddy says. “Absolutely not. It’s way too dry there. But someone could grow it—legally, I might add—in a greenhouse or garden.”

Ariana’s breath stops in her chest.

“You’re looking for someone who would have known about Susan Snyder’s allergies and is a skilled gardener,” Freddy says.

But he’s talking to an empty line.

Ariana has dropped the phone and is sprinting through the police station to her motorcycle.

Chapter 111

I’M ALREADY ON my knees, but I can’t even keep myself upright. I slump back against the wall. None of my limbs seem to be working. The viselike cramps that had gripped my muscles earlier have eased, and now I feel only numbness. Meanwhile, my heart is racing like a thoroughbred being flogged by a maniacal jockey. I try to take deep breaths to keep up with the oxygen intake my heart is demanding, but for some reason my lungs just won’t work fast enough. The room was so bright before, but now everything seems to be in shadow.

I’m close to passing out.

“What did you give me?” I mutter.

“I put deadly nightshade in the pie and the french toast,” Jessica says, smiling as if proud of her craftiness. “The sweetness of the berries blended with the other flavors. Just like in Susan’s cookies.” She gestures toward Willow. “I also roofied the coffee. I’m glad I did because she hardly touched the food. She ingested some of the poison,” she adds, unable to keep from grinning, “but not nearly as much as you.”

Jessica goes on to explain that a medical examiner might find benzodiazepine in Willow’s system, but he’d just think that she took something to calm herself before killing her cheating boyfriend.

“I’m sorry, Rory,” Jessica says, raising the gun and aiming it at my chest. “I need to make sure the bullet kills you before the poison does. That would raise some red flags during the autopsy.”

“You said you hated guns,” I sneer, suddenly mad about that betrayal on top of all the others.

She laughs. “I said I loathe guns. It’s true. I much prefer poison.”

She puts her finger inside the trigger guard.

“Good-bye, Rory,” she says. “I really did like you. I just wish you and Ariana had eaten the damn food I gave you the night you left.”

I remember the grocery bag of food she’d packed that was in my truck when it burned. It was only luck that Dale had brought pizza that night. Otherwise, we all would have died of poisoning out there in the desert hills.

But it looks like I only delayed my fate. I’m tempted to close my eyes and welcome death from the darkness behind my eyelids. And if it was only my life at stake, I might. But Willow is going to die, too, and I can’t stop fighting for her. My body is useless. The only thing working is my mouth. I have to talk Jessica out of this.

“Let Willow go,” I say. “Let the poison in me run its course. She’ll wake up sick but won’t die. Don’t make her pay for what I did.”

“Sorry,” she says. “It has to be a murder-suicide. Otherwise, the autopsy will—”

She stops, cocks her head, listening.

I hear it, too: the rumbling sound of a motorcycle.

Jessica smiles. “Good,” she says. “This is even better. Now I can make it look like Willow killed you and your lover.”

Chapter 112

ARIANA ROARS INTO Tom and Jessica’s driveway and slides to a halt in the gravel next to the garage. She looks around and sees no one. Jessica isn’t in the garden, nor is she looking out any of the windows of the house. No one is peering down from Rory’s apartment, either.

She tells herself that it’s possible Jessica isn’t home. Or maybe Rory and Willow went to get breakfast before he planned to come into the office. There are perfectly rational explanations for why no one noticed her racing into the driveway on a loud motorcycle. But she tells herself to follow her gut.

And her gut tells her something is wrong.

She dismounts her bike, draws her gun, and starts toward the stairs on the side of the garage. She sees the rows of berries and spots one plant with dark berries and yellow flowers. Rory must have brushed it with his hand.

Ariana takes the steps two at a time, but before she gets to the top, she hears Rory cry out, “Jessica has a gun! She killed Susan—”

“Shut up!” Jessica snaps.

Ariana freezes a few steps from the top, unsure how to proceed.

“He’s right,” Jessica calls out. “I have a gun. I want you to come on through the door, keeping your hands where I can see them. Any sudden moves and the country singer dies.”

Ariana holsters her gun and moves slowly up the stairs. She eases the door open and walks in with her hands raised over her shoulders.

Jessica is kneeling behind Willow, who is unconscious on a wooden chair. Jessica is holding a gun—it looks like Rory’s pistol—against her head and using the woman’s body as a shield.

Rory is slumped against a wall, and, for a moment, Ariana thinks he’s been shot. His entire body is limp—the kind of dead weight that comes with death. But his eyes are open and he’s looking at her. He’s not dead.

Yet.

“You killed Susan?” Ariana says to Jessica, hoping to get the woman to talk so she can have time to think.

Jessica laughs. “That’s not all.”

Ariana takes a moment to understand what she’s suggesting, but then it occurs to her. Besides Susan’s murder, what is the one other piece of the puzzle they haven’t solved yet?

“You stole my grandfather’s gun?” Ariana says. “You took it out to Gareth McCormack? After he shot Skip, you took it back and put it under my bed?”

“You’re good, Ariana,” she says.

Ariana realizes something else. The morning Harris came to the paper and broke Tom’s nose and hauled Ariana out to McCormack’s ranch, the chief hadn’t shown up because he saw the truck out front.