It was Sarah Lowe.

“Sarah?” I said, my voice tinged with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She smiled—cold and knowing. “I could ask you the same thing, Carroway.”

In her hand was a photo. She held it up, letting me see. My breath hitched. It was the knife—this very knife—half-buried in the woods.

“Recognize it?” she asked, her tone sharp.

I swallowed hard. “Where did you get that?”

Her eyes glinted with something almost like triumph. “Someone sent it to me. Anonymous, of course. Along with a helpful little note about your late brother’s murder.”

My heart hammered. “You’re bluffing,” I said, forcing calm into my voice.

Her expression didn’t falter. “Am I? Tell me, what are the odds that the exact knife tied to Victor’s murder just happens to show up—first to me, and then to you?”

I took a step forward, forcing my voice to steady. “If you know something, Sarah, spit it out.”

She tilted her head, as if savoring the moment. “Oh, I know plenty. Like how you’ve been keeping everyone at arm’s length since Victor died. Too polished, too perfect. I followed the trail, Carroway. You’ve been slipping.”

The room felt colder, the shadows pressing in. “You don’t have anything,” I said, even as my pulse raced.

She let out a low laugh. “Maybe not yet. But someone does. And they’re toying with both of us.”

I clenched my fists, the knife in my pocket pressing into my palm. “Why tell me this?”

“Because I want to see you squirm.” Her smile faded, replaced by a hard, unyielding glare. “And because whoever’s watching you is watching me, too. You’ve dragged me into your mess. Now we’re both in the crosshairs.”

Her words hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

“Who sent you the photo?” I demanded.

I gripped the knife in my pocket, panic rising. “Who sent it to you?”