CHAPTER SEVEN
Ilse heard Sawyer's low whistle as they pulled up the long driveway twenty minutes north of Seattle. The house wasn't so much a house as a mansion. Tall, pale walls, with two turrets framed the main building—walls covered in glass overlooked a lake.
"Didn't say she came from money," Sawyer muttered, as his tires ground to a halt against the newly finished blacktop driveway.
There were other, more expensive cars outside the house.
And near the cars, Ilse spotted the older woman from the wake. The woman was near one of the BMWs, talking to a driver. Ilse winced, stepping out of the car, and moving in a trajectory that would block the old woman's view of her. Sawyer, without question, fell into step.
"So who are we looking for?" he murmured, a note of excitement to his tone
