CHASING CREED

Alex Kava

Prairie Wind Publishing
Prairie Wind Publishing
Omaha, Nebraska

CHASING CREED

Copyright © 2026 by Alex Kava
All Rights Reserved.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Interior design and EPUB formatting: Prairie Wind Publishing
Book cover design: by Deb Carlin with licensed artwork

FIRST EDITION

ISBN Hardcover: 979-8-9852513-6-4
ISBN eBook: 979-8-9852513-9-5
ISBN Paperback: 979-8-9852513-7-1
ISBN Large Print: COMING SOON

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dear Reader,

Whether you're joining me for the first time or the twenty-third, welcome. And thank you for choosing my book.

My readers have allowed me a career of telling my twisted tales. If it wasn't for you, I truly would not be writing novels. Some of you have followed me since the very beginning. I enjoy receiving your notes and finding out how and when you first discovered my novels. There's almost always a story that comes with that memory.

As readers impatiently waited for this one—and some of you have let me know—I learned how much my tales and my characters mean to you. Twenty-five years ago, I never imagined that I would have such dedicated and loyal readers. You've welcomed my stories into your homes and taken them on vacation with you. You've shared them with friends and family and handed them down to new generations of readers. You've made my books and my characters a part of your lives.

Please know that with every book I write, I try to make it my best for you. Not for editors or book bloggers or reviewers or influencers. For you. My reader.

Thank you for that inspiration. For reading and sharing my books and asking for more. I appreciate it more than words allow.

I hope you enjoy this one.

Sincerely,

Table of Contents

DEDICATION

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Acknowledgments

ABOUT ALEX KAVA

DEDICATION

For Dr. Enita Larson.

Thank you for lending your children's names
to Dr. Avelyn Parker;
for your expertise in all things "dog;"
and, most importantly, for your friendship.

AND IN MEMORY

of my boy, Scout,
who was the inspiration for this series.
He and his buddies, who have since joined him—
Miss Molly, Duncan and Boomer—
have taught me so many lessons about life and love.

Quotation

“She was a storm.

Not the kind you run from,

but the kind you chase.”

—R.H. Sin

1

Tuesday, February 17
Outside Gretna, Nebraska

Sara Tate told herself that the rain was a blessing. Soaked and shivering, she steadied the glass-cutting tool with one hand while gripping the handle of the suction cup with her other.

She’d chosen today for the overcast skies. No sun meant no shadows and few reflections. The predicted snow would cover her tracks. The sudden drop in temperature would keep people inside.

But the rain?

She’d forgotten how cold and unforgiving a February rain could be in Nebraska.

She leaned closer to the patio door, inching under the eaves. The downpour had eased up, but dark clouds still rolled overhead. With her ponytail stuck through the back of a worn ball cap, there was nothing to stop cold rivulets from sneaking under her collar and sliding down her spine.

Forget about it. Focus. Just focus.

Years of experience and lessons—hard, brutal lessons—had taught her to put aside personal feelings and physical discomfort. Even pain. The mind was a powerful tool. It could tell you things. Distract you. Convince you. Lie to you. Right now, Sara needed it to stop thinking about the cold rain.

She’d already jammed the house’s security system. Anyone paying attention would simply think the internet connection had gone down because of the stormy weather. Cameras weren’t as easy, but none monitored this walk-out basement’s sliding glass door. And relying on what she knew about the homeowner, she doubted there would be any cameras on this level.

Yes, she’d planned well, including surveillance of the property from all sides. Here in the backyard, the wide-open spaces presented the biggest risk. Towering cottonwoods and silver maples offered little cover without leaves. But the property lots sprawled wide and deep, giving plenty of distance between houses.

Another blessing.

When did she start thinking in terms of blessings? Blessings implied some spiritual entity, and Sara Tate had long ago accepted that God didn’t exist. It was easier than believing He didn’t care. Of course, like everything else in Sara’s life, it had taken plenty of those hard lessons before she’d finally come to that conclusion. She’d learned to survive by doing what was necessary, not waiting for God to rescue her.

This mission—this one last mission—would set her free. Or it would finally destroy her completely. That reminder straightened her back, refocused her mind on what mattered right now. It heightened her senses beyond the icy stream of rain.

Thankfully, the stormy weather kept nosy neighbors inside. If they saw something suspicious, they were less likely to venture out in the rain and check it out.

It was a bonus. Yes, call it a bonus. Not a blessing.

Almost all the neighbors, including the owner, would have left for work two hours ago. She knew that from scoping out the place last week. The rain would cut down on the dog walkers and casual joggers. The slope of the property prevented anyone on the street from being able to see her couched down at the back of the house.

She had left very little to chance. She’d churned out details, looked at every possible risk, and evaluated all the obstacles: imagined and real. It was something that came naturally to her by now. This idea of expecting the worst-case scenario and attempting to twist it into an acceptable outcome even before it happened.

Maybe it was a gift that she had good instincts. She was scrappy and clever. She was a survivor. Unfortunately, surviving was only the beginning. It was quite another thing to keep fighting.

Somewhere behind her in the sky she heard the cat-cat-cat of a Cooper hawk. Even in the rain, something was making the bird angry. A breeze set off windchimes above Sara’s head and brought the scent of pine from the trees that lined the back property. Those woods had provided her a safe path directly to this backyard. And they would equally provide her escape.

The glass finally shifted under the suction cup. She drew in a deep breath, then eased out the circular chunk, needing two hands to lift and gently lean it against the side of the house. The hole was low and large enough for her to crawl through easily. Going in through the glass bypassed the lock and allowed her to avoid opening the door, both of which could trigger an alarm system. From her earlier surveillance, she knew she wouldn’t be met by a motion detection device.

She stuffed all her tools into a small pack and set it off to the side where she could grab it on her way out. A strand of hair fell out from under her cap, and she swiped it back. The custom-tailored gloves still surprised her how much they looked and felt like her own skin, minus fingerprints. She yanked up her wet sleeve to activate the timer on her watch, because despite all her planning, timing was everything.

She tapped the stopwatch and crawled inside.

There was no light other than the gray that came in through the windows and the sliding glass door. Floor plans she’d memorized from the county assessor’s website showed two bedrooms down here. She’d have no need to venture upstairs.

A low whine stopped her in her tracks. It wasn’t electrical or mechanical. Sara cocked her head and listened. She didn’t hear it. Waited a beat longer. Nothing. Then she started walking again.

The first bedroom was empty. The bedspread was pulled up but left in a messy, haphazard way, of someone in a hurry. Her eyes swept the room, taking in everything, including the open closet. At the dresser she stopped, palmed a wad of cash and lifted a credit card, slipping both into a back pocket. She ignored the gaudy gold wristwatch. Five prescription containers drew her attention. She glanced at the labels. Recognized all of them. Left three and pocketed the other two.

This wasn’t the room she needed. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time here. As soon as she walked back out into the main room, she heard the sound again. High-pitched. A moan. Not quite human, but definitely alive.

The door to what she knew was the second bedroom was closed. But not locked. Slow and easy, she opened it. The smell hit her nostrils. A familiar metallic tang that ratcheted up her pulse. Oddly, it was mixed with something sweet and fruity like…oranges? Her muscles tensed instinctively. Her eyes and ears were hyperalert to any motion.

She had prepared to find someone here. Alone. Possibly asleep. Maybe sedated or even restrained. Either way, she expected her job to be easy.

But the room was empty. And so was the bed. A tangle of sheets attempted to cover the blood.

There was a lot of blood. More than was necessary.

She was too late.

That’s when she noticed cigarette butts floating in a lone coffee mug on the bedside stand. She suspected the exposed capsule inside the filter was orange flavored. One of Orlando’s favorites. The smell still lingered with blood. She’d missed him by minutes.

Sara turned to leave, and that’s when she heard the low moan.

Was someone still here?

The sound came from under the bed. She pulled out a mini-Maglite and immediately saw splatters of blood on the rug. Drag marks continued under.

She dropped to her knees. Shot a stream of light. Two eyes. One blue. One amber. Then a flash of teeth jolted her back. A snarling dog sent her scrambling backward.

“What the hell!”

She lost her balance and came down hard. Her left elbow and right hand took the brunt of the fall. Both landed in a puddle of blood. Panic ticked inside her. She pushed to her feet. Pain shot up her arm. She stumbled out of the room, weaving her way to the back door. It took only seconds for her to crawl through the hole in the glass. She drove her hands, fingers, palms over the wet grass, desperate to get the blood off. Desperate to race to the shelter of the woods.

A cry stopped her dead in her tracks.

Sara spun around to see the dog now clawing at the patio door. There was nothing menacing about this shaggy animal. No show of teeth. No growls. Just an awful yelping, a desperate cry.

A crack of thunder made her jump. Her eyes pivoted, scanning the entire backyard. It was darker now with low, bulging clouds threatening another downpour.

A glance at her watch.

No time. She was out of time.

How could there be a dog? All her planning, all her preparation, there had been no signs of an animal.

The dog, now on hind legs, thumped and scratched at the door. The panicked whine, a plea to not be left behind. It ripped at Sara’s good sense.

She raced back to the door.

“Come on through here.” She pointed to the hole in the glass.

The hole was big enough, but the dog looked confused. Skittish. Then Sara noticed the fur matted on the right side. A patch was still wet with blood.

Down on hands and knees, Sara climbed through the cut glass and stopped halfway inside. Vulnerable, she realized the dog could bite her face off. Instead, it met her with a lick to her nose.

“Okay. Follow me,” she told the dog as she pulled herself back, hopefully showing how it was possible.

More thunder. Right on top of them, as if the gods were telling Sara to get the hell out.

Warily, the dog poked at the opening. Then backed away.

Now panic was beating a warpath inside Sara. She had to go. Now!

She couldn’t be responsible for this dog. That wasn’t in the plan. Someone else had beaten her to this job. There was nothing more she could do. She needed to get the hell out of here.

Sirens screeched in the distance. An alarm? Had she missed one?

The dog stared at her through the glass. Those mismatched eyes more sad than threatening.

“Come on. Let’s go.” She slapped her hand against her leg.

Nothing.

Go now. No more time.

Sara turned and started jogging toward the woods. She wouldn’t look back. She couldn’t look back.

Worry about yourself. Take care of yourself.

Don’t you dare look back.

Before Sara got to the trees, the dog was running alongside her.

2

Mississippi

Ryder Creed kept his back to the chaos behind him. He focused on preparing his gear and his scent dog. Grace was a pro, unbothered by the extra commotion, but Creed could already feel the tension creeping into his jaw. Bottom line, he hated when family members showed up at the scene during a search for a missing person.

Not that long ago, Creed had been one of them, so he could empathize with the need to be close. Their presence brought a whole different level of friction. Even his dogs could smell it: a combination of anxiety, panic, and in this case, anger. The mother of the missing man was not happy and not afraid to voice her opinion to the county sheriff in charge.

“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” Her voice was shrill. In the foggy, wet quiet that surrounded them, it came out loud and harsh. A flock of birds rose out of the tall pasture grasses, interrupted and startled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Creed saw the woman point at his Jack Russell terrier. There was nothing discrete about her outstretched arm and index finger poking in their direction. He ignored her. He did his best not to acknowledge her as he lifted Grace from the back of the Jeep. The little dog stayed under his arm while he searched for a safe spot on the ground. Small patches of prickly grass grew along this dirt driveway. All of it was speckled with sharp burrs. Even the drops of moisture clinging to the brambles wouldn’t soften their effect on his dog’s paws.

When he finally looked up, it was to examine the abandoned property they were here to search. His primary job was to keep his dogs safe and watch out for any hazards. What he saw made him anxious. The dilapidated outbuildings sprawled back behind the house, their roofs disappearing under the heavy layers of fog.

He counted three: a massive barn, a leaning equipment shed with doors long gone, and a smaller shed farther in the distance. All the buildings, including the house, were worn down to gray wood, not a sliver of peeling paint left. They melted into the fog like ghostly structures.

“My son deserves a real search dog,” the woman continued to complain. She wasn’t talking to Creed. She spoke to the sheriff as if Creed wasn’t there. Less than thirty feet away. “Is this some kind of joke? What’s going on here, Sheriff?”

Grace sat patiently while Creed continued with his gear. His dog watched him, excited to get to work. Her haunches shifted, ready and waiting. She was better than he was at tuning out distractions like this angry mother.

At a glance, Creed saw the sheriff standing tall and quiet over the woman. His hands dug deep into the pockets of his trousers. His head bobbed along as if in agreement. The man’s ball cap was pulled too far down for Creed to get a glimpse of his eyes, but he was being patient with this woman. Something Creed was sure he’d never be able to pull off. And exactly the reason he’d chosen to work with dogs.

Creed had never worked with Sheriff Daniels before. He and his team were recommended for this search by Sheriff Norwich from Creed’s home county of Santa Rosa down in the Florida Panhandle. Norwich was a sheriff he respected tremendously. They had partnered on dozens of searches. She understood what was necessary. How a K9 team worked. He wasn’t sure Sheriff Daniels had done this before. He knew nothing about the man or this piece of Mississippi. Now, Creed wondered how well Norwich knew this sheriff.

Most law enforcement officials Creed had worked with didn’t allow others, especially family members, to be at a potential crime scene. It wasn’t just because they might get in the way or mess up trace evidence. Their presence brought with it a veil of tension mixed with grief. Their emotions could affect the mood of the entire search team. Even the dogs could eventually pick up the added anxiety from their handlers. Most law enforcement officials understood that, and yet, here was the mother of the victim they would be searching for.

Her complaints didn’t bother Creed. He’d heard them before. None of his dogs looked like standard K9 scent dogs. As a Marine handler, he’d trained and worked alongside the kind of dogs this woman expected. But when he and his partner, Hannah Washington, started K9 CrimeScents, their mission was to rescue abandoned and discarded dogs.

Creed discovered quickly that he could train just about any breed or mixture of breeds to track a scent, especially dogs with an abundance of energy and prey drive. Grace was a prime example: a scrappy, sixteen-pound Jack Russell that he’d found abandoned at the end of their long driveway in rural Florida.

“Mr. Creed and his team come highly recommended,” the sheriff finally told her. “They can cover over three times the territory my men can and in half the time.”

Another Jeep pulled into the driveway, and Creed waved to it as it drove up the dirt path and pulled in alongside his vehicle. Jason, another handler, and Creed’s sister Brodie got out. Immediately, they started getting their dogs ready.

Creed leaned deep inside to grab some water bottles for his daypack. Just when he figured the sheriff had closed the discussion with the victim’s mother, he heard her gasp loud enough to stop all of them.

“Oh, my God! That woman brought a pitbull.”

“Staffordshire bull terrier,” Brodie called over to the woman. “His name is Hank.”

Creed wiped at a smile as he closed the Jeep’s tailgate. He didn’t want the mother to think he took any of this task lightly. What he smiled at was the fact that Brodie never saw the scary, big-jawed, muscular dog that others saw when they looked at Hank.

In his head, Creed started counting, concentrating on his breathing and Grace’s eyes. He waited, knowing, expecting Jason to come into view with his dog, Scout. The black Labrador wagged and grinned at all of them.

It took only a few seconds, and the woman reacted exactly as Creed predicted when she said, “Finally! A real search dog.”

Maybe “a real search dog” would calm her, but Creed hoped for her sake as well as his team they wouldn’t have to contend with a running commentary of their search efforts.

It had taken them five hours to drive here. While the dogs stretched, Creed raised his hand to get the sheriff’s attention. He, in turn, motioned to his deputy to take his place with the victim’s mother, giving instructions for him to escort her to her vehicle.

“I’m staying right here,” she insisted.

Creed turned his back to them and busied himself with closing the tailgate of his Jeep, checking Grace’s vest, and readjusting his daypack. Brodie and Jason followed his lead and continued checking their gear and their dogs.

“Now, Mrs. Lawrence, we can’t start our search while you’re here,” the sheriff finally told her.

“What? What do you mean? You’re not getting started? This is—?”

“Not until you leave.”

“Leave? I have no intention—”

“I can’t allow you to be here, ma’am. This might be a crime scene. Now, Deputy Perry will help you to your vehicle.”

The silence lasted so long Creed looked over his shoulder. The weight of those words, “crime scene,” apparently broke through. The realization on her face transformed the anger into sobriety. The edge of grief surfacing. Silently, she went with the deputy while the sheriff made his way over to Creed and his team.

“Sorry to keep y’all waiting.”

They had barely made it through introductions and now the man was eager to get started. He glanced back at the woman’s vehicle leaving the property, taillights disappearing into the fog.

“Mr. Creed, you asked if we had a starting place with some scent. Did I get that right?”

Creed nodded then added, “We like to use personal items. A piece of clothing or even a shoe works best.” He hoped the sheriff hadn’t sent the mother away too early. He didn’t see her give him anything that they might use.

“If you can all follow me.” Sheriff Daniels didn’t offer an item or an explanation. Instead, he turned and headed up the path between the house and barn, where the dirt driveway dissolved into a grassy two-track. It led all the way behind the house and to a cut-through in the trees. The path was most likely one the previous owners took often and used as a shortcut to get to the pastures on the other side of these woods.

Old equipment appeared out of the gray mist alongside rusted vehicles. The kudzu had grown over and covered some of them so completely that it was difficult to tell what was originally parked underneath the green.

Trees stood so close Creed wondered if the vehicles had been driven out here long before the trees. Branches hung low, scraping the roofs. Vines disappeared inside through broken windows. Pieces of other metal skeletons were scattered in the tall brush. It reminded him of a graveyard from an apocalyptic movie.

While they treaded their way carefully, watching out for obstacles and threats of concern for their dogs, Creed started to feel a knot begin to twist in his gut. Something felt wrong. Grace had already started poking the air with her nose and swiveling her head in all directions. He hadn’t given her a scent to search for yet, and it looked as though she’d begun without him.

The sheriff stopped abruptly at the edge of the woods and pointed. Creed glanced over at Jason then Brodie. Without a word exchanged, he could tell they were as baffled as he was.

A lone vehicle occupied a grassy meadow. This one had recently been parked. It was a newer model SUV, and the only thing it had in common with the other abandoned vehicles was the broken window on the driver’s side. By Creed’s estimates, it had been driven here within the last several days. Tire tracks were still visible in the tamped-down dew-wet grass. The path disappeared into another skinny cut-through of woods on the other side of the meadow. From where they stood, Creed could see claw marks etched across the side of the vehicle where branches must have scraped the paint.

The sheriff stood quietly for several minutes before finally saying, “You said you needed a personal item from the missing person. This here vehicle belonged to Kyle Lawrence.”

3

Creed thought the sheriff looked mesmerized by the sight of the vehicle, as if he was seeing it for the first time. Mesmerized wasn’t the right word. He didn’t know Sheriff Daniels, so maybe he needed to cut him some slack. Otherwise, he’d say the guy looked spooked.

Creed glanced again at Brodie then exchanged a look with Jason. Brodie had already pulled out a small notebook and started scratching down preliminary details. Jason and Creed focused on their dogs.

Scout, the youngest of the three, tugged on his leash, stretching, poking his nose and ready to go. Grace still looked preoccupied with something back in the woods. Her body pointed in that direction. She didn’t seem interested at all in the meadow. Hank stood quietly, eyes darting from his handler to the other dogs and back to his handler. He kept a close watch over Brodie. She was always his number one priority, and Creed loved that about him.

When the sheriff seemed paralyzed in the moment, Creed grew impatient.

“You know for sure it’s his?” he asked.

“Oh yeah. It’s his.”

Creed waited for more. When it didn’t come, he asked, “It looks like this property’s been abandoned for quite a while. How did anyone find it out here?”

“A hunter called me. Not much to hunt this time of year. He was looking for bobwhite quail. You usually use a dog to flush them out. They got to this clearing and his dog started acting kind of strange. Whining. Tail tucked. He knew something was off. He knew the property had a bunch of abandoned vehicles but recognized this one looked too new. Also, it still had the plates on.”

“Unless there’s some article of clothing that we know belonged to Kyle, it’ll be difficult to get a scent just from the vehicle.” Difficult, but not impossible. He could swab the steering wheel, but that worked only if he was the last and only person to drive.

“There’s blood inside. Lots of it,” the sheriff told him and looked at him as if that should be enough.

So, the man had looked inside.

Creed wasn’t surprised there was blood. The broken window, the slash marks that ran along the sides. The side mirror hung by a single cord. A crack in the windshield stretched from one side all the way to the other. It must have been one wild ride to get to this meadow. In fact, he’d be more surprised if there wasn’t any blood inside.

“The dogs can’t get a victim’s scent from blood.”

Now the sheriff stared at him. Hard. With narrow, grey eyes and a furrow indenting his forehead.

Creed didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Instead, he simply waited.

“Really?” the sheriff said. “It’s not possible? Or it’s not possible for your dogs?”

Creed heard an echo of the mother’s complaint in the sheriff’s voice.

“Blood smells like blood,” Creed explained. “A person’s blood doesn’t have an individual scent.”

The sheriff stood quiet again, staring at Creed as if he were determining whether it was true. Then his eyes slid away, looking off to the side of Creed’s shoulder, searching the length of the woods on the other side of the meadow. Did he expect someone there? Someone hiding or watching from the trees? The fog made it impossible to see.

“Look, I’m not sure anyone could have survived whatever happened inside that vehicle,” Sheriff Daniels said. “If our guy did, he’s in a bad way. Might not have much time left.”

This time, Creed did think the man looked a bit spooked. His hands rested on his gun belt, the right one close to the butt of his weapon. A weapon tucked inside what looked like a brand-new leather holster with a flap and snap still intact.

Creed glanced at Jason and Brodie. They were waiting patiently, but Jason caught Creed’s eyes and he gave a subtle tilt of his head in the sheriff’s direction as if to say, something’s not right here.

“Sheriff, no disrespect intended,” Creed said then paused, waiting for the man’s attention. “We were hired to search for a specific missing person. Now, you’re asking us to search for whoever bled inside this vehicle. Just because the vehicle belonged to Kyle doesn’t mean it’s his blood. There might even be blood from more than one person.”

“Are you saying your dogs can’t find someone who’s bleeding to death?” The question came with a sneer and a hint of anger.

“What I’m saying is, this looks like it could still be an active crime scene. If our dogs find a bleeding perpetrator instead of the victim, that’s not something my team is prepared for. We’re not law enforcement officials. None of us is armed. We didn’t bring bulletproof gear. I won’t put any of my team at risk.”

This time when Sheriff Daniels stared at Creed it was as if he was appraising him for the first time. He shifted his weight, and something shifted on the man’s face as well.

“Norwich said you guys were sharp. I hope she wasn’t just bullshitting me,” he attempted a smile. When Creed didn’t respond, the sheriff shook his head as if shaking away something from his mind. “I’m probably being a bit paranoid.”

He’d relaxed his stance, but Creed felt the tension coming off the guy. The man didn’t trust them. He was putting up guardrails, deciding what information to disclose and what to hold close to his vest.

Creed glanced down and noticed Grace had stopped sniffing and was watching Sheriff Daniels. As a K9 unit back in Afghanistan, Creed and the other handlers called their dogs truth detectors. The dogs could always tell when the locals were lying. Right now, Grace was telling him this guy was off the charts.

“I’m newly elected to this position,” Sheriff Daniels attempted to explain. “The guy I beat isn’t happy he wasn’t re-elected.” He said this in a casual tone and as if this should explain how he was treating them. The guy could flip a switch, and now Creed recognized the talent. It was a skill of a seasoned politician.

“I guess experience has drilled into me to always look over my shoulder,” the sheriff said as if making a confession. “Just a precaution. Habit. I took the call directly from the hunter. I’ve known him for years. He’s a good guy. I checked out the license plates myself. Me and one of my deputies came out yesterday morning.

“This kid’s been missing less than a week. The mother filed a missing person report in Santa Rosa County, Florida. Basically, he’s a twenty-three-year-old male who’s gone off the radar, doesn’t text his mother or friends. Maybe he doesn’t show up at work for a couple of days. It doesn’t always mean something sinister happened. There was no report of his vehicle being stolen. The kid had no priors. So, I’m thinking, okay, could be he just wanted to unplug. You know, get away for a few days. Whatever it is his generation does.”

“But then his SUV shows up in the middle of a pasture,” Jason said.

The sheriff nodded at him. “Exactly. I was still thinking the kid maybe ditched his vehicle. Took off with someone else. Then I see the inside. I’ve seen my share of traffic accidents. Bad ones. That’s not what happened in that back seat. Look, I’m not sure anyone could have survived that. If he did, he’s in a bad way. Might not have much time left. Out here in the middle of nowhere. Too much ground to cover. Your Sheriff Norwich was the one who took the initial missing person report. When I called her, she told me about your K9 team.”

“You said you were a bit paranoid.” Creed treaded lightly. The guy was more than “a bit.” “What did you mean by that?”

Sheriff Daniels glanced around, making sure his deputy hadn’t followed. “Like I said. I took the call from the hunter. My deputy came with me. I made the call to Norwich. That makes three of us plus the hunter. And yet, less than twenty-four hours later, the victim’s mother shows up on the property.”

He let that sink in as he watched their faces then gave a cursory look at the dogs waiting at their feet.

“Did you ask her how she found out?” Creed didn’t have the patience for office politics. If the sheriff had a leaker, that was his problem to deal with.

“Said she got an anonymous phone call.”

“Look, Sheriff, whatever is going on, I just need assurance this isn’t an active crime scene.” Now, Creed wished he’d pocketed the Ruger he kept at the bottom of a duffel bag on the back floor of his Jeep. “Have you checked and cleared the house?”

“Oh yeah, we took a look or two. Mostly a lot of dust and rat poop. Probably a good place for your dogs to check out.”

Creed ignored his suggestion. “How about the outbuildings?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Any obstacles on the property you know of?”

“Like I told you earlier, nobody’s lived here for decades.”

Creed held the man’s eyes, but they darted off again. There was a whole lot more this man wasn’t telling them. A glance at Jason reaffirmed Creed’s suspicion. A growing knot in his stomach told him to pack up and go home. But what if someone had been injured and is close by? It didn’t seem right to leave just because this newly elected sheriff was acting paranoid. It wasn’t up to Creed to determine if the man was only worried about his reputation.

“We’ll start at the vehicle,” he finally said. When the sheriff didn’t make a move, Creed added, “I’ll need you and your deputy to give us some space.”

“Now, wait a minute. You saying you don’t want us in on the search?”

“It’s best if you’re not in sight. It’s a distraction to the dogs,” Creed told him while avoiding Brodie and Jason’s eyes. That wasn’t exactly the truth. But it also wasn’t necessarily a lie. Any tension, even tension coming from the handlers, could be a distraction for the dogs. And he knew if this guy hung around there would be tension, emanating not just off the sheriff but off Creed, too. “It’d speed things up if you could let the dogs do their job.”

The man’s jaw twitched as he stared at Creed in an apparent stand-off. Maybe he suspected Creed wasn’t being straight with him. The guy stood a couple of inches shorter, broad-chested with a bit of a paunch but still in good shape. Creed guessed Daniels might be somewhere at the end of his forties or early fifties. He was used to people following his orders. Maybe not so good at following anyone else’s. The possibility that his own deputies might have leaked what the sheriff thought should be confidential, didn’t sit well with Creed.

Finally, he nodded and put his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay. We’ll be back at the house. I’m sure that’s where y’all will end up eventually.” Then he turned and headed back.

Creed waited until he disappeared between the trees.

“Brodie, you mind staying here with the dogs?”

“Because you don’t want me to see all that blood?”

“Because I don’t want the dogs seeing it or smelling it.”

“They’re already smelling it.” Brodie pointed to Grace’s nose bobbing.

“This isn’t a protective thing,” Creed told her. He knew it drove her crazy, even when she didn’t challenge him. Something didn’t feel right. And truthfully, he didn’t want Brodie or the dogs close to that vehicle. “Jason and I just need to take a look and see if we can find any personal items inside. Grace needs something more than blood.”

Hearing her name, the little dog looked up at him then waved her nose back toward the woods.

“I know, I know,” he told Grace. “You stay here.”

He glanced at Brodie, and this time she just nodded.

They walked slowly to the vehicle. The fog made it difficult to see inside. Jason stepped closer. He pulled out his phone, punched the flashlight app, and shot a glaring stream through the broken window. He waved the light over the back seat.

It was worse than Creed imagined. Blood stained not just the leather seats but splattered the inside of the tinted windows. Even the ceiling was stained.

It was Jason who finally broke the silence. “Wow! This guy must have really pissed somebody off.”

4

Wahoo, Nebraska

Sara topped off the gas tank and glanced inside the window of her truck cap. The glass on the bed’s topper was tinted, but she’d recently added pull-down shades. Even under the lights of the gas station, she couldn’t see the mattress, camping supplies, or the bags of groceries she’d just purchased.

She tucked the stolen credit card into her back pocket, her eyes scanning the entire lot without moving her head. The rain had stopped. A flicker of lightning insisted it wasn’t finished. The sky remained dark enough that the streetlights had been triggered, fooled into thinking it was evening instead of noon.

Sara didn’t mind. Weather like this kept people’s focus on the sky more than on each other. Or so she thought.

“Nice Aussie,” a man told her as he walked in front of her vehicle.

“Excuse me?” He caught her off guard. Aussie? She wasn’t sure if it was an insult or a come-on.

But then he thumbed at her windshield. “I used to have an Australian Shepherd. Best dog ever.”

She preferred to keep quiet. She wanted to be invisible. She wasn’t good at social interaction. But being rude would be memorable.

“That’s good to hear,” she told him, continuing to pull the squeegee from the off-colored water bin. “I’ve never had one before.”

“They’re loyal to a fault. Believe me, you won’t need a security system. Have a good day.” And off he went to his SUV two lanes over.

“You, too.” But her response was a beat too slow. She really needed to practice. It was so much harder than it looked.

As she washed the windshield, the dog’s mismatched eyes followed the squeegee back and forth. One ear stayed folded, the other pitched straight up and alert. The dog made itself comfortable on an old blanket Sara had placed in the passenger seat. It looked like it belonged right there, that is, if you couldn’t see the blood matted into the fur.

Loyal to a fault. She paused, and the dog met her eyes through the glass. That’s what got you hurt, isn’t it?

Sara replaced the squeegee. Then with a sleight of hand took the stolen credit card from her back pocket, rubbed away any possible fingerprints although she still had the skintight gloves on. She wrapped the card in the sopping paper towel. Just as casually, she tossed the wad into the nearby trash can.

It was a self-imposed rule. Never use a stolen credit card longer than two hours from when it was taken. No matter how tempting. Only use self-service lanes. Keep away from the cameras. The former was an easy task with more grocery and convenience stores using self-checkouts.

She’d barely slid back inside the truck when the burner phone started vibrating in the console’s cup holder. It startled the dog. Sara clenched her teeth.

This phone was never supposed to ring.

Her fingers fisted before she shook her irritation out of them. Even as she picked it up, the second vibration felt like electrical stings.

Only one person had the number, but Sara wasn’t surprised when it wasn’t that person’s voice that greeted her.

“Where are you right now?” The man was trying to make his low, gravelly voice sound as if he were an old friend.

They were not friends.

“Just crossed the Wyoming border,” Sara lied. He didn’t deserve the truth. Orlando might have eyes everywhere, including the sky, but she had taken extra precautions. Like this particular burner phone. She had chosen it because it had no GPS capability. “Iris gave you this number.” She stated the obvious, but she wanted him to know she wasn’t happy about it.

“I think she agrees with me that, you know, it would be easier if we worked together.”

No, she didn’t know. And she doubted that Iris had said anything close to that. The fact that the old woman had both of them doing the same task didn’t sit well with Sara. Also, she knew Orlando well enough to know he didn’t work together with anyone. They worked for him. But she said none of this. Instead, she didn’t answer at all.

Her mind swirled with questions. Did he know that she had made it to the house after him? Had he been there somewhere? Watching? She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’d been waiting for her to arrive, knowing she was too late. He’d have a good laugh seeing her run through the woods. Drenched from the downpour.

“You have your list. I have mine,” she told him.

That should be the end of the discussion. Now, she waited him out. Long ago, she’d learned the benefits of listening. Recognized the value of knowing when to be quiet. Most people were uncomfortable with silence. Orlando was one of them.

“I know, I know,” he finally said, but he wouldn’t let it end there. “You don’t work with anybody. I remember. I get that. I have this idiot working for me now. He thinks with his dick. Impulsive. No patience. The damn kid has me hooked on his candy cigarettes.”

“Where are you?” Sara decided to ask. If he wanted to play games, she could play, too.

“Still in Mississippi.”

It was amazing how easily his lies came. But at the same time, Sara felt relieved. He didn’t know she’d gotten to the same house here in Nebraska. The one he'd beaten her to and had just left.

“What do you want, Orlando?”

“Thought it would be a professional courtesy to tell each other, so we don’t waste each other’s time with any crossovers.”

Courtesy. Now, that was a strange word to come out of his mouth.

“Wanted to save you the trouble. Maybe you’ll return the courtesy. I eliminated number eight. Not an easy task. That bitch had a bitch. A real hellhound watching over her. Gonna have to tell the old woman. That certainly wasn’t in the file. Like I had to kill two birds for the cost of one.”

Sara glanced over at the dog. Of course, you were hers.

She waited out Orlando’s silence again, still not sure if he was testing her.

“So, we can cross number eight off both of our lists,” he said it like the victor of a competition which sounded more like him. Then he was gone. There was no taunt. No offhand snide remark.

Just business. Business, Orlando’s way.

Maybe he really believed that she was still in Wyoming. There were a lot of things he didn’t know. She was better than she realized at keeping secrets. Certainly, better than Orlando knew. The list he referred to was from Iris’ memory as she sat in jail. Absolutely no one knew that Sara had the original ledger. Not even Iris.

Sara looked at the dog again. Orlando had taken the woman’s body to dump. Probably didn’t even weigh it down. Just tossed it into a lake. He’d done it before. She’d seen him do it.

Bodies in lakes and rivers…that was his style. His trademark. Evidence washed away. He wanted them found. In the past, the victim’s dead body was a warning to all who knew the victim.

So, Orlando believed he’d killed the dog, too. But he’d left it for dead instead of risking getting bitten.

Sara looked at the dog now with a bit of admiration. Her head was down, but her eyes never stopped watching Sara. Maybe she was still trying to figure out whether she could trust another person.

She was quiet. Exhausted. Hungry. Probably in pain. Sara recognized all those feelings. How the accumulation could simply make you want to give up. But the dog had not given up. And neither had Sara.

“That was the man who hurt you,” Sara told her as she absently rubbed at the knotted scar on her own shoulder blade. “You and I have a lot in common.”

5

Mississippi

Brodie Creed didn’t mind blood. Even the smell wouldn’t bother her. What did threaten to unravel her was the thick fog and the damp chill. The unnatural quiet, only interrupted by the drip-drip coming from the leaves.

Layers of clouds swirled and floated like ghosts above the ground. They blocked out the sky, a ceiling of clouds pushing down. She could feel the weight of them. Everything above became invisible, even the treetops. Claustrophobia nibbled at her psyche. All of it reminded her too much of her basement prison.

She recognized the signs of a PTSD attack coming on. The air was chilly, but under her sweatshirt, her skin was slick with sweat. She needed to keep her mind in the present to ward off a full-blown attack. Not an easy task with all her senses being assaulted. Forget the blood, she wanted to stop smelling the mold and wet dirt.

Ryder and Jason wandered away from the vehicle. Both looked tense. Brodie struggled to read people’s emotions, and dog handlers were the worst. Ryder said it was because emotion ran down the leash. They had to be careful not to send the wrong message to their dogs.

With these two, it was more than that. Both Jason and Ryder were veterans who had served in Afghanistan. It took a lot to rattle either one of them. They were the kindest, most compassionate people she knew, but both were good at hiding their true feelings.

She glanced down at Grace. The little dog had noticed it, too. As good as they were, the men couldn’t hide their agitation from Grace. Something wasn’t right, and Grace could smell it.

“What’s the plan?” Jason asked Ryder. “I know you always say it’s better if we know less about a victim, but this isn’t at all what we expected.”

“It’s obviously a crime scene,” Ryder said. “I don’t understand why the sheriff hasn’t cordoned off anything. Forensic techs should be here. Doesn’t sound like they’re even on their way.”

“Yeah, something’s not right,” Jason agreed. “It’s almost as if he wants to see what happened before he calls anyone else in.”

“I can understand waiting before you notify family.”

“But you still treat it like a crime scene. You said Norwich knows this guy?”

“She recommended us. That doesn’t really mean she knows him. She knows the victim’s family.”

Brodie tried to listen. She tried to focus on what they were saying, but she was new to doing searches. They were the handlers and had a whole list of concerns she didn’t need to worry about. She worked as their go-between, recording details, providing gear, provisions, tools, and water for the handlers and the dogs. It was her job to make sure they had everything they needed.

She took it upon herself to look for obstacles and threats ahead of them or in their path. She already knew what poisonous snakes or plants they might encounter. They’d already experienced how many patches of grass were really patches of sandburs. The temperature wasn’t expected to exceed sixty-degrees, but the humidity and fog would last throughout the day.

Ryder appreciated that she paid attention to these details. However, he always claimed it was better a handler doesn’t know much about the victim other than the basics. Prejudging a person or a situation could lead a handler to misguide his dog. As Ryder said, it didn’t make a difference to his dog whether the person they were searching for was tall or short, had red hair or black, wore only designer tracksuits or ragged jeans and a T-shirt. The scent took priority.

But Brodie did want to know. She had been a missing person herself, not that long ago. Sixteen long years held against her will. She was taken when she was only eleven. It was hard for her to understand how a healthy, strong twenty-three-year-old man might be taken against his will.

On the long drive, Brodie searched the internet for Kyle Lawrence. She took screenshots of some of the information. Now, while she waited, she turned on her phone and brought up the shots.

She had easily found Kyle’s Instagram account. The photo Sheriff Norwich provided was the same one Kyle used on his profile. Brodie wondered if it could be a few years old, because he looked more boy than man. In the photo, he had brown hair, dark eyes, and a mischievous smile that made him look like he knew a secret no one else knew.

His profile offered that he was a student at the University of West Florida and a part-time bartender at Margaritaville Hotel on Pensacola Beach. There were photos of him serving drinks. The most recent photo was taken with a pretty woman who looked older than Kyle. The selfie showed them walking hand in hand on the beach. Both barefooted. Her long hair trailed in the breeze. The Pensacola Beach ball water tower stood out behind them.

Brodie searched the comments and other posts, but there was no name attached to the woman, and she only appeared in that one photo. She couldn’t help thinking there was something oddly familiar about the woman.

Now, she glanced at the three dogs, making sure they were okay. They sat patiently, dressed in their search vests and ready to get to work. Hank’s eyes stayed on Brodie, and she checked to see if he was okay. She knew he could smell the blood. Not long ago, the big dog had watched his previous owner get killed. Hank had taken a bullet trying to protect the man. She put her phone away and squatted next to him. She put her arm around his big neck.

“You okay?” She scratched behind his ear, and the dog sighed, but his eyes didn’t leave her.

Movement caught Brodie’s attention. Back in the woods. Behind the waves of fog. She saw someone. It was only a flash.

She held her breath and watched. There between the trees. Was it a child? A girl? Peeking from behind the trunk of a live oak? She glanced at Hank. He was still watching her. Why didn’t he smell this person? She looked over at Grace and Scout. Scout was watching her, too. But Grace seemed to be watching the exact spot Brodie was. Her eyes darted back to the area. It was gone. Had it only been her imagination?

“Brodie?”

She startled at Jason’s voice.

“You okay?” he asked.

She had completely tuned out the two men. She looked over her shoulder to see Jason. Ryder had gone back to the vehicle. He was carefully maneuvering the car door’s handle using the latex gloves from his daypack. Even feeling a bit disoriented, she made a mental note to restock their packs.

“Hey, Brodie?” Jason asked again, watching her. “Are you okay?”

She glanced back at the woods. “I thought I saw someone.” She looked down at all three dogs. Grace was now watching Ryder.

Jason came up alongside her. His eyes scanned the same section of foggy woods.

“It’s nothing,” she told him quietly, hoping they were far enough away and with their backs turned to Ryder, he wouldn’t hear. It was bad enough how overprotective he was. She hadn’t shared with him about her nightmares. But Jason knew.

“You saw them out here?” he whispered.

He was referring to the Charlottes. The other little girls who were also taken by Iris Malone. Brodie had never seen them while she was kept by Iris, but she knew there were others. She had heard them sometimes behind the walls and up through the vents. She'd read the messages they’d left behind.

Brodie had confided in Jason during a panic attack once while they were on the road.

Although she’d never seen them during her captivity, they still came to her. Mostly at night. Stood beside her bed. She could hear them whispering. Feel their breath. If she reached out, she knew she could touch them. But she didn’t dare.

Instead, she’d squeeze her eyes tight. Then she fought to wake herself up. Mental jerks. A battle between her subconscious and conscious. She’d lie there without moving. Couldn’t move. Her body paralyzed. All she could do was listen. Eyes still tight. Frozen in place and listening. Until finally, she’d hear the big dog snoring next to her. Only then did she feel safe to open her eyes.

If Hank was snoring, no one was there. She was awake. She was safe. He’d become her protector, her guardian angel of the night.

Kitten was there, too. But the cat usually stared at Brodie. Body rigid. Eyes knowing. It was as if the cat remembered what they had gone through.

Maybe Kitten had her own nightmares. Or maybe Kitten could see the Charlottes, too.

Brodie didn’t quite understand. If she was getting better—and Dr. Rockwood had insisted she was—why did the Charlottes still come to her?

She couldn’t ask that question. Because if she did, she’d have to admit she still saw them. She’d have to admit they still came. Lately, they seemed to come even more frequently.

“They’re probably on your mind with the approaching trial,” Jason told her, startling her back to the present.

Brodie knew she might need to testify against Iris. She dreaded even the mention of it. How could she put it all behind her if she had to dredge it all up again?

“But I never even saw them,” Brodie said.

“Didn’t you tell me you heard them?”

He had stopped and was watching her now.

“Yes.” The voices were still vivid in her mind, those whispers echoing up through the vents.

Now, Jason nudged her with his elbow and said, “I think this weather, along with the sheriff, got us all a bit spooked.” He put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

She wanted to lean into his touch. Funny, it wasn’t that long ago she didn’t want anyone near her, let alone touching her.

“Hey, guys,” Ryder called out. “I think I found something.”

6

Mississippi

Creed held up a single dirty sock. He carefully pinched it between his gloved fingers, so he didn’t contaminate the scene.

“It looks a little small, but it has to be his,” Creed said. “Nobody has a dirty sock in their vehicle unless it belongs to them, right?”

“This is so not the way we do things,” Jason said.

“Believe me, I’m tempted to pack up, turn around, and go back home. The risks are starting to pile up. But what if someone is seriously injured?”

“Injured or not, what if the dogs lead us to the person who did this?”

And there it was. Jason just said exactly what Creed was worried about. The one thing that was rubbing a raw nerve.

“Tell me again why we don’t carry weapons?” Brodie asked.

“We’re not law enforcement,” Creed told her.

“But both of us have carry permits,” Jason said. “And weapons in our vehicles. By the way, Brodie’s gotten really good at target-practice. She’s ready to take the test.”

Creed pretended not to be surprised. He hated how many things he didn’t know about Brodie. She and Jason handled daily kennel chores together. They played poker with Jason’s veteran buddies at the Segway House. Lately, Creed realized there were plenty of things he didn’t know or hadn’t paid enough attention to. Perhaps he could blame Maggie O’Dell.

Since Christmas, Maggie had been spending more time at K9 CrimeScents. Last time she even brought her two dogs, Harvey and Jake. Drove them all the way down from Virginia. It was just for a long three-day weekend, but the fact that she took time away from her job as an FBI profiler was a huge step in their relationship. A step neither of them attempted to label or define.

Jason and Brodie were waiting for his response about weapons.

“I’ll talk to Sheriff Norwich about it. See what she thinks.”

Truth was, Creed had never seen it as a problem before. He knew he could defend himself and his dogs. Or at least, he thought he could. But now that Brodie and Hank were joining them on more searches, maybe packing a weapon was something to consider.

“So, what’s the plan here?” Jason asked again.

Scout shuffled impatiently at his feet. His nose bumped against Jason’s daypack where the dog knew his reward toy was. A five-hour drive and this delay had both Grace and Scout antsy to get started. Hank was the only one satisfied to wait and watch as long as Brodie was at his side.

“I think one of us uses the dirty sock for a target scent,” Creed said. “And one of us tracks the scent I wiped off the steering wheel. The problem is there’s no guarantee either of these scents belong to Kyle Lawrence.”

“We’ll either find the person who’s bleeding from an attack,” Jason said, thumbing over his back at the vehicle, “or we’ll find the guy who caused all that blood.”

“Which is the reason we all stay close to each other,” Creed told them.

7

Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie O’Dell couldn’t remember a time she’d visited this state when the weather wasn’t erupting at her arrival. The pilot had to circle and delay their approach while Maggie dug fingernails into the first-class seat’s armrests and watched the surrounding clouds light up and rumble beneath them.

She hated flying. And it never got easier. Just once it’d be nice if the weather would cooperate.

Finally on the ground, she grabbed her case from the overhead bin and made her way out of the plane. Only when she stepped foot through the airport doors did she realize she had been holding her breath. For how long, she didn’t know. Her body had gotten so good at instinctively countering her fears, she hardly noticed.

She also knew this airport well enough that she didn’t need signs to tell her how to get to the baggage claim. So, her eyes watched out the windows. Rain pelted the glass. Light bounced through the clouds, but the thunder could barely be heard inside the building.

Maggie saw him before she got to the baggage carousel. Tommy Pakula had a quiet presence that let him blend into a crowd. He looked like an ordinary, middle-aged guy wearing a dark suit jacket over jeans and a black T-shirt. A pair of glasses sat on top of his shaved head. Anyone who noticed him would think he was one of the travelers waiting for his bag to appear on the conveyor belt. An ordinary traveler and not the head law enforcement officer for the state’s human trafficking task force.

He saw her and dipped his chin in place of a wave. She raised her overnight case and gestured that it was the only one she had.

“Special Agent Maggie O’Dell,” he offered his hand. When she took it, he pulled her in for a sideways hug. Then he showed her the brown paper bag in his other hand. “How bout we catch up at the coffee shop upstairs. I brought donuts.”

She laughed. The first time they met, he was eating a donut while he waited for her, and she made a bad cop joke. “Chocolate frosting?”

“Of course.”

“Cake?”

“Is there any other kind? Although I don’t know how you can truly appreciate them with a Diet Pepsi.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Good. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain. And I’m sure if I did, my wife and girls would tell me to buck up.”

They found a table in an empty corner. She let him fetch his coffee and her soda as she dug into the paper bag. There were four, individually wrapped in wax paper. The scent of sugar, chocolate, and baked dough made her stomach roil. She was starving, choosing not to eat before her flight and being suspended 30,000 feet above control.

As she took a bite, she turned on her phone. It began pinging one after another. However, there was only one message she was interested in texting immediately.

Made it to Omaha. It’s pouring!

She almost hit send but stopped herself and added, “love you.” She hesitated, finger hovering. She deleted “love” and replaced it with “miss.” Then she hit send.

Pakula put the can of Diet Pepsi in front of her and sat down with his paper cup of coffee. The can was ice-cold. Just the way she liked it, and she smiled at him as she popped the tab. Her donuts—one and a half by now—were set out on their wax paper, and she moved the paper bag toward him with the last two.

“Am I that easy that you can remember my favorites?” she asked.

“I can’t imagine that word ever coming up in a description of you.” He sipped his coffee. “Occupational hazard. I remember details. Unfortunately, my wife says they are not always the details she wishes I’d remember. Those last two are for you, too.” He patted his stomach and added, “Watching my physique. Take them back to the hotel. A little something for when you can’t sleep.”

My God, this man knew her well. Too well.

She didn’t even remember telling him about her chronic insomnia.

“Thanks.”

“She won’t talk to either of us,” Pakula switched topics easily, moving on.

“No surprise there.” Maggie said over a bite of donut.

“You should see her. Probably the best shapeshifter I’ve seen.”

“Shapeshifter?”

“Sorry. One of my daughters reads a lot of books with werewolves, zombies, and shapeshifters. I used to think it all sounded so made-up until I realized half the people I deal with on a regular basis look like characters from her books.”

“So, Iris Malone. A shapeshifter?”

“I’ve been showing up at her hearings. I haven’t missed a single one. She comes in all hunched over. Started using a cane. Walks slowly, watching her feet. Makes you forget how tall and broad and formidable she actually is. Her hair’s gone gray. Sort of a steel gray. She comes across as a feeble, old lady.”

“Confinement can do that.”

“Sure, but I’m not buying it in her case. Thing is, I’m afraid she might be able to pull it off.”

“You think she’s faking it.”

“Absolutely. Couple of people at the prison have told me she’s as strong and healthy as the day she arrived.”

“Guards and staff might not want to admit her health’s failing.”

“My info’s not coming from guards or staff.”

“Really?”

He nodded. Sipped his coffee.

“You never cease to impress me.”

“I really wish you’d tell my wife that.”

Maggie laughed.

“Think about it,” he said. “It’s going to be a jury trial. If she can feed them the image of a feeble old woman, who maybe was never the one in control. Convince them her brother was the one calling all the shots. Conveniently, her brother is dead. He can’t argue that fact.

“If she can do that enough to provoke reasonable doubt, there’s a good chance she walks. Her lawyer isn’t even asking for a change of venue. Not that it would do any good. Everyone in the state knows about this case by now. Residents of her district have clammed up from the beginning.”

“Probably because they’re afraid she’s still part of some trafficking network.”

“And we have no evidence that she was. Her brother Elijah, yes. But again, he’s no longer around. Why not let him become the scapegoat? Even the RV they used to kidnap the little girls was found on his property, not his sister’s. And she has hundreds of acres.”

It was over a year and a half ago when Elijah Dunn led Maggie, Ryder, and Grace on a scavenger hunt along miles of Nebraska’s pastureland. Maggie didn’t like to dwell on it. There were mistakes that should never have been made. Things she should have caught. And a whole lot of secrets that died with Elijah.

“If she was even connected to the network,” Pakula continued, “I don’t think she is anymore. I think they cut her off. We kept track for months after her arrest. Financials. Communications in and out. Crickets.”

“Who’s paying her bills?”

“She owns a lot of property. Leases some of it. She has investments and bank accounts. All legal and clean. She’s not hurting for funds. Her lawyer’s making a strong case that she had no idea what her brother was doing.”

“The girls just ended up at her house, and she held them captive?”

“That’s just it. There’s no one to tell that story. No one except Brodie Creed.”

“But there were others. The photos on the fireplace mantle? What about the girls Elijah admitted he took? The ones he murdered. The others, he claimed to have sold.”

“If there are others who survived, others besides Brodie, no one’s come forward?”

“Or they’re still being trafficked.”

Maggie knew Pakula and his team were dogged about this case. He wouldn’t leave a single stone unturned, and yet, here he was, less than a month before Iris Malone’s trial was to begin, and he was calling Maggie in for help. She hated the thought of Brodie having to be the only witness, the only testimony. Sure, she’d grown so much stronger in the last year and a half since they’d found her. But to be the lone voice against a woman who was cunning enough to have covered all her tracks?

“No one in the community ever saw the other girls?” Maggie asked. “I know your team conducted interviews. They didn’t find any other credible witnesses?”

He shook his head. “Nobody’s talking. Nobody wants to get involved. Or at least nobody’s talking to law enforcement. And as much as I look like a nice guy, I guess I look like a cop.”

“Who would have guessed?”

“I know, right? But with you alongside me, I thought maybe we could give it another go. We’ll already be there for the preliminary and jury selection. With it back in the news, maybe somebody remembers something.”

“I hate to remind you, but I’ve gone into small communities before. Sometimes right alongside you, and every time I swear, they see outsider stamped all over me.”

“True, but you can be a softer, kinder outsider.”

“Me? A softer, kinder version of you? Don’t you have that backwards?”

Pakula was usually the one pulling her off to the side until she let off some steam.

“What you’re saying is that having a woman alongside you in a small rural town might make a difference. It’s okay, you can say it. I’m not offended.”

“I mean it as a good thing. And I have to disagree. I think you may have lost a bit of your I’m a tough FBI agent edge. Could be that dog handler’s influence. How is Ryder Creed, by the way?”

“He’s good.” She allowed herself to break out in a smile, because she knew Pakula’s question wasn’t just about Ryder’s well-being, but rather how they were. Pakula had been a witness to their developing relationship, up close and personal. Especially last October, when Ryder disappeared into a Nebraska blizzard. That search had transformed all of them.

This stage of the relationship felt too new. Not fragile, just new. She and Ryder had been friends, then friends with benefits. It ended up being much more complicated than it should’ve been. But Maggie had screwed up too many relationships in the past, including a marriage. She wanted this—whatever it was—with Ryder. She didn’t have to define it. She just had to realize that she wanted it.

Before she could give him more of an answer, Pakula’s phone vibrated. He dug it out of his jacket pocket then glanced up at her, and she gestured for him to take the call. He checked the caller’s ID and immediately tapped the button.

“Hey, John Boy, missed you last week at the game.”

Maggie opened her phone and started scrolling through her messages. She stole a look up at Pakula when he didn’t say anything for a long stretch. His eyes found hers and narrowed, concern creasing the lines on his forehead.

She hoped everything was okay. The nickname, John Boy, insinuated a personal call, but Pakula had a way of taking even the invisible—a waitress, a valet, a homeless guy on the street—and making them feel not just seen, but important. The fact that he had someone on the inside of Iris Malone’s prison willing to feed him information about the woman was a testament to his genuine appeal.

“You think they’ll be able to pull prints or is there too much slippage? Wow! That is something. Okay. Sure. Send it over. I’ll take a look.” He listened again then nodded as if John Boy sat across the table. “That works. Thanks. Beers on me next time.” He laughed. A genuine, full-throated laugh that swept away the lines from his forehead. “You got that right.” He ended the call and slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.

Maggie waited. Emptied her Diet Pepsi.

“Buddy of mine in homicide,” Pakula took a sip of coffee. “They pulled a floater out of the lake at Chalco Hills. That’s a recreation area in southwest Omaha. An eyewitness reported seeing a car early this morning parked on the dam road. Access is only for park employees, and the vehicle didn’t look like it belonged. Then she saw a guy get out. Dragged what looked like a large black garbage bag out of the trunk. Eyewitness said it looked heavy. Took a lot of effort. He tossed it over the edge of the dam and into the water. Then drove away.”

“How reliable is the eyewitness?”

“Early-morning jogger. She was pretty shaken up about it. Came in and gave her account. Didn’t get a close enough look to see a license plate but gave a good description of the vehicle. The lake’s not that big, but it didn’t matter. The bag got snagged on some debris. It hadn’t traveled more than twenty feet.”

“Seems a little sloppy.”

Pakula shrugged. “Seems a lot sloppy. Like maybe he didn’t care. Maybe getting found would send a message all its own.”

“Are you thinking a gang or cartel hit. Is that why you got a call?”

“The victim has a familiar mark. It’s—” he sat back, looking off toward the side as if to find the right word, but when his eyes scanned the now almost empty coffee shop, she realized he was looking to see if anyone was in earshot.

Satisfied, he propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “One of the human-trafficking gangs brands its merchandise.”

“Brand? You mean like a tattoo?”

“No, that takes too much time. Branding is the trend.”

“And this woman…I’m presuming it’s a woman?”

He nodded. She realized she felt a slight bit of relief that it wasn’t a young girl. Or a child. Not that this was much better.

“She has their what? Special mark?”

“He’s sending over a few photos. I’ll see. Maybe there’s no connection.” He shrugged then added, “Messy business we’re in.”

She sat back, still holding his eyes. As an FBI profiler, she’d worked with Pakula from the time he was in homicide to when he took over the helm of the state’s human-trafficking task force. They had seen things. She thought nothing could shock or surprise either of them, but somehow, she was always proven wrong.

She shook her head and said, “No matter what we do, they never stop, do they?”

“It’s like a hydra monster. We keep cutting off the head and it grows two frickin’ more.”

8

Mississippi

The dogs appeared to be following in the same direction, though crisscrossing paths. Creed slowed Grace down, trying to create separation. There was no slowing Scout. It was best if he and Jason went ahead of them. While Grace worked with precision, sometimes grinding to a sudden halt to sniff a blade of grass from top to bottom, the black Lab blasted full throttle. Scout jumped over shrubs and zigzagged so close to tree trunks that he scraped against the bark.

Jason ran alongside, intentionally not reigning the dog in. He didn’t want to risk curbing Scout’s innate enthusiasm. Creed was proud of the pair. He figured they were proof-positive there was more than one way to do this job. But he also worried about them. All that energy, all that enthusiasm came with a hefty price of burnout. And that’s when mistakes could be made.

A handler’s number one job, according to Creed, was taking care of the dog. Watching for the unexpected. Protecting against the unseen risks and threats like poisonous snakes and scorpions. In the Panhandle of Florida, those risks included alligators and bears. Here in Mississippi, Creed was more worried about the crawly things in the grass. New territory always set him on edge. That’s where Brodie came in. Her advance site research was meticulous. Sometimes he wanted to roll his eyes at her over-the-top details. Until one of those details saved a dog from stepping into a hornet’s nest or nosing poisonous nettle.

The fog played to their favor. It kept scent down, close to the ground. And it kept it moist, cool, and fresh. They quickly gained distance from the vehicle as the dogs skirted the borders of the pasture. Both of them weaved into the trees and back out into the field. Despite the sheriff’s earlier prediction about the house, neither dog appeared interested in returning to the front of the property or any of the buildings. According to the dogs, whatever happened, took place out here.

Creed had to admit. That surprised him, too. He kept it to himself, away from the dogs. Yet his mind began spinning around possible scenarios. Maybe leaving the vehicle out here was just that. A place to dump it. Hide it.

But there was so much blood in the back seat.

The smell stuck in his nostrils, the damp air adding mold and stink weed to the mix. The mist created a constant sheen of droplets in his hair and on his bristled jaw. His T-shirt clung to his body and even his outer shirt was soaked through at the collar.

Visibility was at best only thirty feet, and he hated how vulnerable it made him feel. But Creed didn’t need to know what happened. He didn’t need to suspect or theorize or rationalize any of it. In fact, it was best if he didn’t think about it. Presuming or guessing might have him unconsciously influence his dog. His job was to assist, not lead. To protect and watch out for any hazards or risks to his dog.

He was thinking about all this even as Grace pulled hard then came to a screeching halt. Grace weighed only sixteen pounds, but she could throw him off balance. She insisted on a vigorous sniff at the base of a tree trunk.

He tried to keep his eyes two steps ahead of her, looking for obstacles. Somewhere up ahead, Scout and Jason plowed through tall grass and shrubs. Brodie and Hank were quietly alongside him. She carried a telescoping rod with metal prongs at the bottom. She extended it to poke into the brush ahead of them. The tool warned and prodded critters to move out of the way before boots and paws came close.

Now they waited for Grace as she began a twitching sniff of the bark, front paws up against the tree trunk as if reaching for the scent. Creed found himself searching up into the branches. It wouldn’t be the first time they discovered a victim up in a tree.

When he glanced at Brodie, he saw her eyes scanning the ground.

“What kind of snakes do we need to worry about?” he asked her.

“Most of them are around rivers or swamps. Copperheads and coral like wooded areas and the brush. Timber and pygmy rattlesnakes might be around in the woods. All those are venomous. Rat snakes like to hang from trees or hunt inside barns.”

Creed began to examine the scrub brush surrounding them. With his booted foot, he swept the foliage back and forth, slowly so he didn’t distract Grace. She had hopped along to the back of the huge live oak, front paws still up against the tree.

He tried to pretend that snakes didn’t bother him, when in fact, they creeped him out. Not Brodie, though.

“What about spiders?” he asked.

“Black widow, brown recluse and southern devil scorpions.”

“Oh good. So just the usual.”

She smiled at him.

“See I told you, once you got the hang of sarcasm, you’d realize I can be a funny guy.”

“Yeah, you’re hilarious.”

He continued to wave his foot over stubby grass and into the prickly shrubs while Grace danced around the tree. He was ready to slam his heel down onto anything that crawled. If there was a critter getting ready to strike, he’d rather it bit into his leather boot or even his pant leg instead of his dog.

He pointed to a plant with fern-like leaves about four feet away. Its purplish stems spiked high above the rest. “Is that one we need to watch out for?” he asked Brodie.

“Poison hemlock. Not as bad as sumac or poison ivy, but yes. It’s best to steer the dogs around it.”

He appreciated that she knew these things. When he first gave Brodie a cell phone for emergency contact, she kept forgetting to take it with her. As soon as she discovered she could use it as a research or navigational tool, she made sure it was in her belt, right alongside the canister of bear spray.

Grace snorted, finished with the tree.

Suddenly, there was a yelp behind them.

Creed whipped around in time to see Scout leaping backward. His right front paw batted the air.

Brodie and Hank raced to the distraught dog. Grace shot after them, her leash tangling around Creed’s legs and almost knocking him clean off his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” Jason was at his dog’s side, assessing the damage.

“Snake?” Creed yelled, tugging at his daypack even as he ran.

Before he got there, Jason’s hand went down into the grass. Whatever it found, sent Jason jolting backwards, landing on his butt.

“What is it?” Brodie yelled stopping and making Hank stay away.

Creed handed off Grace’s leash to his sister as he continued closer. He scooped up a branch to use as a club.

“Jason, are you okay? What’s going on? Is it a snake?”

Creed watched Scout pace a wide circle around his handler. Eyes wide. Tongue hanging out and drool dripping. The dog was panting but not foaming of the mouth. That was good. Scout was putting weight on the paw now. But he desperately wanted to go to Jason even as his handler’s outstretched palm told him to stay away from whatever was on the ground.

Creed didn’t stay away, club up and ready to swing. Then he saw what it was. “Barbed wire,” he announced.

“Electric barbed wire,” Jason corrected him.

He stayed on the ground, carefully crawling away. He waved his hand, trying to throw off the sting. With his other hand, he reached for Scout. The dog nuzzled his fingers and cautiously came to him.

“You okay, buddy?” Jason gently stroked the dog’s injured leg.

“I thought nobody’s lived here for years,” Creed said, his eyes darting around the property again for livestock he might have missed.

“Decades,” Brodie added. “Is he okay?”

“I think so. He’s putting weight on it. I don’t see any burns.”

“How about you?” Creed asked.

“Luckily it was my mechanical hand.”

“Still, it knocked you on your butt. Seems like a bit much when I don’t see a single horse or cow.”

“Maybe it’s not meant to keep cattle in,” Brodie said.

Creed noticed his sister’s eyes darting back and forth across the woods, and not over the pastures. She was ridiculously good at keeping her emotions in check, but he swore he caught a glimpse of something that didn’t belong.

She looked spooked even before she added, “Maybe it’s meant to keep people out."

9

Brodie knew Ryder was angry. She wasn’t surprised when he insisted they take a lunch break. But she didn’t expect him to leave with a flimsy excuse that he needed to get something from his Jeep. He was heading back to have a word with that sheriff.

Quietly, she and Jason filled collapsible water dishes and broke off pieces of protein bars for the dogs. The three of them were content, patient, and waiting. Scout belly-flopped on the grass, kicking out his hind legs. The sting forgotten, at least for now.

Brodie spread out a waterproof camping blanket on the grass and away from under the trees. The fog was still so thick that leaves dripped as if it were raining. The humidity left a sheen of cold sweat on her skin. She almost preferred rain to this. This damp, musty weather, these pastures and the fog moving through the trees. All of it triggered memories she didn’t want to revisit.

As their supplier, navigator and recorder, Brodie’s backpack carried all kinds of things, including a cold pack. She pulled out two of three ham sandwiches, each with a stack of razor-thin sliced ham on Hannah’s homemade sourdough with a smattering of mustard. She handed one to Jason. In seconds, he began devouring it. When he glanced up and caught her watching, she smiled at him.

“A jolt of electricity and you still have an appetite,” she joked, trying to make light of the situation.

He grinned while he chewed and simply shrugged his response.

“Scout and I are simple guys. Aren’t we, buddy?”

The big dog didn’t lift his head, but his eyes watched the sandwich.

She enjoyed watching Jason eat. He did it with such enthusiasm and delight, no matter what it was. Food was still a bit of a minefield for her. For over a decade, Iris Malone used it as a tool and a weapon, withholding it as punishment and doling it out by rules that never made sense. Even starving, Brodie learned to rip and shred whatever she was given, searching for the hidden drugs used to incapacitate her. She still found herself examining her meals and finding her stomach roiling at the smell of certain foods that were Iris’ favorite snare or lure.

She glanced back at the path, watching for Ryder.

“You think he’s going to yell at that sheriff for lying to us?” she asked Jason.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ryder yell at anyone.”

“Ever?”

She watched as Jason seemed to give this some thought.

“I’ve seen him punch a guy once. Happened so fast none of us saw it coming. But yell? No, I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t it totally weird that he doesn't have other law enforcement officers out here?”

“There are a whole lot of totally weird things about this.”

“You think Kyle Lawrence is dead?”

He stopped and looked at her over his sandwich. “Ryder would say that’s not for us to decide.”

“From his social media accounts, he doesn’t look like a guy who’d just up and leave his life.”

“Maybe he didn’t leave it. Maybe he just wandered away.”

“Wandered away?”

“I’m just saying, not all who wander are lost.”

She stared at him. Just when she thought she was getting the hang of sarcasm or irony, something threw her off.

“Obviously, he wandered into something he wasn’t supposed to. Didn’t Norwich say he lives in Navarre?”

“Navarre Beach. His mom owns the house. He’s a student at the University of West Florida and a part-time bartender at Margaritaville Hotel on Pensacola Beach.”

“Wow! You really do your research.”

She shrugged and started on her own sandwich.

“Did Hannah include any extra pickles?”

“I don’t think so.”

He looked genuinely disappointed. She offered him the one that was tucked into the wax paper of her sandwich, but he waved her off.

“No, you enjoy it.”

“All that blood has to mean foul play, right?” she asked.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about these searches is that nothing is as it seems. For all we know, Kyle may have driven someone out here. He could have killed that person in the back seat of his car. Maybe it wasn't premeditated. A fight got out of hand. A crime of passion.”

She hadn’t thought of that.

He shrugged. "Real life is messy."

Brodie’s eyes darted around the property again. Sitting on the blanket gave a whole new perspective from ground level. The fog floated a foot or two above. It was like sitting at the bottom of the ocean and watching the waves wash over them. She sucked in a deep breath as if to remind herself that she could, in fact, breathe.

With the fog hanging above the ground, she could see better. Farther. She was looking for Ryder through the trees when movement caught her attention. About a half dozen chickens quietly roamed back behind one of the outbuildings. They were the first and only living things she’d seen since arriving.

That’s if she didn’t count the ghosts she’d seen earlier hiding in the woods.

“Wait a minute,” Jason said, “so you think the sheriff is lying?”

It was something Brodie just knew about people. Not a sixth-sense kind of thing. Maybe just a strong intuition. Although she was seldom wrong, she didn’t like to explain it. Instead, she always tried to be nonchalant about it.

She simply said, “He’s lying about something.”

10

Nebraska

Sara was exhausted by the time she pulled into the entrance of the long driveway. The rain had stopped, but heavy, purple clouds rolled in over the horizon bringing colder temperatures.

Out here, there were no street signs or mile markers. Even most of the mailboxes at the end of long driveways didn't have an address attached to them. It didn’t matter. She knew these gravel roads by heart. The slight curves and gentle slopes were stamped on her brain. She’d be able to find her way blindfolded. Had even done it once. A foiled escape years ago when she was just a kid.

The dirt driveway showed no signs of recent travel. Someone would need to look hard to find Sara’s previous tracks, but the day’s rain-soaked ground would leave deep ruts. She pushed the truck slowly up onto the stubby brown grass alongside the driveway. She maneuvered under branches and around silver maples and cottonwoods, squeezing the truck between the tree trunks and the barbed wire fence.

Neighbors knew someone checked on the two farms. Both properties were back-to-back with an acre of pasture and another of woods between them. Both were set back far enough from the view of local traffic, but some days not a single vehicle drove by.

Electricity, water, everything had been left intact exactly the way Iris Malone had left it. The neighbors were good about minding their own business, especially after what had happened here. Even with the old woman now in prison, no one in this community would dare cross Iris or step onto her property. Nor would any of them admit to being her friend. It was embarrassing enough to be her neighbor.

No, it wasn’t the community or the neighbors Sara worried about. They hadn’t bothered or seemed to notice her presence. It was Iris’ “business associates.” Men like Orlando. So far, none of them appeared interested in crossing Iris, either. All of them were more worried about what the woman knew. What she had on them and how much she was willing to spill to save herself.

Sara was the only one among them who had nothing to lose. Absolutely nothing at all.

She parked close to the rear of the huge two-story farmhouse. On her phone, she pulled up a camera’s view of an interior room, swiping back and forth, checking for movement or anything out of place. Satisfied, she tapped another app and disengaged the deadbolt on the back door. She grabbed a couple of grocery bags, yanked open the heavy steel back door and set everything inside. Returning to the pickup, she engaged the lock using the phone again. Then she shifted into gear and zigzagged between a couple of the sheds at the back of the property.

The old pasture road was usually a bumpy stretch, but the rain and mud had softened it. Still, Sara caught herself hanging wide to avoid any jarring ups and downs as she glanced over at the dog. She cut a path between the woods, one she had recently shaped. A shortcut that almost matched the one she used to take as a girl. Here, there were no fences or gates to mess with, and soon she could see the small clapboard farmhouse.

Instead of parking next to it, Sara chose the barn’s breezeway. Despite being open all the way through, no one could see what was parked inside because of the angle. She backed into the spot, so that her truck pointed in the direction she had come, ready to shoot out and use that same path through the woods as an escape. Or as a hiding place.

“Stay here,” she told the dog after she sat up and looked to Sara for an explanation. They had driven for over an hour, and now they were stopping a second time.

“Stay. I’ll be right back.” She had no idea if the dog understood her, but Sara’s voice did seem to calm her.

She opened the truck cap, and this time slung a backpack over her shoulder. She gathered more bags of groceries. Her eyes took in everything, scanning the line of trees on the other side of the property. Her focus stopped at each outbuilding, watching the corners for movement. Then she stared at the house, a small one-story with a back porch the length of the house. She took in every window, the roofline, and the overgrown bushes.

Last, Sara looked up and scanned the sky. Held her breath. Listened. Heavy purple ribbons of moving clouds made it feel like twilight.

Being aware of her surroundings had become second nature. Instinct always beats out logic. Good surveillance habits could avoid encounters. Avoiding encounters could save her life. A smart planned-out strategy separated the winners from the losers.

She glanced back at the smudged glass of the truck’s passenger side. A dog was nowhere in that plan.

A sound from above stopped her in her tracks. A hum in the distance. Mechanical. Man made. Not the approaching storm. Something in the sky. And it was heading this way.

She rushed the final steps. Climbed onto the porch and tucked herself under its roof. She emptied her hands, setting everything down slowly and quietly as if the thing in the sky could already see and hear her.

The sound grew louder. Sara pressed hard against the wall. Frozen in place.

The helicopter swept to the north. Not over either farmhouse. It was much farther away than it sounded. Closer to the highway she’d left. A good ten miles from here.

And yet, her heart still banged so hard that her chest ached.

Breathe. Focus. It’s nothing.

She’d worked so hard to make this property—this tiny spot on the map—her sanctuary, her safe haven. All the precautions, all the cybersecurity she’d put in place, and yet, in a matter of seconds, she knew it could be snatched away.

Maybe there was nowhere she could feel safe.

11

Sara dug her phone out of her pocket. Again, she opened the app and tapped. A click and clack, and the locks on the back door disengaged. She pushed two more. An overhead porch light turned on at the same time as a light inside the house. More taps and the carefully placed cameras inside gave her a variety of live shots of the interior.

She gathered the backpack and groceries and entered the kitchen, setting everything down as her eyes examined the small traps she’d left to tell her if anyone had been here while she’d been gone.

Hairline threads, invisible unless you were looking for them, were still in place. One stretched between the doorway to the living room, about a foot off the floor. Others in strategic areas were still intact.

She opened a drawer at the far end of the counter. Granny El called it her “junk” drawer, and it used to include anything from packing tape and batteries to a roll of antacids. All the sharp items like pocketknives and ballpoint pens had been removed after Granny had been removed.

Otherwise, everything else remained where she’d left it. Her clothes were still in the bedroom dresser and closet. Dishes in the cupboard. And all her precious Christmas decorations stayed where she had carefully placed them, because the bastards took her out before she could enjoy one last Christmas in her home.

Sara’s fingers found a dog leash rolled up. She was relieved to find it there. Sara had never owned a dog, and she didn’t know the one Granny loved to talk about. But she knew the leash was here, stuffed safely all the way to the back of the drawer because the old woman couldn’t bare even the thought of discarding it.

She hesitated on the back porch, sweeping her eyes across the sky and then scanning the woods again. Satisfied, she returned to the truck.

Turned out she didn’t need the leash. The dog stayed close, so close that she knocked against Sara’s leg a couple of times. Her eyes were a bit wild now, taking in the unfamiliar smells. Tail tucked, the dog was too drained to do anything but follow along. She reminded Sara so much of herself that an unfamiliar twinge strummed inside her chest. And she did not like it.

Once inside the kitchen, Sara spread the blanket from the truck’s seat for the dog to lie down again. That’s when she noticed there was too much blood on the blanket.

“You’re still bleeding.” That twinge in her chest tightened as the dog curled up on the damp bedding.

Iris would put the dog down. She'd say, It’s nature’s way. Only the strong survive.

Sara could hear the woman’s words as if she were standing in the corner of the kitchen giving her instructions.

Look. It’s in pain. Put it out of its misery.

It was hard to believe Granny and Iris were related, let alone mother and daughter. The two women were polar opposites in every way, including physical stature. Maybe that’s what made it easier for Iris to disconnect. After all, Iris was used to discarding people who didn't live up to her expectations. For years, she tried to recreate her own daughter over and over, because the original hadn’t been strong enough to survive.

How many girls had Iris gotten rid of? Sara had no idea. A woman who could do that wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of her own mother.

As soon as Granny El started showing signs of weakness, that she might just need some extra help, Iris must have plucked the woman from her own house. She wouldn't tell Sara what had happened to her.

All Iris would say was, it had to be done.

It was the same thing she said when she came back from “taking care of” a wounded animal.

And so, Sara had learned from the master. Had a front-row seat. Hard lessons on how to deal with life. She had the scars to remind her if she didn’t agree. Instinctively, she rubbed at the notch on the bridge of her nose. The crack still echoed in her head. The pain had blinded her for a few minutes, so that she couldn’t see and could barely hear Iris tell her, It had to be done. How else will you learn?

It took a while for Sara to learn. There would be more instructive hits, cuts, bruises, even a broken arm. Lessons literally knocked into her. Her elbow still ached every time the weather changed. Iris didn’t know how to set it correctly, and of course, she wouldn’t take Sara to a doctor. The woman had been determined to break Sara and put her back together again, so that she would better resemble her mentor.

The dog was watching her. Waiting. Weak. And yes, in pain.

Sara knew what that felt like. So many nights she had tried to sleep, every inch of her body hurting. At one point, she would have begged someone to just put her out of her misery.

Now here was a living being waiting, hoping, expecting her to stop the pain.

Sara pulled a small case and a water bottle from her backpack. She grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and filled it halfway with water. She presented it to the dog, holding it steady as the dog lapped it up, slowly at first then gulping.

Sara put the bowl aside without refilling it, though she knew the dog wanted more.

“We need to go slow,” she told the mismatched eyes that wouldn’t leave her. They followed her, holding on, not wanting to let her out of sight.

From another cupboard, she grabbed hand towels and began laying out what she needed. Inside the case was an assortment of first-aid items she’d collected to take care of herself, including ointments, gauze, a needle-nose hemostat, and sutures. Though these days she had no patience for sewing up wounds anymore and had moved on to super glue.

Also, in the case was a variety of medicines she’d pilfered, like the ones she’d taken from the dresser top earlier in the day. She was picky about what she added. Only ones that looked like genuine doctor-prescribed and ones that were beneficial to her. She didn’t need uppers or downers or feel-good junk. Instead, she hoarded antibiotics, sedatives, ointments and pain relievers.

She pulled out her phone and did some searches for pain relievers for dogs, along with dosages. She examined the labels, pleased to find two on the recommended list.

Then she sat down next to the dog.

Her fingers moved intentionally, gently swabbing, trimming, probing all the while she told the dog what she was doing each step of the way. She kept her voice in a calm reassuring tone, the same one she used when she talked to herself. At times she paused, looking for signs of distress, a flinch of pain. Quite honestly, she was prepared to be growled at. Maybe even bitten. Instead, the dog just watched, as if mesmerized by Sara’s voice and movements.

The wounds were messy, but nothing Sara wasn’t used to. Nothing vital was showing or sticking out. Funny, that was the way Sara had come to measure her own injuries, too.

Twenty minutes later, the dog’s wound was taken care of: clean and sterilized, mended and no longer bleeding. The dog was exhausted by the time Sara stood at the kitchen sink, running cold water over the bite-mark on her arm. It had not broken the skin, but the puncture holes were deep. Already a bruise blossomed and the skin swelled.

She didn’t blame the dog for biting her. It was only doing what was instinctive.

“Okay,” Sara told the dog, satisfied with her efforts. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll fix us something to eat. Rice and ground beef are supposed to be easy to digest. That sound good?”

She pulled out a pot then a skillet. Searched for utensils while unpacking the groceries. When she glanced back, the dog’s head was down, her eyes closed. Finally resting. She really was a pretty dog. Her fur was mostly black, almost a midnight blue with smudges of gray and white marbled together. There was white on her face and around her neck. Splashes of copper only appeared on her legs, but every paw was a little white boot.

Sara scooped up the collar from the floor. She’d taken it off when she was cleaning the blood from the dog’s coat. Now, she saw the engraved name: SHADOW.

12

Mississippi

Creed took his time under his Jeep’s liftgate. They’d be running out of daylight soon. Still, he restocked his daypack as he searched for the sheriff, looking all the way through the interior of the Jeep and out the windshield. He shouldn’t have been surprised when the man popped open the driver’s door of the black and white sheriff’s department SUV.

The dark tinted windows had made the men inside invisible, as if they were watching through a one-way mirror back at a police station. With the door open, Creed could see them filling travel mugs from a big-ass Thermos. It wasn’t until he was heading back that the sheriff climbed out to meet him.

Creed told Sheriff Daniels about the electric fencing, and the man raised his eyebrows in surprise. But there was something about his reaction that seemed off. His delayed wince looked manufactured. Whatever hope Creed had that maybe he could goad the sheriff into revealing what he knew, was quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand.

“Lots of that stuff around here. I can’t believe your dogs can’t sense it ahead of time.”

Creed felt his fists balling up at his sides. He wanted to level this guy. He didn’t like being played. And he certainly didn’t like it when his dogs could be in danger because of someone's indifference.

“If there’s electricity to the fencing, someone’s paying for it,” Creed stated the obvious, but the expression on the sheriff’s face revealed he had not thought of that.

“Is it on in any of the buildings?” Creed asked.

“The place has been abandoned for years. It’s not like we were going in and flipping light switches.” He laughed as if the idea were ridiculous, but his eyes traveled over to the buildings. “I’m surprised your dogs are spending so much time in the pasture and the woods. I thought they’d be back here by now.” He gestured toward the house, suggesting it was the most likely spot.

The dilapidated porch missed so many boards it’d take a hop and a skip to reach the front door. Crumbling concrete steps had been replaced with a couple of cinder blocks. Weeds grew tall, making the foundation invisible. At one corner of the porch, Creed could see a patch of dirt disturbed underneath that suggested some critter had made a home.

Creed wasn’t willing to share that neither dog seemed interested in heading here.

“Didn’t you tell us that you and your deputy checked all the buildings?”

“Deputy Perry took a look. But he didn’t poke around or move any of the trash inside.”

“I thought you said they were empty?”

“Empty of people.”

The man put his hands on his hips and didn’t bother to hide his frustration with Creed. A heavy sigh followed, along with an upturned corner of his mouth. A slight shake of his head said he couldn’t believe what he was having to deal with. But his eyes didn’t meet Creed’s, looking everywhere else.

“Any idea when the forensic team will get here?” Creed asked.

“Forensic team?” This time, he stared at him.

“CSU. Crime scene techs.” Creed didn’t have to spell it out. He was only interested in the sheriff’s reaction. And the man did not disappoint.

“We haven’t verified that there’s been a crime yet. I know your team’s not law enforcement, so you might not understand how things work around here. Maybe when Sheriff Norwich gets here, she can explain things a little better to you. I would hope that your dogs would find something before then.”

“I’ll let you know if we get an alert,” he told him, then Creed turned and headed back through the tall grasses and the thick woods. Without looking, he could feel the sheriff’s eyes on him now.

When he returned, Brodie, Jason and the dogs had eaten. Brodie handed him a sandwich, still wrapped in a wax paper, like Hannah always prepared it. He wasn’t hungry but knew he needed to eat. He smiled when he found a dill pickle spear carefully tucked into the folds of the wax paper, so it wouldn’t leak through to the bread. Just the texture of fresh baked bread, the tang of mustard, and a stack of thinly sliced ham—all put together with Hannah’s great care—brought him a sudden and overwhelming sense of comfort. The woman managed to calm him even when she wasn’t nearby.

“Everything okay?” Brodie asked.

“Did he know about the electric wire?” Jason wanted to know.

Creed chewed. Took another bite, letting Hannah do her magic before he responded. The dogs were lying around them, unbothered by the sheen of mist on the scrub grass or the drip-drip off the leaves above. The fog should have started to lift by mid-day, but instead, it had settled in even thicker as the afternoon wore on.

“He claims they didn’t know about the fencing. To be honest, I think he got the report from the hunter about the vehicle. Ran the plates. Hit on the missing person report. But when he came out here and saw the mess, he decided someone else should take care of it.”

“You think he’s waiting for Sheriff Norwich?” Jason asked.

“That’s my guess.”

“At least they searched all the buildings,” Brodie said.

“That might not have happened either. Earlier he said they were empty. Now, he told me there’s trash inside the house that they didn’t want to poke or move.”

Creed glanced at Grace and took a sip of water. She could sense his simmering anger, frustration, and discontent. Whatever it was, he needed to steady himself despite the urge to punch the man. “He hasn’t even called in a forensic team yet.”

“Really?”

“Said there’s no verification this is a crime scene.”

Jason shook his head. “You were right,” he told Brodie, as the two exchanged a look. Then to Creed he said, “Brodie knew he was lying.”

Creed wasn’t surprised. He continued eating his sandwich between gulps of water. Grace watched him. Emotion runs down the leash. She could read him almost better than Hannah could.

“This whole thing seems off. If Sheriff Norwich wasn’t already on her way, I’d say we pack up and go home. What do you two want to do?” Creed finally asked. He trusted both of their instincts.

“We’re already here,” Jason said. “The dogs are running a scent. Let’s give them a chance to find it. I think Scout might be itching to get to that mess at the edge of the trees.”

He pointed to a debris pile about a hundred feet away. Chunks of concrete, spears of rebar and pieces of cracked drywall were tangled with fallen branches and discarded tires. Grass and kudzu swallowed portions of the mound. That’s where Grace had been headed, too. Neither dog showed any interest in Sheriff Daniel’s narrative.

Creed nodded then looked to Brodie. She was staring at the area Jason pointed out, not paying attention to them as if her mind was somewhere else. When she glanced over, she did a double-take, only then realizing he was waiting for her response.

“Is it weird that we haven’t seen any blood out here?” she asked.

Creed hadn’t thought about it. “Judging by the condition of the blood in the SUV, it’s been a few days. All this mist, the humidity, wildlife…details can get swallowed up out here pretty quickly.”

“But the sheriff seemed convinced someone left the vehicle and was still injured. That’s his urgency, right?” She looked back at the abandoned vehicle, now in the distance. “I can’t imagine anyone taking refuge in that pile of stuff. And yet, that’s where the dogs want to go.”

“If someone was injured,” she continued, “Wouldn’t they take shelter in one of the buildings? And wouldn’t they have already crawled out or yelled when they saw our vehicles?”

Creed looked over at Jason, but he already knew his handler agreed with him. Neither believed their dogs would find a survivor.

“You think they’re dead.” A statement, not a question.

“We’re not investigators,” Jason told her.

Creed watched Brodie take that in, then nod as if she and Jason had discussed this before. He finished his sandwich. Jason was right. It wasn’t their job to investigate. Or speculate. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. Took another gulp of water.

“Okay, okay,” Brodie conceded. “I do think we should let the dogs finish. They’ll have a bunch of pent-up energy if we don’t. But maybe Hank and I should scout ahead,” Brodie offered, holding up the telescoping pole. “Just to make sure there’s no more hidden obstacles in the grass.”

Creed’s jaw clenched before he could stop it, and Brodie noticed. To her credit, she didn’t call him on it. His impulse to protect her, or as she would insist, “overprotect” her, was a challenge. How can you lose someone you love for sixteen years and not instinctively want to prevent that from ever happening again?

It didn’t matter how relentless she was. That she’d completed her GED in three months. That every day she worked to get stronger. He could see the evidence in her defined biceps. She was lean and fit and tough even though he thought she was still too thin. Hannah used the word, “willowy” to describe her figure, and Creed tried not to use “scrawny.”

As Brodie waited, his eyes scanned the surroundings again. He knew the dense fog weighed heavily on his decision. It contributed to his hesitation. It threatened to trigger his claustrophobia. It was like walking through clouds. The ground became invisible, and so was anything and everything behind and between the trees.

He didn’t like hidden obstacles. Electric barbed wire reminded him too easily of buried IEDs outside the wire. In Afghanistan as a Marine K9 handler, he and his dog were the first ones out. First to die. The fact that he and Rufus were almost killed, but not killed, was due to gut instinct, not some fancy weaponry.

He took a deep breath. Told himself he was here in a pasture in Mississippi. It was actual fog, not the fog of war. Yes, there were risks to his dogs. Yes, it made him uneasy. Just like night searches scraped his nerve endings raw. Obsessive, compulsive? Maybe. But he’d always sided on caution when his dogs were involved. Why was it wrong to want to do the same with Brodie?

In the back of his mind, he could hear Hannah. She needs to gather her own confidence. She can’t do that if you’re always lending her yours.

He realized Brodie and Jason were waiting. So were the dogs.

“You and Hank go ahead. But let’s all go slow. And we stay together.”

Then he looked at Scout head-butting Jason’s thigh, and he knew “slow and stay together” seemed like a silly and unreasonable request.

13

Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie didn’t mind when Pakula asked if they could take a detour before he dropped her off at her hotel. She had the rest of the afternoon free. Today was simply about getting to Omaha.

For most people, asking to take a detour might mean running an errand. Maybe picking up coffee. She shouldn’t have been surprised that for Pakula it meant dropping by the Douglas County morgue.

“Something doesn’t sound right,” he told her a second time as they stood in the autopsy suite.

Pakula had connections across the state. Enough connections and authority to have people scrambling for answers when his gut instinct told him something didn’t “sound right.”

A tech named Jules prepared the other items collected from the garbage bag and submitted as evidence on a separate table alongside the body. It was immediately obvious that the young woman hadn’t been in the water for long. Other than a bruise on her cheek, her skin showed no signs that the river had even filtered into the plastic garbage bag yet.

While Pakula examined the brand burned onto the woman’s upper arm, Maggie looked closer at her hands, particularly the fingernails. They were clean. None were broken or chipped. She saw no bruising or cuts that would indicate defensive wounds. Instead, the hands and nails looked well-maintained. No cuticles. The fingernails were neatly trimmed and uniform.

“That brand looks too fresh,” Pakula said it like a confirmation to what he’d already suspected.

“No signs of a struggle,” Maggie told him.

She studied the woman’s face. Her eyes were closed. Long brown hair looked full and wavy. Only the beginning of wrinkles at the corners of her mouth.

“No needle track marks. Although these days that doesn’t mean much. Too many drugs can be inhaled, snorted, or simply popped as a pill. Most traffickers get them hooked as quickly as possible.”

Maggie was a criminal profiler who specialized in serial killers. Lately, she found herself involved in drug and human trafficking cases. She’d seen enough of those victims, and her first impression of this woman was that she was not an addict.

Track marks on her body weren’t the only signs missing. Maggie scrutinized the woman’s face. There wasn’t a gauntness—no sunken eyes and cheeks—that usually presented even in death. She wasn’t overtly thin. No pronounced ribs. No bruising along the upper thighs.

The stab wound in her left side looked clean. In and out with no rib cage to interfere. Maggie predicted a long blade. Maybe a stiletto that would easily pierce the heart. Someone knew what he was doing. But why bag her up and dump her in a river without an anchor to drag her to the bottom?

Pakula might be onto something.

Or maybe she was just hungry. Deep down she’d hoped his detour was a diner. A couple of doughnuts didn’t make up for the missed breakfast. She’d have to ask him to stop at a fast-food drive-thru or wait for room service at the hotel.

Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle, and Maggie tugged at the oversized gown. She stepped over to view the items on the side table, careful how she moved with shoe covers that ballooned over her leather flats, threatening to trip her. There wasn’t much here either. Jeans, socks, no shoes, and a sweater with dog hair.

“What is it?” Pakula asked.

“One size does not fit all.” She grabbed a handful of her gown.

He gave her a slight smile then tilted his head at the body and said, “You’re thinking something.”

“Was she wearing these clothes?”

Pakula turned to Jules, who had moved to another counter on the far wall to set up trays of utensils. “Jules, do you have any idea how she was found inside the bag?”

“She was naked. Clothes were stuffed into the bag with her. No ID. No wallet. No phone.”

Maggie pulled her gloves up with a snap and unfolded the sweater. The left side was bloody. There was a hole cut into the knit fabric.

Pakula let out a low whistle. “But she was wearing the clothes when she was murdered.”

“And there aren’t any shoes? No coat or jacket?”

Both of them looked over at Jules.

“No coat. No jacket. No shoes,” he confirmed.

Pakula asked Maggie again. “What are you thinking?”

“Just my gut instinct, but she doesn’t look the part.”

“Of a trafficked victim?”

“She doesn't look like a drug addict or a trafficked victim. Maybe I’m focusing too much on typical profiles, but she looks too healthy. And I think she believed she was somewhere safe. She didn't expect him when he came to kill her.”

Pakula’s eyes scanned over the woman as his hand scraped over his shaved head. When he looked back at Maggie, he nodded. “Could be somebody wants us to think she was being trafficked. Maybe he wants us to believe she was disposable. I’m not sure, but the brand’s not quite right. I already have someone checking it out. Also, there hasn’t been anyone reported missing in the area matching her description.”

“Might be a long shot, but let’s submit her DNA and check CODIS.”

The FBI’s combined DNA Index System included DNA profiles of missing people along with family members in the hopes of identifying a missing loved one who showed up with no ID.

“Can we do that, Jules?” Pakula asked. “Like today?”

“I’ll need one of you to sign off. Give me five minutes.” And he disappeared out of the autopsy suite door.

Maggie watched Pakula, his eyes taking in everything one last time as if he were looking for something in particular.

“A single deep stab wound,” he said. “The clothes off but included inside the bag. There’s something familiar about all this. And that doesn’t even include the branding.”

“You think you’ve seen this MO before?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’ve just seen too many frickin’ murders. I’ll have someone in my office run the details through the databases.” He glanced back at Maggie. “Seems sloppy. Leaving the clothes. Not weighing down the body in the river. And yet, I don’t know. It feels…”

“Like a professional,” she finished his sentence just as she noticed the mark on the woman’s arm. It was close to the back. That’s why she didn’t see it. “This might explain why there are no defensive wounds.”

Maggie lifted the shoulder and pointed with a gloved finger to the circular bruise.

Pakula pulled out reading glasses and bent over for a closer look.

“Son-of-a-bitch. I’ll have Jules put a rush on the toxicology. It sure looks like he injected her first. Maybe something to knock her out?”

“Or something to paralyze her.”

14

Mississippi

Brodie thought the pile of rubble looked old and long ago discarded. Until she got a closer look.

Tall grass and vines defined the layers growing at different lengths and weaving their way through the debris. Some of the foliage had been squashed by recent additions of concrete pieces. Around the pile’s edge, crumbles of drywall and chunks of other trash had recently toppled and fallen, bending grass in places to a different height. Something had been thrown on the mix to cause the partial avalanche. A large, upside-down cooler at the top looked to be the obvious culprit.

The olive-green hardshell blended in with the kudzu that was growing beneath it.

Not around it or over it. Beneath it.

A putrid tang rode the heavy, wet scent coming off the pile. Something that didn’t belong. Possibly an animal had crawled underneath to die. The humidity kept the smell right here. A few steps around and the rancid smell grew stronger.

Hank noticed, too. Ears pinned to the sides of his head. His eyes watched her intensely. He was trying to see if she smelled it. She patted the top of his head and gestured for the two of them to back off.

Brodie glanced over her shoulder. Despite Ryder’s insistence that they stick together, both Grace and Scout had gotten snagged on a scent about fifty feet back where an old door lay tangled and hidden between some prickly shrubs. It was smaller than a normal door. The wood had weathered, making it look like a part of the landscape. When Hank found it earlier, Brodie couldn’t help thinking the door looked like a secret entryway to a hole in the ground or perhaps a cellar. Except there was no hill or incline. Just the scratched wooden door with bent and rusty hinges.

She’d taken some photos when she noticed what looked like a scrap of torn fabric wedged into a splintered corner.

The dark blue fabric looks too new and clean; she jotted in her notebook.

She’d guessed it might be denim and put that suggestion in parentheses. Then she sketched it out, including a compass rose after checking her own compass. She’d done all this before Grace and Scout had given soft alerts. Or at least, that’s what Ryder called them. She heard Jason say something about “hot spots” and being in “the scent cone.”

She and Hank had left the dogs and their handlers to figure it out. But now, it looked like the dogs were still circling the area. They were convinced the wooden plank held some significance along with the grass around it and the base of a nearby pine tree.

At the rubbish pile, Brodie started taking photos and jotting additional notes. She pocketed her notebook and phone.

That’s when she saw movement inside the pile.

A quick glance at Hank told her she wasn’t mistaken. He stood beside her, cocking his head to the side and staring at the same spot. Neither one of them heard Scout come rambling up behind them.

“Scout, halt,” she told the dog, holding one palm out to keep the dog from coming any closer.

“What’s going on?” Jason hurried up beside her.

“Hank and I saw something move inside.” She pointed, but the greenery threading through bits of rock and broken concrete had gone still.

“Whoa! That’s quite a smell.”

“Could be a dead animal underneath.”

Brodie turned at the same time Jason did. Both looking to Scout. His nose twitched and poked upwards. His head bobbed. His feet shuffled in place. His tail straightened. Then he sat down.

He was alerting. The scent he was asked to find was right here.

15

Creed hung back and watched as Sheriff Daniels and Deputy Perry stood in front of the debris pile. The sheriff had his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side.

There had been no urgency in their steps. Even now, when Daniels glanced back over his shoulder at Creed, his voice carried obvious doubt. “You sure your dogs aren’t just smelling a dead animal? Smells to me like something crawled underneath and died right here.”

Creed let the question sit, but Jason couldn’t. “Our dogs don’t alert to dead animals. Human decomposition is a different scent.”

“So, they don’t alert to blood. They don’t alert to dead animals…” he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his luck, like maybe he’d been conned. “Looks to me like this pile has been here for months. Could have been here years.”

“But recently it’s been added to,” Brodie said. “Maybe even moved.”

The sheriff and deputy turned to look at her as if they’d only now noticed her presence.

“Along the edges,” Brodie said as she came in closer and pointed. “Down here. The grass is dead back here. A whole wedge. Looks like something was removed or moved. And over here, all these crumbles of concrete and drywall are recent. They’re clinging to the tops of the tall grass.”

Both men just stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. If she noticed, it didn’t bother her, and she continued. “If they were here, say weeks ago when the grass was shorter, they would have fallen to the ground. Instead, they’re caught up only at the top of the grass where the moisture is.”

Creed glanced at Jason, who shot him a tight smile then wiped a hand over his face before the sheriff or his deputy saw it.

“The middle layers have been disturbed. Maybe even shifted or restacked.” She pointed to an area about waist high. “The green stuff that was growing in between here has died like it’s been pulled up and rearranged. Some of it’s wilted, so it hasn’t been that long ago.”

The men’s eyes darted from the pile to Brodie to each other. Neither said a word.

“Also, that hardcase cooler up at the top,” Brodie gestured to it. “That was added recently.”

“Now how can you possibly know that?” Deputy Perry finally asked. “Just because it’s cleaner than the rest? We’ve had rain.”

“See how the kudzu and those other vines have grown up and around? Even the wilted stuff? Nothing’s grown up over this top layer of drywall and broken concrete. Including the cooler. Nothing’s grown up over any of it…yet.”

“None of you are investigators.” The sheriff crossed his arms over his chest, puffing it out a bit and standing taller. Instead of being pleased with the information, he again, acted like they had purposely misled him. “Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what y’all told me?”

“We’re not,” Jason told him. “Brodie notices things. A lot of things the rest of us never see.”

“So, what are you saying? That somehow our missing man is hidden down inside this pile?” He scoffed to punctuate how ridiculous he thought that was, but it ended up sounding more like he’d choked on his words.

The man scratched at his jaw then sent his fingers up through the wet flop of hair that had stuck to his forehead. He glanced at his deputy. Finally, he turned all the way around to face Creed, his hands back on his hips. “So, when will you get to the house and the outbuildings?”

Creed stared at the man, waiting for some kind of “gotcha” humor. Was it possible he was dismissing this alert because he couldn’t imagine anything other than a dead animal inside this towering heap?

He looked down at Grace. She shuffled her front feet. Her nose twitched and poked the air. He wasn’t surprised to find she wasn’t finished. But she didn’t point toward the old farmhouse or any of the outbuildings. In fact, she was ready to go in the opposite direction, out to the open pasture.

“The dogs haven’t shown any interest in heading back to the buildings,” Creed told Sheriff Daniels, causing the man to pivot his attention to Grace then Scout.

“She looks like she still smells something.”

“But in the opposite direction.” He gave the sheriff a chance to let that sink in before he added, “We have some more work to do, but I thought you’d want to know about this hot spot.”

“Hot spot?”

“There's a high concentration of the scent we asked them to find in this area.” Creed gestured at the pile behind the sheriff.

“Right.” But now Daniels didn’t bother to acknowledge it. “Because your dogs smelled something.” He exchanged a look with Deputy Perry, one of those looks that were usually accompanied by an eyeroll.

“So, you’re not going to check this out?” Brodie asked.

“Oh sure, we’re going to dig right into an old trash pile just because your dogs smelled a dead animal.” Deputy Perry, who had said very little until now, was comfortable joining in on his boss’ skepticism.

Grace grew impatient, and Creed was tired of these two. He gestured to Jason and Brodie for them to continue. Scout was no longer tracking. His nose wasn’t wagging or poking the air like Grace’s, but he was ready to go and waiting for Jason’s command.

Without a word, they moved on. They weren’t out of earshot, and Creed could hear the two men behind them exchanging jokes.

“I can’t believe they aren’t even curious,” Brodie whispered as she glanced back, but stuck close to Creed’s shoulder.

“We let Grace find what she’s tracking, then we leave,” Creed told her and Jason.

Brodie quickened her pace with Hank, and the two of them circled ahead but off to the side, checking the tall grass and shrubs. Out here in the pasture, the fog crawled close to the ground, the moisture thick with droplets that soaked his pant legs and his dog.

Creed kept Grace from leaping forward, even as she shot him an impatient look over her shoulder. Her fur, especially around her face, was slicked back. She was breathing fast and tugged harder toward a tangled, overgrown thicket. There were clusters of orange-red berries, bright in the gray fog. He still couldn’t see what had her attention.

Jason and Scout stayed back while Brodie and Hank searched the ground. She poked ahead with the pole, keeping Hank close to her side.

“Someone was here,” Brodie said. “There’s a bunch of cigarette butts.” She was bent down to get a better look.

Then everything happened so suddenly, Creed couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.

Hank yelped, and both he and Brodie jumped away from something at their feet. Brodie tripped just as a whizzing noise rose from the tall grass. She reached for Hank and lost her balance, falling backward into the tangled bushes.

“Brodie!” Creed immediately looked for barbed wire. Was the electric fence that zapped Scout out here, too?

“Grab Hank,” she yelled.

The dog had yelped and jumped. He was at Creed’s side, getting ready to race back to check on Brodie when Creed scooped up his leash and told him, “Hank, stay. Jason?”

“I’ve got her.” Jason handed Scout’s leash to Creed as he rushed by to help Brodie.

Hank and Grace tugged in different directions while Scout sat. With Jason helping Brodie, Creed looked over at Grace. She pulled and leaned forward, her nose still twitching at the mechanical noise coming from the scrub grass. Without seeing the object, Creed saw his dog stop. Then without hesitation, she looked up at him. She was alerting to whatever was hidden in the thicket.

Jason helped untangle Brodie. Her arms and legs were wrapped within the branches of the wild overgrowth. Now, with a closer view, Creed winced at the gnarly thorns between the clusters of orange berries.

Hank was frantic to help. Creed put a hand on the back of his neck and scratched behind the dog’s ears as he told him everything was okay, even if he knew that wasn’t true. Hank’s eyes rolled from Creed to Brodie and back to the object still whirring in the tall grass.

“Something hissed at us,” Brodie said through gritted teeth. “Is it a snake?”

Creed inched closer to the object as he held the three dogs at arm’s length on the other side. The mechanical wings glistened, black and pewter gray.

“It’s not a snake,” Creed told them. “I think it’s a drone.”

When Jason was certain Brodie could stand on her own, and only after she waved him away, he ventured closer to take a look. Creed handed him the leashes and gestured for him to stay back with Brodie.

“Why would Grace alert to a drone?” Brodie asked, her voice thick with pain.

Creed pulled his phone from his pocket and started taking pictures of the object. It had gotten caught in the same tangle of thicket that had snarled up Brodie. He couldn’t make out how long and wide it was or any other details.

A click and a whoosh made him jerk backward.

“You need to be careful,” Jason told him. “Sounds like it’s still active.”

“Motion sensors?” Creed suggested.

“Could be. We should get away from it,” Jason’s voice now became urgent.

Another click and hiss came out of the contraption.

“I think it just took my picture,” Creed said.

“Seriously, we need to get away from it,” Jason said. This time, he took Brodie’s arm and grabbed up all the leashes in his other hand, leading all of them away.

Creed caught up and took Grace’s and Hank’s leashes. He watched his dog and noticed Grace didn’t argue with him. Her breathing was back to normal, an ordinary panting. As he tried to get a sense of direction, he realized he could see their Jeeps in the distance. They had circled all the way around the woods. The pasture, the crashed car, the garbage heap…none of those were visible anymore.

“Do you think it had drugs on board?” Creed asked Jason.

He’d trained Grace for multiple scents. Sometimes she found and alerted to ones he hadn’t asked her to find.

“She’s trained for explosives, too, right?” Jason asked.

“Yes, but how is that—”

“Cartels have been weaponizing their drones. That’s why we needed to get out of there.”

“What do you mean, weaponized?”

“If one gets disabled, they’d just as soon blow it up than have law enforcement or a rival gang recover it.”

“Why do you think it’s cartel-related?”

“I got a good enough look at it to know it probably doesn’t belong to some backyard drone jockey.”

Creed knew Jason kept up on this stuff. He and his veteran buddies, especially Benny, were techno geeks.

“You heard the weird sound coming from it?” Creed asked. “It was still doing something.”

“It might have just gotten tangled up in those bushes. It would’ve been enough to deactivate it.”

“If the thing’s motion sensored, someone might still be controlling it, or at least have access, right? Checking in? I swear it sounded like it took my picture.”

“Yeah, that was strange. What the hell did we stumble across?”

“Hey, guys.” Brodie had been quiet the entire trek, even as they were approaching their vehicles.

Now, Creed and Jason slowed down to glance back at her. Both men stopped in their tracks.

She didn’t need to say anything more. Creed saw the red splotches blossoming all over her T-shirt and cargo pants before she added, “I’m bleeding.”

16

Nebraska

Sara pulled her dirty clothes out of the backpack. She’d only just returned a few days ago, barely time enough to exchange the Wyoming Cowboys sweatshirt for a Husker hoodie. She added her blood-stained clothes along with Shadow’s blankets and all the bloody hand towels to the washer.

The poor girl had wet herself, but this time she allowed Sara to clean her without a fight. Sara didn’t mind. She’d already decided she’d take her out only as far as the covered porch. The rain had turned to sleet, ice slashing at the windows. The temperature was still dropping. In another hour or so, it would be snow.

She fixed herself a cup of tea while Shadow ate another small meal. The dog still wanted to devour the food, but Sara had spread the ground beef and rice across the entire dinner plate.

“Believe me,” she told the dog. “It’s better if you lick up small amounts at a time and not gobble it all at once.”

Sara remembered all too well what it felt like to be starving, truly starved by Iris for days. Then the woman would put down a huge bowl of food. It didn’t matter what it was. Sara wolfed it down in seconds, only to vomit it all up. She wouldn’t let that happen to Shadow. Instead, she set the timer on her watch for another small meal and more water in several hours when another dose of the pain medication was due.

That was the other lesson she’d learned. After a childhood of pain, Sara developed a deep respect for the medications she’d collected. Iris had withheld pain relief drugs as punishment. She wanted Sara to feel the pain of the broken bones, the dislocated shoulder.

How else will you learn? Iris’ calm, authoritative voice still echoed in Sara’s mind.

The woman had withheld or used drugs as a way to manipulate and control. Sara was an adult by the time she realized there were medications to ease and relieve pain.

Her collection of pharmaceuticals became an investment, even a sort of security blanket for if and when she needed them. Never once had she abused them. When she meticulously searched online, she was pleased to see that not only did she have an antibiotic ointment, but also a pain medicine, approved for dogs.

Now, Shadow curled up on a fresh, soft blanket and fell fast asleep. There was something satisfying about having the dog here with her. But it was the worst time for anything that wasn’t part of her original plan. Sara couldn’t afford the distraction.

Already, she felt herself slipping and getting too comfortable. Being in Granny El’s house was the closest she’d ever felt to having a home. Despite the woman’s absence, Sara worked to preserve her memory. Even making tea with her kettle and choosing from Granny’s special canister. It was filled with a variety of foil-wrapped tea bags. Granny’s “teatime” ritual was something Sara fondly remembered.

“Let’s enjoy the jams we made,” Granny would tell her as she filled the kettle and lined a porcelain plate with an assortment of crackers and biscuits. She’d use porcelain teacups with little plates underneath, paper lace doilies in-between. Then she’d hold out the canister and allow Sara to choose her own flavor of tea.

Usually, Sara stopped the memories. It hurt too much. She missed the old woman terribly. But now, maybe just this once, the memories would soften the task at hand. Although the things she had to do were things she’d never want Granny to know about.

This latest assignment from Iris wasn’t just a regular one. It could determine whether Iris spent the rest of her life in prison. She’d provided a list to Sara. A list to Orlando. And of course, the list came with all kinds of instructions she’d manage to get to them despite all the prison protocols. Iris had thought of everything. And it seemed as though she still had just as much power from behind bars.

But Iris had no idea that Sara had discovered this. Her original ledger.

Iris had kept it hidden. When Sara was cleaning and preparing both houses, she found the leather-bound book tucked in a drawer under table linens that were rarely used.

Now, Sara laid out the illicit ledger on Granny’s glass-topped coffee table. Sitting back on the sofa, she stared at it as she sipped tea and kept watch over Shadow. The wind and sleet pelted the windows, but the sound didn’t disturb the dog.

Inside the book were pages with lines and columns. All were filled with Iris’ handwriting: numbers, names, addresses, and a variety of notes. There were interstate rest areas, mileage markers, truck stops, junctions, and hotels from states across the country.

Most of the information Sara couldn’t decipher. But amongst the columns of names, she recognized several. They were on her list. She guessed the other half were on Orlando’s. But to keep them on their toes, Iris must have included some names on both their lists. Why else would Orlando beat her to the house this morning?

She shouldn’t be surprised at anything Iris did.

Sara glanced over the names in the ledger, catching on the checkmarks, some of them her own additions. She found Teresa Graf, Cheyenne, Wyoming. She drew a careful black checkmark alongside the name. Then she searched for #8 in a different column. Found it and put another checkmark, only this time using a red pen.

Sara sat back and sipped her tea. She tried not to think about how many pages of names were in that book.

17

Mississippi

“It’s just a bunch of thorns,” Brodie told Jason.

“You don’t want them to get lost under your skin.”

Somehow, she had managed to convince both Jason and Ryder that she didn’t need to go to an ER. After a few phone calls, it was decided that Jason would take her to their hotel, a Holiday Inn just up the road. Hannah had booked them rooms earlier in the day.

Even the suggestion of an ER had almost leveled her. She knew Ryder caught a glimpse of the panic in her eyes when the idea was mentioned. He was getting better at recognizing her emotions despite how good she was at hiding them. Whether she was slipping, or he was just getting good at breaking her code, neither was something she was happy about. Luckily, both men didn’t seem able to read how much pain she was in.

Hiding pain was her specialty. Absorbing it, ignoring it, pretending it didn’t faze her. This hurt. It hurt bad. But on a scale of one to ten of others she had experienced, this was probably a seven. In fact, this current pain reminded her of being stung by dozens of wasps.

The memory came easily, still fresh in her mind. Aaron swung the broom at something in the corner under the porch roof, smiling the entire time. He smiled even as the black-winged creatures swarmed Brodie and covered her skinny twelve-year-old legs and arms. There was no swatting them away. They stung her over and over with their deep needle-stingers, injecting their venom.

And Iris had been angry with Brodie. Not the wasps. And of course, not with her precious son, Aaron.

Stupid girl!

The memory of Iris’ words, the calm cadence of her voice still came too easily. The words hurt almost as much as the stingers. She’d found Brodie helplessly trying to pluck the wasps off. Aaron was nowhere in sight.

Iris told her that the wasps were only doing what wasps do. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.

By then, Brodie already knew it was worthless to explain that it was Aaron who had bothered them, not Brodie. She was still trying to stay in the woman’s good graces, only to find out quickly that the words “grace” and “Iris” didn’t belong in the same sentence.

“How are you doing?” Jason’s voice pulled her back.

They stopped in front of a Holiday Inn Express. She could hear the nearby traffic and smell the diesel of trucks. The fog still hung in wispy clumps. Darker now, triggering parking lot lights and headlights.

“I’m okay,” she lied.

“I’ll check in and get the key cards.”

As soon as Jason disappeared into the hotel, Brodie leaned her head against the back of the seat. Closed her eyes. Listened. The dogs panted. One of them snuffled at the partly opened back window. A breeze slid through with the scent of pine trees and the promise of rain. She thought about Jason and Ryder, both trying so hard to stay calm, arguing about who should drive her to the hotel, who should take care of her.

How lucky was she? How far had she come to have two people arguing about who got to take care of her, not who had to?

In what seemed like only minutes, Jason returned. Brodie’s eyes flew open at the sound of the car door and just in time to see him give her a worried smile. He pulled the SUV around the back of the hotel to a side door that was probably closer to their room. Then he fumbled around in his daypack. Pulled out a small container of Tylenol.

“I should have given you these before we left.” He gestured for her hand and slipped two capsules into her palm. As he handed her a bottle of water, he checked his wristwatch. “I’ll keep track of doses, so you don’t have to. Wait here. I’m going to take the bags and dogs up to the rooms first.”

“Hank won’t leave me behind.”

“Good point. I’ll take the bags and cooler up and come back for you and the dogs.”

“I’m perfectly capable of going with you.”

“I know you are.” He was already lifting a large duffel bag and two backpacks out the side door, wrapping straps around his shoulder and arms. “Just let me do this. I want to check out the rooms. Make sure there aren’t any problems. Okay?”

“Okay.” She rolled her eyes to tell him he was being ridiculous, but she made no effort to argue or to move. Instead, she watched him disappear again into the building.

She glanced back at the dogs, grateful for their company. The pain kept her from turning around to them or giving them her hand.

“Everything’s fine. You're all good dogs.”

Scout wagged his tail, thumping it against the bench, but Hank couldn’t be fooled as easily. He stared at her as if to say, I know you’re lying to me. He sniffed at her, pointing out that he could still smell her blood.

“I know. I’m a bloody mess, but I’m okay,” she told him.

She started to raise her arm to reach over and pet him. The pain stopped her. Pinned her down. Reminded her not to move too much.

She gritted her teeth and sat up. She hated this. Hated not being able to control the pain. Hated how vulnerable she felt right now.

Still, she was anxious to get a glimpse of the damage.

Gently, she tried to tug up a pant leg. It stuck. The fabric was stitched to her skin. The thorns acted like staples or thumbtacks. She worked on the canvas where it had ripped. She plucked and unraveled the threads until she could see underneath.

The puncture wounds were impressive and certainly deep enough to bleed. Even the places that still had thorns embedded were oozing. How could there be so many fresh, sharp thorns on an old overgrowth thicket?

Simply put, it wasn’t the worst shape she’d ever been in, but yes, Hank was right. She was a bloody mess.

18

Creed waited under his Jeep’s liftgate. He dragged a towel over his face then rubbed down Grace. Then he put her inside for a snack and water. He’d pulled out a protein bar but tossed it back inside the daypack. His stomach was still tightening in a tangle of knots. It didn’t help matters that the fog was bringing nightfall about two hours early.

He didn’t like the idea of staying behind. He wanted to be the one to take care of Brodie. Oh sure, he knew Jason was more than capable. Trained by the Army as a sharpshooter and a medic, Jason had experience digging shrapnel out of arms and legs. He’d do a good job.

It didn’t matter. Creed still wanted to be there.

His stomach twisted thinking about Brodie and all those thorns. She was strong to survive what she’d survived. She was better at being brave than he was. And yet, he caught a glimpse of her pain, a flutter of panic that he’d never seen before. And that alone felt like a gut-punch. Because he should have seen the danger. He should have prevented it. He should never have let Brodie and Hank go ahead of them.

Hannah was constantly telling him that he needed to “ease up, stop stressing out and let Brodie be.” He wanted to call Hannah right now and tell her, “This is what happens when I ease up.”

Instead, he checked his diver watch and tamped down the knee-jerk instinct to call Hannah or to text Jason. He needed to focus. He promised Norwich he’d be here when she arrived. Breaking another promise wouldn’t fix the first one. And although Norwich was yet another very capable, strong woman, he didn’t dare leave her alone with Daniels and Perry. It wasn’t just because he didn’t like these two. He didn’t trust them.

This crime scene continued to get stranger by the minute. Something weird was going on here. Creed wasn’t sure if the pair were not interested, incompetent, or worse. Was it possible they were covering for someone? Their lack of curiosity didn’t line up with any other law enforcement officials Creed had worked with before.

He had watched Daniels and his deputy walk through the woods and return from the rubbish heap to the sheriff’s SUV. The fog made their movement even slower. The two moseyed along without any sense of purpose or urgency. He wondered if they had moved a single thing off the pile, taken any photos, or at least looked for blood. Instead, they appeared content to wait for Norwich. Like they were biding their time. Did they expect her to just come and take over?

Creed confirmed that suspicion when the men suddenly turned toward the road. Sheriff Daniels seemed to stand straighter. For the first time, the men looked alert and interested. Creed couldn’t help thinking they also looked relieved at the sight of the Santa Rosa Sheriff’s SUV appearing through the fog. Daniels put his hands on hips, watching the vehicle pull into the driveway as if this was what he had been waiting for all day.

Creed waited at his Jeep with Grace. They were far enough away he couldn’t make out their words, but he saw Sheriff Daniels and Deputy Perry exchange greetings and introductions with Norwich. Their handshakes were stiff but professional. Evidence that the three didn’t know each other well. Perhaps even meeting for the first time. Daniels did all the talking, pointing toward the woods and then the buildings. He made no overt gestures toward Creed, as if he and his deputy had figured it all out on their own. Norwich asked some questions, garnering a couple of head shakes and a nod or two. Even a smile from Perry.

After about ten minutes, she waved at Creed and made her way to his Jeep. She put out her hand to shake his, a formality he knew was meant for the men behind her. He and Norwich had been through a lot together. Not just late-night searches, but devastating discoveries. The sort of things that forged a special bond.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he told her. The greeting was one she often used on him. Relief washed over him, and only now did he realize how much he meant it.

She smiled at him then offered her hand to Grace for a sniff and a lick.

“How are you two doing?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Sounds like it. Where’s Jason and Brodie?”

“We had a bit of a mishap. Brodie tripped and fell into a thicket.”

“Oh no! Is she okay?”

“I think she is.” He’d already checked his phone three times waiting for an update and had to stop himself from checking again. “Lots of thorns.”

“Ouch! That doesn’t sound good.”

“To be honest, she looked a bloody mess, but I think she’s okay. She required more cleanup and attention than what we could give her out here in the field. I sent them to our hotel.”

He glanced back at the men. They were talking. Waiting. “How well do you know this sheriff?”

“Met him for the first time just now. From what I hear, he’s new to the job.”

“Both Scout and Grace alerted to the same spot.”

“That’s what the sheriff said. A garbage pile? But he said there wasn’t anything there.”

“That’s what he said?”

She nodded. She was being careful in case the men could hear.

“This guy is one of the reasons I prefer dogs.”

Now, she smiled, and it almost kept him from clenching his jaw. Almost.

“We found something else. I haven’t told them about it. Yet. Grace alerted to a drone.”

With her back to the men, she raised her eyebrows, but kept her voice even when she said, “That’s interesting.”

So, she already suspected, too. Something was off.

“When he called you, did he mention all the blood inside the vehicle?”

“He told me Kyle may have been injured. He made it sound like an accident. I understand the vehicle barreled through the woods and pastures.” And now her facial expression did not match her calm words. “How much blood?”

“Enough to guess it wasn’t an accident. It’s splattered all over the back seat. The roof. The floor. Looks to me like a crime scene. They haven’t called forensics yet.”

Her lips pressed together. “I’m the visiting sheriff. I have to be careful who I call in. What I recommend.”

“And yet, I think he’s waiting for you to make those decisions. I think he’s been waiting for you to take over.”

She took a deep breath then said, “Okay.” The next part she said louder now. “I think maybe I should take a look.” She turned to Daniels and Perry, and she called out, “Mr. Creed’s going to take me to that garbage pile, just to get a look.”

“We’ll give you a head start and meet you there.”

“That sounds good.”

He put Grace’s vest and leash back on. She was anxious to go. So was Norwich. Creed could tell she wanted to get out of earshot of the sheriff and his deputy.

19

Creed held branches back for Norwich, leading the way to what he’d hoped was a possible cut-through route. This was his fourth pass through the woods, and now he realized there probably wasn’t such a thing as an easier way. In fact, maybe he’d gone too far, getting deeper into the woods than necessary.

A musty, damp air closed in around them. The dense undergrowth of deadfall, leaves, pine needles, and prickly vines caught and dragged his steps. At one point, Creed picked up Grace and tucked her under his arm while he pulled back sharp twigs, making sure they didn’t slap back at Norwich. Lately, he caught himself being overprotective with her. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.

Last summer she’d had a heart attack during one of their searches in the forest. Never mind that she was lean, strong and even in better shape now, he still watched out for her every time they worked in the field together. He liked the woman. She was probably about the same age as his mother, but he couldn’t imagine the two women in the same room together or having anything in common.

“All these old vehicles,” Norwich gestured to the heaps of metal wedged in-between the tree trunks. Long trails of moss and kudzu devoured some of them, so that only pieces of glass, a hubcap or headlight, could be seen. “It’s like a graveyard.”

“The fog has a lot to do with it. Makes this whole landscape a bit creepy.” He wiped damp hair back off his forehead. The constant drip made it feel like rain. The skittering of birds or squirrels above set off a random downpour from the canopy of leaves. It had gotten even darker as the afternoon slipped away. He was beginning to question his navigation skills. Had the fog thrown him too far off course?

“How’d they even get them out here?”

She was still distracted and fixated on the vehicles.

“There’s no path,” she said. “They’re all jammed in almost as if the trees have grown up around them.”

“The place has been abandoned for decades.” Creed gave her the explanation Daniels had given him more than once. “There’s a clearing. It shouldn’t be much farther.” He hoped that was true.

A glance over his shoulder, and he was relieved that he didn’t see any sign of the sheriff or his deputy following behind.

As soon as they stepped out from the woods and into the pasture, Norwich asked, “So what the hell is going on?”

“From what I know about blood splatter and congealed blood, I’d guess whatever happened was a few days ago. Hard to tell with this humidity.”

“But you haven’t found any bodies?”

“No. We found a sock inside the vehicle, and I did wipe off the steering wheel. Those are the scents we asked Scout and Grace to follow. Both dogs followed parallel paths. They took us to this huge debris pile that’s about ten to twelve feet tall. Smells like decomp. Brodie pointed out that it’s been disturbed in the last few days. Possibly added to.”

“Was there anything inside?”

“We don’t have the authority to check that.”

“And Daniels and Perry?”

“They thought it smelled like an animal had crawled underneath and died. We explained to them that the dogs don’t alert to dead animals.”

“They didn’t look?”

“Didn’t poke it. Didn’t photograph it. Didn’t call a forensic team.”

“The sheriff mentioned you were reluctant to check the buildings.”

“We started at the point of scent.” Now, he pointed at the SUV about fifty feet away. “The dogs showed no interest in going toward the buildings. I suppose it makes sense to think someone injured would seek shelter, but the dogs didn’t follow that narrative at all.”

“Has he even checked the buildings?”

“He says they did. But he’s contradicted himself a few times, so I’m not sure what they have done or have not done.”

Norwich stared at the SUV then scanned the area.

“How in the world did Kyle just happen to drive out here? It doesn’t look like there’s even a dirt access road.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t ask or want to know, but how do you know this missing man?”

“I knew Kyle years ago when he was just a boy. He was a friend of my son’s. He was a good kid. His dad and I worked together when we were both rookies.”

“So, he’s a cop’s kid?”

“Garvin hasn’t been a deputy for a long time. Drank a bit too much. It started causing a lot of problems. I think he does private security now. His wife divorced him. She still lives on Navarre Beach. She was the one who contacted me. I don’t know her well. Just from when our boys played basketball together. But you know how law enforcement officers are. We try to take care of our own.

“She hadn’t heard from Kyle for days. Said it wasn’t like him. That he even missed a family dinner without calling. I suggested she fill out a missing person report. That was almost a week ago. We didn’t have much to go on. I made sure we put him into the system. Hadn’t done much more than that when Sheriff Daniels called and said he found Kyle’s car.”

“She was here this morning when we got here.”

“Who was?”

“His mother?”

“Lydia? Here? How did she know?”

“You didn’t call her?”

“No, of course not. Daniels told me they found blood in the back seat. Even when I thought it might be an accident, I would have waited until we knew more. Especially since I asked you and your team to check it out.”

“Obviously, she still has some other law enforcement connections besides you?”

“Obviously.”

“So, what’s next?” Creed asked.

She rolled her shoulders. Wiped the mist from her face. The fog seemed heavier.

“No wonder Sheriff Daniels kept calling Kyle my friend. I thought it sounded a bit too much like he was doing me a personal favor.” She rolled her eyes and glanced over her shoulder again.

“A favor? That sort of makes sense. He wants to know how you want to handle the mess before he officially calls in anyone and makes it an official crime scene.”

She let out a long sigh and gave a slight shake of her head. “It happens. As much as I hate to admit, it does happen.”

He let Norwich take a look inside the vehicle while he stayed back and waited with Grace. He still didn’t want the dog thinking she needed to do anything with all that scent of blood.

When Norwich was ready, Creed asked Grace to lead them to the debris pile on the other side of the pasture.

Creed was surprised to see Sheriff Daniels and Deputy Perry already at the debris site. They waited about thirty feet away. Grace took Creed and Norwich directly to the pile. Then she turned around to face Creed and sat down.

“Good girl, Grace.”

The smell emanating from the pile seemed stronger.

“Probably some dead animal underneath,” Deputy Perry said.

“Mr. Creed’s dogs don’t alert to dead animals,” Norwich told the men.

“That’s what he said. But look for yourself,” Daniels said. “There’s no blood. No body. Whatever happened. It’s done. There’s nothing here. Just a bunch of trash from over the years.”

“Do you hear that?” Norwich asked, cocking her head to one side.

“Sounds like flies,” Creed said.

“Up top,” she nodded. “That cooler looks recently added to the pile.”

“Brodie thought so, too.”

“I’ll have the vehicle brought in,” Daniels offered, ignoring what he’d already discounted. “We’ll gather whatever evidence we can from inside.”

Creed could see the man’s patience wearing thin. He’d spent his entire day here. Thought he’d done it as a courtesy to another law officer. Maybe believed he could rake in a favor or two in the future.

“Not much more we can do without a body,” he told her.

Norwich wandered around, checking the ground and sifting through the shrubs. Creed thought she was looking for evidence of blood. Then she bent down and pulled a branch up out of the tall grass. She snapped off the twigs as the men stared at her.

Satisfied with her modified four-foot-long pole, she went back to the edge of the trash pile. She snagged the lip of the olive-colored cooler. Double-fisted on her end, she shoved the branch up.

Down came the cooler.

Daniels and Perry jerked backward and stumbled to get out of the cooler's way. The deputy almost tripped. Both watched their feet for what might have fallen out. They didn’t even notice the newly released and dive-bombing swarm of flies. Nor did they see what poked up at the top of the pile, now uncovered.

But the nasty burst of stink drew their attention.

A human hand reached out of the debris. It stretched up to the sky as if drowning and grabbing for one last breath.

“I’ll be damned,” Deputy Perry said just as Daniels gagged and hurried away to vomit in the bushes.

Norwich ignored both men. She ignored the grotesque revelation. Instead, she looked down at Grace sitting at Creed’s feet with her ears pitched and her eyes darting around, watching the sudden chaos. Grace didn’t seem at all surprised to see what was discovered at the top of the heap.

Norwich patted the dog’s head and said, “Nobody should ever doubt you.”

Grace just wagged.

20

“I know it hurts,” Jason said. He didn’t look up. His head bent down over her leg as he dug out another thorn.

Somehow, she had managed to keep enough of her balance to not fall completely backward into the thicket.

“I’m such a klutz.”

“You’re not a klutz.”

“I thought it was the same electric fence Scout touched.”

She remembered throwing out her arms, bracing herself for an electric shock. Instead, it felt like a thousand knives. She had no idea where the pain was coming from. It didn’t stop.

“I can’t believe you walked all the way back to the Jeeps.”

She stopped herself from telling him it was no big deal. The thorns had driven deep into her flesh. Some had barbs on the sides that hooked in and under her skin. Removing them became a bloody mess of cutting, turning—sometimes twisting—before tugging them out.

Whenever he pulled out a particularly tough one, he glanced up at her, making sure she was okay. Even if it hurt like hell, she didn’t wince. Each sting, every prick and poke sent her mind to counting...daffodils. Beautiful yellow dots in a sea of green waving between the grass in a cool spring breeze.

Most of the time it worked. Right now, it was fifty-fifty.

She still wished Jason had left her to take the thorns out herself. He was being careful and gentle and meticulous, but still there was something uncomfortable about having him touch her in such an intimate way. It didn’t belong with the pain.

“I saw what happened,” he said, but this time without stopping to look up at her. “Your instinct was to shield Hank.”

The dog cocked his head at the sound of his name. He sat watching. His eyes never leaving. Even when Brodie held back a grimace, the dog had twitched. He knew. She couldn’t fool him.

“It’s a good instinct,” he told her as he grabbed the container of alcohol. “Another sting coming,” he warned and dabbed at the open wound with a freshly soaked cotton ball.

Again, he kept his head down, already preparing the bandage with Neosporin. Now, she realized he might be purposely keeping his eyes away from her face so she could wince.

“You know it’s okay. You don’t need to be brave 24/7.”

“What’s the alternative?”

He looked up. Met her eyes and said, “You can lean on your friends.” His face dipped again, intent on the work his fingers were doing.

Brodie couldn’t tell him that she had no idea how to do that. Instead, she asked the top of his head, “How’d you learn to do this?”

“The Army did a good job teaching me how to shoot with precision and then pluck out shrapnel if the bad guys shot back.”

Dark humor. She recognized it from hanging out with his veteran buddies. Several months ago, Jason invited her to play poker with the three of them. She liked his friends. They didn’t ask questions of her. They were easy to be around. They’d all come back with injuries of their own. Jason had lost half of his arm. Benny, both his legs. And half of Colfax’s face was now a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces misshapen and melted into place.

She’d gotten used to their jokes about their injuries. They never talked seriously about what had happened to them. Maybe they wanted those experiences to stay buried. That was sort of the way Brodie felt about her time with Iris. About her injuries.

“This one might leave a scar,” he told her, keeping his eyes and fingers at work.

Without his eyes, she couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. Sarcasm was one of the things she still couldn’t quite grasp. When he didn’t glance up with a grin, she realized he might be serious. Like he might think it mattered whether the thorn left a scar. Suddenly, she was grateful she hadn’t gotten any thorns in her back or around her abdomen. She didn’t want him to ever see those scars.

In the books she read, and Brodie read a lot, when a male character was truly in love with a female character, there was nothing that made a difference. Being in love evidently helped make everything better.

Of course, she didn’t have that kind of relationship with Jason. They were friends. She was learning how to be one on a day-by-day basis. She never dreamed she’d be so lucky to have a friend like him. And she liked being friends with him. She enjoyed their daily kennel chores together. They shared conversations about books, dogs, and the stars.

But leaning on him? She’d need to work on that.

She’d witnessed how much stress and tension being in a relationship was and didn’t know why anyone would want that. Jason was in a relationship, and it seemed to bring him more angst than joy. At the same time, he was crazy about Taylor Donahue. She and her son, Will were spending a couple of months with Taylor’s mother on the West Coast, and Brodie knew Jason still thought about her all the time, because he talked about it. Sometimes Brodie wished he’d stop talking to her about Taylor.

“That whole place had a strange vibe,” Jason said bringing Brodie back to the present.

He dabbed alcohol on the last piercings, and Brodie barely felt the sting. He used wet wipes to clean blood from the rest of her skin. Only then did she notice that he was cleaning her up as he mended her wounds.

“I thought so, too,” she told him, remembering the ghostly images she’d conjured up. She could swear she saw a face peeking out from behind the trees. She’d hoped she was beyond seeing visions of Charlottes anywhere other than her nightmares.

“That drone bothers me.”

“Why? Because it obviously was still powered on?” She hadn’t paid attention to Jason and Ryder’s conversation on the way back to the Jeeps. She just wanted to get out of there.

Jason carefully applied another bandage. Her legs and right arm looked like a patchwork attempt to hold her limbs in place.

“Still running means still transmitting information to someone,” he said. "What's more unsettling is why did Grace alert to it.”

“You think it had something to do with what happened to Kyle?”

“It’d be a weird coincidence for the two not to be connected. Why fly a drone over pastures in the middle of nowhere? The same area that a guy goes missing behind an abandoned farmhouse. His vehicle left in a meadow with a bloody back seat.”

“You saw inside of the SUV. Do you think he could have survived and walked away?”

“Survived? Maybe. But walked away? Not so sure about that.”

“But Grace and Scout tracked him to the debris pile.”

“Grace and Scout tracked someone who left the vehicle. It doesn’t necessarily mean it was Kyle.”

21

Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie winced when the soft tap-taps of rain against her hotel window turned into icy ping-plinks. Pakula had warned her the temperature would fall all the way below freezing. Right now, it didn’t matter. Her flight had made it in on time, and she had no place to go until tomorrow morning. Shoes off, jacket tossed, she’d already put in a room service order.

Her sidearm and clothes stayed packed in their cases while she unloaded her messenger bag. The hotel’s large desktop filled with Maggie’s laptop, folders, jump-drives, legal pads, and pens. When he dropped her off, Pakula handed her two envelopes and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi. Now, she had one already poured over a glass of hotel ice and sitting on its paper coaster.

It had been a while since she’d gone over this case, putting it off on purpose because of the personal ramifications. Like the fact that the entire task force team was almost blown up by explosives in a Nebraska pasture. That was sixteen months ago.

Back then, she and Ryder Creed had simply been friends. She enjoyed working alongside him and his dogs from time to time.

Who was she fooling? Things had never been “simple” between her and Ryder. They still weren’t.

The only thing certain from the very first time they’d met, was that she knew immediately there was something more between them. At first, she thought it was just chemistry. Sexual tension. And there was plenty of that. There still was.

In the beginning, she thought it was just a physical attraction and nothing more. Except that he had a way of looking at her, really looking at her beneath the surface. It was as if he could see things she thought she had hidden. Scars. Vulnerabilities. All the walls she had expertly built up over the years seemed to crumble in his presence.

He saw all of that and still wanted to be with her. Still loved her.

Now that their lives were intertwined—and now that she knew Brodie too—this case would be much different from what it was sixteen months ago. Brodie wasn’t just a victim of Iris Malone. Now, she was someone Maggie knew and cared about. It would be more difficult to sort through the sad and brutal details. It would take on a whole new level.

In the time since Brodie’s rescue, Maggie had never really talked to Brodie about the details. Pakula had done all the initial interviews. Maggie had only gone over the transcripts to look for any holes at that time. But even back then, Maggie had been protective of Ryder. She didn’t want him hurt by an imposter. Then the DNA test results confirmed that the woman in the hospital bed was, indeed, his long-lost sister.

Maggie fingered the first photographs taken of Brodie. Her face was battered. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheeks. Her hair stuck up in places, chopped short and in clumps after she’d taken a pair of scissors to it herself. Her skinny arm was hooked up to the IV. Her body looked so fragile in the hospital bed. The things she’d been through—what she’d survived—no person should ever have to experience, let alone a child. Taken when she was eleven, Brodie had spent over half her life held captive.

And although Brodie appeared to have healed and moved on, she’d have to describe all those cruel details and do so as a witness against Iris Malone. As the sole survivor, it could come down to Brodie’s testimony whether the woman would be sentenced to prison or go free.

Maggie shook her head. Ran her fingers through her hair and finally sat down in front of her mess. She picked up one of the two envelopes Pakula had left with her. She slid the contents out, not surprised to see the small, battered notebook. Spiral bound, its cover was stained, the corner bent, the pages yellowed with age. This belonged to Iris Malone’s brother, an alleged drug dealer and human trafficker. Maggie had started referring to it as Elijah Dunn’s book of the dead. It was his coded list of where he had buried bodies.

Elijah’s case closed before he stood trial for any of his crimes. Closed because he was no longer around. Without him, there was no cracking his code within these pages. The bodies he had helped them find were supposedly only two of many. With his death, the rest of the bodies would never have been found.

Just thinking about that scavenger hunt that Elijah Dunn had taken them on felt like a fist tightening into the muscles between her shoulder blades.

Dunn also claimed the notebook included the girls he’d sold. No one had been able to confirm if that was true or simply another one of his games. Now, all that was left were his amateur sketches, a series of numbers and chicken scratches that only Elijah could decipher.

There was another important fact that no one could confirm. Nothing connected Elijah and all of his crimes to his sister, Iris Malone. There were plenty of suspicions. Pieces of circumstantial evidence suggested that Elijah took his sister’s rejects. The woman may have been on a quest to replace her daughter, Charlotte who died at a young age. Brodie Creed and her testimony could support that.

But Brodie was only eleven when she was taken from a rest stop and ended up imprisoned in Iris Malone’s farmhouse. The fact that Iris and Elijah may have partnered to abduct Brodie all depended on Brodie’s word against Iris’. And the idea that Elijah may have helped Iris kidnap other Charlotte replacements, again, depended on Brodie. Iris could say it was all a traumatized young girl’s wicked imagination. Even Brodie couldn’t dispute that the other Charlottes could be figments of her imagination. She had heard voices. Thought she’d seen glimpses.

All of it would be Brodie’s word against Iris’. Sixteen months and investigators had come up empty-handed. They hadn’t found another woman or girl who may have also been taken by Elijah and Iris.

Maggie pulled the photos and fanned them out like playing cards on top of the folders. Six photos of young girls had been inside frames and lined up on Iris Malone’s fireplace mantle. All of them had similar characteristics: long brown hair, small features, almond-shaped eyes, and all about the same age. She found the copy of the newspaper clipping, the obituary for Iris’ daughter. She put it alongside the photos.

They still had no idea who these girls were. Had they grown up only to be sold or killed by Elijah? And these six photos didn’t include Brodie. So, was it possible there had been even more girls?

Maggie stood, stretched, and sipped the Diet Pepsi. And paced.

The suite gave her two rooms and plenty of space not only to spread out and work but also to pace. Outside the window, snow began to cover the pavement. Traffic below moved more slowly. Lines of headlights and streetlights glittered with icy drizzle.

Pakula insisted the small farming community had little to offer. At first, Maggie thought it was impossible that someone hadn’t noticed. But she’d seen the stretch of farmland, the distance between houses. It wasn’t unusual for there to be miles separating properties. Mailboxes were at the end of long driveways. Fences, woods, creeks, pastures. It wouldn’t be difficult to keep a young girl hidden. Or even several young girls.

She filled her glass, emptying the can, and went to the mini fridge to grab another. On the counter, she’d left the other envelope Pakula had handed her. Back at the desk, she turned it upside down and let the contents fall out. It was an assortment of pages and copies of documents. One stood out. A handwritten note:

Iris, I know you don’t want them but remind Sara to help herself to my jams. Eleanor

Iris’ mother. How could she not know something more?

22

Mississippi

Creed and Grace were exhausted by the time they got to their hotel room, but Creed still held tight to her leash when he saw the door to the adjoining room left open. The dog’s nose sniffed the air while she tugged toward the opening. Creed let his duffel bag slide to the floor and put his index finger to his lips. Then he lifted her onto one of the queen beds. She immediately started digging a nest in the pillows.

Back at the doorway, Creed peeked into the other room. In the dim light, he saw bags, equipment, dog vests, and harnesses piled on top of the beds. Scout poked his head around the corner of a bed. Creed heard the big dog’s tail thump against the floor. He tried to put his finger to his lips like he did with Grace, but Scout didn’t know the signal. Instead, he crossed the room slowly, sleepy-eyed and wagging.

Creed crouched down to meet him halfway. Scout welcomed him with a head-butt. From this angle, Creed could see that Brodie, Jason, and the dogs had pulled comforters and pillows from the beds to make a sleeping area. He wasn’t surprised to find them all together. Road trips triggered Brodie’s PTSD. Having Hank, Jason, and Scout close by seemed to help.

Hank glanced up but stayed sprawled in the middle. Jason was fast asleep, head back, mouth open. The kid could sleep anywhere. A trait he claimed he learned in Afghanistan. A trait Creed envied.

He signaled for Scout to return to his place then Creed started to tiptoe back to the other room.

“Hey, Ryder,” Brodie whispered as she climbed out from between Hank and the side of the bed. “Everything okay?”

“Go back to sleep. I was just checking on you guys, and Scout decided he needed to greet me.”

“It’s okay. I need to go to the bathroom. Hank, Scout, stay. I’ll be right back.”

She followed Creed all the way to the other room. It wasn’t until she went over to greet Grace that he saw all the bandages. In her baggy shorts and T-shirt, her swathed arms and legs looked like a Halloween zombie costume gone wrong. The yellow, fuzzy socks he’d given her for Christmas didn’t make it any better.

Before he could ask how she was doing, she said, “It looks worse than it is.”

Her short hair stuck up in places where it’d been scrunched against a pillow. Her eyes looked droopy enough to believe she might have actually gotten a little sleep. All of it only reinforced that she was his little sister, and he’d failed once again to protect her. But he couldn’t dare say that.

“Did you guys eat?”

She nodded. “Jason fed the dogs. He warmed up a casserole Hannah packed. There’s some left in the mini fridge, if you want.”

“Grace and I already ate.”

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Brodie, you don’t need to apologize.”

“I know you worry about me, and then I’m clumsy and fall.”

“You didn’t just fall. You were trying to protect Hank. It’s no different from Jason getting zapped by the electric fencing trying to protect Scout. Stuff happens on searches. No matter how hard we train or prepare, there’s always going to be something that might trip us up.”

She nodded, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You were right about that rubbish pile.”

Her eyes shot up. “You found something?”

“Someone. Or maybe just a piece of someone. You were right about the cooler on top. It was newer than the rest of the debris. And it was hiding a hand sticking up.”

“You think it’s Kyle Lawrence?”

“That would make sense.”

“What happens now?”

“The State Patrol’s mobile crime lab will be there in the morning. I’m meeting Sheriff Norwich for a late breakfast to go over everything. But I think you and Jason and the dogs should head back in the morning.”

He waited for her to put up a fuss and insist she not be treated any differently. That whole argument about how they were all part of the same team.

Instead, she said, “That sounds good. I'm ready to go home.”

She petted and hugged Grace while he tried to wipe the surprise from his exhausted face. That was the first time he’d ever heard her call their place “home.”

Then she told him, “Goodnight” and shuffled back through the adjoining doorway. He heard her go into the bathroom. Waited until the toilet flushed and the sink faucet turned off.

His cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID and quietly pulled the door between the two rooms, leaving it open a crack. Then he crossed the room to the easy chair by the window and answered.

“Hey, Maggie.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” but he rubbed his eyes as he said it. Suddenly, sitting down in this chair in the soft light and quiet, he realized how tired he was. “Grace and I just got to the hotel room a little while ago.”

The little dog didn’t even raise her head. She curled up against the headboard. He could barely see her buried in the pillows.

“How’s Nebraska?”

“You won’t be surprised to hear this. It’s snowing here.”

“I thought when you landed it was raining?”

“And then ice and now snow.”

“So, they knew you were coming.”

She laughed. It didn’t last. She was serious when she said, “You sound really exhausted. Tough search?”

“Tough day.” He told her about the messy scene and the sheriff’s ambivalence. It felt good to talk to someone who understood completely without much explanation. Maggie had been through plenty of similar situations. He mentioned the drone they found tangled in the brush. When he told her about Brodie, he tried to leave his emotions aside and keep it to the fact that she was being a good sport about all of it.

She was quiet for a beat too long. His jaw tensed, preparing to say he didn’t want to talk about it.

Then she said, “Tell me about the drone.”

“Jason said it wasn’t a hobby one. Also, Grace led us to it.”

“So, it might have been carrying drugs?”

“Jason was concerned it might have explosives on board. Said cartels have been weaponizing their drones. Almost like they’re militarizing them.”

She was quiet again.

“Jason’s right. I’ve seen reports. Cartels would rather blow up the drone and even the drugs on board if they’re found by law enforcement or someone other than their pickup person. I’m glad you left it alone. Where did you say you found this?”

“In one of the pastures. This place hasn’t been cared for in a long time. The sheriff said it was abandoned decades ago. If it wasn’t for a hunter and his dog, no one would probably have found our missing person’s vehicle. Or that drone. You think the two are connected?”

“Let’s see, a cartel drone and a bloody crime scene with nothing else around for miles?”

“I think the drone was still active.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was still making noises. Jason thought it might be motion-activated.”

“Cartels aren’t my specialty, but Pakula talks about them using sophisticated drones as mechanical scouts. They send them out to do their surveillance, search out drop sites for drugs or find stash houses for human trafficking. The drones are made of composite materials instead of metal, so radar systems don’t pick them up. If they do, their system treats them like slow-moving birds and disregards them.”

“So, they literally fly below the radar.”

“Pretty much. He’s shown me photos of a couple they’ve found. These machines are equipped with radio transmission, visual capabilities, and GPS tracking. Even if they need to blow them up, they still have all the digital information because it’s already been transmitted somewhere else.”

“Wait a minute. They don’t just send back GPS locations? They have cameras on board?”

“Oh yeah. High-tech visual capabilities. They can remotely zoom in to a license plate on a car in traffic, if they wanted. Why do you ask?”

“Because it sounded like it took photos. Of me. And Brodie.”

23

Wednesday, February 18
Nebraska

Maggie was glad Pakula was driving. This morning, the sun and Nebraska's blue skies were back. Highway 92 was clear, but the rolling hills and snowy landscape gave her road hypnosis. She’d zoned out through a long stretch, thinking about Ryder and what his crew had stumbled on. She knew he and Jason were more than capable of taking care of themselves and their dogs. As well as Brodie. But this latest search sounded more dangerous than finding a missing person.

“Not to stir the pot,” Pakula said, breaking her trance. “But it just occurred to me they use facial recognition software.”

They had spent the first thirty minutes of their road trip picking up donuts and coffee—and Diet Pepsi—and rehashing what Ryder had told her about the drone and the search.

“Thanks,” she told him. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you managed to make it even worse.”

“Don’t worry about it. Didn’t he tell you the Mississippi State Patrol would be taking over?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not like the thing was still loaded with drugs. They didn’t steal anything or see anything.”

“Right. They just found a murdered missing person who may or may not have been dismembered.”

“Oh yeah. That’s true.” He grabbed his coffee out of the cup holder and slung back what must have been the cold dredges. “Somebody messed up big time. This is the part where I tell you to be grateful Ryder’s crew isn’t law enforcement. They did their job. They’ll go home. It’s the State Patrol’s mess now.”

She knew he was right. But there was something that left her unsettled. A few years ago, Creed and Grace had sabotaged a huge shipment of drugs hidden under a boatload of tuna in the Gulf. They weren’t law enforcement then either, but the cartel had targeted Ryder anyway.

“I need to get my mind on other things," Maggie said. "So, tell me about Iris Malone’s mother?”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea. The poor woman is in a care facility. I attempted to talk to her a year ago when all this first happened. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence.”

“That’s because you look like a cop. You said it yourself. I’m supposed to be your charm offensive.”

“I meant in general, with the community. But charm probably won’t have an effect on an old woman with dementia.”

When they arrived, Maggie convinced Pakula to stay outside in his vehicle. She’d suggested he drop her off and go have coffee, but this place was in the middle of nowhere, situated between pastures and what looked like a once-upon-a-time attempt to create a golf course. No shops, no businesses, and no coffee anywhere nearby. Still, he relented and stayed put when she reminded him that he needed her female charms to soften his too-rugged cop look.

Not even two minutes inside and halfway through a charming introduction, and Maggie reverted too quickly to her own “pushy cop” manners.

“Sorry, if you’re not on the family’s list, we can’t allow you to see Mrs. Dunn.”

Maggie brought out her badge. “This is actually a law enforcement matter.”

The young woman’s eyes widened and the piercings along her eyebrow twitched.

“You’re a cop?”

“FBI.”

“Oh.” Except the word came out more like “Ooohf,” interrupted and snuffed off at the end.

“You might want to call your director,” Maggie instructed her. She slipped the badge back into her pocket and folded her arms over her chest as if she had all afternoon to wait.

“Today’s her day off.” The woman’s eyes darted to a door behind Maggie. “She doesn’t like us calling on her days off.”

“No problem. I just need to ask Mrs. Dunn a few questions.”

“Oh well, that’s not possible. You must not be aware. She’s really not coherent enough, you know, to even understand. If you come back tomorrow, you could probably talk to the director.” She fumbled at the reception desk and opened what looked like an appointment book.

“Just tell me what room she’s in, and I’ll take my chances.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“What did you say your name was?”

She looked up from the book, eyes wide again. Piercings twitching. “It’s Stephi. With an ‘i’.” She said it automatically, a reflex even when spelling wasn’t required.

“Stephi? As in Stephanie?”

“No, just Stephi.”

“And your last name?”

“Why do you need my last name?” The panic made her voice an octave higher.

“Stephi, do you know what the penalty is for impeding an FBI agent’s request? You really don’t want to be in trouble with the FBI, do you?”

No matter what Pakula pretended, Maggie wasn’t good at playing the good cop. She wasn’t even good at playing by the rules. And social charms? She usually failed at basic manners.

Clearly, no one else was around at this time of day. All Maggie wanted to do was talk to the old woman. See her. Watch her responses or her non-responses.

When Stephi didn’t answer, Maggie pushed, “What room is Mrs. Dunn in?”

“There’s no one available right now to take you back.”

“That’s okay. I can find it on my own. Down that hallway?” Maggie pointed and started across the lobby.

“You can’t go back there without someone with you.”

Maggie slowed as if waiting for her. “Would you like to come along?”

A phone began to ring, and the woman looked torn.

“Stephi, I just need the room number.”

A long pause while she looked at the phone and back at Maggie. Finally, she threw up her hands and went to answer the phone. Over her shoulder, she said, “It’s Room 23.”

Most of the doors were closed. It was so quiet Maggie found herself practically tiptoeing. Quickly, she discovered odd numbers were on the left side. The last two doors were open. One gaping. The other, only by inches. Still, she could see inside Room 23, and she stopped herself.

A nurse or attendant stood by a counter, her back to Maggie, so she couldn’t see what she was doing. But Maggie had a clear view of the small, elderly woman lying in the bed. Her thick gray hair was smoothed down with an unrelenting colic sticking up on the left side. She stared up at the television.

As Maggie raised her hand to knock, the old woman did too. Maggie stopped, fist inches from the door. She watched the woman sweep her index finger into her mouth. In one swift motion she pulled something out and tucked her hand beneath the covers.

Maggie stepped back. Out of sight. Did she just see the woman take pills out of her mouth and hide them? She checked her watch. Glanced down the hallway. Waited at least thirty seconds. Then she knocked on the door while opening it.

“Hello, Eleanor,” she addressed the woman in the bed as though they were longtime friends, while only nodding at the attendant.

Though the attendant looked surprised, it didn’t last. Of course, it didn’t last. No one was allowed back here without approval from the front desk.

“Oh, look. You have company.” Then to Maggie, she said, “I’ve just finished.” And she gathered up her iPad and the tray with labeled containers of meds. She smiled at Maggie and even closed the door on her way out.

Eleanor Dunn squinted at her. “Do I know you?”

“My name’s Maggie O’Dell.”

“O’Dell. Maggie. O. Dell.” She broke it up into three parts.

As the woman processed her name, Maggie found a chair across the room and pulled it up close to the bed. She preferred to stand, but she wanted the woman to feel comfortable with her. Eye-level created a friendly, more intimate connection.

“I just want to talk to you. Would that be okay, Eleanor? May I call you Eleanor?”

The woman shrugged; an exaggerated shrug with her bony shoulder blade bouncing the thin nightgown up almost to her earlobe. Then she looked back up at the television. Maggie thought the volume was muted. She glanced up. Did a double-take. The screen was black. Yet the woman stared at it as if watching a favorite show.

Maybe this was a waste of time. Years ago, Maggie had to tease out details from a witness with Alzheimer’s disease. Luc Racine was the only person who’d come face-to-face with a killer. Only Luc couldn’t remember what the man looked like. Some days he had no idea what the television remote control was or why it was in his refrigerator.

Maggie studied Eleanor Dunn. She looked absolutely nothing like her daughter, Iris Malone. Eleanor was small and petite with delicate features. Crinkles at her eyes and upturned lines at the corners of her mouth suggested a life of smiles and laughter.

This was not an interrogation. She reminded herself as she shifted in the hardback chair and took in a long, quiet breath. She definitely needed to channel that softer side that Pakula believed she had.

“I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter, Iris.”

Not a flinch. Not even a glimmer of recognition. Was it the dementia? Or perhaps she was hard of hearing? The woman focused intently on the black screen as if she’d already forgotten Maggie’s presence.

Should she leave the poor woman alone? Pakula had warned Maggie that the old woman was unresponsive. Wouldn’t even look at him. It was hard to ignore Pakula. No matter what room he entered, all heads turned. Whether it was good or bad, he had a presence that drew attention.

“They lost my glasses.”

Her voice startled Maggie. Eleanor hadn’t moved. Hands stayed tucked under the covers. Head still turned up. Eyes stared at the television screen. Her lips remained pursed as if she hadn’t spoken. She simply made the statement like she expected no response in turn.

Maybe she didn’t even wear glasses.

Maggie stood. Looked around the room. The belongings were sparse. Nothing personal. Not even a picture frame with family. Lotion, Kleenex, a box of latex gloves. A nightstand with a lamp and no drawers occupied the space next to the bed. On the other side was an overbed table tray pushed aside with a discarded breakfast. A folded-up walker leaned against the wall. A door across the room was presumably a bathroom. The closed blinds shut off the only window.

“Do you think they’re still here in the room?” Maggie asked without disturbing any of the items.

Another shrug.

“I like to read at night,” she said, paying no attention to Maggie as she walked and scanned all the surfaces.

“If I had a good book, I could read all night,” Eleanor continued. “They won’t let me go home. I used to ask all the time then I gave up. So, I read.”

Still, without looking at Maggie, she said, “But they’d see the light under my door. And they’d knock. Mrs. Dunn,” she called out, mimicking the voice on the other side of her door, “Lights out. Time to go to sleep.

“Why couldn’t I keep reading? I don’t have anywhere to go. I can just sleep in, but no, Mrs. Dunn, breakfast is at 7:30. You don't want to miss breakfast, do you? I never ate breakfast at 7:30 in the morning. Then suddenly, I can’t find my glasses. I asked and asked.”

Finally, she glanced over at Maggie and whispered, “I think they took them.”

She looked back at the television, a blank expression now, and added, “I asked over and over, and then I just gave up.”

Maggie knew there was a good chance the glasses were simply misplaced. But she felt bad for Eleanor. The woman looked defeated, lying in bed with her hands clasped together. Long fingers kneaded the thin bedspread. Maggie couldn’t help thinking they looked like hands that still wanted to do something more than lie in bed.

She decided she'd mention the glasses to the attendant on the way out. And maybe that was exactly what she needed to do. Just leave this poor old woman alone. Her daughter’s problems were no longer hers.

But when Maggie turned to leave, the woman asked, “Maggie short for Margaret?”

Now, Maggie didn’t feel right deceiving the woman into believing she might know her but had forgotten. Instead of explaining, Maggie simply answered, “Yes.”

She nodded. Then she squinted at her again before asking, “Were you one of Iris’ girls?”

Maggie felt her pulse tick up. She stood perfectly still. She didn’t want to break the woman’s train of thought. “Did you know Iris’ girls?”

Another shrug. And the woman looked away.

“Were there a lot of different girls?”

“That’s what people say. I didn’t see them.”

So only rumor. No actual sightings. It felt as if the air deflated from her lungs. How could Eleanor have lived on the farm next door to her daughter and not see any of Iris’ girls? But Maggie remembered the two properties and miles and acres of woods and pastures in-between.

It was possible. Unfortunately, very possible according to the way Brodie described being locked up in rooms, closets, sheds and then the basement.

The old woman was staring at the black television screen again. Her expression was a bit lost, as if she were somewhere else now.

“I can’t see anything without my glasses.”

24

Mississippi

Creed left Grace in the Jeep. The sun was finally out. The fog gone. The breeze cool. With the sunroof opened just a crack, Grace curled up and dozed under the damp, fresh air. She’d already had breakfast back in the hotel room with Scout and Hank. Creed had sent Jason and Brodie home. Said he’d follow soon after.

It wasn’t unusual for Creed to finish a search and feel like he was leaving the investigators with more questions than answers. The fact was, sometimes they didn’t find the missing person. This time, they’d found a body. Or at least a hand. They’d have to wait and see if it was Kyle Lawrence.

Sheriff Norwich waved at him from a corner booth as soon as he walked in the truck stop diner. It was busy and noisy, but the aroma of bacon made him glad he’d only had coffee with Jason and Brodie.

He barely sat down and a waitress with the name tag, RITA appeared. She placed a laminated menu and a ceramic mug in front of him. Without asking, she started pouring coffee that already smelled much better than what he’d had at the hotel.

“Do you know what you want, Hun? Or do you need a minute?”

He glanced at Norwich’s plate: chunks of melon with a lone strawberry, an omelet that couldn’t hide being egg-whites only, and an English muffin.

“I was hungry. I started without you,” she said as she spread jam on the lightly toasted muffin.

Norwich had suffered a heart attack not that long ago. Creed was there when it happened. She had to make adjustments to her lifestyle. Despite her platinum-gray hair, she was probably now in the best shape he’d ever seen her. But he also knew the woman could easily devour a cheeseburger and steal your fries.

He took too long, and Norwich noticed his hesitation. She added, “Have whatever you want. It won’t bother me.”

The waitress waited with the coffeepot in hand. Her eyes wandered to a party of four that had just walked in.

“Are you still serving breakfast?” he asked Rita. It was almost noon.

“We serve breakfast all day, Hun.”

“I’ll have the Classic with bacon and scrambled eggs.”

“English muffin or toast?”

“You have grits?”

“I can sure get you some, Hun. Comes with hash browns or sweet potato fries.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Norwich perk up.

“Sweet potato fries, please.”

“You got it.” She topped off Norwich’s coffee and, without writing down a single note, left.

“I promise I won’t eat all your fries,” she smiled at him. “You mentioned in your text that Jason and Brodie are heading home. How’s she doing?”

“Sore. She said it looks worse than it feels, but I know it hurts.”

“I’m so sorry.” She sat back and shook her head. “I had no idea what kind of mess I was sending you all into.”

“It’s part of the job.” He sipped his coffee and tried not to think about how defeated Brodie had looked. It reminded him too much of when they’d first found her. How quiet and frail she looked in that hospital bed. Hannah kept telling him she was strong now. Confident. Fearless. But that wasn’t what he saw last night.

“No, this is a particularly screwed-up shit-show. Excuse my language.” Norwich poked at her fruit, stabbing a slice of strawberry. “The State Patrol’s almost finished at the scene. I got an update from one of the investigators I know. The body’s not Kyle.”

“Wait a minute. What?”

“The body isn’t Kyle.”

“How can they already be so sure?”

“Because the person they recovered from that rubbish pile is a woman.”

“Wow! I have to admit I didn’t see that coming.”

“Me, either.”

“Do they have any idea who she was or how she died?”

“No. Not yet. Their forensic team is thorough. Alvin said they’ve been there since last night.” She put down her fork. Sat back. Rubbed her eyes. “He’ll keep me posted, but I have to tell you, I’m relieved this is not my jurisdiction.”

“What about the drone? Grace detected something. They might be able to test for residues of drugs or explosives.”

“He said they couldn’t find it. Maybe I didn’t give good directions. They had a lot to deal with. The drone might not have been high on their priority list. Did you or Jason happen to get a photo of it? I’ll pass it along.”

Creed pulled out his phone and found the photos he’d taken. “Text?”

“That’s fine.”

“Jason thought it looked more sophisticated than a hobby drone. I talked to Maggie about it last night. She said some of the drug cartels are using them for airdrops and surveillance. You know anything about them being weaponized?”

“Weaponized?”

“They can detonate it. Blow it up remotely if it goes off track or a competitor comes across it before they can make the pickup. Jason thought that might be why Grace found it. She’s trained to detect explosives.”

She sat still, fork in mid-air. Put it down and took a deep breath. “I didn’t even consider that. I am so glad you’re all safe.”

“She’s trained for drugs, too. If there were any on board, they were gone, but it’s possible she could still detect them. We didn’t notice any foot traffic. The drone was tangled up in a bunch of thorny bushes. The same ones Brodie fell into. My point is, if Grace hadn’t led us there, I’m not sure anyone would have seen it. Maybe it’s still there.”

“Is it possible it flew off on its own? Didn’t you tell me it was still making noises?”

“I guess that’s possible, too. Jason thought it might have motion sensors. It was making mechanical sounds. I swear it sounded like it took pictures of us.”

“You didn’t tell me that yesterday.”

“My mind was on Brodie. I didn’t give it any more thought. We should have marked its location. But then, I didn’t expect it to disappear overnight. Do you think the drone has something to do with the body we found? Or Kyle Lawrence?”

“I think it would be stranger if it didn’t.”

“Is it possible Kyle and this woman were making a drug pickup?”

“I was wondering about that, too. But it still doesn’t make sense why a woman’s dead, and Kyle is still nowhere to be found.”

“From what I remember about some of these cartels and networks, they don’t need a whole lot of reason to make people disappear.”

“That’s right, I forgot. You were targeted a few years ago. Jason told me about that. Choque Azul.” She took a long drink of coffee as if needing to get the word out of her mouth.

She picked up her fork then added, “You know they’re still around these parts. Moved inland. They’re just not coming up the Gulf anymore. But I also heard they’re not into drugs as much. Human trafficking is big business. Drugs they can sell only once. A person they can sell over and over.” She shook her head. Put the fork down and reached for the coffee again.

“Here you go, Hun.” The waitress was back and setting plates of food in front of Creed. Bacon crisp, eggs fluffy, and grits stiff with butter already melting on top. His mouth watered at the aroma. The sweet potato fries took up their own plate.

“Thanks. This looks and smells great.”

“How about you, Hun? More coffee.” She was talking to Norwich now, and if Creed wasn’t mistaken, the sheriff looked pleased to be included as, “hun.”

“I’m good. Put this all on my tab.”

“Will do. Wave if you need anything.”

Creed started to dive in with fork and knife but stopped. He moved the condiment tray to the side, then slid the plate of sweet potato fries to the middle of the table.

“You want Grace and me to go back out? The woman’s scent must have been in the SUV. That’s obviously what both dogs tracked. I could even ask Grace specifically to search for drugs or explosives, if that would help.”

“No. Absolutely not.” She scooped up one of the crispy wedges of potato. “Something strange and dangerous happened out there on that abandoned property. I think we both need to go home. You and your crew have helped more than enough. Let the Mississippi State Patrol take over.”

“But what about Kyle?”

“Yes, what about Kyle?” Someone asked from behind Creed.

25

“I figured it was you, Frances,” the woman said.

As soon as Norwich looked up, her eyes flashed recognition then came a long sigh. She was not pleased.

“Sheriff’s Department vehicle with Florida plates, I knew it had to be you.”

“Lydia, I can’t talk to you right now,” Norwich told her.

“And you can’t return my calls at your convenience. Well, I’m going to make you talk to me, Frances whether you like it or not.”

When she started to pull out a chair from their table, Creed stood and placed a hand on the chair, stopping her. Then he recognized her from the crime scene.

“You’re Kyle’s mother,” he said as she tried to tug the chair away.

She glanced at him, breaking her hard stare from Norwich. She did a double-take when she realized who he was.

“I didn’t mean to insult you about your dogs,” she told him, dropping her eyes away. The exhaustion on her face made her look older. Up close, he could see the strain in the creases on her forehead and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “I just want to find my boy.”

Creed looked over at Norwich. Their eyes met, and she nodded, followed by another sigh. This time he pulled out the chair for Lydia and gestured for her to sit down.

“Would you like some coffee?” But he didn’t wait for her answer and signaled the waitress.

Now seated, the woman also looked smaller. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her skin pale, and her short hair windblown and tangled. She was quiet while the waitress put down a mug in front of her and poured coffee, taking time to refill Creed and Norwich’s cups.

“When was the last time you ate something?” Norwich asked.

Lydia shrugged, suddenly quieted by the unexpected attention.

“Rita, could you please bring some scrambled eggs and bacon and—”

“Could I have sausage instead?”

“Of course,” Rita took over. “Toast, grits, hash browns?”

Lydia glanced over at Creed’s half-eaten plate and said, “Grits, please.”

Creed waited until Lydia sipped her coffee before he started eating again.

“I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m not a rude person. You know that, Frances. I’m just worried sick about my boy. I know this was a big deal for you to even make any of this search happen. Ever since Kyle got involved with that woman from Starkville, he’s not been himself.”

Creed caught Norwich’s eyes again. She was thinking what he was thinking. The woman from Starkville could be the dead woman. And it sounded like Lydia didn’t know about any of what they’d found. He’d leave it to Norwich to navigate the conversation.

“You didn’t tell me there might be a girlfriend accompanying him.”

“I don’t know if they were together. Or if she had anything to do with his disappearing.”

“Have you tried contacting her?” Norwich asked.

“No, I barely know her first name. Mandy. That’s all I know. But I knew she was trouble from the first time I met her.”

“Why is that?”

“Just between us,” she whispered, leaning over the table. She looked over at Creed to include him and said, “I think she’s involved in selling drugs.”

“Now that would have been an important piece of information to tell me, Lydia.”

“I know, I know. But it’s just my gut instinct, and I didn’t want it to influence whether you looked for Kyle or not. Because he’s not involved.”

“How did he meet this woman?”

“He bartends part-time on Pensacola Beach. It's that really nice, upscale hotel. Margaritaville. I’m guessing that’s where they met. Probably, not at college. He says he’s crazy about her, but I think he feels bad for her. You know, her past and what she’s gone through. It’s almost as if he wants to save her or protect her.”

She waved her hand as if it was impossible to know. Like it was an argument they’d had several times.

“He bought that girl’s story: hook, line, and sinker. And truthfully, I think she made up the whole damned thing just to make him feel sorry for her.”

“What makes you say that?”

“To start with, it’s just such a fantastical story. She claims she was kidnapped when she was a little girl. Taken from some truck stop. While her family was on vacation.”

Creed stopped chewing. His stomach flipped a notch. Norwich glanced at him, but her eyes darted back to Lydia. He made himself swallow the bite he’d just taken.

“I can tell you,” Norwich said, “as a law enforcement veteran, things like that happen, Lydia. Why would this woman make up something like that?”

“I don’t know. It sounded wild, you know. She said she was held captive for years, and now, she still can’t get rid of those people. Doing errands. Delivering packages. And I don’t mean grocery or fast food, mind you. I think she’s connected to some very bad people, and she’s dragged my boy into her mess.”

“Is that what Kyle told you?”

“He wouldn’t dare say a negative thing about her. But I heard them arguing a few times. And now, it makes sense that he’s running away from something or someone. Why else would his vehicle end up abandoned in the middle of a pasture? In Mississippi?”

She caught her breath. This time grabbed her water glass and took several sips before she looked back up at Norwich. “You still haven’t found any signs of him?”

When Norwich didn’t respond, the woman added, “It can’t just be a coincidence that his vehicle is found only fifty miles from Starkville? My boy has a wonderful apartment in Gulf Breeze. The only reason he’d be here is because of her.”

The waitress named Rita interrupted to deliver Lydia’s food. Before Rita refilled the coffee cups and left, Lydia sliced her breakfast sausages into bite-sized pieces. Her nervous energy finally had something to keep her fingers busy. Her eyes continued to dart back and forth from Norwich to Creed as she salted then peppered her scrambled eggs and grits.

Creed avoided eye contact with Norwich while they were under Lydia’s quiet scrutiny. The diner grew louder as breakfast overlapped the lunch hour. A buzz invaded Creed’s head like a constant ringing in his ears. He wanted to ask questions about the girlfriend named Mandy and her “fantastical” kidnapping story, but his mind kept returning to yesterday’s search.

Grace and Scout had followed instructions and found the scent from the steering wheel and the socks. Evidently, both scents belonged to someone other than the vehicle’s owner. And possibly it was his girlfriend.

Which led to yet another question. Where was Kyle?

“Lydia,” Creed asked, breaking his silence and startling the woman. She stopped and stared at him. “Do you have anything of Kyle’s with you? Maybe in your vehicle?”

“Why would you—” The realization shot across her face. “You’re asking if I have anything with Kyle’s scent?”

“Yes.” He knew it was a long shot. But obviously, the scent they removed from the vehicle yesterday was not Kyle’s. Creed did not want to climb around inside that back seat again with all that blood. If he and Grace were to do another search, he wanted some guarantee that the scent belonged to Kyle.

“That means you didn’t find him.” A statement, not a question. Lydia placed her utensils down and grasped the edge of the table. “The sheriff said there was a whole lot of blood.”

“He told you that?” Norwich was not pleased.

“To be fair, I’ve been calling him non-stop.” She shot Norwich a look. “You weren’t returning my calls.”

“I told you I wouldn’t call until I had something to tell you. We had to wait for the state patrol.”

Creed noticed she didn’t mention the mobile crime lab.

In the meantime, he was patiently waiting for an answer. He’d had enough breakfast. He didn’t need any more coffee. If he was going back to that abandoned property for another search, he wanted to finish early enough that he and Grace could head home before nightfall.

“Any of Kyle’s belongings,” he prodded her. “A backpack? A piece of clothing? Maybe an old T-shirt or sweatshirt? Anything?”

This time she sat back and gave it some serious thought. “The last time he was in my car, we went to his cousin Richie’s basketball game in Milton. But that was almost three weeks ago.”

He glanced at Norwich. He could tell she wasn’t happy with him making the offer. But Kyle might still be out there. Maybe buried in another debris pile. For sixteen years, Creed would have given anything to find Brodie, convincing himself that an explanation or even a body would be better than not knowing at all. Finding a loved one, even if he was dead, could allow a family to move on.

He was ready to excuse himself and leave when Lydia suddenly asked, “Would a ball cap work? I think he left his old, sweaty one on my back seat.”

26

David City, Nebraska

From across the street, Sara could see that the small café looked crowded. She hated crowds, but it was perfect timing. She’d finished her convenience store breakfast burrito from the warmer case. She’d taken her time with it, especially since she wasn’t used to eating finger food with her transparent fingerprint covers. So far, they were less noticeable than super glue and easier to remove. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure if hot sauce messed with their effectiveness.

Too late to worry about it now.

She was anxious with too much time on her hands. And the store was way too busy for her comfort level. She wished she hadn’t parked her truck so far out on the outskirts of town. The vehicle had become her only constant. It was her sanctuary as much as her escape. Without it, she felt vulnerable. Exposed. Like she was missing her outer, protective shield.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a man and a woman getting out of a black SUV. Neither was a local. Sara could tell immediately. Though both were pretending they were. Their glances around were casual but took too long. Especially the man. He was a cop of some sort. The shaved head. The walk. The way he waited for the woman and walked alongside her. They weren’t a couple. Most likely, they were colleagues. Definitely out-of-towners. Sara noticed the woman’s boots. They were ones she’d choose. Trendy, comfortable and easy to run in, but they still looked good with jeans. She briefly wondered if any of that was this woman’s criteria, too? Especially the easy to run in.

And then Sara remembered. Of course, they were here for Iris’ hearing.

She watched them until they turned a corner at the end of the block. Then they were out of sight. Sara glanced back at the entrance to the café. Maybe today wasn’t a good day. And yet, all her planning. Even the weather had participated.

It had to be today. She couldn’t let Orlando beat her again.

The thought of him made her search the street. Her eyes stopped on each vehicle until she reminded herself that he wouldn’t just pull up to the café. This was all too public for him. In a town this small, people would notice him. He certainly didn’t blend in. Not like Sara.

No, he’d be waiting somewhere in the dark. And he’d do the one thing nobody expected, just to make things interesting. Like dump a body in a public recreational park. He never played by anyone’s rules. He’d make up his own.

And yet, Iris trusted him. Trusted him enough to hand over a phone number that only she was supposed to use. That burner phone was supposed to be only for her and Sara to communicate. Iris had insisted on it.

Why was Sara surprised? After all these years, after all the hard lessons. Absently, her fingers rubbed the notch on her nose as if needing a tangible reminder. Why did this still feel like a betrayal? Hadn’t the woman always been pulling the rug out from under Sara the whole time she was telling Sara she was only looking out for her?

How else will you learn?

Sara hated that line.

Now she wondered what else Orlando knew. What else had Iris told him that she hadn’t shared with Sara? Instead of what was presented as an assignment split in two, was Iris making it a contest with secrets and bonuses? Were there other things that Iris had shared with Orlando that she was keeping from Sara?

She tossed her energy drink’s can and the burrito’s foil wrapper then pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt. On her way out the door, she picked up one of the flyers advertising that week’s events and specials in town.

It took only a few extra minutes for her spontaneous detour. She didn’t give it much thought.

Maybe she’d be sorry. Maybe she didn’t care.

27

David City, Nebraska

Maggie expected the small courtroom to be full. It wasn’t. A year and a half later, and no one seemed interested in catching a glimpse of this woman. The news media had moved on. Was this story already old news?

Other than the necessary parties, the rows of benches were dotted with clusters of twos and threes. One young man tapped a pen on his notepad. No phones allowed. His could be seen in the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.

Maggie and Pakula had chosen a corner in the back. Off to the side, where she got a full view of Iris Malone’s face. The polished dark wood was everywhere: the rows of benches, the crown molding along with the full panels that made up the walls. It was beautiful and at the same time poked at Maggie’s claustrophobia. It felt like being sealed in a large tomb. No windows. Invisible doors that looked like part of the paneled walls.

Pakula had warned her that the locals had disconnected from the case. It was not their children who had been kidnapped and held hostage.

“Allegedly held hostage.” A phrase, Pakula said he heard more often now from the national media. They weren’t here today, content to phone it in. Maybe they were waiting for jury selection in the coming days.

As for those same locals, some knew about the death of Iris’ daughter. A tragedy, no doubt. And maybe reason enough not to scrutinize or invade the woman’s privacy. And Pakula reminded her this was a part of the country that genuinely valued privacy for themselves as well as their neighbors. That same value, along with miles and acres between properties, contributed to the fact that no one had seen any of the girls. And a handful who claimed a brief encounter believed Iris when she explained that a niece was visiting from out of state.

Then there was the reality that the girls looked so similar. No one imagined there could be a dozen different ones. Iris was simply that good at keeping her secrets behind closed doors. A skilled liar, even now, the woman denied that she’d taken anyone. If anything, it was her brother Elijah.

Pakula’s investigators had gone to great lengths to find evidence inside Iris’ large two-story farmhouse. The basement where Brodie had spent what must have been months, if not years, held no proof that anyone had been held captive there. No survivors had stepped forward. Other than Brodie and the photos on Iris’ fireplace mantle, there was no proof that the others existed.

And Elijah’s victims? They had found one buried in a pasture. Another was found at the bottom of a lake. Neither could be connected to Iris. There was no evidence those women ever spent any time on Iris’ property, let alone inside her house.

It didn’t help that her farm encompassed hundreds of acres: fields, pastures, and woods. Though Maggie had only seen photos, she knew the large two-story house included dozens of rooms, closets, hidey-holes, an attic, and a basement.

Then there was also a variety of buildings on the property: an assortment of sheds; a massive barn with stables and a loft; a root cellar; grain bins; and abandoned farm equipment. Any of those could hide a small, defenseless girl…or two, or even three at a time. Brodie had described several of those areas. Pakula said investigators couldn’t find a trace of her presence.

Maggie studied Iris Malone as she sat a bit hunched in the straight-backed chair. She leaned over the table in front of her, eyes straight ahead. Her defense attorney droned on about her losing her son and her brother on the same day. He insisted that the shock and grief continued to affect her.

Never mind the shock and grief of the young girls she’d kidnapped and held hostage. Or the lifelong PTSD they were still suffering. That is, if there were survivors. There had to be more than just Brodie Creed. Was it possible that all the others were dead? Or still being trafficked somewhere, not able to escape their daily hell, let alone show up and testify.

This hearing would be brief, or so Pakula had promised. Maggie tried to tune out the attorney’s rant and concentrate. Today she was here to observe and study. So, while the attorney moved on to the list of Iris Malone’s many contributions to the community, Maggie focused on the woman.

Pakula had mentioned how Iris had let her hair go gray, as if that was part of her manipulation. Her hair wasn’t completely compliant. Slivers of gray streaked through the thick waves of dull brown. Her horn-rimmed glasses looked too small for her wide face. They slid partway down her nose, and she looked over them. Peepers, that she only needed for reading.

A white legal notepad and pen were on the table in front of her. Occasionally, her hand came up from her lap. She toyed with the pen. Once, she scratched something on the pad then returned her hand to her lap. Maggie couldn’t help thinking those hands were large, with fingers long and strong enough to wrap around a young girl’s arm…or even her neck.

Despite whatever psychological profile Maggie came up with about Iris, it would matter very little if the evidence didn’t support it. The fact that Iris’ brother was an admitted trafficker and murderer could just as easily make her look like another one of his victims and not an accomplice.

The man had lived more than seventy miles away and chose to use the pastures of his family’s farm to bury his victims. That hardly proved Iris was an accomplice. Even the RV he used to kidnap and transport the girls had been found on his own property. He’d taken so many secrets to the grave with him. Iris Malone was counting on it.

And without other witnesses, the burden of getting a conviction of Iris would all fall on Brodie Creed’s shoulders.

28

Mississippi

Brodie shifted in the passenger seat of Jason’s Jeep, trying not to draw attention to her discomfort. Ever since she woke up, her body wouldn’t let her forget the puncture wounds. Back in the hotel bathroom, she’d examined the worst ones. Or at least the worst ones she could reach. Some of them still oozed. Red and raw, they looked angrier today. She knew Jason had been meticulous about digging out all the thorns, but each wound reminded her they had pierced deeper than simple pricks of the skin.

Iris Malone’s punishments had made Brodie accustomed to bruises and scrapes. But the woman had been careful not to inflict serious injuries that might be life-threatening. Brodie guessed it wasn’t because of Iris’ restraint, but maybe because she didn’t want to bother with disposing of a body.

Now, within the confines of the vehicle, she realized she should have been better about redressing some of the wounds. She’d hate to stain Jason’s leather seats.

His phone rang, and he tapped the screen, leaving the phone in its holder.

“Hey, what’s up?” he answered, but Brodie couldn’t hear the other caller’s response because Jason had an earbud in his left ear.

When Brodie glanced over, he nodded at her and said, “It’s Ryder.”

He listened for a while, his face intent. His eyes checked both mirrors then stayed on the road. They went everywhere except returning to hers.

Something was wrong.

She shifted again, and this time her seatbelt scraped one of the deepest punctures on her arm. Without warning, the pain shot through her, taking her breath away for a second or two. She was grateful Jason hadn’t noticed. His head swiveled to the road and back to the mirrors as if he was checking for a place to pull over.

“Are you sure?” he finally asked. “We’re probably only a couple of hours away.”

He listened some more then said, “Okay. Let me know how it goes.”

Brodie waited, studying his profile.

“Ryder and Grace are going back to the crime scene.”

She knew Ryder did searches on his own with Grace or Bolo all the time. If he thought they’d missed something, it wouldn’t be odd for him to return and check it out. But Jason’s face looked worried.

“Does the State Patrol want him to do another search?”

“Sounds like he wants to check out a hunch.”

“A hunch?”

“State Patrol confirmed it wasn’t Kyle we found.”

“But Ryder said there was a body in that debris pile.”

“It wasn’t Kyle. The body they recovered was a woman.”

“A woman?” Brodie could still recall the layers of rubbish and how the kudzu climbed in-between. It seemed impossible to stuff a person down into the middle of that mess.

Jason glanced at her. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Yeah, I’m not sure how they did that.”

“Should we go back?”

“Ryder said, no.”

“But said no because he’s worried about me.”

Jason’s pause lasted too long. “Sheriff Norwich is meeting him back out there.”

Jason would never say it, but Brodie got her answer. She was more of a liability than a help right now. Her brother still felt the need to protect her. And her clumsy stumble into a thicket of thorns had only reinforced that feeling.

29

Creed and Grace arrived at the abandoned property with the sun already heading below the tree line. It had taken too long for them to assure Kyle’s mother while trying to hide their suspicions. What started as a late breakfast dragged past lunch. And then they planned carefully to take separate routes. They couldn’t afford to have Lydia follow them back to the crime scene.

Now, Creed noticed storm clouds on the horizon threatening to shorten their time even more. He wouldn’t do a search with Grace if there was lightning.

He knew he’d beat Norwich to the site, but he was surprised to find himself alone. The only sign that the State Patrol had come and gone were the bright yellow streaks of crime scene tape flapping in the distance. There were plenty of tire tracks weaving through the dirt driveway. A half-dozen new ones plowed on past the old barn toward the pastures.

In-between the trees, he could see glimpses of Kyle’s vehicle. Otherwise, there was nothing to warn him that a crime had happened here. The rest of the property—the buildings, the old equipment, and abandoned cars in the woods—were left alone. He saw no footprints or stomped grass to the dilapidated porch. The front door of the house looked undisturbed.

Sheriff Norwich said the State Patrol’s forensic team had processed Kyle’s vehicle. That’s what they were sent to do. That, and recover a body from a debris pile.

All those fresh tracks. All that activity. And yet, standing alongside his Jeep, Creed couldn’t help thinking this place was quiet and calm. Too quiet. Even the birds seemed to have left the area.

At least this afternoon, with the skies still partly blue and no fog, this abandoned old place looked less threatening. Sunshine had a way of diluting the horrors of what must have happened just days ago.

He put on his daypack while staring at the house. Sheriff Daniels was convinced the dogs would eventually track to one of the buildings. So convinced he seemed surprised when they didn’t. Not just surprised, but maybe even a little pissed.

When they first arrived, Daniels had even suggested that an injured Kyle could have taken shelter in one of the properties’ collapsing structures. At first, he’d genuinely sounded worried about finding the young man. So why hadn’t he or his deputy bothered to check any of the buildings themselves?

There was something wrong with this whole scenario.

Creed told Grace he’d be back in a few minutes. He could move more freely if he didn’t have to worry about her safety. Some of Brodie’s equipment was still inside the back of his Jeep where he had tossed it. He grabbed the folded telescoping pole from the floorboard behind the driver’s seat. Grace gave his nose a lick.

“You can kiss me all you want, but no, you’re still not coming with me.” He patted her head and told her to stay. She was ready to get to work, but she sat down and watched him from the back window.

The telescoping pole had an iron graip at the bottom, making it look like a very long-handled three-prong fork. He used the tool to poke hard ground, making holes to release scent. It came in handy if law enforcement suspected a body had been buried long ago and the soil had settled hard and firm on top of it. The miniature pitchfork also helped to forge a path through tall grasses and shrubs to warn and scatter critters like snakes. That’s how Brodie had been using it.

He tried to recall Brodie’s list of snakes in central Mississippi. All he could remember was that it included several poisonous ones. No, not “poisonous.” Brodie would have corrected him. Venomous. They hadn’t come in contact with any earlier, but he didn’t want to risk it. Honestly, he hated snakes, but they weren’t the only thing he was worried about. If the drone had been weaponized in some way, there was a possibility that explosives might be planted in other areas.

Sheriff Daniels kept saying this place had been abandoned. That no one had lived here for decades. At first glance, that seemed obvious. But someone had paid the electric bill to keep the fencing live. There was enough interest that a high-tech drone had been surveilling the property. Kyle’s vehicle couldn’t have simply veered off a road, plowed through the woods and ended up in that pasture all by accident.

And then there was the woman’s hand sticking up out of the rubbish pile. Her body buried inside the heap. He wished he could unsee that.

Before he started out, he bent over and untied his ankle-high hiking boots. He tucked the pant legs of his jeans down inside the boots then laced them back up tight around his ankles. Usually, he wore a T-shirt with a long-sleeved buttoned-up cotton shirt over it. Most of the time he left it untucked and with the sleeves rolled up. He rolled them down now and buttoned them at the cuffs. He tucked the tail into his jeans, leaving nothing to fly around or catch and grab.

He made his way to the house. The original walkway was overgrown and invisible beneath the vines and scrub grass. His graip clanked against broken bricks. He stared at the collapsing porch. Boards were missing from the floor, and the others leading to the front door looked like they were ready to give way. He headed around the side of the house. The two windows were boarded up. Thickets as high as his knees had taken over. Vines climbed the clapboard sides.

To his surprise, the back door appeared to be new, sturdy and solid with a heavy-duty padlock. It was the type of lock you’d put on to keep someone out. Or…if you wanted to lock someone inside. Funny, Sheriff Daniels hadn’t mentioned it, which only reaffirmed Creed’s suspicions that neither he nor his deputy had checked inside the house.

Creed poked his way to the boarded-up back window. It was impossible to see inside. The boards were tightly placed and secure. They hadn’t weathered much. It didn’t take an expert to see the house had been deteriorating for decades before these boards were put in place.

The woods started about thirty feet from the back door. If there had once been a backyard, nature had swallowed it up. He scanned the surroundings and noticed the trees were so thick he couldn’t see the pasture or Kyle’s vehicle from here.

He hadn’t gotten ten feet from the back door when the iron prongs of his pole struck metal. There was a violent clank-clash. It snapped the pole out of his hands, jolting Creed and throwing him off balance. He planted his feet and froze in place.

What the hell just happened?

30

The violent clank of metal had stripped the pole completely from Creed’s hands. His first thought was that he had struck another electric fence. Completely out of his hands now, the pole stood straight up.

He tapped it with his fingertips. No electric shock. He gave it a shove. It didn’t move. Slowly and carefully, he swept his booted foot about six inches over the tall grass, bending it back. Little by little, he could see what had caught and grabbed the pole.

It was a huge steel-toothed trap. The pole’s prongs were clenched inside the long, sharp teeth. This was not the kind of trap that snagged and held an animal. This one would cut a foot clean off.

He took a couple photos then grabbed and pulled and twisted until the prongs lifted. The resulting clink-clash snapped and clamped the teeth together. Creed winced at the brutal power of the contraption. At least he’d disabled this one before it took his foot off.

He stepped onto a patch of pine needles then swept his foot over the top of the grass. About five feet away, he saw more rust-colored metal. Sure enough, there was a second trap. This one was still engaged and waiting.

He snapped another photo and texted it to Jason.

Have you ever seen anything like this?

Three dots appeared immediately, and Creed waited while his eyes scanned the property. Clouds were already moving in. Gray, bulging ones. He was right about that storm. Which meant there would be rain and lightning.

Jason texted:

Not in this country. Looks like an antiquated bear trap.

Ask Brodie if there are bears in this part of Mississippi.

He glanced again at the heavy industrial padlock on the back door. That wasn’t put in place to keep out a bear.

She says only around the Delta and southern area of the state.

That’s what I thought. Thanks.

Where’d you find this?

Ten feet from the back door of the house.

That could take a dog’s leg off. Hell, it could have taken your leg off at the ankle.

Thankfully, Grace wasn't with me. And I was using Brodie’s pole.

He didn’t mention that the pole hadn’t prevented Brodie from falling into that thorn bush.

Brodie says to be careful. We've stopped for some fast food.

Text me when you get home. Tell Hannah I’m still hoping to drive back tonight.

A thumbs-up, and Creed slipped the phone into his back pocket.

And there it was. In the distance, he heard the first rumble of thunder. Checking out the remaining outbuildings was not worth the risk unless Grace led him there. Someone was using this property and had set up plenty of warnings, from the electric fencing to bear traps. Maybe Sheriff Daniels already knew that. Maybe that’s why he didn’t bother to conduct his own search.

Brodie believed the man had been lying to them. And Creed remembered twice when the sheriff looked spooked. Almost as if he expected someone to be watching. But then he’d quickly lapsed back into a casual “there’s-nothing-to-see-here” demeanor.

With an approaching storm, Creed estimated he and Grace had thirty minutes to an hour at best. He backtracked around the house, staying as close as possible to his own footprints.

Grace was batting at the side window when she saw him. This time her licks were relentless as he tried to prep her vest. The little dog could most likely smell his anxiety, and she was trying her best to make sure he was okay. He let her do what she had to do and waited for a few seconds longer until her tongue and nose were finished with him.

Creed checked his pack for a Naloxone kit with enough of the antidote for both of them. If his instincts were correct, they might run into drugs. He pulled out a fresh canister of bear spray and attached its holster to his belt. If Brodie’s instincts were correct, they would not run into a bear.

Last, he found the sling he sometimes used to carry Grace. He looped it over his shoulder. It wasn’t the most efficient method for scent detection, and Grace begrudgingly tolerated it. But if one of them accidentally stepped into a trap he was making sure it would not be her.

Just as he was ready to head out, Norwich’s SUV turned onto the long driveway. Before she got out of the vehicle, he could see her down-turned mouth. She wasn’t happy about them being back here. She had tried her best to talk him out of it.

“I took an extra turn,” she explained. “I was worried Lydia would follow me. That woman is frantic.”

Creed kept quiet. That feeling was still fresh in his memory. He remembered all too well what it felt like. The urgency to keep looking when everyone else around you had stopped.

Those years he and his mother searched for Brodie were a mix of hope always followed by a gut-punch. They’d get a lead and be elated, riding on a wave of adrenaline. Then the lead would turn to nothing. Panic, helplessness, defeat. As a teenager, he had hoped joining the Marines and going to Afghanistan would quiet that anxiety of not knowing where Brodie was. It did not.

Norwich was watching him. Waiting. He and Grace were ready to go. She pulled on her ball cap and gestured for him to lead the way.

31

David City, Nebraska

By the time Sara made her way inside the café, it had emptied enough for her to grab a table in the corner. It wouldn’t be long before the dinner rush began.

She took the seat that kept her back to the wall. Pushed off her hood. Ran fingers through her hair then patted it down. She dared a quick glance at her reflection in the window, only to make sure she didn’t look as wild and crazy as she felt right now.

Casually, she slipped the menu out from behind the napkin holder, despite already memorizing every item from the café’s website.

“What can I get for you?”

The waitress’ smile was genuine, but her eyes were tired. Sara checked for a name tag. There was none. That was okay. Sara knew who she was. Though she looked older than her years.

“What kind of soup do you have today?”

“Let me check which ones we have left. I’ll be right back.”

Sara’s foot tapped the chair leg. She knew the soups on today’s menu. She didn’t mean to send her away. She hated dragging out a mission once she began. The smell of grilled meat and greasy French fries made her stomach growl. It hadn’t been that long since she’d eaten the burrito. Maybe she needed more protein. Maybe she needed to stop second-guessing herself.

The waitress delivered a platter to another table and was back, “Chicken noodle and house chili.”

“I’ll have the chicken noodle.”

“Salad?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Coke?”

“Coffee. Just black.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” Maybe that sounded rude, and Sara quickly added, “Thanks.”

Satisfied, the waitress smiled, nodded, and left.

Sara knew she spent way too much time alone. The social norms were hard to pin down. Even now as she observed the other diners, finding patterns in their behavior was much more difficult than learning how to fix a leaky pipe under the sink.

Small talk? She had no idea what that included. All of it sounded artificial to her ears. Her conversations with Granny El were easy. But what made them easy? Sara wished she could figure that out. No matter what she did, sometimes she still felt like Iris’ little robot.

When Iris first allowed Sara to run errands, she strapped on a tracker to Sara’s ankle. She told Sara she’d be able to see everywhere she went and hear everything she said. By that time, Sara had already learned it was easier to do what Iris wanted than to fight her. Starvation and sleep deprivation had a way of snuffing out the fight. What it taught Sara was that she needed to be careful of every move she made and every word she spoke. Instead of learning how to have conversations, she found herself nodding, shrugging, and gesturing as if she were mute.

In no time, the waitress was back. The soup smelled wonderful. When she placed it in front of her, Sara leaned over the steaming bowl. On the plate underneath were three pads of butter, individually wrapped in foil. Real butter. She almost missed the covered basket the woman put down.

“What’s this?”

“Fresh bread.” The waitress’ smile widened. “The owner bakes every morning. It comes with the soup.”

Sara couldn’t believe her good fortune. Instead of questioning further, she remembered to just smile and say, “Thank you.”

But suddenly, the waitress turned to leave, and Sara wasn’t finished with her. She stopped her with, “Charlotte?”

The woman spun around like someone would do if and when hearing her name called, but her eyes flashed with surprise. There was something else. Fear? Maybe panic? And in that brief moment, she confirmed what Sara already knew.

“That’s not my name,” she told Sara as she glanced around, almost as if expecting a challenge to that statement. Then came another smile. Forced this time.

“Rachel. My name’s Rachel. Sorry. I should have mentioned that earlier. It’s been a really long day.”

“That’s okay. You remind me of someone I knew years ago. That’s all. Thank you for the soup. And the bread.”

She stared at Sara, and for a second, Sara worried Rachel might recognize her.

Finally, she said, “Let me know if you need anything else,” and hurried away.

Sara broke off a piece of bread. Baked fresh this morning. Golden-brown crust, soft and warm in the middle. She carefully unfolded a pad of butter. It was a luxury she wasn’t used to, so she took her time spreading it on the bread and watching it melt. It made her think of Granny El’s homemade jams. The aromas from the bread and soup brought back comforting memories. The rare few Sara had.

She glanced around at the other diners and only then remembered to unfold a napkin and place it in her lap. No one paid attention to her. They wouldn’t notice if her manners were rusty. She knew how to blend in well.

Finally, she leaned over the bowl and spooned up a bite of soup. She would eat every last bit of it. The bread, too. It was going to be cold outside tonight. She’d need the extra nutrition.

32

David City, Nebraska

Maggie was exhausted by the time she and Pakula returned to his SUV. The temperature had begun to fall. Soon the sun would slip below the wide-open horizon. Slush in the streets quickly transitioned to ice. The black-crusted piles of snow between vehicles hardened. Her boot disappeared into a drift she had to climb over to hop up into the vehicle. That’s when she noticed the flyer before Pakula did.

Stuck underneath the windshield wiper, the single piece of paper looked like an advertisement for local events. But the side that faced down, staring at Maggie, had handwriting. The block printing was subtle, with fine lines and easily mistaken as part of the flyer’s information. Pakula pulled it out, ready to crush and toss it when Maggie knocked on the glass then gestured for him to bring it inside.

As he slid into the driver’s seat, he said, “If you’re not totally starving, I already have a place in mind for us to go. Mostly pubs and fast food around here.” He held up the flyer, mistakenly thinking she wanted to check out the local cuisine.

“No, there’s a message.”

With the sun behind clouds and on its way down, there was barely enough light, but she could see she was right. Inked on the back was a list of some sort. She couldn’t make out the words.

“Maybe someone knew we were here for Iris’ hearing,” she said.

“No secret there. I told you, I stand out like a flamingo in a flock of pigeons.”

Maggie glanced at him. The phrase made her smile. “Flamingo?”

But Pakula was already twisting in his seat, searching and scanning the street as if he could pinpoint the person who’d left it. While she fumbled her phone out of her jacket pocket, her eyes caught a single word on the page. It stopped her cold. Her pulse ticked up.

“What is it?” Pakula noticed. “I can turn the overhead light on.”

“No. Don’t. I already have a flamingo in the car. No need to draw more attention.” But her tone was tense, despite the attempt at humor.

Instead of turning on her phone’s flashlight, she used the screen’s light. There were three columns scratched out. No lines. Only their placement to indicate the author’s intent. Numbers lined up down the left side, but it was the top word of that column of numbers that hit a nerve.

“It’s a list of numbers,” she told Pakula.

This time, she looked up and scanned the people on the sidewalks, those pumping gas at the convenience store, and the diners coming in and out of the café. Was it possible that the person had waited and was watching them?

He started the engine. Turned on the heater. All the while, his eyes were checking the rearview and side mirrors. “They want to be anonymous. Let them be anonymous.”

He pulled out of the parking space and headed for the outskirts of town. Despite the alarm building inside Maggie, Pakula was as calm as ever.

“I know a great Mexican restaurant in Elkhorn,” he told her. “We can get a corner table and don’t need to worry about anyone looking over our shoulder.”

“Okay.” The numbers down the column were not consecutive. Maybe there was a sequence. Maybe they were random.

“Maggie.”

It took her a minute to realize he was waiting to get her attention.

The sudden darkness of the countryside surrounded them. Snow-covered pastures and distant headlights skimmed the horizon. In the blue dash light, Pakula’s shaved head made him look like a character from Star Trek.

She put the paper down on her lap. Set her phone on top of it and kept her hands from fidgeting.

“We can figure it out at the restaurant,” she said.

“Sure. Okay. But you have to tell me now why a bunch of numbers has you spooked.”

“I am not spooked.”

“Okay,” but the look he shot her said he didn’t believe her.

“At the top of one of the columns is the word, Charlotte.”

He was quiet for a long time. “Could be a prankster. Someone trying to yank our chain.”

“Could be.” She didn’t believe that at all. No one in this community wanted to talk about Iris Malone, let alone prank about her. “Or it could be someone brave,” Maggie said. “Like a survivor.”

33

Mississippi

Creed carted Grace in the sling, tucked under his arm all the way to the meadow. When the trees got thicker and the path narrowed, he slid the dog against his chest so they could pass through the woods.

He glanced back a couple of times to make sure Norwich was okay. Instead of going to Kyle’s SUV, Creed stopped about thirty feet away. Crime scene tape flapped in the breeze. Footprints and several sets of tire tracks trampled down the tall grass. Unlike yesterday, the area would now be filled with all kinds of new scents. Ones that Grace would need to sift through. Ones that had nothing to do with Kyle Lawrence.

He released her onto the ground, clicking the leash to her search vest. He offered her a drink of water. Grace took a lick only to satisfy him then tap-danced impatiently, wanting to get to work. She poked her nose in the direction of his daypack, a bad habit she’d learned from Scout. By the time he yanked out Kyle’s ball cap, Grace was on her back feet, pedaling her front ones and trying to sniff at the cap.

“Grace, this is Kyle.”

Creed preferred putting a name to the scent. Yesterday they weren’t able to do that. As it turned out, it was a good thing they hadn’t. The scents they presented to the dogs were a wipe from the steering wheel and an anonymous dirty sock. Now they knew those items included enough of the woman’s scent to lead both dogs to her body.

This time, he could be certain the ball cap Lydia had given him had Kyle’s scent. It didn’t matter if Kyle hadn’t worn it for days or even weeks. It would still have his scent from his hair and his skin rafts embedded in the fabric.

Grace buried her twitching nose inside the bowl of the cap, snorting deep down. She moved to the sweat-stained rim, inching around it. In a matter of seconds, she was ready, not giving the vehicle behind her a glance.

She worked her nose over a clump of scrub grass. Trotted around it then started poking the air. Creed expected her to find a cone of scent close to Kyle’s SUV then take them on the same path as the woman but eventually veer off. Instead, Grace headed back to the woods, only this time in the opposite direction. Not even close to the path they had used.

Creed allowed extra lead until they arrived at the trees. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds. Soon, it would be sunset with or without it. Entering the woods again was like hitting a dimmer switch. His eyes needed time to adjust. Grace’s eyes did not. She tugged on the leash while her nose twitched more rapidly. He didn’t dare let her loose and simply follow. In fact, that bear trap made him hold on to her leash tighter.

The rumble of thunder drew closer. They had less time than he’d predicted. At the first sign of lightning, Creed was prepared to scoop up Grace and head back to the Jeep.

He didn’t waste time looking back for Norwich. He could hear her trying to catch up. Grace plowed deeper into the woods, a part of the property less traveled. The little dog leaped over fallen branches. Creed raced to keep up, making sure the leash didn’t tangle. It was a challenge that got more difficult.

Where Grace scooted under thickets and slipped between trees, Creed tripped and twisted. Branches ripped his shirt. Switch-like twigs whipped at his face and flicked off his cap. Twice his daypack snagged and jolted him backward. Grace stopped only to give him a quick look, an impatient glance to see why he was holding her up.

He lost track of how far they’d gone. He couldn’t hear Norwich behind them any longer. Nothing looked familiar. Grace slowed to sniff and weave through another junkyard of rusty equipment and abandoned vehicles that were squeezed between the trees. This graveyard appeared more ancient than the first one they’d seen closer to the house. Kudzu climbed over everything, revealing only bits and pieces of dull metal, a broken headlight here and there, a glint of chrome bumper.

Grace skidded to a full stop behind what looked like an eighteen-foot-long green monster.

Underneath the vines and kudzu, Creed could barely make out the long-framed vehicle. The chipped wood-grain siding peeked through the foliage covering it. The back window and door gate were somewhere under a massive branch that had fallen on top. It dented the long roof of what was once a station wagon. Nature had encased the vehicle so completely, it was impossible to get a glimpse inside.

He looked at Grace. Her eyes met his, and she sat down. She poked her nose up without breaking eye contact. There was no mistaking her alert. She was all but shouting at him, “Here’s Kyle. I found him.”

Rustling and crunching footfalls reminded Creed of Norwich. He turned just in time to see her swatting and batting her way through the hanging vines and low-lying branches.

“We’re over here,” he called out to her and waved an arm.

“I don’t think anyone’s been out here in years.” She came up beside them, bent down with hands on her knees. Out of breath. And just then, her head pivoted when she saw Grace. “Clearly, I’m wrong.”

Creed looked for some clue, some opening or disturbance in the massive overgrowth. He’d forgotten Grace’s reward and fumbled with his daypack. His fingers searched for her squeaky elephant. But when he pulled it out and presented it to Grace, she continued to poke her nose to the back of the covered vehicle.

Norwich glanced at Creed and raised her eyebrows. She’d been on enough searches with the two of them to know this wasn’t part of the process. But then the last twenty-four hours and this property were nothing like any of their other searches.

He put the reward elephant back into his pack and brought out his camping knife. Norwich assisted, pulling back and holding vines while he sawed through. The thick canopy above made it impossible to see the interior, even as they cleared away the back window. Norwich pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight. She swiped her hand across the glass, trying to clean away the dirt and grime. Then she shot the light inside.

Curled up in a pile on the old station wagon’s bench seat was the body of a man.

“Unbelievable,” Norwich whispered. “They dragged his body all the way here so no one could find him. And we almost didn’t.”

But Creed was watching Grace. She was doing a tiptoe dance at their feet, wagging and smiling. When she saw she had his attention, she reared up on her back legs. She wanted to get a look for herself.

“Just unbelievable.”

“Frances,” Creed said, needing to get her attention and using her first name. Something he never did. It worked.

She glanced at him, then shot a look down at Grace.

“We need to call an ambulance and a rescue crew,” he told her. “He might be alive.”

34

One of the first things Creed learned early in his K9 handling career was that dogs don’t attach emotion to the dead bodies they find. They do, however, get excited when they locate a lost or missing person. The major difference? Dead bodies smell of decomposition. Grace was telling them Kyle Lawrence was still alive. She’d found her missing person and wanted to see him.

While Norwich had tried to give instructions to a dispatcher, Creed smashed the back window. He pried open the back of the station wagon. Glass shattered. Metal scraped. The man they believed to be Kyle didn’t appear to notice any of it. But Creed thought he saw his body tremble. He could hear faint moans just as he wrenched open the back door. Hinges screeched loud enough to send birds flapping.

Creed crawled into the back, knees crunching glass. The bench seat had collapsed long ago. He still had to duck and twist his way under the bent-in roof.

He called Kyle’s name. Eyelids fluttered. His head bobbed. Creed saw a wound on his forehead, caked with blood and dirt. There was more smeared on his shirt and pants.

Creed reached slowly and pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. Found a pulse. It throbbed. Kyle’s eyelids fluttered again. His only reaction to Creed’s presence.

He tugged on latex gloves from his pocket and carefully ran his hands over other places. Not an easy task in the narrow compartment. Kyle’s fetal position made it more difficult. Immediately, Creed noticed his wrists weren’t tied. Neither were his feet. If someone dragged and shoved him in here, they didn’t expect him to live.

Or Kyle found his way here and hid himself.

With a mini-Maglite in one hand, Creed gently probed. He searched for wounds that might need staunching before a rescue crew arrived. Kyle’s clothes were covered with so much blood Creed wondered how much was Kyle’s. The most serious wound was a nasty slice along his right side, but it had crusted over, plastering his T-shirt to the skin. Creed decided to leave it alone. The T-shirt was already doing a better job than Creed could. He didn’t dare pull it away and risk more bleeding.

The tap-tap of rain didn’t last. Within seconds, it began pounding the roof. He’d forgotten about the storm, and now it was on top of them. The lightning had been a major concern an hour ago. Now it helped light the inside of the vehicle.

“Kyle? We’ve got help coming. Just hang on. Okay?”

More trembling. Another groan. Fists and knees shifted tighter to his chest. Creed searched around the inside. Everything was musty with a layer of grime. He peeled off his shirt and draped it over the man.

“Hang on,” he told him again and wormed his way back out of the tight squeeze.

The downpour felt good. He tilted his face to the sky, welcoming the rain and hoping it would wash away the blood, dirt, and sweat from his body. The fresh scent of pine cleared the must and grime from his nostrils. Norwich and Grace had found shelter under an evergreen’s huge branches, tucking themselves into the tree. Both were drenched. Creed ducked and crawled in beside them.

“He’s breathing,” he told Norwich. “But not responsive. He’s got a scrape on his head and a cut along his torso.”

“I gave them directions to the property,” she shouted over the rain. “We’ll need to meet them and guide them back here.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not even sure how to get back. Are you?”

“Honestly? I lost track.”

Her face fell, and he saw the panic close to the surface.

“Grace will find the way.”

The little dog had slipped under his arm. Now, she jumped up and licked his chin when she heard her name. The rain had matted down her wiry coat. Her ears flopped, drips running down the tips. But Grace hardly noticed. She was still hyped from her find and ready to start again.

Norwich, however, didn’t look convinced.

“I taught her a trick that might come in handy.”

Norwich stared at him. Not even a hint of a smile. She looked worn and tired and soaking wet. The sheriff had collapsed on him once before in the woods. After a search. It was hard for Creed not to think about that day. She ended up having an emergency heart procedure. He constantly reminded himself that she was leaner and stronger than ever now, but he still couldn’t shake that moment he thought they’d lost her. On his search. On his watch.

She must have seen a flash of concern on his face. She swiped at her wet hair plastered to her forehead as she said, “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I just don’t have a clue how we’re going to get that boy through these woods.”

“Can you text them to bring a Sked stretcher? Or a spine back board. Something lightweight to strap him down and carry him.”

“Is that s-k-e-d?”

“Yeah. It’s flexible plastic. Narrow. Allows the patient to be wrapped down and around. We used something similar for helicopter rescues. They know he’s in the middle of the woods, right?”

She kept texting as she said, “Yes. And I told them he’d need to be carried out.”

When she finished, she dropped her phone back into her pocket and shook her head.

“What is it?” Creed asked.

“I almost tried to talk you out of coming back here. I thought it was a waste of time.”

“Hannah says I can be as stubborn as a mule sometimes.”

Norwich smiled at that, but he could see the emotional weight on her face. Guilt, blame, regret. He wasn’t sure which.

“You know where mules get their stubborn reputation?” he asked instead.

She shook her head again, her eyes still serious.

The rain had gone from a downpour to a sprinkle. That was the Florida Panhandle. No guarantee it was over, although the rumble of thunder softened. Lightning flickered only in the distance. Creed felt his tension relax. He recognized the adrenaline dump, and soon the exhaustion would invade his body. He needed to keep the fatigue from taking over his mind as well.

“Mules are very intelligent.,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood. “They’re one of the few animals that if they sense any kind of danger or think their own safety is in jeopardy, they won’t move forward. Horses tend to panic. They’ll run. Mules? They stop, literally in their tracks. People call it stubborn. But honestly? They’re just following their instinct.”

“Today I’m grateful you’re as stubborn as a mule.” Norwich said.

Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it from her pocket. “They’re twenty to thirty minutes from the property. You and Grace go meet them, and I’ll wait here.”

Immediately, his gut instinct didn’t like that plan.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “I just don’t want to leave Kyle here by himself. The storm’s leaving. I’ll be fine.”

He still hesitated.

“I’m not leaving this boy alone a second time,” she said. And he understood.

“I’ll text you as soon as we get to the Jeep. Is there anything I can bring back for you?”

“I could use a vodka and tonic, but I’ll wait for that.”

He was relieved to hear the humor.

The three of them exited from under the tree. They looked like they’d been in a dunking tank. Grace shook herself and sent a spray flying. He wished he could do the same. He’d covered Kyle with his long-sleeved, button-down shirt and now realized how chilly the crisp air had turned. It didn’t matter. He’d soon work up a sweat.

Norwich watched as Creed pulled protein bars out of his pack. He offered one to Norwich. “Hannah makes these for the dogs, but everything in them is human-grade.”

She simply thanked him and started opening the Ziploc bag. Creed fed one to Grace while he munched his own. Then he offered water all around. When he was finished, he squatted in front of Grace, adjusting her vest and making sure the GPS tracker was tucked inside. He latched onto her leash, not about to end this day in a bear trap.

He’d taught her this trick during a downtime when the little dog was bored. She loved learning new things. He’d used it in the field a few times when he was dealing with brain fog or had truly lost all sense of direction and needed her help. So, he knew if he told her to go back to “find,” she’d take him to where they began the search, the exact place he’d asked her to “Find Kyle.”

But he’d given her that command in the meadow. Near Kyle’s SUV. That would be a long trek. More than anything, he needed her to take him back to the Jeep instead. There had to be a shortcut. No way he’d find it on his own. But Grace might. She could probably bypass the long trek to the meadow and through the other side of the woods.

She knew the word “Jeep.” He’d taught her to associate it as a safe place to return. That lesson was in case he became incapacitated. No matter where they were or how far they’d ventured on a search, if he wasn’t able to return, someone would eventually find his Jeep. And they’d find Grace there, safe and waiting.

The problem was, he’d never tried it before. He hoped it worked. Despite her excitement, he knew both of them were drained. Their muscles fatigued. Adrenaline spent. Kyle couldn’t afford them getting lost.

“Grace,” she was ready for his command. Ready to get back to work. Ears perked. Eyes sparkling. Her amazing energy and spirit gave him a boost of his own.

“Grace, take us back to the Jeep.”

35

In what seemed like only minutes, they were breaking free of the woods. He could see the house and the driveway. And the Jeep! Not only had Grace gotten them back, but she’d found a shortcut.

Creed put Grace inside the back. Tilted the moonroof to let in fresh air. He was toweling her off when he saw the headlights coming up the driveway.

Except the vehicle wasn’t an ambulance or a rescue crew.

It was the county sheriff’s department SUV. Of course, Sheriff Daniels would have heard the news and possibly even the request for emergency vehicles.

“Grace, stay,” he told her, putting his finger to his lips. She lay down. She knew to stay quiet. The dog was so exhausted, she didn’t need more instruction to rest.

He closed and locked the Jeep. Then he heard the other engine cut behind him, followed by the slamming of a car door. Creed walked toward the silhouette of the man who now approached with quick steps across the scrub grass.

It wasn’t Sheriff Daniels. It was the deputy.

“Hey,” Creed called out and waved, trying to hide his surprise and at the same time remember the man’s name. “Are the rescue crews right behind you?”

He turned to search between the trees, but he didn’t see any other headlights up the road. The rain had taken a break, but heavy gray clouds threatened more. This time when Creed looked back at the deputy, he had his service revolver out. And he was pointing it at Creed.

“Hey, wait a minute. What’s the problem?” Creed stopped in his tracks with his hands loose at his sides. “Deputy Perry, right? What’s going on?”

“I need you to take me to him.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“Why can’t we wait for the rescue crew?”

“We’re not waiting. Lead me to him right now.”

“So, this was all you? Your deal gone wrong?”

“What? No.”

“Isn’t this where you pick up all your drug drop-offs?” Creed had no idea, but he needed to stall. Norwich said the rescue crews were close.

Deputy Perry laughed, but his narrow eyes squinted, and his thin lips didn’t smile. “You think you’re so smart. You think you’ve got it all figured out. Let’s get moving.” He gestured with the revolver, a bit reckless.

Creed wondered if he’d even fired the weapon before. It looked like a prop in his hand. Whether or not Perry knew how to use it, didn’t make it less dangerous.

“So, I take you to him and then what? Are you planning on killing him? Because then you have to kill me, too. Right?”

“You don’t have to get hurt if you just take me to him.”

The lie wasn’t convincing.

“Kyle’s not even coherent. He won’t be able to tell you anything.”

“He already delivered the package. He just needs to not talk about it. Now, let’s go.”

“Why would I take you, knowing you’re going to kill both of us?”

“Hmm, good question,” Deputy Perry said as he glanced over Creed’s shoulder at his Jeep. Immediately, Creed felt ice sluice through his veins even before the man added, “Maybe so I won’t kill your dog.”

It took everything Creed had to stop from looking back. He didn’t need to look. He knew. He could feel Grace watching. If she suspected danger, she might even be pawing at the window.

“I remember the way,” Creed said, tamping down the anger while his mind raced. He wished there was a way to warn Norwich. Once they got back into the woods, it would be tight going forward. This guy would have the gun barrel practically sticking into Creed’s back. There would be no escaping.

“We have to start back behind the house,” Creed lied.

“Let’s go then.”

Creed had suspected that Sheriff Daniels nor Perry had checked any of the buildings on the property. Not even the house. In the dark it was difficult to find the path he had stomped into the long grass. The downpour had battered and matted everything while dropping additional broken branches and leaves.

Deputy Perry was several inches shorter than Creed, and his stride was also much shorter. Where Creed easily jumped over puddles and fallen branches, Perry struggled. But he still kept up, his hand tight on the gun and pointed at Creed’s back.

“So, what was the package?” Creed asked, slowing down and trying for casual conversation.

Perry snorted an attempted laugh. “Listen, I’m just a go-between. But I’m guessing it was the girl. A shame. She was a looker. Stupid bitch brought her new boyfriend.”

Creed had no idea what that meant. The girl was “the package?”

In his gut, he knew this property was being used for nefarious business. Why padlock a house that looked like it could collapse on itself?

And Perry? Creed only remembered Sheriff Daniels saying that he trusted the man. Something about hiring him when he recently became sheriff.

“The go-between,” Creed stopped at the back corner of the house. “And now, the clean-up guy.”

Perry stared at him. It was obvious he didn’t like that moniker. He pulled down the brim of his cap. His eyes slatted. Jaw clenched. Creed could see it. The man wanted to shoot him right here, right now. He didn’t need any target practice, because everything would be close contact: execution style.

Perry would easily shoot him and Kyle and even Norwich. He’d come back and kill Grace, too. Creed could see all of that in the guy’s dead eyes as they continued to narrow and stare at him. Now, he wondered if Perry was even a real deputy.

“Let’s just move along,” he finally told Creed and held the gun up as a reminder. He glanced back at the road. There was a hint of urgency in that glance.

“You got a story ready for the rescue crew?” Creed asked.

“Stop jabbering and get moving.”

Creed kept his stride with his head up, eyes down. He searched and scanned the ground. Everything looked different after the downpour. Long grasses flattened with debris and twigs woven in-between. Ten feet out. He recognized nothing!

He glanced back at the corner of the house only to be shoved by Perry.

“Hold on a minute.” He stopped and held his hands up. “Everything looks different in the dark,” he told Perry with his back to the man so he couldn’t see Creed’s eyes desperately searching the ground. “I need to find the same spot to enter the woods. If I choose the wrong one, we’ll both end up lost.”

Just when he thought he’d overshot the area, he saw a piece of metal peeking out.

“There it is,” Creed pointed to an opening between the trees only twenty feet away. As Perry leaned to see where Creed was gesturing, Creed side-stepped. In the same motion, he twisted around and grabbed Perry’s arm.

The man had already lifted the gun. Finger on the trigger. The first bullet whizzed past Creed’s ear. The second grazed his left arm, hot iron racing through his skin.

The pain took him by surprise. Instead of trying to disarm the man, Creed shoved him.

Perry stumbled backward. His feet high-stepped and his arms windmilled as he tried to regain his balance. The whole time, he still gripped the revolver, ready to fire again. One last step and a violent metallic click-click-clash thundered in the grass.

The scream sent birds flapping and critters skittering.

Creed dropped to his belly while Perry unloaded the gun. Shots recklessly streamed everywhere. Creed waited until the last bullet had been fired. Until the scream transitioned into whimpers.

While he crawled around the house, he heard new noises. Still on his knees, he could see the front yard had filled with rescue vehicles. Headlights blazed in different directions. Maybe a dozen uniformed crew members moved quickly, pulling out and assembling equipment.

Before Creed stood, he felt a large man towering over him. Huge combat boots inches from Creed’s hands. He looked up to find another gun barrel. This one pointed at his head. In the stream from headlights, he saw the man’s “don’t mess with me” expression along with the STATE PATROL cap.

They had to have seen Perry’s county sheriff’s SUV. They must have heard the gunfire and Perry’s screams. How in the world would he convince them he wasn’t the bad guy? Still on his knees, Creed simply held up his hands.

That’s when he saw the giant of a man had a phone in his other hand, pressed against his face. The gun never left its position. Nor did the man’s eyes.

“Okay, hold up a minute. Describe, please.” While he listened, he finally seemed to give Creed his full attention. He pulled the phone away and asked, “You Ryder Creed?”

Creed managed to nod.

“Before you tell me what the hell just happened behind that house, someone wants to talk to you.” He handed Creed the phone. “Talk. Then be ready to go in ten.”

The man turned and left to join the others.

Creed sat back on his haunches. His fingers trembled when he lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ryder, are you okay?” It was Norwich. “I heard gunshots.”

36

David City, Nebraska

Sara waited until long after dark. She’d memorized every angle of the street. Listened carefully, so even now when she couldn’t see, she could identify the sounds around her.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait some more. Quietly.

Her foot cramped, but she refused to readjust. It was colder than expected. Her fingers felt numb despite the gloves. Her back ached from being hunched over. She’d practiced mind games to detach from her discomfort. Just when she thought she couldn’t last another minute, she heard the click-clunk of the car’s locks disengaging.

She froze. Tightened herself into a ball behind the driver’s seat. Held her breath as the car door opened. Bit her lip as the person’s weight dropped and pressed against her.

The seatbelt slithered into place.

Another click-clunk as the locks engaged.

A pause. A long pause.

Was there a scent? A sound? Something Sara hadn’t considered. Was her cover about to be blown? Why was it taking so long?

Finally, the engine started, and the car began to move.

Stop and go. Three stop signs.

Sara had counted them out ahead of time.

In a matter of minutes, they drove out of town. Away from streetlights. Into the dark. Five more minutes and they’d leave the highway.

Sara waited. Her breath slowed and kept even. It would be impossible to hear her over the car’s radio. Soft rock. The volume low. The music hummed with the heater’s fan. Warm air filled the inside, thawing her limbs, bringing feeling back to her fingers. But also reviving aches and pains she had commanded her mind to ignore.

Just a few more minutes, she told her body.

The car slowed. Then turned.

Gravel pinged against the undercarriage, vibrating against Sara’s tucked legs. She had plenty of time now. Still, she wanted this over. The longer it took, the messier it would be.

Her hand traced over the floormat and wrapped around the grip of the Smith & Wesson revolver. It was the smaller of the two handguns she owned. This one couldn't take down a drone but worked fine for this job. She kept it where she could feel it and grab it. But she didn’t want to handle it while she waited. Instead, she wanted her grip to be fresh and solid, not cramped and stiff. Now, her fingers easily slid around it.

The floor thumped then dropped. A couple of sudden potholes caught Sara off guard. She stifled a groan, but her body banged against the back of the seat.

Now! It had to be now.

In seconds, she popped up. Her left hand grabbed the seatbelt and pulled tight while her right hand came around the seat. The revolver's barrel pressed against Rachel’s temple before she let out a gasp. When she slammed on the brakes, Sara was already prepared, hanging on.

The seatbelt crushed her left hand. She chest-hugged the back of the seat. Her right hand remained steady with the revolver slipping only slightly and now digging into the side of the woman’s head.

In the rearview mirror, their eyes met. The low dash light emphasized the raw fear on her face.

“You?” Rachel’s voice was a whisper, tinged with pained regret. “I should have known when you called me Charlotte.”

“Listen to me carefully.” Sara kept her tone steady and strong. “Do as I tell you, and this doesn’t need to be painful. Don’t do what I say, and it’s gonna hurt. A lot.”

37

Elkhorn, Nebraska

Maggie couldn’t remember being so relieved to finally see the lights of a city in the close distance. This whole day she found herself on the edge.

Pakula’s restaurant choice was in a quaint historic district with cobblestone streets and picturesque shop fronts. Mexican music poured from a speaker on the enclosed patio area. At the door, a waitress named Christin greeted Pakula with a frown and said, “I’m sorry, I’m going to need to see your license and registration before I can seat you.”

He laughed. They definitely knew each other. Without either of them saying another word, the waitress led them through the crowded dining room and directly to a table in the corner. They both took seats so they could see into the restaurant. Maggie’s back was against a brick wall. Pakula’s back was to a wall of windows that looked out over the street.

The waitress noted their positions and said, “Always working. Always watching, huh?”

“Yup, you got that right. Christin, this is Maggie O’Dell with the FBI.”

She raised an eyebrow as she set the menus in front of them. Then to Maggie she said, “He never brings his wife. Talks about her. But we’ve never seen her. You might look into that.”

Pakula laughed again. “She’s not a Mexican food connoisseur.”

Still looking at Maggie and ignoring Pakula, Christin said, “Yeah, we’re not sure a wife really exists.” Without missing a beat, she asked Maggie, “Can I get you started with a margarita?”

“Actually, a beer sounds good.”

“Make that two,” Pakula chimed in.

“Your regular brand?”

He nodded.

“I’ll bring some chips and salsa, too.”

Maggie peeled off her jacket. Mexican music played from the speakers. The place was warm and colorful. And smelled good.

“Nice change,” she told Pakula. Usually when they worked a case, they grabbed hamburgers to go.

It didn’t take long, and Christin brought the beers and chips with four different salsas. After she took their orders, Maggie pulled out the flyer. She smoothed it out on the table between them while Pakula brought out a pair of eyeglasses. The restaurant’s light was dim but much better than the SUV.

The block printing looked as if it had been scribbled in a hurry, but there were four distinct columns, despite the slant and the lines being uneven.

Maggie’s index finger pointed out the top reference of each column, reading aloud and gliding her finger across from left to right.

“Charlotte#, original name, PLS, and DOE. DOE has numbers and slashes that look like dates. Do you suppose PLS is place last seen?”

He pointed to a line in that column, “Chalco.” “If this is what I think it is, then yes.”

“What is Chalco?”

“Chalco Hills Recreation Area. That’s where they pulled the woman out of the lake. The one we saw in the morgue.”

She took a gulp of beer and stared at Pakula. “It can’t be the same woman, can it? Didn’t they just find her yesterday?”

He moved his finger to the next column on the same line. “DOE is yesterday’s date.”

Maggie stared at the numbers. “So, DOE is what?”

“Date of…”

“Elimination. Or Expiration. How does this person know that?”

“It might have been in the news.”

“But no one’s released her identity yet, have they?”

He pulled out his phone and started checking messages. Then tapped out his own and sent it.

Maggie slid her finger from column to column. “According to this, she was Charlotte #8. Her name was Nina Wrobel.”

Pakula’s phone already dinged a response.

“No one’s identified her yet. According to Jules, they haven’t had any inquiries, media or otherwise. He submitted the DNA like we asked.”

“So, the only person who might know who she is, and that she was found, would be the killer.”

“Or the person who deposited the body in the lake.” His eyes met hers over the frame of his glasses. “I think we can safely rule out a prankster.”

He scooted his chair closer to the table and put his index finger where Maggie’s had been. He pushed his reading glasses up. His finger stayed on the same line as Chalco and slid back and forth as if trying to confirm. The grid was hand-drawn and hastily, so the lines were slanted. Blue ink smudged at the corners.

Then Pakula brought his phone out again and punched a number from his contacts. While Pakula gave someone the names and details, Maggie leaned in closer to take a look at the rest of the list.

There were five Charlottes listed, but the numbers were not one through five. In fact, the first number was two then four, seven, eight and six.

She recognized another PLS. “Wanahoo” had to be Lake Wanahoo. During that scavenger hunt that Elijah Dunn had taken Maggie and Ryder on, they’d found a body at the bottom of the lake. She scanned across to the next column and DOE coincided with Elijah’s book of the dead. The original name matched, too.

Elijah had been dead for over a year now. Yet someone, including the killer of yesterday’s victim, had this list.

Then she noticed something else.

She brought her beer glass down too hard with a thump on the table. Her chair screeched on the tile as she brought it closer. She stopped herself and glanced around. No one else in the busy restaurant seemed to notice, thanks to the mariachi band’s blaring trumpets. Except Pakula noticed. He’d finished his phone call.

“What is it?” he asked in almost a whisper, his eyes roving over the paper searching for himself.

“I thought it might be someone simply using Elijah’s victims’ list. Lake Wanahoo. Kristel Unger. Remember? We found her over a year ago. But look at the other dates.”

Pakula pushed up his glasses. “They’re all within the last month, including yesterday. Wait, a minute. One of these happened today?”

“Someone’s in a hurry. Iris goes on trial soon.” She waited for his eyes to meet hers. “I think he’s eliminating the rest of the Charlottes.”

38

Nebraska

The night was darker than Sara had hoped. Out in the middle of pastures and woods, only the moon lit her way. Except the moon kept deserting her, slipping in and out from behind the clouds.

Her body was damp with sweat, and though she had dressed for it, the cold slid in under her collar and into her boots. The chill in the air promised more snow. A godsend, really. It would cover her tracks, but she hoped it would at least wait until she got back to her truck.

Her eyes adjusted. Her feet knew the paths between the trees and over rutted pastures. She took a shortcut across a cornfield. The snow-covered stubs of harvested cornstalks kept tripping her until she finally found the ditches between the rows. Only once did she fall. A broken barbed-wire fence hidden in the snow grabbed and tangled her ankle, sending her sprawling. Immediately and without warning, that old feeling of being trapped bounced up inside her.

She tamped down the panic.

Steady, slow, calm.

On her feet again. It was taking longer than she expected. The old turnout hidden alongside a grove of walnut trees had to be close by. She’d parked the truck just out of sight, off a dirt road on the outskirts of town. With the snow covering everything, maybe she’d lost sight of the landmarks she depended on.

Then she heard the yip-yip of coyotes. A new chill slid down her back. One was a lonesome sound. But a pack?

Ever since she was a little girl, that primitive howl frightened her. Iris had told her that the wild animals would rip her to shreds if she dared to leave at night. It was a ruse, of course, used against an imaginative and vulnerable little girl. And Sara felt a bit embarrassed that just the sound could bring back that same panic.

Instinctively, she dug into her jacket pocket, finding the revolver. Her hand wrapped around the grip. That’s how she walked the rest of the way. She slowed down so she could scan her surroundings, expecting to see glowing red eyes following her. Hunting her.

Finally, she saw the back of her truck through the trees.

The walk had taken her almost an hour. The drive back to Granny El’s took her only fifteen minutes. Adrenaline spent, she should have at least felt relief. But when she opened the truck door, she saw the blood on her sleeve.

Nothing was ever as simple as it should be.

She wanted to claw the jacket off her body. She wanted to block the memory of Rachel’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

Instead, she sat back in the driver’s seat. Here, inside the barn’s breezeway, she knew she was finally safe. She closed her eyes. Focused on her breathing. Waited for her mind to clear. Back and forth flashes of warm, fresh bread with melted butter. Then finally, she could shift to the taste of sweet mulberry jam and the vision of Granny El standing by the kitchen counter. She could hear her voice encouraging her.

“Go ahead, Sara. Pour it slowly. That’s right. Leave some room at the top of the jar so it’ll seal. Good job!”

As she got out of the truck, she decided to grab a couple of jars of jam from Granny El’s secret stash. The memory left her wanting to be surrounded by the aroma of steaming fruit.

Sara used her phone’s flashlight, something she hadn’t dared turn on during her journey across the pastures. No one could see her here. Inside the barn, under the hayloft was a trapdoor covered with straw and dirt. The old woman had shown it to Sara long ago.

“No one else knows about this place,” she’d told Sara then waved her birdlike hand and added, “Not that they’d care. Iris had no interest in what I do.”

Wooden stairs descended into a cellar. The space was small and cramped. Thick wooden shelves held Mason jars lined up in long, straight rows. Sara hadn’t been down in this space for years, and now she wondered how Granny El had managed climbing the narrow, steep stairs while carrying her basket of jars.

Sara sent a stream of light over the dozens and dozens of jars before landing on one of the labels: SARA’S WILD GRAPE JAM. She swept the light to the next jar: SARA’S WILD RASPBERRY JAM. Row after row: SARA’S PLUM JAM, SARA’S MULBERRY JAM. Jar after jar, no matter the fruit, they were labeled for Sara. All of them were written in Granny El’s distinctive block printing. The old woman had wanted to make sure they were for Sara.

She dropped to sit on the bottom step. The exhaustion of the night had drained every ounce of adrenaline. It had left her feeling hollowed out. Somewhere in the dark, in the clumps of cornstalks or in the massive branches of the cottonwoods and river maples, she had lost another piece of her spirit.

But this…even from beyond death, Granny El had managed to remind her that someone had once cared about her. Thought about her. Loved her.

She pushed herself to her feet. She wanted to take all of them with her because she knew she might never return. Her fingers wrapped around a wild grape. She slipped it into her pocket and started to leave. Stopped and turned back. She picked up a mulberry. Pocketed it. Chose a wild raspberry. No more room in her pockets, so it went under her arm. The phone flashlight in one hand, she grabbed a plum and then climbed back up the narrow stairs. With the side of her boot, she kicked and swept the straw to cover the trapdoor again.

By the time she got to the house, she felt calmer. Buoyed by Granny’s memory.

Until she walked inside.

Shadow didn’t greet her. There was no sign of the dog anywhere.

And suddenly, all the weight of the night, all the dark, shocking actions of what she had to do came down heavy like a sledgehammer between her shoulder blades.

But worse was a deep, visceral pang of sadness.

39

Sara walked slowly from room to room. Her eyes searched while her heart thumped and her stomach continued its nosedive.

Of course, the dog had bolted. She was scared. Alone and still hurting. All those feelings suddenly fresh in Sara’s mind. How could she have left her? Why was she surprised? Somewhere, somehow the frightened dog must have clawed her way out and escaped.

Sara checked under the bed. In the closet. The back porch again. The kitchen pantry. The bathroom. In the living room, she felt her legs wobble. The five-mile walk through pastures and fields and woods had drained her so completely. And now this.

She crashed to the floor on knees that refused to hold her up anymore. She buried her face in her hands. Hands that still had blood on them.

It was too much for one person to bear. All alone. She couldn’t do it. So many days. Too many hours. Alone. With no one to care if she lived or if she died. Threats and sacrifices. Punishment with no reward. A lifetime. She couldn’t even cry about it anymore. She was so completely empty.

A sound startled her. A low-pitched whine. A familiar whine.

Sara sat up. Her head pivoted while her eyes scanned over the two rooms that were adjoined by a large arched doorway. Though she’d taken down the garland and other decorations during her clean-up and remodel, she couldn’t bring herself to put away the Christmas tree. It felt too much like Granny El’s presence. And that’s exactly where the sound was coming from.

Ornaments on the tree bobbed. Movement then a shuffle and a scuff came from behind, but Sara still couldn’t see the dog in the dark corner.

“Hey.” She kept her voice calm and even. She stayed rooted in place, though her first crazy impulse was to rush over. She’d probably scared the poor dog with all her running around and slamming doors.

“I’m sorry,” she told her. “I’m not very good at this. I didn’t mean to leave you for so long. I really am sorry.”

And maybe the apology was more than just for the dog. Maybe it was for all the others she’d let down. Maybe it was for taking the path she’d chosen. It was too late to go back. Too late for regrets. And too late to stop.

She waited. Let the dog come to her. She’d wait all night if she had to. But it didn’t take long, and the dog was there. In front of her. Her nose inspected the blood on Sara’s sleeve. She sniffed the mud on her pant legs. While her nose moved over Sara’s clothing, Sara’s eyes examined her own handiwork, pleased there was no fresh blood anywhere on the fur.

Then for the first time, it hit her. How much she and the dog were alike. Fighters. Survivors. But there was something else. Something bigger than fighting. Bigger than surviving. They might both be loners, but it wasn’t by choice.

What was it the man at the gas station had said?

“Best dog ever. Loyal to a fault.”

This dog didn’t want to be alone. She’d proven that when she jumped through the glass cutout to run after Sara. She wanted to belong to someone. Even now. Even after her previous owner was gone. Even after she was battered and left for dead herself. Even after Sara had left her for so many hours, the dog didn’t think she’d return.

Sara reached out tentatively and gently, and she petted the dog. Another sniff, as the nose returned to inspect the bloody sleeve again. Then her eyes came up to meet Sara’s. The brown one looked more serious and intent. The blue one made Sara smile. It was so unexpected and beautiful.

“I won’t leave you again,” she told the dog. “Ever.”

It was a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But it felt ridiculously good to say it out loud. And mean it.

“Maybe you and me…maybe we can belong to each other.”

Shadow sniffed the bloody sleeve one more time and looked up as if asking if Sara was okay.

“No, it’s not mine.”

The dog didn’t look convinced. Sara pushed up the cuff and presented her arm for inspection. Thankfully, it was the opposite one. No bite mark. No wound. No blood.

Sara petted her some more.

“You hungry? Let’s get you something to eat.”

When the dog wouldn’t let her out of sight even for food, Sara brought her food dish into the bedroom. She left the bathroom door open so the dog could see her get into the shower. By the time Sara came back out, the dish was licked clean, and the dog was asleep, curled up on the carpet.

Almost asleep. One eye squinted open as Sara soft-stepped across the room. She’d tried to coax her up on the bed the night before. Tonight, Sara would let her stay where she was comfortable. They’d both had an exhausting day.

But Sara had one last thing to do. She opened the hardcover ledger on the small desk. Without needing to search, she found the name she was looking for: Rachel Collins. She picked up the black pen and drew a checkmark next to the name. Before she closed it, her eyes caught the last name on the last line. The name had not been on the list Iris had given to Sara. But without any confirmation, Sara knew it was on Orlando’s list.

Iris obviously never expected anyone to find this original ledger. The one that included all her girls, even the ones her brother had eliminated years before. Instead, she handpicked which names to give to Sara and which to give to Orlando, pitting them against each other. Even overlapping some names by putting them on both lists.

Sara closed the book and slid it into the side pocket of her backpack along with the black pen and a red one.

Her body ached, muscles strained, her new injuries raw. Even as she crawled under Granny El’s soft quilt, she knew she’d never sleep. Still, she needed to rest. Clear her mind. She had another long road trip ahead. She’d need to plan, lock down this house, get supplies. She’d barely gotten settled after the Wyoming trip. So much snow. It’d been exhausting.

Returning to this quilt, this house, the scent of Granny El, it was a surprising comfort. Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe it wasn’t smart to get attached. Wasn’t that the lesson Iris had constantly tried to drill into her?

The first time Sara found a litter of kittens, Iris discovered what finally mattered to Sara. Broken bones, bruises, words—none of those seemed to hurt Sara. But the kittens mattered.

“Don’t get too attached,” Iris had told her.

And of course, that was exactly how Iris dug in her hook. She discovered what Sara dared to enjoy. What Sara truly cared about, and then Iris dangled it by a thread.

“If you run away, if you don’t come back, who knows what will happen to those cats.”

Sara wondered if that was what happened to Granny El. Would Iris really get rid of her own mother just because Sara cared about the woman?

It was a constant mental and physical cycle and recycle that churned and twisted. Kept her off guard. Made her doubt herself.

Sara rubbed the notch on the bridge of her nose. Her left elbow ached with the changes in weather, where the break never healed properly.

Hard lessons.

A push, a shove, a scold. How many? She’d given up keeping track. And then finally, she’d simply given up completely. Or at least, she’d pretended that she’d given up.

Outside, the coyotes howled. One after another. Despite the warmth of the quilt, Sara still felt a shiver. But she was safe. Not out in the middle of the pitch-black woods where the sound echoed as if they could come upon her any minute.

She heard the bed frame creak. Felt the mattress dip behind her. More movement. Tentative. A slow-motion roll, then a snuffle and a sniff. There was a soft bump against her back, followed by more shifting.

Silence.

And then a sigh.

The weight against her back was warm and solid. A heartbeat. A rhythm. An unexpected comfort. It was probably exactly what Iris had warned her about.

Sara curled up, and for the first time in a long time, she drifted off to sleep.

40

Mississippi

Creed tried to be patient. He wanted to leave the scene as soon as he and Grace were no longer needed. His jeans were caked with mud and clay. His once white T-shirt was now gray and blood-stained. Sweat-drenched and cold, even the sweatshirt he’d found in the back of his Jeep couldn’t make him warm.

One of the State Patrol officers had already taken his statement. An abbreviated one. Norwich had insisted he stay put on the back of his Jeep’s tailgate until one of the EMTs could take a look at him. His first impulse was that he didn’t want to be without the sweatshirt. Involuntary shivers sporadically caught him off guard. Grace sat beside him, leaning against him as if to add warmth. Once in a while she’d lick his hand. She was worried about him. And now, as the young woman cleaned the wound on his arm, he realized Grace had reason to worry. The graze was worse than he thought.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Four or five inches to the left, and you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

When he didn’t understand, she tapped his chest over his heart. Then she air-drew a straight line to his arm where the bullet had carved through the skin.

“For a stubborn man, he’s lucky to be lucky.” It was Norwich coming up behind the EMT. “Should he be driving tonight?”

“Sure. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Five hours. In the dark,” Norwich added.

The young woman looked up at Norwich then back to Creed. She could tell she was in the middle of something.

“I’m not a doctor,” she finally said. To Creed she added, “Keep the wound covered, and the arm elevated while you drive. I recommend you take something for pain management. You should talk to your doctor about antibiotics.”

When she was finished, Creed thanked her. The EMT glanced at Norwich again then said to both of them, “The two of you really should consider getting some rest. Something like this? What happened here tonight, after the adrenaline and shock wear off, the exhaustion can hit you like a baseball bat.” She tapped Creed on the opposite shoulder, “Take care of yourself and your little dog, okay?” She patted Grace then went to join her crew.

Most of the vehicles from the variety of agencies were already gone. The absence of their headlights and interior lights made the night darker. And quieter. Deputy Perry was gone by the time they’d gotten back with Kyle. The first rescue crew had taken him immediately to whatever hospital was waiting for him. All the triage to stabilize him had already been done back in the woods alongside the collapsing station wagon.

“Alvin said we’re free to go,” Norwich told Creed, her eyes still examining him.

He glanced toward the house. The last time Creed had seen the large man, he was leading a forensics team to the backyard. His deep bass voice could be heard warning them about more traps and possibly tripwires. “Be on the lookout. Pick up your feet.”

“I reserved two rooms at the same hotel,” Norwich said, but now her eyes followed his in search of Alvin’s team. “You could at least get cleaned up. Get a meal for you and Grace. Maybe sleep a few hours before heading out on the road.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“You don’t have to go—” She did a double-take like maybe she hadn’t heard him correctly. “You do?”

“I’m afraid she won’t rest unless I do.” He chin-pointed at the little dog, avoiding her name. With ears pitched forward, her eyes watched him intently. She could smell the blood on his T-shirt and the antiseptic the EMT had used. She could probably smell his exhaustion.

“Well, that’s…good.” Norwich stared at him now like she couldn’t believe that he agreed with her. Then, as if he might quickly change his mind, she added, “I’ll pick up some dinner. I can leave it at your door.”

Still, she waited for him to argue or dismiss her gesture of providing dinner, but he simply said, “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He couldn’t deny that he was bone-tired. But the truth was, he wanted to get a closer look at Grace. She had raced back and forth through those woods four times. Leaping, tunneling, scurrying through thickets and debris. He’d brushed off mud and clay. Raked pine needles from her coat. Run his hands over her and her paws, feeling for open scrapes or wounds. But in the dark, with only the Jeep’s interior lights, he might have missed something. And Grace would never complain.

It would do them both some good to eat and rest. He needed a shower. As much as he hated to admit it, his head was starting to throb. And although he played it down, the bullet wound on his arm did hurt like hell.

They left the crime scene at the same time. Norwich’s headlights lit up his rear window like a guardian angel watching over him. Their roles had reversed, and for this one time, he would allow it.

41

Omaha, Nebraska

It was late when Pakula dropped Maggie off at her hotel. Her last text message from Ryder said that he and Grace would be “off the grid.” It was his way of telling her he’d be on a search and unable to call or respond. She texted back. Said she’d talk to him tomorrow. Before she clicked SEND, she added a heart emoji. Hesitated. Neither she nor Ryder were heart-emoji people. She clicked SEND anyway.

The truth was it didn’t matter what time of day it was. If she needed to talk, she knew he’d pick up or get back to her no matter how late it was. There was a time or two he had trekked through a remote search field just to find a cellular connection. But they were good about giving each other space. And grace.

And right now, she was grateful for that, because she wasn’t ready to tell him his sister might be on a hit list.

She knew as soon as she told him, he’d drop everything and find a way to do something about it. And right now, they didn’t know if this list of names was connected to Iris Malone. Maggie had dealt with serial killers who copied others. Someone paying attention and obsessed with this case could be doing just that. Copycatting Elijah Dunn.

She and Pakula needed to figure out more, check and verify as much as possible before she threw that at Ryder. And especially before she threw that at Brodie.

Maggie had gone through this once before with Ryder. While working a case in DC, she’d stumbled upon a drug cartel’s hit list. Ryder’s name was on that list. As soon as he found out, he shut himself off from her and everyone he loved in order to protect them. His impulse was to take the cartel on all by himself.

She knew things were different now. Not just between the two of them, but also with others in his life. The man who had depended only on himself learned to trust those in his inner circle: Hannah, Jason, Dr. Avelyn, even Sheriff Norwich, and now herself and Brodie. Although that was still a select few. But she didn’t want to send him into that same warrior spiral if this was just some copycat messing with law enforcement.

She pulled off her boots and dug out the pink, fluffy-soft socks. A Christmas gift from Brodie, the socks were a mainstay since then. She made sure they were always packed no matter where she was headed. Socks had become a luxury item for Brodie. When Iris held her captive, she’d kept Brodie barefoot in the hopes it would discourage escape. Maggie remembered the first time she met her in the hospital. Cut, scraped, and bruised alongside scars, Brodie’s feet were a telling map that suggested the lack of socks had not discouraged her escape efforts.

Maggie spread out her files and photos on the desktop again, this time with the handwritten list in the center. She snapped a few photos then texted them to Antonio Alonzo, so he’d have them first thing in the morning.

Alonzo was a cyber whiz kid at Quantico with a knack for busting through firewalls and getting into internet-sealed backdoors. She didn’t ask any questions about how he was able to get the information. Now that he worked on her team, she still didn’t ask. Just told him to be careful.

She tapped out a message to follow the photo attachments.

Someone left this on Pakula’s windshield while we were at the courthouse in David City. Wrobel may be the unidentified body pulled from an Omaha lake (Chalco Rec Area) yesterday morning. Any info or thoughts are welcome.

Maggie stared at the note scratched out on the back of the flyer. She and Pakula had spent a few hours poring over it, accompanied by too many beers, chips and salsa and some amazing enchiladas.

They still hadn’t figured out all the PLSs, though they were certain the acronym stood for Place Last Seen. Chalco and Wanahoo verified that for them. The other three places—Cheyenne, Starkville, and DC—were possibly all cities.

The Chalco date almost certainly verified that DOE referred to the date of death. According to Pakula, the ME had since confirmed the woman’s body hadn’t been in the water long. He placed the time of her death within the early morning hours of the date matching the one on the flyer. Neither Maggie nor Pakula could be sure what the “E” stood for. Elimination? Exit? Extinguish? It was likely a moniker for death.

All the DOEs were within the last several weeks. All but one. Kristel Unger had been murdered by Elijah Dunn and her body dumped in Lake Wanahoo almost two years ago. Why was her name included? Was it simply to make a connection?

Maggie thought it was something a copycat would do. Pakula believed someone was trying to tip off law enforcement. Either way, it felt like there was an urgency in the hastily scribbled chart.

Maggie had hunted enough killers to know some of them loved playing games, especially with law enforcement. Her own personal experience included a few elaborate backs and forth matches. Even Elijah Dunn had taken them on a wild scavenger hunt.

What nagged at Maggie was those two back-to-back dates. How could he kill and dump one body in a Nebraska lake then the next day take another victim from a café in DC?

It wasn’t impossible. Ambitious, for sure. Like he was working under a deadline.

She ran her finger along the line that coincided with today’s date. The victim was listed as Charlotte #6. Name: Rachel Gibson. PLS: DC Village Café.

Her phone rang. Alonzo. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Despite his cool and colorful designer clothes being meticulously crisp and fresh, she suspected he ran on premium coffee and very little sleep.

“I thought you might be out sledding in all that beautiful snow,” he said in place of a greeting.

“You know I don’t expect you to work on this tonight.”

“I’m wrapping up a few other things. Besides, handwritten notes on the back of what looks like some random handout has me intrigued. And on the windshield? Like stuck under the wiper blades?”

“Yes.”

“It’s so old-fashioned. I like that. Very retro. Have you checked for surveillance cameras yet?

“Pakula’s working on it. So far, I think there’s only one at the gas station. Maybe another at the bank. Hard to say if our parked vehicle can be seen in either. It’s cold here. Everyone’s bundled up.”

“If you get a shot of the person, send it over. It won’t take me long to enhance it.”

“I appreciate that. Right now, I need to find out more about the women on this list. I need to know if there’s a possible connection. There’s one known sample on this list. Kristel Unger. It’s a case connected to the one I’m here working on?”

“Was that the scavenger hunt?”

“Yes, Elijah Dunn. He was arrested for human trafficking.”

“That’s the guy who kidnapped little girls with his sister. Is that right?”

“Allegedly. Yes. He led us to Kristel’s body. Admitted to killing her. We know she was taken from a busy interstate truck stop when she was twelve years old. Her family submitted her DNA sample to CODIS after she disappeared. That’s how we were able to identify her. She’s on this list with her PLS as Lake Wanahoo. That’s where we found her.”

“PLS,” Alonzo said.

“Place Last Seen.”

“I know. But that’s a law enforcement acronym. Would a regular person know that?”

“Good question.” Maggie said.

“Do you recognize anyone else on the list?”

“One other. I just met her yesterday morning. At the morgue. Her body was pulled from a lake here in Omaha. To be fair, we don’t know for sure she’s the person on this list. She hasn’t been identified yet.”

“Then what makes you think she’s on the list?”

“The PLS is Chalco. That’s the name of the recreation area where the lake is. The ME’s time of death is yesterday morning.”

“Huh! I’m looking over it now. This guy’s been busy. Cheyenne last week. Starkville three or four days ago? Nebraska this morning? And he’s even telling you ahead of time that he’s headed to DC to take out another one tonight.”

“Now that we know their names, I’m hoping you will find more information about these women.”

“In particular, were they young girls who ever went missing.”

“It’s a start. Brodie Creed insists there were others. She believes she heard them. One of them led her to an RV at an interstate rest stop. The person who left the list seems to be telling us these women were Charlottes. Even gives them a number. But unless we make some connections, it’ll only be Brodie’s word against Iris Malone’s.”

She went quiet, thinking about Brodie surviving. It was a miracle they had even found her. And the others? If this list were to be believed, these Charlottes were already dead. It sounded strange, but Brodie might actually be the lucky one.

42

Mississippi

Creed was back in the woods. Grace pulled and tugged and rushed them into the middle of another graveyard of rusted vehicles. He couldn’t wait for Norwich. He could barely keep up with Grace.

Headlights streamed through the branches and helped him search. He peeled back kudzu just to get to the glass. Shined his flashlight. Something alive skittered across the cracked seat of the old pickup.

Nobody here.

He moved on to the next vehicle. Even before he got to the trunk, he heard thumping coming from inside.

A noise distracted him. Besides the thumping, he heard something else. A swishing sound. Like a river. Only with a very strong current. And suddenly, water started gushing around his feet. It was ankle-deep. Like whitewater rapids, it came racing through the trees.

He threw the flashlight down. Dug fingertips along the edge to pry the trunk open. The thumps grew louder. His fingers started bleeding, but the metal wouldn’t budge.

Muddy sludge swirled up to his knees now. Debris knocked against him, threatening to shove him off balance. Frustrated, he pounded on the trunk with bloody fists.

The thumps stopped. Creed stopped. Held his breath to listen.

The water was waist-high now.

Suddenly, there was a click and a pop. The trunk shifted. He yanked it up. Thick black sludge poured in, filling the space around the body. It was a woman in a fetal position.

“Brodie!”

Creed jolted up. In the dark, he could feel Grace beside him, nosing him, licking his hand. Panting. Worried.

It took him a few seconds to recognize the hotel room. His freshly showered body was slick with sweat. The bedcovers tangled around his feet.

He pulled the little dog against him.

“It’s okay, Grace. I’m okay.” He tried to reassure her as he struggled to catch his breath.

She was still panting. Clearly, she didn’t believe him.

The digital clock on the nightstand showed 1:45 a.m. Three hours of sleep. That was more than he expected. He grabbed his phone and checked messages.

Nothing. Relief! No one missing. No emergencies.

Nothing here.

But the dream lingered.

Wide awake now, all he wanted to do was get on the road and go home.

Grace would sleep in the Jeep. Probably even better since she wouldn’t have to keep an eye on him. He’d stop, get gas, fill up his Thermos with convenience store coffee. He’d text Hannah when he got closer to home. She wasn’t expecting him until around noon. He’d called her last night to let her know he and Grace would stay at the hotel again. But more importantly, he wanted her to tell Brodie and Jason that they’d found Kyle.

He checked messages again.

Norwich had given him an update when she dropped off his food. Kyle was stable, but in the ICU and “not out of the woods yet.” No internal damage, but he had lost a lot of blood and was severely dehydrated.

She’d also told him Deputy Perry was still in surgery. He would most likely lose part of his leg. Neither man would be giving verbal statements for a while.

This was one of those crime scenes Creed was anxious to leave behind. It took only minutes to pack up. The wet chill in the air felt good, better than the stuffy hotel room. Even driving five hours in the dark didn’t bother him. The bigger challenge would be trying to erase that image of Brodie. Her body coiled up in the trunk of a rusted old vehicle. Black sludge poured in and threatened to swallow her whole.

She’d come back into his life less than a year and a half ago. In that short time, he knew she was stronger, healthier, confident, and more self-reliant than the woman he’d met in a Nebraska hospital bed. For sixteen years, he had no idea whether she was dead or alive. And even when he imagined her alive, he worried it came with pain.

Creed was only fourteen when Brodie disappeared. Still a kid himself. The sense of obligation and responsibility smothered any chance he had of being a normal teenager. His mother dragged him all over the country, looking, searching, hoping to find Brodie.

So, driving at night, in the rain or snow for miles and hours, didn’t bother him. At fourteen, he relieved his mom from behind the wheel, no matter how busy the stretch of interstate or how narrow the gravel road. They had spent so many hours together, just the two of them, for years on end. She became his homeschool teacher, his mentor, his confidante. When he told her he was joining the Marines, she cut him off. Told him she couldn’t bear to lose another child. And yet, in cutting him off from her life, she did lose him.

Now, they couldn’t be in the same room for more than thirty minutes before running out of conversation. Even finding Brodie couldn’t seem to mend all the rips and tears that searching endlessly for her had created.

Hannah said it was because his mother felt guilty for giving up on Brodie. Self-preservation finally forced her to seek out and make a life for herself. But Creed didn’t give up. The business that he and Hannah created had begun with the simple mission of him being able to continue the search.

Brodie found. Alive. Back home.

So why did all of it still feel so fragile to him? Why did he still feel he needed to protect her at every turn?

Iris Malone’s approaching trial amplified all those fears, bringing them to the surface once again. Brodie’s testimony would make her go over the painful details all over again. Details she had worked so hard over the last year to tackle and leave behind.

He knew she was strong. She survived. Of course, she was strong. But deep down, Creed worried reliving all that she’d suffered might break her all over again.

43

Thursday, February 19
Florida Panhandle

Brodie raced through the forest. Her breaths came in a rhythmic huff-hiss. Her heart pounded. The stitch in her side deepened, but she didn’t slow down.

Her feet lifted and moved from memory. She hurdled over fallen logs and exposed roots, trying not to skid on wet patches of pine needles. The path narrowed. She ducked under branches. Waved her hand in time to swipe at a spider’s web. Watched ahead for snakes hanging in her way.

Behind her, she could hear the wet chuffing and the scrambling thud-thump trying to catch her. She didn’t dare look back, or she’d lose her footing.

Almost there.

Twigs whipped at her face and snagged her hair. Her knees ached, but her feet were light and relentless. Her lungs burned. Her heartbeat was a steady thump-thump banging in her ears. One more log and some extra deadfall. A last-second duck under a branch, missing the snake draped over it.

And just when she thought the stitch in her side would explode, she shot out of the shadowed woods and into the bright clearing.

Sunshine. A cool and humid breeze. The scent of pine.

She dropped to her knees and sucked in fresh air. Then she turned and opened her arms for the big dog to bounce into her. Hank knocked her over. She laughed, and he licked her face, drool and exhaustion making him giddy.

She pulled the soft-shell canteen off her shoulder and detached the collapsible water bowl. Not quick enough for him. The big dog nudged her elbow, impatiently. He started licking at the falling water as she poured.

“You’re silly,” she told him, letting him drink and slobber before she helped herself.

It felt good to run. Without the threat of anyone thrashing after her, trying to grab and stop her. To not worry about that bone-crushing tackle from behind. The only one following was Hank. He ran alongside when the path widened. But when it was too narrow, she made him follow behind. She wanted to carve the path. Break through any vines or webs. Stomp away snakes and wildlife. Protect him. She liked being able to look out for him, just like he did for her.

She hated how those thorns had made her feel vulnerable. Piercing, snagging and pinning her down. They reminded her of what it was like to feel weak. Shackled. Helpless.

She’d worked hard to make her body stronger. Her mind was taking longer. She knew that PTSD could dismantle the fragile arsenal of mind games that had helped her survive sixteen years of captivity. But what would it take for her to feel confident? To know she’d be okay? To not be afraid? Would she ever get to a place where she didn’t need to worry about not being brave enough?

Hannah’s two little boys looked at her in amazement when she smashed spiders. To them, she was a superhero because she used the palm of her hand. Same with snakes. She knew how to grab and toss them before the snake had a chance to coil or strike. But none of that made her feel brave. It was just survival tactics she’d learned out of necessity.

And just when she dared to believe in herself, the Charlottes showed up. They were there in Mississippi even before she got tangled in the thorns. They were there, floating in the fog, peeking around the trees, fading in and out of the mist.

She had convinced Ryder to allow her and Hank to work alongside them. And then she fell into a thorn bush. She was supposed to be protecting her team, and she couldn’t even protect herself.

Hank nuzzled her hand.

“I’m okay,” she told him. She poured more water for him.

Sunshine streamed down through the longleaf pines. Birds flitted from tree to tree, and small creatures skittered through the deadfall. She could breathe here and clear her mind. There was something about the fresh air and wide-open spaces that made her feel free.

For years, while locked away in a basement, Brodie dreamed of a place just like this. Surrounded by the sounds of nature instead of the clank of the furnace and heavy footsteps above. A place with trees and meadows and an endless blue sky. It rejuvenated her to feel the warmth of sunshine and to smell the scent of earth and pine instead of cold concrete and damp mold.

She’d carved out a trail through the woods, pounding and wearing it down, going a little farther each time. She’d memorized where protruding roots pushed up out of the ground and where branches dipped too low. It had become her own private obstacle course in the middle of the woods. The day she and Hank had gone far enough to stumble out into this meadow had felt like a grand prize.

These woods were on the edge of Blackwater River State Forest. The forest was over 200,000 acres and backed up to Ryder’s facility. She tried to be careful not to cross the boundary that separated his private property from the state forest. In some places there was fencing and signs, but it was too large an area to mark off.

Isolated, it made her feel safe. Oh, she knew she had to watch out for bears and other wildlife. She didn’t leave the house without a bear spray canister on her belt. But the thicket and overgrowth prevented campers or hikers from wandering accidentally onto Ryder’s property.

Besides, she had Hank to alert her. She couldn’t have done any of this without Hank. He had become her guardian, her rescuer, her rock. All because she had read to him during his recovery. He’d been shot protecting his first companion, who had been murdered and his body left in Blackwater River State Forest.

Hannah said there was poetic justice to the way Brodie and Hank found each other. That perhaps they were meant to rescue each other.

And just then, Hank stopped lapping water. His head jerked up. His entire body jerked around toward the woods. His nose went to work, and his ears flattened. Brodie reached out to pet him, but her hand stopped in mid-air.

Twigs snapped. Leaves crunched.

She grabbed Hank’s collar as she scrambled to her feet.

Someone or something was on their path. And they were coming their way.

44

Hank bared his teeth. A low growl started deep in his throat and sent Brodie’s eyes darting. She searched for a branch that might be club-worthy. Her mind scrambled, trying to remember Jason’s lessons. Weapons and foot stance didn’t matter if Hank had his way. She’d seen him level a man to the ground in seconds. But if their intruder had a gun, they were both in trouble.

“Hank, stay,” she whispered to him and crouched by his side.

She didn’t want to stop his warning. She just needed to establish some control. She’d never be able to physically restrain him, but he’d listen to her. No more leveling innocent strangers.

Her right hand twisted between his collar and his thick neck to remind him. Her left hand pulled the bear spray canister from its holster on her belt. She’d never had to use the potent spray, and now she worried how much the back draft might affect Hank.

The thrashing came loud and fast. Too fast for someone sneaking around or hoping to catch her off guard. She was watching for a human intruder, so when something smaller and at ground level bounded out of the forest, Brodie jerked backward, nearly losing her balance. But Hank’s growl stopped, and his tail began to wag.

“Gunner!” Brodie yelled with relief. She recognized the scruffy terrier. The dog didn’t slow down, racing even faster, now excited to see them. Then suddenly, she skidded to a stop and plopped down on her belly right in front of them. She panted with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.

More thrashing, and Gunner’s owner barreled out from between the trees. The man’s chest heaved as he gasped for air. Seeing the dog was safe, he bent over, hands on his knees. He pulled off his hat. Wet gray hair that looked like feathers stuck to the sides of his head. He dragged a sleeve over his forehead.

“Mr. Sully, are you okay?”

He lifted a finger to give him a minute to catch his breath. Hank sat down and watched Gunner.

Ryder had hired the old Navy veteran before Christmas to help in the kennels. He’d been homeless and living in the woods with his dog when Ryder met him. There was a gentleness about him that had made Brodie feel comfort immediately. He was polite with kind eyes. The dogs all loved him, and that was a good enough reason for Brodie to trust him.

Also, she knew he loved the forest and the night sky as much as she did. He told her once that being on aircraft carriers in the middle of the ocean at night had given him a whole new respect for the stars.

Brodie pulled out the water and poured a bowl for Gunner, who lapped and lapped until the bowl was dry. Hank watched, drooling a bit. He looked up at Brodie. She poured more water and moved his bowl back to him. He took a couple of drinks then hovered over it, as if protecting it from Gunner.

She lifted the canteen, offering it to Sully.

“I’m good. Thanks,” he waved her off. “Sorry about Gunner surprising you like that. We were hiking on our break, and she insisted she heard somebody. Thought I better check and make sure it wasn’t a trespasser.”

He looked around as if he expected to see someone else on the other side of the woods.

Then he noticed the bandages scattered on her arms and legs. They were smaller now, but there were still too many of them. Hannah had insisted she cover them to keep her homemade salve from getting dirty and rubbing off.

“You okay?” He finally asked.

“I fell into a bush on our search up in Mississippi. It had an amazing number of sharp thorns.”

“Did it also have orange berries?”

“Yeah, it did.”

“Pyracantha. It’s called the firethorn. People plant them for cheap security barriers. They’re evergreens and grow without much care.”

“These were pretty much large and tangled and out of control.”

“Sorry about that. Those thorns hurt like hell, excuse my language. Their barbs are meant to dig in.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“Living out in the woods, I’ve run into all kinds of things." His eyes darted around, including over his shoulder at the path. “You come out here a lot? All alone?”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got Hank.”

“Sure, sure.”

She looked back at Hank only to see he was still guarding his bowl from a dog three times smaller than him.

“I like it out here. It’s quiet.” Just as she said it, a red-cockaded woodpecker started to drill a tree close by. “Quiet from people,” she corrected herself. “Birds and animals, I don’t mind. Maybe not mosquitoes.”

Sully smiled at her. Brodie liked how his whole face seemed to join in from his squinting eyes to the upturned wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.

“I definitely agree with that.”

Brodie slid the bear spray canister back into its holster on her belt.

Sully nodded at it and said, “Looks like you have some extra protection.”

“Ryder insists.” She’d need to ask him how to keep Hank from getting hit with any back-spray. “He also nags me to have my phone with me at all times.” Her hand automatically checked her zippered back pocket to make sure it was still there. “Not like a phone call will save me.”

“True. Unless you get lost.” He dug a small one out of his breast pocket. “He makes me carry one, too. Told me he could at least locate my dead body.”

Brodie kept the alarm from reaching her face. She was good at controlling her emotions, but this struck a raw nerve.

Sully noticed. “He meant it as a joke.”

“I know.” But she didn’t, really. People joked about strange things.

She hadn’t thought about using a phone for locating someone. Dead or alive. After sixteen years of not being able to find her, she could understand Ryder wanting to keep track of her now. Maybe the phone wasn’t such a bad idea. She needed to cut him some slack. In her attempt to be independent, she was constantly reminding and scolding him for all his overprotective gestures. When in fact, she seldom considered how worried, maybe even frightened, he was that she could be taken again. That he might lose her again.

“I’ll leave you to your quiet,” Sully told her. “We need to get back. You take care. Come on, Gunner, let’s go.”

He tugged the brim of his bucket hat. It was a gesture she’d seen him do before to Hannah and to Dr. Avelyn. Then they disappeared back into the woods, returning the way they’d come.

About twenty minutes later, Brodie thought she heard them coming back. Even Hank’s ears perked up, and he cocked his head. His nose sniffed in the direction of their path. Another low growl came as they both stared and waited. But no one emerged from the woods.

“Critters,” she told Hank, patting him on the back. “Let’s go home.”

45

Nebraska

Maggie had spent most of the night pacing then poring over all the new information from Pakula and Alonzo. She was exhausted by the time Pakula picked her up.

Now, in his SUV headed back over the rolling hills, they continued to go over everything.

“You know, all of this finally verifies what we already suspected,” Pakula said. “We just had no idea who the other girls were. On their own, these cases would never have been connected. The abductions may have happened over decades. Each girl would have disappeared from a different part of the country. Their cases would have been handled by different law enforcement officials. You know how it is in the beginning when a kid goes missing.”

“No, I don’t. I hunt serial killers, remember?” She was tired and cranky. Even Pakula’s pro-offered white box of donuts hadn’t been able to break through her anxiety and fatigue.

But she did know about the phrase law enforcement called “the golden hours,” the first forty-eight hours after a person went missing. Last fall, Maggie had been part of the search for a little boy.

“The first hours,” Pakula said, “you’re looking at parents and relatives, trying to sort through whether they’re telling everything they know from what might be outright lies. At the same time, you look at strangers in the area.”

“These girls were taken from busy rest areas or interstate truck stops. Usually on trips with other family members. Lots of strangers,” Maggie added. “People coming and going.”

“Exactly. Snatch a kid, get back on the interstate and in a couple of hours be in another state. A whole other group of law enforcement officers. Then there’s the time factor. Just from what we know, it looks like months go by. Sometimes years. Maybe there are others in-between. Ones we still don’t know about.” Pakula shook his head. “It’s like a frickin’ masterclass that they perfected. You’d have to be at one of those rest stops watching for them to even see it happen.

“Brodie said a little girl coerced her to come see her new puppy.”

“What a sick, twisted brilliance to have the abducted girls lure another.”

Maggie knew the others probably shared stories similar to Brodie’s. According to Brodie, Elijah Dunn and his sister Iris Malone waited inside an upscale RV. The last thing Brodie remembered was being inside, enjoying a chocolate shake already prepared and possibly drugged by “the friendly lady.” Brodie was sleepy-eyed by the time the RV started moving and only wondered where the so-called puppy might be napping.

“I can’t imagine the other little girls would help do that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pakula look over, but she just stared out at the rolling fields.

“From what Brodie’s told us, it sounds like they kept those girls drugged,” Pakula said. “Probably scared. Already feeling abandoned and vulnerable. Not to mention the mind and hunger games. A couple of years ago we rescued a teenage girl who was being trafficked, sold over and over. She was fifteen but looked about twelve. She was so small and thin. She was bleeding pretty bad.”

This time when Maggie glanced over at him, his sunglassed eyes were straight ahead.

“Before the EMTs got there, I was trying to wrap her up. There was so much blood. The whole time, the only thing she asked me was if I had anything for her to eat.”

Pakula had been a homicide detective before taking charge of the task force. She knew he had seen things. What serial killers did to their victims was horrible. What ordinary people did to others, especially children, was unimaginable.

Pakula also had daughters.

“This cryptic list might be the first big break we’ve had,” Pakula insisted. “We suspected Elijah and Iris used that same ploy to abduct other girls. Elijah’s little handwritten journal with all his crazy codes and stick-figure drawings was a dead end. But now, we have some names.”

“Names of dead victims,” Maggie reminded him. “And still absolutely no connection to Iris Malone. The list of names, the information…all of it’s worthless. Other than Brodie’s testimony, we have nothing that proves Iris had anything to do with the abductions. You said your techs weren’t able to find any evidence inside the woman’s farmhouse.”

“She kept that place meticulous. Even the basement was scrubbed and bleached clean. The Christmas house was another story. To this day, she claims she didn’t know what Elijah was using it for.”

They entered the city’s outskirts. Lunch time and parking lots were beginning to fill up.

“Okay, so yes, this new list verifies what we’ve suspected,” Maggie said.” But again, without another victim’s testimony, you know as well as I do, it’ll be Brodie’s word against Iris’. Because if this list is correct, all these victims are dead.”

“We do have a couple of other options.”

She already knew why they were returning to David City. Pakula had tracked down a shop owner with a surveillance camera. He pulled into the convenience store parking lot.

Maggie was skeptical. She also hated reviewing surveillance video. It was minutes into hours of boredom, like looking for a needle in a haystack.

“I’m guessing the person who left the note on your windshield just might be smart enough not to get caught on camera,” Maggie told Pakula.

“I’m also guessing the same killer who doesn’t weigh down a body he throws in a lake might also be cocky enough to think small-town surveillance cameras are for show. It’s worth a shot.”

As they got out of the SUV, Maggie noticed across the street a steady stream of people going in and out of the café. She turned to follow Pakula then stopped suddenly.

“Pakula.”

He was almost at the door but turned around and came back.

“Do you remember yesterday’s entry on the list?”

He shrugged and said, “I haven’t memorized the names.”

“No, the PLS, place last seen. One of them was DC. I automatically thought Washington, DC. But look.” To be discrete, she tilted her head in the direction across the street. “It’s the Village Café.”

He didn’t skip a beat. “And DC is David City.”

46

Maggie left Pakula to sift through the convenience store surveillance video. The Village Café was crowded with coffee drinkers and a late breakfast crowd merging with early lunch orders. She had to wait at the end of the counter for the manager. Shirley scooted her large frame around chairs and tables, refilling coffee cups as she went, chatting with the customers, calling them by name. A gray-haired, tall man in a stained apron had told Maggie it’d be “a few minutes” as he headed back into the kitchen.

Shirley was out of breath by the time she made it behind the counter. She smiled at Maggie but was still in no hurry to get to her. Instead, she stopped to replace the coffee pot and prepare the machine for another batch. Finally, she moseyed over, wiping the countertop as she did, no movement wasted.

“What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to talk to Rachel Collins.”

“You and me both.” She laughed, but when Maggie didn’t, she looked concerned and asked, “She in some kind of trouble?”

“I hope not. Does she work here?”

“Yup. Worked till closing last night. She didn’t show up today. Thought maybe she overslept, but she didn’t even call. Didn’t answer her phone. We’re scrambling to replace her.”

“So, it’s not like her to not show up? How long has she worked here?”

“Gosh, it’s been almost a year. Why are you asking about her? Is she okay?”

“That’s what we’re checking on. Do you know where she lives?”

“And who exactly are you? I’m not sure Rachel would appreciate me giving out that kind of information.”

Finally, Maggie pulled out the leather wallet and showed her badge, keeping it low on the counter to not draw attention. “I’m Maggie O’Dell,” she said, casually, dropping her title and trying not to make a big deal of it.

“FBI?” Shirley, however, didn’t bother to hide her surprise. Several patrons nearby looked up and over at them.

“I’m just trying to make sure Rachel is okay.” Maggie needed to use her reassurance tone for a second time in the same week. She wasn’t good at this. “Do you have an address so I could check in on her?”

“You’re not looking to arrest her for something?”

“I can promise you, if I find her, I won’t be arresting her.”

“The girls don’t share personal stuff with me, and I don’t ask anymore. I’ve got my own drama to worry about. I’ll get Fred. He probably knows, but don’t keep him long. My days of waiting on tables and doing the grilling are long gone.”

Maggie backed away from the counter for guests to sit down. She waited along the entrance wall, moving out of the way of people coming in and going out. Framed photos hung in a line, obviously commemorating various events at the café. The last one had a banner in the background, “Happy New Year” with the current year.

There were four other women pictured with Fred and Shirley. She was able to read the waitresses’ name tags. Rachel looked older than Maggie had expected. Her short, red hair had highlights of pink. She was thinner than the other three waitresses and a tad taller. Her smile looked genuine, though a bit more reserved than the others. If Maggie had been casually looking at the photo and not examining through the eyes of a profiler, she’d have to admit that the women all looked very comfortable with each other.

She tried to commit the face to memory: almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones. Would she recognize her when they pulled her body from a lake? And also, did she look at all like Brodie?

Unlike Shirley, Fred was eager to help. He led her to a nook off the main room, what looked like an old hallway with hooks to hang coats. He tried to give her directions then realized it would be easier to draw it out with roads and routes on the back of a paper napkin.

“There aren’t many places on this stretch. The trailer is sort of hidden back behind a couple of Quonset huts.”

“Quonset huts?”

“Big metal equipment sheds. Lots of trees on the property. Dirt driveway. If you come to a two-story house painted kind of mint green, you’ve gone too far.”

“Thanks,” she told him. “You wouldn’t happen to know what she drives?”

“Dark gray Ford Fusion. 2015. She just bought it a couple of weeks ago from one of our customers, so it still has the In-Transit sign. No license plates. She’s not any kind of trouble, is she?”

Where Shirley looked curious when she asked, Fred looked concerned. His bushy eyebrows furrowed together, his thin lips a straight line.

“Are you worried that she might be?”

“It’s just not like her. She’d call if she couldn’t come in. I told Shirl that if we didn’t hear from her by the end of this shift, I’d go out and see if she’s okay.”

“Are there any friends, family who might know?”

“Shirley doesn’t like the girls yammering on about themselves, especially to the customers. Seems to me Rachel keeps to herself a lot. I don’t know where she’s from or if she has family close by. I hope she’s okay. She’s nice. A good worker, too.”

“I appreciate your help,” Maggie held up the napkin and started to leave.

“Hey, if you talk to her, tell her to give us a call, would you?”

“Sure.” Hopefully she wouldn’t be the one to tell Fred or Shirley that Rachel might not be calling anyone…ever again.

47

By the time Maggie got back to the convenience store, Pakula was alone in the backroom. The desk with the security monitor sat in a tight corner. Maggie had to maneuver through a maze of floor-to-ceiling shelves and boxes just to get to him.

“I can’t believe the manager surrendered his surveillance video so easily.”

“Turns out he knows my cousin.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Hard to be named Pakula in this state and not be related to me.” He swiped a hand over his shaved head, clearly frustrated. “Unfortunately, the view of my SUV is blocked. Sorry. Looks like this was a waste of time.”

“Maybe not.” She stood over him and tried to get a sense of what she was looking at on the oversized computer screen. “That’s the café across the street, right?”

“Yeah. Clear shot of it. Did you find out anything?”

Maggie glanced over her shoulder. They were alone. Earlier the manager gestured her to the doorway without leaving his post at the register. There was no one back here working in-between the aisles of shelving. They were all out front. Through the doorway, the store was humming with activity. Lunch hour.

“Rachel was a waitress,” she told Pakula. “She didn’t show up to work this morning.”

“No kidding.”

“But she worked last night until closing. Are you still looking at yesterday?”

“Yeah. I was searching for anyone suspicious looking. You know, hanging around. Maybe looking out of place. The flyers the note was written on are stacked over here by the door.” He pointed at the screen.

“Can you move forward to about ten last night? That’s when Rachel got off work. There’s no parking behind the café. I already checked. Maybe she was parked on the street.”

Pakula tapped the keyboard. He was quick, already familiar with how to get the video to bring up dates and times.

Pakula had been looking at video from earlier in the afternoon when the two of them got into his SUV and found the note. Now, he tap-tapped, moving the video. As he fast-forwarded, the street went from sunlight to twilight to dark. Vehicles disappeared from parking spaces. He slowed it down around the eight o’clock mark.

“She drives a dark gray Ford Fusion,” Maggie told him, realizing color or model might not matter. The streetlights left most of the area dark. “When I was checking for an alley, I walked around a couple of blocks just to make sure her car wasn’t still here somewhere.”

“Their cameras are decent. Hold on, I can zoom in a little.”

“Over there,” she pointed to the far-left side of the screen. A lone four-door sedan was parked in the last slot. “She just bought the car. No plates. See the white sign in the back window?”

“In-Transit. Good catch.”

He left the camera angle on the car and pulled the video back to seven o’clock. Then he let it run at 2x, stopping it whenever he noticed a shadow or movement. Every once in a while, there were headlights reflected in the shop window in front of the sedan. But the brief flash ended as the vehicles turned at an adjacent intersection.

“Stop!” Maggie told him. “Back up a little. Right before the last headlights show up. The shop the car’s parked in front of. I saw something in the window’s reflection.”

The frames clicked backward. Pakula restarted the video in regular speed. The headlights streaked across the window.

“There! Back it up again. Can you slow it down?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Right before the headlights, I think I can see a figure ducking down on the other side of the car.”

With the angle they had, only the passenger side was visible. But the driver’s side showed up in the store window’s reflection.

Pakula ran it and reran it three times. The fourth time he freeze-framed it just before the shadow ducked.

“I think you’re on to something. No way we’re going to get an image from this.”

“Someone may have been waiting for her at the car.” Maggie jotted down the timestamp. “Let’s go ahead. Let’s see what happens when Rachel comes.”

He resumed the video, forty-five minutes of boring. Only a couple more headlights. No other movement. Nothing more in the window’s reflection. At ten-fifteen, the woman Maggie recognized as Rachel came up the sidewalk, pointing a key fob then walking around the front of the vehicle to the driver’s side. Pakula tapped the video into slow-motion before Rachel opened the car door.

“Anything?”

“It’s impossible to see if anyone is hiding alongside it.”

They watched Rachel open the door. The interior lights came on.

Pakula paused the video. “Do you see anyone inside?”

“No. Could we have missed a person getting inside?”

“Considering we can see diddly-squat on that side and in the dark, yes, we could have missed someone. She used the key fob, so at least she had it locked.”

“Which means nothing to someone who knows how to get inside.”

Pakula clicked the video on. Rachel slid in. Closed the door. The interior went black. They both stared at the screen, watching and waiting. Without exterior lights, the inside was dark and completely in shadow.

The sedan’s headlights came on, the reflection bright in the shop window. Finally, they could see Rachel’s head above the seat rest. There was no other movement inside the car. Then the taillights came on. The vehicle backed out of the parking spot. No jerks. No head bobs. No sudden braking. No incident that would telegraph an intruder. There was only Rachel’s silhouetted profile looking straight ahead as the sedan drove off and out of their view.

“Are there any other cameras?”

“The bank, but it’s around the corner. No view of this street. I think we’ve reached a dead end on who left the windshield note. Might be a dead end on this waitress, too.” He sat back and looked up at her. “Have you told Ryder yet?”

“No, but I need to. It’s just…I don’t want to panic him if there’s no connection. He’ll go into lockdown as soon as I tell him.” She checked her wristwatch. “I asked Alonzo to run backgrounds on the victims’ names. See if their stories are similar to Brodie’s.”

“Nina Wrobel’s disappearance was enough of a match. But I get it. We shouldn’t presume a killer is telling us the truth.”

“It’s possible the person who left the note heard or read the story about Iris kidnapping and trying to replace her daughter. I’ve seen copycat killers. Maybe this guy’s simply using the story for an excuse to kill.”

“Even if it’s just a possibility, you might want to tell Ryder. He and Brodie need to be aware she could be in danger.”

“I know.”

“Looks like he’s still hanging around here if he just took Rachel last night.”

“Before we head back, there’s one last place we should check.” Maggie gestured to his empty coffee container. “Get another one of those.”

“Okay. You want a Diet Pepsi?”

“Yes, please. Can. Not soda fountain.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

She pulled out the napkin with Fred’s crude map in blue ink. “We’re going to do one last check on Rachel. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find she’s sleeping off a hangover.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, they drove up to the trailer directed by Fred’s napkin scrawls. No one answered the door. There was no Ford Fusion anywhere in sight. There was no vehicle on the property. And no tracks since last night’s snow.

Rachel Collins had not made it home.

48

Missouri

Dirty ice chunks were the only evidence of snow by the time Sara reached the southern tip of Missouri. Finally, a little sunshine, and the temperatures were warm enough to cut the truck’s heater and open windows.

She’d parked behind a three-story hotel off I-55. The parking lot was full, so no one would notice whether she was a guest. The open field that backed to the hotel’s property provided yellow-green grass and no signs that warned about trespassing. Other than a couple of gas stations, this was their first stop to get out and walk since they’d left Granny El’s.

She thought the dog would appreciate the break. Instead, Shadow reluctantly left the truck with a hunched back, eyes wide, tail tucked, and ears flattened. She kept close at Sara’s side. Close enough to brush against her left leg, almost as if the dog wanted the extra reassurance that she wouldn’t be left on her own again. She wouldn’t wander off, and probably didn’t need a leash, but Sara did. Sara needed her own sort of reassurance.

She had lived the greater part of her life looking over her shoulder for threats and avoiding blows. But now, she found herself looking out for this dog. She’d never been responsible for another living being. It made her feel anxious and stressed. And yet, in a strange way, it felt good to have someone need her. To have someone excited about her return. And content with her simple presence. It was something Sara had never experienced.

Now back in the truck, she pushed back the bench seat and pulled out a tote bag from the floorboard on the passenger side. It was time for Shadow’s meds, and the dog’s ears perked up at the smell of the peanut butter lid being twisted off. Sara had packed their snacks, bandages and medicine in the easy-to-reach bag. Their meals were already prepared in the small cooler also on the floorboard, so Sara didn’t have to pull anything out from the back of the truck until they settled for the night. Best-case scenario, she’d drive all night.

Putting the jar of peanut butter back inside the bag, she realized she had stuffed too much inside. At the last minute, she added four small jars of Granny El’s homemade jam. It had been surprisingly difficult to leave the old woman’s house. Other than the quick trip to Wyoming, Sara had stayed there since the beginning of fall. She needed to make the necessary preparations.

Iris had insisted Sara watch over her house and property when her last effort to be released on bail had been rejected. Her tone changed. Suddenly, she appeared to realize she might have a fight on her hands. That “these ridiculous people” might hold her in prison for longer than she expected.

Iris’ tone wasn’t exactly conciliatory, but she became more careful in how she conducted her outside communication. And Sara was one of the few contacts she had on the outside that she could trust. Or perhaps one of the few that she could still manipulate into helping her. There were constant reminders that Sara needed her protection. That Sara owed her. And in case all of that wasn’t enough, Iris had hired Orlando.

Orlando was a longtime friend and “business associate” of Iris’ dead brother Eli. According to Iris, that made him “practically family.”

But Iris had never given any instructions or any thoughts about Granny El’s. In fact, Iris had abandoned it ever since she vanished the old woman. Whenever Sara had asked about Granny El, Iris told her, “It was time.” She told Sara not to bother about the old woman or her property.

Sara hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. Iris had sent Sara away on a week-long assignment. When she returned, Granny El was gone. The windows of her house were boarded up. Security padlocks were placed on all the doors. And absolutely no explanation as to why or where the old woman had gone. There would be no more conversation or questions allowed on the subject.

That was several years ago when Iris’ power was overwhelming. Even now, from behind prison bars, Iris still held control over Sara. Over Orlando. And over men even tougher than Orlando. She knew all of their secrets, and she wasn’t afraid to share them if she had to.

For Sara, taking care of Iris’ properties meant extra money added to Sara’s measly allowance. She had decided on her own to fix up Granny El’s place. She’d taken every extra dollar she received or could siphon from Iris and put it into the house. In the beginning, Sara simply had too much spare time, waiting for Iris’ directives from prison.

She’d learned online how to make plumbing and electrical repairs. Each project led to another. Turned out she was good at fixing things, solving problems and putting pieces back together.

The boarded-up windows were replaced with new ones. Then came fresh paint, inside and out. In the beginning, the security system helped her control lights and heat when she wasn’t there. Now there were cameras, locks, and alarms. And all the while she left pieces of Granny El in place, like the Christmas tree in the corner and the woman’s clothes in her drawers. Some of them still held her scent.

Sara made sure the house, itself, still possessed the warmth of Granny El with every repair and renovation she made. What started as a way to fill extra time turned into a tribute and then, without warning, ended up becoming something Sara had never had. The house, the property, the woods, the pastures… It had become her home.

That’s why before she left, Sara packed the four jars of jam to take with her. She wanted those memories to accompany her on this mission. She wanted to hold tight to the feelings that place had stirred up inside her. And deep down she knew she might not ever be able to return.

She pulled out the wild raspberry along with the box of crackers and a spoon. Shadow watched, licking her lips and glancing at the bag where the peanut butter jar had disappeared.

“Let me just get a bite or two,” she told the dog. “I’ve got a snack for you before we get back on the road.”

She gripped the jar’s lid and twisted. She heard the pop and smiled. But there was no scent of raspberries. That was disappointing. She twisted the lid completely off and stared inside.

There was no jam.

Instead, four tightly rolled bundles filled the space.

Sara pinched one of the bundles between her thumb and index finger and carefully tugged it out. A white paper was wrapped around the outside. Her pulse ticked up when she recognized Granny El’s handwriting.

Sara, this is for those times when you need more than just jam. Love you, Granny.

She wiped at her eyes, surprised to find them wet. It was ridiculous.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t dare.

She did not cry when Iris had grabbed and broken her arm. Not when Iris had shoved her so hard into a wall, she heard the cartridge in her nose explode. Not even when Orlando’s “associate” had sneaked into her bed.

Not once did she cry. She wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

She stared at Granny’s note again, then picked up the bundle that had been rolled up inside the white paper. It was a thick wad of cash. The first roll was twenties and fifties. The three others were thicker bundles with crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. There had to be thousands of dollars inside the jar.

Sara stared at the money in her lap. Then her eyes darted up to the windshield. There was no one parked close to them. The parking lot had almost emptied out.

She scooped up the bills and placed them in the tote bag. Her hand grabbed at another of Granny El’s jam jars. The label wrapped entirely around each jar from top to bottom, so it was impossible to see the contents. Until she flipped them over. From the bottom, she could see that the wild grape also contained tight bundles. The plum and mulberry were actually jam.

She sat back and wiped both hands over her face. Let out a long, drawn-out breath.

She noticed Shadow sitting quietly and watching her. The dog’s head tilted to one side. Her ears flopped in the breeze. The amber eye looked lighter and brighter in the sunlight. Her stare was so intent as if she was genuinely trying to understand.

“I’m fine,” she told the dog. Then she reached out and cupped the side of Shadow’s face. The dog leaned into the palm of her hand and let out a sigh of her own. “Granny would have loved your eyes. I bet she would have called them magical.”

Finally, Sara picked up a jar again and popped open the lid of the mulberry. She scooped out a spoonful and savored the sweet taste and chunky fruit texture. She dipped out a small amount and offered it to Shadow. The dog lapped it up.

“That was a nice treat.” She put the lid back on and slipped the jar into the tote bag. Shadow settled into her seat. “You know it’s just you and me, right?” The dog stared up at her, then laid her head on her front paws as if content with that prospect.

She petted Shadow’s head, amazed at how soft the fur was. Suddenly and momentarily amazed at how lucky she felt. She’d never had a partner before.

No, not lucky. She didn’t believe in luck. You earned your way in this world. Nothing came free or easy. And yet, Shadow had come into her life in the most inconvenient and remarkable way.

Count your blessings.

Now, she remembered. That phrase was something Granny El used to say. The woman never complained. Instead, she talked about how grateful she was at the bounty of fruit for her jams, about the beauty that surrounded her every day.

Sara sat back again. Unfortunately, what she had to do had nothing to do with luck or blessings.

When she looked at Shadow again, the dog’s eyes were droopy. She could barely keep them open to watch. Her right ear still twitched, trying to listen.

“It’s just you and me,” she told the dog. “Let’s go slay a dragon.”

49

Florida Panhandle

Hannah had filled Creed with fresh biscuits and a platter of her special skillet hash: sausage, three eggs sunny side up, diced potatoes, and sliced jalapenos.

Food was Hannah’s love language. It brought comfort even when her words might sound like lectures wrapped in therapy. As happy as she was to feed him this morning, she was not happy with his appearance.

“Rye, you look like something the dogs dragged in. Even Grace looks better than you.”

The little dog wagged at the sound of her name but didn’t bother looking up from her own bowl of scrambled eggs.

“What’s under the bandage?” She pointed to his arm.

“Just a graze. An EMT took care of it.”

“A graze from what?”

He knew she wouldn’t let it go. “A bullet.”

“A bullet? You mean like being shot at with a gun? You didn’t mention that last night.”

“I didn’t want you to worry. It’s nothing. A flesh wound.”

“Uh, huh. Do me a favor. Dr. Avelyn is at the clinic for another hour. Let her take a look. She says it’s nothing, and I’ll be satisfied.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite him at the table. “Who took a shot at you? I thought that young man you found was incapacitated?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got nowhere I need to be right now.”

He sighed. Put down his fork. When she got into “big sister” mode, he knew she wouldn’t just drop it.

“Turned out, the sheriff’s deputy is not one of the good guys. He came back to the scene before the rescue crews got there. He must have heard the call for an ambulance and figured we’d found someone alive. He wanted me to lead him to Kyle.”

“So, he could finish him off. Finish you and Frances, too.”

Creed didn’t tell her Perry even had Grace on the list.

“Something very strange has been going on at that property.”

“I’d sure say so. Jason told me about the electric fence that shocked poor Scout. Said that place was supposed to have been abandoned decades ago.”

“I think it’s being used for something illegal. My guess is drug trafficking.” He pointed to Grace now, rather than say her name and interrupt her feast. “She alerted to a drone we found in the pasture. It might have had drugs on board. Deputy Perry said something about a package being delivered.”

“Maybe that young man, Kyle will be able to tell us. Have you heard any other updates?”

“He’s still in ICU. But stable. Norwich will stay in touch. She knows his mother. She knows one of the State Patrol investigators, too.”

That’s when their newest employee, Sully came in the back door. His bucket hat in hand, he looked embarrassed that he had interrupted them.

“My apologies, Miss Hannah. Ryder. Just hoping to grab a cup of that fine coffee you have.”

“Come on in,” Hannah told him. “Help yourself. I have some contracts I need to get out.” She stood and offered her chair to Sully. She refilled her coffee cup and stopped to put a gentle hand on Creed’s shoulder. “Please have Dr. Avelyn give that a look.”

“I will.”

Sully didn’t sit down. He sipped his coffee and kept a polite distance. The worn hat in his hand was sweat-stained, but he was clean-shaven, and the rest of his clothes, though threadbare, were clean. He stood in stocking feet, always insisting on leaving his shoes outside of what he considered Hannah’s home. He had been homeless when Creed first met him. But homelessness had not taken away his old-school gentleman manners.

“When you get a few minutes, I need to show you something.”

“Is it one of the dogs?”

“No, no. All that’s good. You go ahead and finish your breakfast. I can come back.”

“Would you like some breakfast? Hannah made enough to feed a half-dozen people.”

Sully patted his lean midsection. “I think her delicious generosity has already helped me pack on ten pounds.”

Creed smiled. The man could use a lot more calories to make up for Sully’s campfire diet of rice and red beans. Creed picked up his fork and pointed to the chair. “Do you mind sitting for a few minutes. I’m almost finished.”

“Sure, sure.” He padded across the room and sat down.

Creed met Sully last fall. He and his little dog were living in the woods back behind the Waffle House off Avalon Boulevard. His utensils and worldly belongings could fit into a duffel bag. He joked that he preferred to call it “extreme camping.”

Too proud to take any help or handout, Creed had finally talked Sully into coming to help Hannah and him at their K9 facility. Besides their scent dog services, they also contracted and trained working dogs for other organizations. Their kennel normally housed a couple dozen dogs. Then just before the holidays, Creed agreed to help rescue and take in a large group of working and military dogs. They were the dogs left behind in Afghanistan after the fall of Kabul.

Sully was good with dogs. Despite his suspicions, he could see immediately that Creed and his team did need help. Some of the dogs were injured. Many of them were traumatized. All of them needed to be quarantined before they could be reunited with their military handlers or new owners. There was so much to do, and they needed an extra person who could be available 24/7.

When Creed presented Sully and his dog Gunner with their own trailer to live in, the old man started to refuse. Creed had even tucked it into the trees, back away for more privacy but close enough to walk to the clinic and kennels.

“Jason has his own trailer, too,” Creed explained at the time. “We can work out the hours. I promise we won’t work you to death.”

When Sully still appeared to hesitate, Creed added, “It’s either this, or I’ll provide you with a vehicle, but it’ll be a lot of driving back and forth. It’d really help us out if you could be here on site. We’ll still pay you a salary. You’d have to work that out with Hannah.”

It took Sully a few minutes to realize Creed was offering him a real job, not a made-up one as a handout. A job he believed and expected Sully could do.

“For the dogs,” Sully had finally told him as he accepted the housing.

Creed wasn’t surprised some nights when he noticed a fire outside the trailer with a sleeping bag next to it.

“What happened to your arm?” Sully asked now as he sipped coffee and waited for Creed to finish.

Creed repeated what he’d told Hannah. Sully’s brow furrowed. He became agitated, his knee bouncing. Finally, he set his coffee cup on the table and said, “I need to show you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can we go now?”

Creed followed Sully through the woods. The old man was much shorter and ducked under branches that required Creed to bend down or walk around.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Creed called out from behind.

“Patience, Jarhead,” he said over his shoulder but didn’t slow down.

They’d left their dogs behind: Grace with Hannah and Gunner with Dr. Avelyn. Without having to keep an eye on Gunner, Sully was quick and appeared more limber. He also seemed oddly familiar with this path through the dense forest, even though he’d only lived out here for a couple of months. He did have an unnatural sense of direction that maybe came from living in the woods.

“I hope you don’t think we can move your trailer all the way out here,” Creed joked when they kept trekking on.

“No, no. I think it’s perfect right where it is. We’re close.”

Then he veered off the path and began a slow climb through the brush. Finally, Sully stopped beside a huge live oak tree that sprawled out, its branches butted up against magnolias and longleaf pines. The scrub grass looked trampled down all around the trunk. When Sully pointed to the ground, Creed immediately saw cigarette butts on top of pine needles. Someone had spent some time standing here.

“Unfortunately, the property spreads close to the park,” he told Sully. “It’s hard to stop trespassers.”

He knew that even when Sully had been homeless, he was still careful where he set up “camp.” He stayed within borders deemed either public land or uninhabitable. Creed wasn’t surprised that the possibility of someone trespassing on his property might bother the man.

“It’s not that.” He gestured for Creed to step up onto the incline behind the tree. It was a tight squeeze, but Creed didn’t have to go far to see what Sully wanted him to see. This spot looked out over an open meadow down below.

“Do you recognize that?”

Creed did, and his breakfast began to knot in his stomach. “It’s Brodie’s special place.”

He slid back down and started examining the ground more closely. “Someone was here watching her. Did you see him?”

Sully shook his head. “No. But we heard him. Gunner and me walk along here sometimes, but we avoid her meadow. This morning Gunner’s nose was going wild. Smelled something that didn’t belong. Maybe it was this guy. Or his cigarettes. The dog wouldn’t let it go. Took me up here. I think Brodie and Hank maybe heard him, too.”

“Did she say she heard someone?”

“She did, but she thought it was us. I didn’t want to scare her, so I didn’t tell her what we found. We hung around and made sure she got back safely. I don’t think she noticed us, but I’m sure Hank did. Anyway, I thought I should tell you. Should I have told her?”

“No, you’re right, I don’t want her to be scared. And maybe it’s just someone from the park. A worker. Could be nothing.” Except he knew it was something. “I’ll talk to her.”

And Sully knew, too. He pulled out his pocketknife and flipped open the blade. Then he bent down and stabbed one of the cigarette butts through the filter. He held it up.

“You see that?”

There appeared to be a small round gel bubble embedded in the filter. Creed had never been a smoker. It had been a long time since he had even hung around any smokers.

“Is it a menthol capsule?” he guessed.

“The U.S. only allows menthol-flavored capsule cigarettes.” Sully brought it up to his nose then held it closer for Creed to do the same.

“It smells sweet. Is that orange?”

Sully pointed down to the others. “Orange, blueberry. I think I found one that might even be watermelon. You crush the capsule and you get that flavor when you inhale. My wife would have loved these. She enjoyed a cigarette and coffee after dessert. I might still have her with me if she didn’t enjoy it so much.”

“So, what are you telling me, Sully? We have a trespasser who likes trendy cigarettes?”

“The U.S. doesn’t allow these flavored ones. You can’t buy them anywhere in the States. But the cigarette companies sell tons of these in Latin America. The kids call them click cigarettes. All kinds of flavors. Kids mostly like them. Probably that’s the whole point of it.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Unfortunately, not all who are homeless in the United States are from the United States. Months ago, I bummed a cigarette from a kid from Chile. Good kid, but it only reminded me how much I hate smoking. It tasted like blueberry fluff.”

“You’re saying whoever was watching Brodie might be from South America?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he just travels back and forth there. Whoever this fella is, he’s spent a bit of time here this morning. You mentioned that mess up in Mississippi. That maybe the property has something to do with drugs. Like maybe drugs being brought over the border.” Sully pulled the brim of his hat down as he watched Creed’s face. “Anyway, it was strange enough that me and Gunner stuck around until Brodie and Hank headed back.”

“I really appreciate that.”

“She’s a good kid. Been through a lot. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

It was Creed’s turn to stare. This was a man who insisted on being left alone, and yet, here he was already looking out for Creed’s family.

“Want us to hang around out here?” Sully asked. “See if we can catch him? Gunner’s got his scent now.”

“No, not just yet. Let me do some thinking.” Creed absolutely didn’t want either Sully or Gunner getting hurt. Of course, he didn’t dare tell the man that. In his mind, Sully believed he was still a warrior capable of taking on the villains of the world. “Thanks for showing me this.”

Creed’s eyes began scanning overhead in the large, widespread branches as if looking for answers. He felt his jaw clench with a combination of anger and urgency.

Was it possible that this intruder was connected to the Mississippi crime scene?

50

Creed waited until he couldn’t see or hear Sully any longer on the path. He told Sully he’d meet up with him later for kennel chores. Sully gave him a knowing look and nodded.

Brodie knew this area well, but she’d promised him she wouldn’t stray too far beyond it. His overprotectiveness annoyed her. He could never relate to what she'd been through. But he'd never shared with her what it felt like to spend years searching and wondering whether she was dead or alive.

His mom took him out of school, dragged him from state to state, driven by tips and hunches and sightings, all in the hopes they would find her. He’d enlisted in the Marines to escape. It was probably the best and worst thing he’d ever done. It was the Marines who taught him how to be a K9 handler. He’d built his entire business on the premise that he would continue to search, if no longer for his sister, perhaps for her remains. And in the meantime, help others look for their loved ones.

Finding Brodie after such an impossible amount of time was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. It was a blessing he didn’t deserve, and he was still so afraid it could all be snatched away in a moment’s notice. How could he ever explain any of that to her?

His property with Hannah rolled over into Blackwater River State Forest. The Blackwater River and several other rivers cut through their property. Portions of the state park shared a border. Some of that was fenced off with signs indicating private property. Most of it was thick forest, far removed from the park’s trails and campgrounds. Rarely did they have hikers get lost on their property.

Anyone who intentionally entered from the park would still need to do quite a bit of hiking. The nearest drivable trail was miles away. But there was one place Creed knew could provide easy access if the intruder came up the river.

Through this part of the forest, the banks along the Blackwater River grew wild, thick and tangled with tree roots and vines. Fallen branches and debris got caught up along the side, adding another layer anyone wanting to launch a boat would need to cut through. But there was one stretch of sandy shoreline in the middle of nowhere. If someone hiked in and backpacked an inflatable, they’d be able to launch it from there. He’d done it himself a time or two.

Creed took a shortcut, weaving along a critter path. Near the river, the forest was alive with the sounds and smells of nature. Those were some of the first lessons he taught Brodie. He made sure she could recognize the huff-chuff of a black bear and the musky, pungent odor of an alligator. In the Florida Panhandle, it was possible to run into either one.

She never left the house without her canister of bear spray and Hank. But human predators? The idea that someone might come with the sole intention of hurting her, that was something he’d hope the isolation of the forest would help him protect her against.

He heard the water before he got a glimpse of it. The river was narrow here but deep and fast-running. Branches swooped down from the live oaks on the banks, some of them long and low enough a boater would need to duck. The sandy shore glittered in the sunlight. The tea-colored water brushed against it.

Creed stayed high on the bank so he could look down. He realized rains could have washed away any evidence of intruders. But if the stranger had used this stop earlier today, there’d be footprints or skid marks from a boat.

He slid down the bank, grabbing tree roots to slow himself. Now on the sand, he took a closer look. He still didn’t see any footprints. Except there were marks. It looked as if someone had brushed the surface. Swirl marks from nothing in nature but maybe created by someone dragging a branch with leaves.

Creed followed the swirls to an area of scrub bushes and a debris pile close to the bank. Immediately, he could see that the branches of white cedar had been cut and dropped on top. A pounding started at his temples. A drumbeat of urgency tightened his chest and balled up his fists.

Hidden underneath the carefully constructed canopy of debris was a small inflatable boat.

51

Creed had already called Hannah and Jason from the sandy beach where he knew he still had cell phone reception. He’d told them what he’d found. He asked Jason to contact his Army buddies and see if they could come for dinner tonight. He’d order pizzas if Benny and Colfax could pick them up.

“Oh, and have Benny bring one of his drones.”

Hannah had huffed her distaste. Maybe about the drones. Most likely about the pizzas. But then she promised to “throw together some molasses cookies.”

When he got to his loft apartment above the kennel, he made his other phone calls. The first one was to Norwich.

She told him that the doctors needed to keep Kyle sedated. According to Lydia, he had suffered internal injuries. But his prognosis was good.

“Is Deputy Perry talking?”

“No, he’s still heavily sedated. Did you know those steel-jaw bear traps are illegal in most states, including Mississippi?”

“As they should be. I think there are probably a whole lot of things on that property that are illegal. Have they found anything else?”

“They have enough right now to keep them busy.”

“What about the girlfriend?” Creed asked, trying to keep any urgency he was feeling out of his voice. This was the information he really wanted. “Do they know anything more about who she was?”

“Alvin said her fingerprints were on record. Turns out she’d been arrested a few times. Her name was Mandy Davidson.”

“What were the arrests?”

“Shoplifting. Possession of drugs, but less than thirty grams or low dosage units that qualified as misdemeanors and resulted in fines only. Some other minor things, but not just in Mississippi. Texas, Georgia, Florida. And those are the ones we know about.”

“Misdemeanors. Doesn’t sound like enough to get her killed?”

“We both know, if you get involved with the wrong people, any little thing might set them off.”

“Perry told me something about a package, but we didn’t find anything.”

“Maybe he can explain more when they’re indicting him for attempted murder.”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Norwich noticed. The two of them had spent a lot of time together working on different cases. So, he wasn’t surprised when she asked, “You okay? I know you’ve got to be bone-tired. I know I am. But it sounds like something else is going on?”

He told her about someone watching Brodie. What Sully had found. That the cigarettes were not sold in the United States, and Sully’s suspicions.

“Do you think it’s possible someone followed Jason and Brodie from Mississippi?” he asked.

“Anything’s possible. Wait a minute. Those photos you texted me of the drone. If I’m not mistaken, there were a bunch of cigarette butts on the ground.” As soon as she said it, she tried to backtrack. “Now, that could just be a coincidence.”

“I thought most of you law enforcement people don’t believe in coincidences?”

“Most of us old-timers don’t. You got that right. I’ll ask Alvin if he can have someone check it out. Maybe they found other cigarette butts. I have a feeling he’d be interested in knowing if that property is being used by a drug cartel.”

“Are you back home yet?” Creed asked.

“I was packing up and having a cup of coffee when you and Grace left the parking lot.”

He laughed. “So, you didn’t get much sleep either.”

“No, but it sure felt good to have a hot shower. Listen, Ryder, I really do appreciate what you did for this case. For me. For Lydia and Kyle. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have ever found that boy. I hate to think about it, but we might have never even found his body.”

“It was Grace we should all thank.”

“I hope she’s getting some rest and whatever big treat she’s allowed. You two take care. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.”

What he didn’t tell Norwich was that he should have paid attention early on. If he had watched and listened to Grace the first time they went through the woods—even before Sheriff Daniels showed them the bloody vehicle—it would have saved a lot of time and pain. Because he remembered her poking in that direction. Pulling him, trying to tug him to take that turn.

And instead of listening to his dog, he simply followed Daniels to exactly where the man had wanted them to start their search.

52

Elkhorn, Nebraska

Maggie felt defeated. They had come up empty-handed in their search for the waitress named Rachel Collins. She seemed to have completely disappeared after her last night shift at the Village Café. On the video surveillance, Maggie and Pakula watched her get into her car then drive away, never to be seen again.

Pakula had already issued a BOLO (Be On the Lookout) and an ATL (Attempt to Locate) for a missing person who might be a victim. He also told his people he wanted to be notified immediately if a woman’s body was found, especially one dumped in a lake or river.

Now, the two of them returned to Maximo’s Cantina in Elkhorn. Christin greeted them at the door with a raised eyebrow and a smile. “Two days in a row? It’s either my delightful charm or the margarita special.” She led them to the same table in the corner.

“Does Max have anything stronger back there than margaritas?” Pakula asked as he dropped into a chair that backed against the wall. Maggie took one that backed against the window. It was snowing again, and right now, she didn’t want to see any of it.

“Stronger. Are you thinking something like a shot of tequila?”

“No. Scotch or whiskey.”

“Neat or on the rocks?”

Pakula looked over at Maggie. She was pulling her notebook and files from her messenger bag. With only a glance, she said, “Neat.”

“Two, please. And a plate of those nachos.”

“You got it.”

It was too early for dinner. The place was almost empty.

“Whiskey and nachos?” Maggie asked as she checked her text messages. Alonzo had sent her a couple of emails, but warned the information was not “earth-shattering.”

“I’ve been dreaming about those nachos all day.” Pakula started patting down pocket after pocket then finally dragged out a pair of glasses.

“Hey, are those prescription eyeglasses?” she asked, suddenly thinking about Eleanor Dunn.

“Oh hell, no. I must have a dozen of them scattered around in pockets, in my car, my office. The way I lose glasses, I couldn’t afford prescription ones. Besides, I just need them for reading.”

Pakula’s phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of a different jacket pocket. A text message with a photo filled the screen. He set it in the middle of the table for Maggie to see. She didn’t need to pull it closer to recognize the woman in the mediocre driver’s license photo. It was Rachel Collins.

Christin was back at the table with the whiskey glasses, setting down napkins. She’d only glanced at the phone’s screen then did a double-take. Maggie saw the flash of recognition on the waitress’ face.

“Do you know her?” Maggie asked.

“She looks like someone who worked here. Is she okay?”

Pakula scooted his chair closer to the table and turned the phone around so that Christin could get a better look. “Do you know her?”

“Rachel. She was a waitress here for a while.”

“When did she stop working here?” Maggie asked.

Christin stopped to think. “Maybe last spring?”

“Has anyone come in looking for her since she left?” Pakula asked.

“Actually, there was a man just a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was odd because she hasn’t worked here for so long.”

“So, obviously, not a regular customer? Did he ask anything about her, or just if she was still working here?”

“I can’t remember. But I wouldn’t have told him anything. Is she okay?”

“We’re just trying to get in touch with her,” Pakula said. “Do you remember what the guy looked like?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. To be honest, I was distracted by his tattoo.”

“His tattoo?” Pakula sat up.

“It was this elaborate, but kind of creepy snake or dragon. It looked like it was slithering down his arm. Its head poked out his shirt sleeve over his wrist.”

“Do you know why she left or where she went?”

Christin shook her head. “You could ask Deb or Max. One of them might know more.”

Maggie’s phone started ringing.

Pakula stood and gestured for her to get it. To Christin he said, “I’m not sure Max or Deb will remember me, you mind reintroducing us?” He followed her to the back.

Maggie expected Alonzo. She was surprised to see Ryder’s name as she answered.

“Hey, how are you?”

“Is this a good time to talk?”

“Yes. Did you and Grace make it back home?” Unless she had missed a text, she hadn’t heard from him since early morning when he said they were still on the road.

“We did. I’m hoping you can help me find out more information on the dead woman we found.”

“Woman? I thought you were looking for a missing man?”

“According to his mother, he was with a girlfriend. It was her body we found in a debris pile. Grace found the young man last night hiding in an old, abandoned vehicle in the woods. He’s alive but in critical condition.”

“Wow! That’s quite a twist.”

“The girlfriend may have been the actual target. Kyle’s mother thinks she may have been involved with drug dealers. She said that the woman told a fantastical story about how she had been kidnapped when she was a little girl and held captive for years. Right now, she was living in Starkville, Mississippi.”

Maggie gripped the phone. Starkville. It was one of the PLSs on the list. She reached for the whiskey. Took a sip. Stayed quiet and listened.

“I know it’s probably all some strange coincidence. But someone was in the forest this morning watching Brodie. I found an inflatable boat on the river’s edge. I know it all sounds crazy, but I think that abandoned place in Mississippi is being used as a drop site. Maybe a stash house. I’m hoping you can check out this woman and find out if she might somehow be connected to Brodie.”

Maggie pulled a copy of the list out from her notebook. “Do you have a name?” Her index finger found Starkville.

“Yeah, Norwich just confirmed her identity. Her name was Mandy Davidson. Her fingerprints were on file. She had some misdemeanors. But nothing serious. Certainly nothing that should have gotten her killed.”

Maggie didn't need to track her finger to the name column. She already saw it: Davidson. Amanda Davidson. Starkville. Her DOE was several days ago.

“Maggie?”

She realized she’d gone quiet for too long.

“Someone left a handwritten note on Pakula’s windshield while we were at the courthouse in David City. It was a list of names.”

“A list of names?”

“With numbers and locations. We’ve been trying to make sense of it. One of the names was Kristin Unger. Do you remember her?”

“Of course. I was the one who found her.”

“Another name we just confirmed was a body pulled from a lake here in Omaha. The list also includes a waitress from a café in David City who didn’t show up for her shift this morning.”

“What do these two women have to do with Kristin?”

She hesitated. “The column that has the numbers is labeled Charlottes.” She let that sink in then added, “Brodie isn’t on the list.”

“And Mandy Davidson. Is she on the list?”

“Amanda Davidson. Yes.”

“So, it’s obviously a hit list. The survivors.”

“It’s not obvious, Ryder. I’ve had killers play these kinds of games. With Iris’ trial coming up, this guy could be motivated by the publicity. He might simply know enough about the case. We’re still trying to find out if these women were kidnapped as children. If they have any connection to this area. To Iris.”

“Kyle’s mother said Mandy had been kidnapped as a girl.”

“That could just be a coincidence.”

“You don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I’m not sure why he would—”

“This list. When did you find it on Pakula’s windshield?”

“Yesterday. It was scribbled in blue ink on the back of a flyer for local events and eateries.”

“You had it yesterday? When were you going to tell me about it?”

“Ryder, we’re still trying to figure it out.”

“It had a column labeled Charlottes, and you didn’t tell me about it. You weren’t going to tell me, were you? Except I brought up one of the women listed on it.”

“I was going to tell you as soon as—”

“He’s already here.”

“No, that’s not possible. He just took a woman last night from the café.”

“I gotta go.”

“Ryder, wait.”

“Jason just came in with something. I gotta go.”

“Wait, it can’t be—” But he was already gone.

Pakula was back. As he sat down, he asked, “What’s going on?”

“Ryder and his crew found Amanda Davidson, the Charlotte from Starkville, Mississippi.”

“I thought he didn’t know about the list yet.”

“He didn’t.”

53

Florida Panhandle

Jason stood in the open doorway of Creed’s loft apartment. He held something up in his hand by two fingers, his arm outstretched as if the item was something disgusting, and he didn’t want it near him. It was enough for Creed to hang up on Maggie.

“What the hell is that?” he asked Jason.

“A GPS tracker. One of the expensive ones. Fully waterproof with real-time location, a full year of battery life, and a serious magnetic base. Scout found it attached up in one of the tire wells of my Jeep. Back passenger side.”

“Wait a minute. What?”

“The guy spying on Brodie. Up in the forest. I got to thinking about whether someone could have followed us. But I’m pretty sure I would have noticed. Five hours is a long time.”

Jason came in and handed the device to Creed. It was small, about three-inches round. The black, hard case was splattered with mud. It would have been well camouflaged up in the tire well.

“Scout was alongside Grace when you trained her for electronic storage detection. I’ve been working with him a little here and there ever since Benny said drones and GPS trackers are being used more and more by drug cartels. I took him to my Jeep and asked him to show me Tippo. He found it in less than five minutes.”

Tippo was the word Creed had used with Grace. If a dog was trained for multiple detections, it was necessary to give the scent a name. That way the dog knew which scent the handler was asking to find. Tippo was for TPPO, the acronym for triphenylphosphine oxide. The chemical compound coated electronic devices’ internal circuit boards to keep them from overheating. Trained K9s could smell the chemical even if it was encased in waterproof plastic or buried in mud.

“So, he didn’t even need to follow you and Brodie.”

“Bigger question is, what does he want?”

“Are Colfax and Benny on their way?”

“Picking up pizza and beer in an hour.”

“Does Brodie know?”

“I haven’t told her anything. Yet. She’s going to be there with us, though, right?”

Creed’s knee-jerk impulse was not to include Brodie. Of course, he just wanted to protect her. But after his conversation with Maggie, he realized that’s exactly what she had been doing with him. Trying to protect him. She didn’t want him going off, circling the wagons. Taking on a killer.

“Yes,” he finally told Jason. “We include Brodie.”

“And Sully.”

“Sully? No, wait a minute. We already have too many people who could get hurt.”

“He already knows, so you probably won’t be able to stop him from helping. If it wasn’t for Sully, we wouldn’t have even known about this intruder.”

Jason was right about that. Maggie certainly hadn’t been ready to tell him. That knot tightened in his stomach. It wasn’t right. She should have told him about that list as soon as they found it and saw the label “Charlotte.”

“And we could sure use him,” Jason said, mistaking Creed’s silence for indecision. “That old guy is clever and sneaky.”

“Sneaky?”

“Trust me. Sneaky is a good thing.”

Creed had always been a lone wolf. He still thought of himself that way when faced with trouble. But Jason had been there for him enough times for Creed to trust him. Not just with his home or his dogs, but also with his life. And now, Brodie’s too.

“Okay. But we come up with a plan. And we all stick with it.”

54

Mississippi

Sara had wanted to keep driving, but the storm clouds snuffing out the sunset had grown massive. She could already see forks of lightning racing through purple-blue clouds. A low rumble perked up Shadow’s ears. The dog had become increasingly unsettled.

After checking the internet, she found a Drury Inn at the next junction that allowed dogs, served a free breakfast, and even offered a light dinner. It was probably a good idea for the two of them to reset and recharge. Besides, now with a bag full of cash, she could afford it. She wouldn’t need to dip into her meager resources or use a credit card that didn’t have her name on it.

Sara found a parking near the back exit of the hotel. She walked around to the front. Inside the lobby, she could already smell the food. She requested a room on the ground floor, close to the back door for her dog. With the keycard in hand, she strolled through, pretending to check out the food while scrutinizing the other guests, noting the elevators and all the exits. Satisfied, she went down the hallway of the ground level rooms, listening as she walked by each door. Their room was the last one on the right. She exited and returned to her truck.

Shadow had grown more unsettled, now on all four feet watching the corner of the building where Sara had left earlier. When she saw her coming from the other direction, the dog wagged and wiggled like a happy dance. It made Sara smile. She almost laughed.

She came around to the passenger side and told the dog, “Let’s go walk before the rain starts.”

Shadow was so excited to see her return, she didn’t pay attention to the lightning and thunder. It amazed Sara how this dog seemed to only need and ask for one thing—Sara’s presence.

She was beginning to think bad weather followed her. It had snowed the entire time she was in Wyoming. Snow and mud erased tracks and all kinds of other evidence, so she could hardly complain.

They had barely settled into their room when the downpour began. Sara had selected a spread of items from the complimentary hotel dinner. Hotdogs for both. Chili and salad for her.

Rummaging through the duffel bag, she pulled out bandages, peroxide, and everything else she needed to take care of Shadow’s wound. She’d clean the dog’s wound first before she cleaned her own. Her arm throbbed worse now than when Shadow had bitten her. Still, Sara didn’t blame the dog. After what Shadow had been through, how could she know who to trust?

Without warning, Sara’s hand found the burner phone. She tossed it onto the desk. It remained off since the phone call from Orlando. There was nothing about the phone, on or off, that would allow him to track her. She just didn’t want to hear from him. And if Iris called? It no longer mattered. It couldn’t matter. The woman had already given her instructions. What more could she possibly want?

The small pouch she unpacked looked like it belonged with the wound care supplies. However, the items inside were the opposite of lifesaving. She unzipped the pouch. Everything was lined up and tucked into separate compartments. She lifted out the small plastic syringe and one of the needles, choosing the right length and gauge. The needle hub pushed onto the syringe, snapping into place. The cap remained sturdy, protecting the point.

There were also several vials inside the pouch. Vials, she had filled herself with concoctions she knew to be lethal. It still amazed her how little of each liquid was necessary for the effect she wanted.

She carefully put the items on the back of the desk where neither she nor Shadow could bump them. In the morning, she’d load the syringe as the last thing she’d do before they left.

Next, she put her hiking boots up on the desk, examining the pocket she’d added to the inside of the boot. She’d stitched it herself and included a flap. It looked like a miniature holster concealed inside the boot. Alongside an inch-long razor with a blade guard, the syringe and needle fit snugly against her ankle. Even if someone were to pat her down, they’d never notice this secret compartment.

Shadow lay on the bed watching her. Every once in a while, the dog would glance at the food on the small table, lick her lips then watch Sara again.

“You’re right,” she told the dog. “We should eat first. Refresh. And get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

55

Florida Panhandle

Brodie sat in the warm glow of Hannah’s kitchen. Her fingers absently scratched behind Hank’s ears while her other hand balled up the hem of her T-shirt under the table.

All around her, Jason, Benny, Colfax, and Sully served up slices of pizza and twisted caps off beer bottles. They discussed drones and surveillance equipment while Hannah pulled cookies from the oven. Their chatter had morphed into one monotonous buzz of preparation and information. The aroma of pepperoni, beer, and molasses turned her stomach.

No one seemed to notice her sitting quietly. No one seemed to hear the noise in her head. Or the erratic pounding of her heart. All of them were so preoccupied that they couldn’t see that her worst nightmare was coming to life.

Even behind the walls of prison, Iris Malone had found a way to hurt her. Not just hurt Brodie, but possibly everyone she loved.

This could not be happening.

Kitten slithered up against Brodie’s legs, under the table then under the chair. Hank stared up at her, that small crease in his big forehead that made him look worried.

So, her animals knew. They could feel her fear, smell her anxiety.

Ryder appeared alongside her. Pulled out the chair next to her. She hadn’t paid attention to where he had gone. Now he was back. He scooted his chair closer. She needed to pay attention in case she needed to listen. But she didn’t even glance at him. She didn’t blame him. Earlier, he had made it sound as if it was his fault. That he should have seen all this coming and stopped it.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her.

It wasn’t at all what she expected him to say. And this time, she looked at him. He looked tired. Worn out. But there was one thing about her brother that she could say. He did not look scared. He never did. How did he do that?

“I don’t want any of you to get hurt. Not because of me.”

“We’re going to make sure that none of us gets hurt.” He nodded at the men halfway across the room at the kitchen counter eating, talking, and sipping beer. Their intensity was obvious in their gestures and expressions. Jason held an iPad, and Benny pointed at something that drew all their attention. “They might look like a ragtag team out-boasting each other, but these guys saved my life once before.”

“Was it in Afghanistan?”

“Nope. It was right here. And it was before Jason had his prosthetic hand.”

All of that surprised her. Although she didn’t know much about their military service. Neither Ryder nor Jason talked about it. At least, not around her. But why hadn’t she heard this story?

“What happened?” she asked, genuinely curious but also anxious to fill her mind with something else.

“I managed to get on a hit list. A drug cartel sent out an elite squad to take me out.”

“And they came here?”

“Yup. These guys and our dogs took down an experienced group of hitmen.”

She thought about that as she studied Ryder. His eyes had left hers to watch the men and Hannah. When Brodie glanced over, she saw that Hannah now gestured to something Jason had brought up on the electronic screen. The men had stopped chewing and drinking to listen to her.

“What if we stop this assassin, and Iris just keeps sending another? And another? As long as she has the power to do that, how will I ever be safe?”

“That’s a good question. I wish I had an answer for you.”

When Brodie first came to live with Ryder and Hannah, she asked him never to lie to her, no matter what. She imagined this was one of those times he regretted making that promise.

“The only way I know to stop someone is to defeat them,” Ryder said. “Find their deepest fear and expose it.”

“I don’t think Iris fears anything or anyone.”

“Think about it for a minute. She’s going to a lot of trouble to find the surviving Charlottes.”

“And kill us!”

“What is her deepest fear?”

This time he met Brodie’s eyes and waited. She stared at him. His deep blue eyes always reminded her of the sky at twilight, their slight sparkle the beginning of stars. Remembering those eyes, their warmth and kindness and humor had gotten her through some rough times.

“She fears us. The survivors,” she finally answered.

“And why is that?”

“Our testimonies. Without us to testify, she’ll go free.”

“That’s the power you hold over her. Right now, you and whoever might still be out there—you hold all the power over Iris Malone.”

Hannah brought over a mug of coffee for Ryder and a platter of cookies that she set in front of Brodie. Then she sat down across the table from them.

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” Brodie told her.

“Don’t you go apologizing for something that’s not your fault.”

“I’m just glad Issac and Thomas are with their grandparents.”

“Even if they weren’t, they know what to do if scary men come around.”

Brodie was surprised by this. “You all made this place sound so safe and secure and welcoming. Now, you’re telling me everyone expects bad people except me?”

“Bad people are everywhere, Sweet Pea.” Hannah smiled. “There’s not a place on earth you can go to stay away from them.”

“So, you just bake cookies and wait?”

“Oh, my shotgun is loaded and ready.”

56

Friday, February 20
Nebraska

Maggie felt like she hadn’t slept at all. She’d left several voice messages for Ryder and a text message that simply said she hoped everything was okay. The only response was a thumbs-up emoji. Which should have been enough, except she knew how much Ryder hated emojis as a substitution for communication.

Today Pakula had other business to cover, and Maggie was on her own. As she waited for information from Alonzo, she decided she’d try again with the only other person who might know Iris Malone.

Maggie called ahead this time and spoke with the director of Eleanor Dunn’s care facility. She had decided to be upfront with Eleanor, as well. Maybe the woman wouldn’t even remember her. Maybe she’d refuse to talk at all.

The drive seemed to refresh Maggie. It felt so much different being behind the wheel and in control. Sunlight streaked the snow-covered rolling hills and made them glitter. Layers of clouds moved and gathered overhead. She could see the entire horizon in front of her, and the deep blue roiling mass at the bottom suggested the sunshine wouldn’t last long.

Pakula had provided an unmarked SUV from his department, despite her objection.

“I’ve seen the rental cars you’ve had in the past,” he’d told her. “I know your boss is cheap. Besides, there’s more snow predicted, and you’re out here doing me a solid, so I’ll feel better if you have some decent traction underneath you.”

That was classic Pakula: tough as nails but genuine, sincere. Always taking care of the people around him even as he convinced them it was only so he didn't have to worry.

When Maggie arrived, the young woman from her previous visit to the facility was nowhere in sight. Neither was the director she had spoken to earlier. But the man behind the desk was expecting her.

“Agent O’Dell?” He swirled his chair away from the computer and stood up. “I can take you back to Mrs. Dunn’s room.”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I remember the way.”

“Certainly. That’s fine.” But he didn’t sit back down.

She felt his eyes on her the entire way until she rounded the corner to Eleanor’s room. The door was open, but she stopped to knock before filling the frame.

“Hello, Mrs. Dunn.”

The old woman looked the same. She was lying in the same position. A couple of thin pillows behind her head. Her hands clasped together over her lap. She barely gave Maggie a glance.

“Do you remember me from yesterday?”

She shrugged, showing no interest at all. Her eyes still focused straight ahead at if watching the same black screen of the television.

Maggie walked in and brought the hardback chair to the side of the bed.

“My name’s Maggie O’Dell.”

“I know,” she said without a glance.

“I’m with the FBI. I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Iris.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Okay.” Maggie knew it was a long shot. But she had convinced herself not to push. Although, she’d decided it would not be a wasted trip even if the woman wouldn’t talk to her.

Instead, of sitting down, she placed her messenger bag on the chair and pulled out the first three items she was determined to leave with the old woman. Pakula was constantly putting on reading glasses, and last night at the restaurant Maggie realized maybe they’d work for Eleanor.

She shopped before she left Omaha, deciding on three different strengths (moderate to strong). Most of the frames were generic and cheap plastic, but she chose classic shapes then picked out a bright pink, a blue and a multi-colored, hoping they would be easier to find if misplaced.

“I brought these for you,” Maggie told her. She held up all three pairs for the woman to see.

There was a glance. Then there was a double-take.

“Those aren’t my glasses.”

“No, but I’m hoping one of them might work for you to be able to read. I got different levels of magnification. Would you like to try them?”

Eleanor stared at the eyeglasses for so long, Maggie began to wonder if this was a bad idea. Maybe the dementia wouldn’t allow her to understand that glasses other than the ones she’d lost would work for her. And if none of them did help, would it simply be another disappointing reminder that her own glasses were still lost?

Finally, she looked at Maggie, the expression on her face almost in childlike wonder. She sat up. It wasn’t a struggle for her.

“May I try the pink ones?”

Maggie unwrapped the packaging, making sure she peeled away all the stickers. Then she cleaned the glass with the cloth that came in the package, and she handed the pair to Eleanor.

The woman turned them over in her hands, inspecting them before she finally slid them slowly onto her face. She looked at her hands then searched around herself for something to read.

“Oh, I picked up some books, too. I didn’t know what you like to read, so I bought a variety.” Maggie pulled out several paperbacks and a couple of magazines. She chose the larger paperback size, staying away from hardcovers in case they were too heavy to hold. She stacked them on the bedside next to Eleanor, and the old woman skidded over to make room while she watched in wonder.

She picked up one of the bestsellers and began flipping pages.

Stopped. Stared. Readjusted the book. Pulled it closer.

Then she went completely still and quiet.

“These other two pairs are different strengths,” Maggie offered. “If those don’t work.”

Finally, Eleanor looked up at Maggie, and for the first time, she smiled.

57

Florida Panhandle

It was still before noon, when Sara turned onto the long driveway. Her eyes scanned and searched the property. It was so much bigger than she expected, which could make everything so much harder than it should be.

Unlike Granny El’s, there were trees everywhere, clogging the view in every direction. It was impossible to see the horizon and sometimes even the sky, but that could be an advantage.

Finally, she came to a clearing and a large two-story house with columns and a wraparound porch. Gardens of flowers and manicured shrubs surrounded the house and the stone pathway. There was a wood fence behind the house, but trees prevented her from seeing how far it extended.

Her attention focused on the house first. There were too many windows. It would be impossible to see if anyone was watching. Her head swiveled when she noticed the other buildings. They weren’t barns or sheds or steel Quonsets. They weren’t like anything she’d seen on other farms or rural properties. These had glass and brick and wrought-iron fences and graveled driveways to each. Even the doublewide trailer had a brick patio. The place looked like a small village.

One of the larger buildings was obviously their dog kennel. She could see various sizes of dogs poking their noses through the fence trying to get a glimpse at her. Maybe they could smell Shadow.

Sara parked her truck less than thirty feet from the front door of the house. And then she waited.

Shadow popped her head up to look out the window. Anyone watching them would see a road-weary young woman and a dog. And an old truck with Wyoming license plates. She might look like someone in need of something. Directions. Information. Or maybe she’d look like someone in trouble. But she would not look like a threat.

She had pushed herself to get here early. Most people felt the strongest sense of security in the morning hours. Supposedly, there’d been studies showing people felt less anxiety about their personal safety during the daylight hours.

Anxiety was at its highest level at midnight.

Orlando had taught her that.

He’d taught her many things, most of them useless. At least, for everyday living. But he was the master in his field. As much as she wanted, expected and hoped to outsmart him, she still couldn’t always predict his next move.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d arrived at Nina Wrobel’s hideout not long after sunrise. He’d beaten Sara there by minutes. A half hour, at the most. Nina wouldn’t have expected either of them in the morning. Getting through another night would have been her goal. Morning would have provided a false sense of security. She might not have even been awake when he made his way down to her basement bedroom.

Except Shadow was.

She petted the dog without realizing she was doing it. Only a few days, and it had become instinctive. It calmed her, settled her in a way she couldn’t explain.

A tall, black woman stood in the front doorway. She was pretty and wore slacks with a colorful blouse. This place, this house, this woman, all reminded Sara of something she would have only read about in a novel.

“This is it,” Sara told Shadow. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She climbed out of the truck and gave the woman a friendly half smile and a wave as she made her way over the flagstone pathway to the front porch.

“Hello,” Sara told her before the woman had a chance to ask. She stayed at the edge of the flagstone and didn’t attempt to step closer to the porch. “My name is Sara. Sara Tate.”

“You’re a long way from home, Sara Tate,” the woman said with a rich voice that was like a melody, and eyes that looked so deeply into Sara’s eyes that she was afraid the woman would know exactly why she was here.

She reminded herself that the best lies were the ones closest to the truth. She’d learned that from Iris.

“I’m looking for Brodie Creed. I understand she lives here?”

This time, the woman raised one eyebrow.

“What business do you have with Miss Creed?”

Miss Creed. It sounded so proper. So grownup. So legitimate. In all of Sara’s young years she’d never heard anyone refer to her as Miss Tate.

Sara swallowed...hard. The reaction was not a trick or intentional. Her next words were difficult, because she’d never said them out loud. Never even admitted them to herself.

“I was one of Iris Malone’s victims, too.”

58

Creed had watched the old truck pull into his driveway. The camera at the end of the property had triggered a motion alert. Seconds later, Jason had texted:

We have company.

Relief washed over him when the next camera showed the driver was a woman and the passenger, a dog.

He reported the information to both Jason and Hannah.

Creed had been watching from his loft apartment above the kennels. Grace slept on the sofa where she could see him, one ear perched and listening despite her occasional snores.

His big screen monitor displayed about a dozen open frames. Each one gave him a different view of his property. The two that monopolized his focus were the newly installed high-tech trail cams that Jason had put up and concealed.

The first one gave a bird’s-eye view of the riverbank. It included the hidden inflatable boat. Since yesterday morning, no one had returned to use it. Creed wondered if the intruder knew he’d been made. Had he discarded the boat and found another way? Or had he never left the property? Was he somewhere out there, lying in wait for the right opportunity?

The second camera overlooked the huge live oak and Brodie’s meadow. If he zoomed in, he’d be able to see the cigarette butts at the base of the tree. No one had shown up at this spot either.

He glanced at the feed from the camera on the house’s porch. Hannah was speaking to the woman. He could turn on the audio, but he didn’t want the distraction. If Hannah needed them, she’d only have to tap on one of the apps Benny had installed on all their phones. It was a sort of SOS that alerted all of them in real time and activated the user’s camera immediately to show what was happening.

That’s if the person in need still had the phone somewhere nearby.

He’d reminded Benny that no matter how high tech the apps and cameras were, a dropped cell phone was useless. Benny’s answer was that “it was what it was” until he could get his drone up to fill in the gaps. That wouldn’t be for another three or four more hours.

They were being proactive. They were prepared and ready.

So, why did Creed feel like his nerve-endings were jangling with electricity? A ticking bomb pounded in his chest. His instinct was to keep Brodie in his direct sight. He’d handcuff himself to her if it meant he could keep her safe.

It took everything in him to not say that to her. She’d already spent over half her life being held captive. He wouldn’t make a prison out of her own home.

At a glance, he saw Hannah escorting the woman and the dog around the house to the back. She looked young and small alongside Hannah. He zoomed in one of the cameras that watched them come inside the fenced yard. Her jeans were worn, the sweatshirt baggy. A trail of golden ponytail stuck out the backside of a ball cap. He recognized that her hiking boots were nice. Not just nice, expensive. Something a serious hiker would buy.

Another text pinged. Jason was still watching, too.

License plate is Wyoming. Does that mean anything?

No idea.

Just as he was about to add that Hannah would take care of it, he saw Brodie come out the back patio door.

59

Brodie stopped at the opposite end of the patio and stared at the pair. Of course, her eyes went to the dog first. It had a beautiful coat despite the bandages on one side. The coloring was marbled with fluffs of white in-between the black. Black that almost looked like midnight blue. Even from ten feet away, she noticed the eyes were two different colors: one blue, one amber.

“She’s gorgeous!” Brodie said without thinking. The dog gave an apprehensive wag while leaning against her owner.

“Her name’s Shadow.”

The woman looked younger than Brodie. She scanned her face, hoping to find something she might recognize. Everyone had told her that Iris had “a type.” That she’d chosen the Charlottes because they resembled her daughter. Ryder had shown her photos once, and although she didn’t recognize any of those girls either, she did admit they looked enough alike they could be sisters.

Brodie didn’t think this woman looked like them or her. Not at all.

“I’m Sara,” she said when Brodie took too long.

“She drove all the way from Wyoming,” Hannah added.

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t difficult. Your brother is kind of famous.”

That was true. Ryder had been interviewed many times. Though she’d never read or seen the interviews, she knew he’d been on television shows like Good Morning, America, and his photos with Grace had been online as well as in national newspapers and magazines. When she looked over at Hannah, she could see that they hadn’t taken into consideration that their renown and successful K9 scent detection business could easily lead anyone trying to find Brodie.

“Why don’t we all sit down.” Hannah gestured to the chairs while she sat on one of the benches.

“What happened to your dog?” Brodie asked.

“I’m not sure. She was wounded when I found her.”

Brodie immediately could tell that wasn’t entirely true. Though it wasn’t a lie either.

“What happened to you?” Sara pointed at the remaining bandages on Brodie’s arms and legs.

“I fell into a thorn bush.”

The woman nodded at her as if she genuinely could relate.

“Sara,” Hannah’s voice was soft but firm. “There are a whole lot of people who know this story, especially now with Iris Malone’s trial coming up. How do we know you’re not a reporter or someone looking to exploit what happened? Excuse me for sounding skeptical and perhaps a little blunt, but why should we believe you are who you say?”

Brodie noticed a smile caught at the side of Sara’s mouth as her head bobbed. Her ponytail bobbed, too.

“I certainly understand,” she said, her eyes going back and forth from Hannah to Brodie before finally settling on Brodie’s.

“I left the day after Aaron took you to the Christmas house.”

Brodie's fingers fidgeted with one of the bandages behind her knee. Sara had blue eyes but with flecks of gold, almost as if they were a combination of Shadow’s two different colored eyes. The bridge of her nose had a notch, and there was a scar under her jaw. When she talked, she kept her chin down as if to hide the expanse of it. The imperfections didn’t matter. She was pretty with an air of confidence that Brodie envied. Maybe it wasn't confidence but simply that Sara didn’t care what they thought of her. Her smile said as much when Hannah was explaining that she didn’t trust her. Sara seemed to expect it, and it didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking for their approval. She’d still be here.

Brodie glanced at Hannah to see she was still waiting for more. Anyone could have read about the Christmas house.

“I put something in the house for you,” Sara finally said.

Brodie still waited. There had been bags of grocery. A letter tucked into a magazine. But the letter was from a Charlotte by a different name: Kristel Unger who was already dead. Otherwise, the house was locked up tight, just another prison.

“I thought you could use the company,” Sara explained. “A kitten.”

This time Brodie felt the air sucked out of her lungs.

“A gray female. Mostly gray except for a stretch of white from her chin across her belly. And a white tip on her tail.” She was smiling as she described Kitten. “She was so sweet. I was afraid that as soon as I left, Iris would throw her in the well.”

The smiled disappeared. Sara’s eyes flitted away as if she’d seen it happen before, the image stamped on her memory. Then she added, “Iris didn’t like me getting attached to anyone or anything.”

Only a handful of people knew about Kitten, let alone could describe her down to the tip of her tail.

“Was she there?” Sara wanted to know when Brodie took too long to answer.

“Yes,” Brodie said. “She gave me a reason to live.” Then she looked over at Hannah and said, “She’s telling the truth.”

60

Nebraska

“Would you look at that. I can read!”

Eleanor tried on each pair of glasses and with each, picked up another book or magazine. The blue ones seemed to work best, but the pink allowed her to hold the book farther away.

Maggie sat and watched and listened. The lifeless eyes that had only stared at the blank television screen were now focused, skimming and darting over pages and covers. Her hands that had been clasped together, now flipped pages. Her limp body sat up easily.

Maggie hoped this newfound joy wouldn’t be temporary, only until the dementia set in and gripped reality.

“What is it you'd like to know?” Eleanor asked, glancing at Maggie without putting down the book in her hands. There was a sparkle in her eyes behind the glass.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to talk about your daughter. I didn’t bring the eyeglasses and the books as a bribe. I wanted, and I hoped that this would work. The fact that it does is a good enough reason for my trip here today.”

She went quiet then put the book down and folded her hands on top of it.

“Iris is not my daughter.”

Maggie’s first reaction was that the dementia was already taking over. She waited.

“I married Iris’ father when she and Elijah were teenagers. Their mother passed away when they were small children.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I guess we all presumed.”

“Our community is good that way. Privacy is important. Iris and Elijah didn’t want me to replace their mother, and I didn’t try. Their father...my husband, John, was a good and gentle man. But even he admitted he’d been too lenient with their discipline.

“Iris fought with me at any chance she had. That girl resented me for taking her daddy away, and she never let me forget it. I’m certain that’s why I’m stuck here.” She held up her hands in exasperation.

“What exactly do you mean?” Maggie treaded lightly. She knew people with dementia could make up grand stories. Was that what was happening here?

“I had a bad fall. Down some steps. I needed help, and that was true. Iris convinced me I should stay here until I healed and got stronger. Everything was murky after that. I still believe she talked her doctor into giving me medication I didn’t need. Then convinced everyone I was forgetful. Couldn’t live on my own. Told me, too, that it wasn’t safe for me to be living clear out in the middle of nowhere. What if I fell again, and no one found me?

“It was after Sara had gone. I know Iris sent her away. And I knew Iris was right. I didn’t have anyone. That was when Elijah and their friend Owen were running around like they owned everything. It was a dreadful time. To be honest, I wanted to stay out of their way. I just knew they were up to no good.”

Maggie wondered if Eleanor knew Elijah was dead. She didn’t want to stop the woman from talking, but said, “I know Elijah. I don’t know Owen.”

“Consider yourself lucky. If you met Elijah, you know that one’s no good. Owen is something, for sure. As a boy, he used to come up from Texas for the summers and stay with his aunt and uncle. They lived a few miles up the road. Small farm. Beautiful apple orchard. Elijah, Owen and Iris were thick as thieves as teenagers. Always so secretive. Even back then, they were careful enough to cover their tracks. John had to bail them out a time or two. That was my John. He was kindhearted. Almost to a fault.

“Owen disappeared for a while. Shortly after Iris got married. We didn’t see him for years. I think everyone expected Iris and Owen to be together, but I know John was relieved when she chose the neighbor’s boy, Cole.”

She went quiet. Looked at her hands, then glanced at Maggie. “You’re with the FBI?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, but when Iris’ husband, Cole had his car accident, I didn’t believe it was an accident.”

“What did you think it was?”

She shrugged. That same shrug she’d used as a nonresponse when she didn’t want to talk. Maggie worried she might be finished.

“You think Iris had something to do with Cole’s accident?”

A small nod, and she stared at her hands again.

“It tore my John up more than it did Iris. I think he knew. We didn’t speak of it. But I think he knew something wasn’t right. Iris was a widow with two small children but also a whole lot of land, prestige, and power. The Malone name carried weight in this area. She wasn’t going to give that up.

“John passed away six months after Cole’s accident. Soon after that, Owen and Elijah first started coming around. Staying for days, sometimes weeks. Driving fancy cars. God-awful tattoos. They were business partners. That’s what they claimed. Up to no good business. Owen was living in Florida then. Insisted everyone start calling him Orlando. Silliest thing I’d ever heard.

“Then Charlotte got sick. Really sick. That’s the first time I saw a vulnerable side to Iris.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“That’s just it. She wouldn’t take her to a doctor. She said Charlotte had the stomach flu and would be fine. She went so quickly. I was still going over to the house to help out. I pleaded with Iris to take her to the hospital. The poor little thing was so weak. Iris told me to mind my own business, to leave, and never come back. Three days later, I saw an ambulance barreling down the gravel roads. I knew it was too late.”

“That’s why you didn’t know about the other girls,” Maggie said.

“I wasn’t allowed on her property. I had no idea. When Sara started coming to see me, Iris said the girl’s parents had both died in a car accident, and Iris was taking care of her. She was a little thing. She’d already been with Iris for a while before she wandered across the pastures to my house. Even then, she couldn’t have been more than five or six.”

“Sara was allowed to come over to your house?”

“Oh yes. She ran errands for Iris.”

“Did she resemble Charlotte?”

“Not at all. She was short and wiry, with golden hair and bright blue eyes. She’s grown into a lovely woman.”

“I don’t understand. I thought Iris locked up the girls.”

“Sara must have been different. She was so young and little. I can’t imagine where she’d run off to. Still, Iris was very strict with her. I didn’t like the bruises I saw, and I told Iris that. She said that the girl was clumsy. She warned me that if I said anything, the authorities would put Sara in a foster home, when her parents had wanted her to be with Iris if anything happened to them.”

“Did you know the parents? Did they live close by?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I searched for car accidents in the area, across the state, even the Midwest. Two fatalities certainly would have made the news. I already knew Iris was a talented liar. She allowed the girl to come over to my house for limited times, so I shut my mouth. I thought I might learn something from Sara, but she didn’t seem to remember her parents. It was the strangest thing. It was like she had absolutely no memory of her other life.”

“Trauma can do that, especially to a very young child.”

“As long as Iris let Sara come over, I thought I could watch out for her. She let Sara help me. We put up my Christmas decorations and made jam. I was the one who taught her to read, even though Iris insisted she was homeschooling the girl. Suddenly, the visits became fewer. When Sara was thirteen or fourteen, Iris started sending her on what she called ‘assignments.’ I hoped she was finally letting her go to school, like maybe a boarding school.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Just before I ended up in here. She was quiet. Secretive. Distant. I asked her what she was learning on her assignments, and she had this far-away look in her eyes. She looked so...lost. Something had changed. Like her innocence was gone. Stolen. I can’t explain it. She was sent away again, and I ended up in here.”

She went quiet again.

“There was no fall, was there?” Maggie asked.

Eleanor’s eyes flew up to meet hers, wide with surprise. Then they dropped to her hands, and she shook her head.

“Iris pushed you, didn't she?”

Eleanor nodded. “She was always such a wicked girl. That hadn’t changed.”

Maggie let the silence settle between them. She understood now why Eleanor remained in a nursing facility when she wanted to return home and appeared to be both mentally and physically capable of taking care of herself.

“Did Sara ever tell you what the assignments were about?”

“Yes, but I thought she might be making it up. Maybe joking with me. We used to enjoy reading fantasy and thriller novels. You know, with high-paced plots and all kinds of adventure.”

“So, she might have been misleading you. Maybe in order to hide the truth?”

“I hope so,” Eleanor said. “Because she told me she was training to become an assassin.”

61

Florida Panhandle

Curiosity had made Creed turn on the audio of the backyard camera just in time to catch the woman’s name and hear her talk about the Christmas house. From Hannah’s posture, he could tell she didn’t quite believe her.

His big screen had lost a couple of frames to static. A message said two of the cameras were temporarily offline. Another started blinking. The feed on two others was slow in processing.

“You need to believe me when I tell you that you’re in danger,” Sara was saying as Creed tried to listen closely. He checked the Wi-Fi connection. The audio was still strong, though the video blurred a bit.

“We know,” Brodie told her.

“What exactly do you know?”

“That Iris hired someone to get rid of any surviving Charlottes.”

Creed stopped to see the woman’s reaction. From what he could tell, she didn’t look surprised that they already knew. Instead, she just nodded again.

A text from Jason pinged:

You having problems with video feeds? I’ve lost half of mine.

Creed walked over to the wall of windows. Through the trees he could see dark clouds beginning to clog up the sky.

He texted Jason that maybe it was the approaching storm.

When he got back to the big screen monitor, his eyes found the backyard frame. It was one of only five left. The others were gone or lines of static.

The backyard was quiet. Maybe he’d lost the audio.

He saw Sara tilt her head as if listening to something. Her head swiveled, and she was looking up in the sky.

Thunder? Maybe lightning?

The audio garbled her words. Then suddenly, she jumped to her feet. Brodie and Hannah did, too.

Sara yelled something that sounded like, “Get down,” as she stepped in front of the dog. Her face still turned to the sky. She waved at Hannah and Brodie, warning them of something. She shouted, “Go!”

Creed was on his feet even before he saw her grab underneath the hem of her shirt. She was yanking something from the back of her waistband.

“He’s already here!” he heard her scream just before his entire screen of monitors went black.

He raced for the door as his phone pinged with a text from Jason:

She has a gun!

62

The blast was deafening!

Brodie felt Hannah tugging her toward the patio door. She couldn’t take her eyes off Sara. She stood in the middle of the backyard. Feet set apart. Arms extended. Both hands gripping the large handgun.

The first shot had bucked her backward. She stood even straighter, reset herself, and fired again.

The poor dog had flattened to the ground. Brodie pulled herself away from Hannah and raced to Shadow. She covered the dog with her body. It trembled against Brodie’s pounding chest. The backs of Sara’s legs leaned into them, as if she were still trying to protect them from whatever was in the sky.

All Brodie heard was a deep buzzing overhead. Too small to be a helicopter and too big to be a hawk. When it finally crashed, she felt the ground vibrate.

With a glance around Sara’s pant legs, Brodie recognized the object. She’d seen one similar in the Mississippi pasture.

“He’s here,” Sara turned now and squatted next to them. Her concern for the dog was written all over her face as she reached for her. She ran her hand over Shadow, calming the dog as much as searching for additional injuries.

Hannah bent over the two of them, her hand resting on Brodie’s shoulder. Brodie asked the question before Hannah got to it first.

“How do we know you’re not working with him?”

Sara’s eyes met Brodie’s, and immediately Brodie saw a glimpse of what looked like fear before Sara tucked it away.

“Because I’m on his list, too. I know. I saw it.”

“My brother and his friends will catch him.”

“They have surveillance cameras all over the property,” Hannah added.

“That drone probably disabled all of their equipment. Orlando has some of the newest and most powerful technology.”

“She’s right.”

Brodie hadn’t heard Ryder until he was standing beside them.

“Wi-Fi’s jammed,” he waited to catch his breath. “I thought it might be the storm. But this makes more sense.”

There was a distant rumble. It was the middle of the day and suddenly the sky grew dark as twilight.

Sara’s hand clamped onto Brodie’s wrist. “Thank you for taking care of Shadow. Whatever happens, I hope you’ll take her in.”

“Wait, what?”

“I need to stop Orlando. I’m the only one who can.”

“No. Ryder, tell her,” Brodie stayed on her knees, one arm hugging the dog but looking up at her brother. “We’ll get him together.”

It was at that moment that Jason came crashing through the back gate. His eyes wild until they landed on Brodie’s. Then he slowed down, taking in the sight of the crashed drone as he rushed over to them.

Sara paid little attention to the men. She wasn’t interested in being introduced or even knowing who they were. It didn’t seem to matter to her at all what they might bring to this fight.

Instead, her eyes stayed on Brodie’s. “I need to find him while he’s still relying on that drone’s jamming abilities. He’ll be downloading its data. There are thermal and infrared sensors on board. He’ll know exactly where everyone on the ground is.”

“That’s true,” Jason said. “But most of them only identify heat sources. Warm bodies. I’ll bet he didn’t count on dozens of dogs.”

Brodie watched Sara look up at Jason this time. Clearly, she hadn’t thought about that either.

“Let’s get inside,” Hannah instructed. “Sensors or no sensors, we’re sitting ducks out here.”

63

Creed hated being in defensive mode. Only hours before, he felt like they were prepared. Now, he realized that this guy named Orlando had probably been planning this attack since the day he tracked Jason and Brodie from the Mississippi crime scene.

How much information did he already have about their property? About the facilities? Did he have another drone? Had he set traps?

No, he needed to calm himself. The dogs would have alerted to an intruder anywhere close to the buildings. Orlando might have been able to jam and disable their security system, but his high-tech equipment couldn’t outsmart their dogs.

Now, in Hannah’s kitchen, they regrouped. Colfax and Benny had been parked in Benny’s truck on a road that ran parallel to the only side of the property that didn’t have a natural border of trees or a river. Jason had called them in.

Sully joined them with Gunner at his side. His eyes were filled with questions. Jason had texted him to stay put when the shooting started. He had been holed up in his trailer on the edge of the woods, equipped with high-powered binoculars along with an iPad to access the different camera feeds, which were now useless.

“What about the dogs?” Jason asked. “There’s got to be a scent they could get on this guy. Maybe they could track him? Sounds like he’s been on the property.”

Sully started fishing deep in the pockets of his baggy cargo pants. He brought out a Ziploc and held it up. “I kept a few of those cigarette butts.”

Creed met Jason’s eyes. Without saying it out loud, he was asking if those would work.

He didn’t like this. Too much urgency. It felt on the verge of panic. That’s when mistakes were made. When things could spiral out of control quickly. They did have the home-court advantage. Orlando may have been hanging around, but he’d never know the property as well as he and Jason knew it.

“Chasing an assassin,” he told them. “It isn’t anywhere in our wheelhouse. It feels too much like setting up our dogs and us to be hurt. Or worse.”

“We can’t just sit here and wait.”

His phone pinged. Everyone was here. Still, he dug out the phone, anyway. It was Maggie. He had a voice message and a text from her earlier. He didn’t have time for her to be trying to apologize. He glanced at it and started to put the phone back in his pocket. A couple of words caught his attention.

“What is it?” Hannah asked.

“Maggie says the assassin might be a woman. A woman named Sara.”

Now there was panic as his eyes flew around the room. “Where’s Brodie?”

“Wait a minute.” Hannah stopped him. “She actually said that? That’s not possible.”

“Where’s Brodie?”

“She took Sara and the dog to settle into the guest room.”

He was already running down the hallway. The guest room door was closed. No knock. He grabbed the doorknob and shoved it open. A startled dog stared at him from on top of the bed. There was no one else in the room.

Hand still fisted over the doorknob, he pulled it closed, turned and almost slammed into Jason. Hannah was already at the end of the hallway, inspecting a side door to the outside. They rarely used it, and she kept it locked at all times.

Even before she stepped aside, Creed could see both deadbolts were unlocked.

64

Brodie didn’t stop to think. She didn’t need to. She would not let this woman fight their battle alone. When she followed Sara out the door, Sara had tried to get her to go back. Brodie was tired of everyone treating her as a weak link that might trip them up.

“You have people who care about you,” Sara told her, waving her off as she dashed from one building to another. The entire time her head pivoted and her eyes searched.

“Two is better than one,” Brodie told her. Sara was fast, but Brodie was faster. No way, she’d be able to shake her. “Besides, I know this property. You don’t.”

Thunder rumbled overhead. Sara ran for cover inside the forest, back behind the fieldhouse. The trees here were thick with only a few critter trails. Not a good place to start. She stopped. Leaned against a huge magnolia tree. A glimpse at Sara’s eyes and Brodie could see she was disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The sky grew darker, and the canopy of branches threatened to snuff out the remaining light.

“We can go to my meadow,” Brodie told her. “He knows the spot. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t at least check it. We can trap him there.”

Back in the guest room, she’d watched Sara reload the handgun and shove it in the back of her waistband, pulling down her shirt to cover it. With the way she’d taken down that drone, this Orlando guy didn’t stand a chance.

Sara grabbed her wrist and made her stop. She waited for Brodie’s eyes and leaned in close.

“Listen to me carefully. When the time comes, do as I tell you. Okay? Do exactly as I tell you, and this doesn’t need to be painful. If you don’t do what I say, it’s gonna hurt. A lot.”

Then she gestured for Brodie to lead the way.

The rain came in drops, and Brodie was grateful. A downpour might scare Orlando off. It would also make it impossible to hear anything. And Brodie was good at listening for things that no one else seemed to notice.

Halfway to the meadow and she could hear him. Clumsy footfalls snapping twigs. An occasional slide on wet pine needles. She stopped once and looked back at Sara. Without saying a word, she pointed with only her eyes to the ledge above them and to the right. Then she gave a slight back and forth with her head, telling her not to look.

When she started again, she went slower as if the terrain had become more difficult. Lightning forked overhead. Brodie avoided looking up. She hoped Sara did so too.

The rain came down harder now. The leaves and branches protected them at first from getting soaked. Now the ground cover became slick. Mud sucked at Brodie’s shoes. It didn’t bother her, but she held onto branches and trunks showing Sara how to manage.

The closer they got to the meadow, the more Brodie realized they didn’t have a plan. Doing exactly what Sara told her to do? Whatever that was about, it was not a plan. Brodie didn’t even have her canister of bear spray. The only thing still in her zippered pocket was the cell phone. Ryder had made all of them carry the silly things around all day with a newly installed app. She still didn’t understand how a phone could save her. Right now, she’d trade it in a second for the bear spray.

She stopped so suddenly that Sara bumped into her. Then she dropped to one knee, gesturing for Sara to do the same. She grabbed at her ankle. From above, she hoped it looked like she had twisted her foot.

She took the opportunity to whisper, “We’re twenty feet from the meadow. Let me go out. You stay hidden and wait for him to show up.”

Sara stared at her. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be telling you what to do.”

“Okay.”

Thunder vibrated the ground beneath them. Sara’s eyes darted around, though she kept the rest of her body completely still. Earlier, Brodie envied Sara’s confidence. There had been an air of self-reliance and assurance. Now, she looked unsure of herself. Like she was forced to make a decision she didn’t expect to make.

Something wasn’t right.

Had Brodie jumped too quickly? She hadn’t had time to think any of this out. She just knew she would not let Sara fight this battle alone. Here was this person who had gone through a similar ordeal with Iris. All this time, Brodie had felt so alone. She thought nobody could understand what it was like. The psychological mind games Iris had played. The brutal punishments that took their toll. The drugs that maintained that constant fog. Here was finally someone else who had experienced these same things.

But beyond their shared experience, she knew nothing more about Sara. Just when Brodie was beginning to wonder if she had misplaced her trust in this stranger, Sara nodded and pulled out the gun from her waistband. The thing looked huge in her small hands. But her fingers were steady.

“Be careful,” she finally told Brodie. “And when the time comes, listen to me. Okay? When I tell you to do something, do it.”

She waited for Brodie to nod. Before she could stand back up, Sara grabbed her wrist and pulled her close again. This whisper had an urgency to it that Brodie hadn’t heard. “Promise, if something happens to me, you’ll take care of Shadow.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Promise you’ll take care of her. Please.”

And now, Brodie got a glimpse of Sara’s eyes and saw something she recognized all too well. Fear. Not for herself, but for the dog.

“I promise.” But Brodie stayed down for a moment longer, even after Sara took her hand off her wrist. And before she stood, she added, “You and me, we got this.”

She had no idea what that really meant. But Jason said it to her every once in a while. He made it sound like everything would be okay. It was a comfort. A promise. Maybe it was only a fleeting hope.

65

Brodie waited and listened before she took the final steps out into the meadow. She saw that Sara had planted her back against the trunk of a live oak.

Smart!

Maybe she was better at this than Brodie had given her credit. Positioning herself like that would make it harder for someone to sneak up behind her.

But when Brodie glanced back a second time, Sara was gone.

It wasn’t possible for him to come up the path the same way she and Sara had come. He’d have to go all the way around the meadow. The ledge where she’d heard Orlando earlier didn’t lead down here. It became a wall of dirt and rocks and exposed roots. Even a seasoned hiker couldn’t scale down it without being noticed. But that’s where her eyes searched.

The rain had eased up but water and mud slid down into the meadow. Leaves dripped. Above, she could finally see the sky, the thunderheads still angry and roiling with bursts of lightning and a constant rumble. The thunder made it difficult to hear anything else.

Slow and steady, she pulled up a branch from under a cedar tree. She’d hidden it there when she first started coming out to this meadow alone. Except she was never alone. Hank was always with her. Missing him tangled a knot in her stomach. But he was safe, and that was more important. She couldn’t stand to see him hurt. Perhaps that was the one thing she and Sara had in common. They’d both been lucky enough to find another being that they loved more than themselves.

The shape of the branch looked like a baseball bat. Thin and sturdy at one end, bark rubbed free and smooth for her fingers. The other end was solid and heavy, but the weight was spread out. She’d practiced swinging it many times. Now, she kept it tucked against her leg.

She heard something coming through the trees. In a flash of lightning, she saw a cascade of crumbling rock and mud and debris sliding down the wall on the other side. Brodie held up the bat, preparing herself. When the man hobbled into view, she could see Sara behind him, pushing him along.

“He fell,” Sara called to her.

Even if he hadn’t been hunched over in pain, he looked nothing like Brodie expected. Of course, all the mud caked to his clothes and his face could have something to do with how small and vulnerable he looked. He was shorter than Brodie. About as tall as Sara.

Sara forced him into the meadow. Brodie came closer, branch still held like a batter ready to slam a home run into his head. He looked up at her. Dark eyes. Weathered skin. Pain drew lines in his face that made her realize he was older than she expected.

“She’ll knock your head off if you move,” Sara threatened, carefully pulling zip-ties from her pockets.

He grunted when she muscled his hands behind his back. Grimaced when she pulled the plastic so tight it bit into his skin. That’s when Brodie noticed the tattoo. It snaked from his wrist all the way up his arm then disappearing into his T-shirt sleeve. Its tail peeked out onto his neck. But it wasn’t a snake. It was a dragon.

“Leave my feet,” he told Sara. He’d lost a shoe, and even through the sock it was easy to see the ankle started ballooning.

Sara didn’t leave his feet. She combined three zip-ties and shackled his legs together even as he shook his head at her.

“Why are you here, Sara?” he asked as if he knew her.

How did he know her?

“I thought you didn’t want to work together,” he said. “This Charlotte’s not even on your list.”

“What’s he talking about?” Brodie wanted to know. “Why does it sound like you know each other?”

“You didn’t tell her?” A grin broke out across the man’s face, not lasting long and giving in to another grimace. “I taught Sara everything she knows about the business.”

Brodie wasn’t looking at Orlando anymore. She stared at Sara. Sara, in turn, didn’t take her eyes off the man. With her feet spread, arms extended, she still pointed the gun at him despite his inability to move.

“Brodie, this is that time when you need to listen to me. You need to go and get your brother. You need to go now. I’ll stay and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

“If she didn’t tell you that she knows me, she probably didn’t tell you that she killed a man. Did she?” Orlando lobbed the comment like a grenade.

Brodie hadn’t moved despite Sara’s instructions. Instead, she tightened the grip on her baseball bat. Stared at Sara. Felt the sting of betrayal. Waited out the thunder for an explanation. Let the rain soak through her clothes. Counted on its rhythm to steady the pounding in her chest.

“Tell her how you stabbed him. In cold blood. Through the heart.”

Finally, Sara glanced at Brodie. “There’s a lot to tell. And hopefully there’ll be a chance to tell it.” Her eyes darted around from Brodie to Orlando, to the forest, to the sky, and then back to Brodie. “Yes, I killed a man. With a steak knife. He tried to rape me.” She shot a look back at Orlando and said, “You always leave that part out.”

So many questions banged through Brodie’s mind, but she kept her focus on Sara. The one thing she could rely on was her ability to know when someone was lying to her. Sara wasn’t lying about this.

Then Brodie told her, “I killed Aaron.”

Sara’s eyes flew back to hers, and Brodie added, “With a pair of scissors.”

Aaron was Iris’ only son. Just a few years older than Brodie. There had been so many opportunities for him to set her free. To help her. And instead, he administered the drugs his mother ordered. He muscled and strongarmed her every time she tried to escape and dragged her back.

Now, as Brodie watched to see Sara’s reaction, she could see her expression soften.

Sara nodded and said, “I wondered what happened to that son of a bitch.”

66

Sara hated to see Brodie leave. Having her help was something Sara had never experienced.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Sara.” Orlando’s eyes watched the trees where Brodie had gone. If he thought he could bargain with her, he was dead wrong.

“You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes, I know that my name is on your list.”

Surprise was quickly replaced by something that looked closer to disappointment.

He shook his head as he said, “I don’t want to hurt you. Iris put you on the list. I’m here to eliminate Charlotte #5. Now, you can help me, or you can get out of the way.”

“I’m never helping you.”

“Fine. But there is something else you should know. Tomas is still pissed at you for killing his little brother.”

“I have no idea who Tomas is.”

“You’re about to find out.”

Before Sara could follow his eyes over her shoulder, the blow to the back of her head knocked her to her knees. The second blow to her kidney sent her sprawling on the ground.

The gun was gone. Stars and flashes of light were all she could see.

In seconds, someone yanked her by the ankles. Flipped her onto her back. Her fingers clawed at the mud, grasping for anything. The pounding in her chest was nothing compared to the roar inside her head. A hammer in a windstorm.

Clashes of thunder. Her hands suddenly clasped together by the backlit figure that danced in front of her. So strong, so fast. She swung fists at him. She could not let him tie her hands. Fingernails connected and dragged flesh. His answer was a fist to her face. The force knocked her back again. Gasping for breath. Reaching and finding blood. Familiar territory. Her nose most likely broken again.

She couldn’t stop him this time when his big hands clamped her wrists together.

She could still kick. Blood in her eyes, she didn’t need to aim, just connect. It almost worked until he dropped his weight on top of her stomach. His back facing her, he anchored her feet together.

“That’s enough, Tomas. Now, help me up.” Orlando yelled.

“I’m not done.”

He grabbed hold of her booted foot and began to drag her.

“Tomas. Stop. Right now.”

Orlando’s voice quickly grew faint, replaced by the swish and twang of her body hitting and bouncing against prickly shrubs and tree trunks.

So hard, so fast.

Roots and rocks stabbed into her back. Twigs ripped at her hair and scraped at her from every direction. Blood ran down her throat, threatening to drown her. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe. She choked and spit and tried to breathe from her mouth.

Just when she believed he would surely break her in two, he stopped. Turned to look at her. Smiled down at her. Pleased with himself. And suddenly thirsty. He yanked a flask out of his pocket, twisted off the lid, and gulped.

Her face was plastered with blood and debris. She could barely see. Her body hurt. Everywhere. Somehow, she managed to roll onto her side with her back to him. She spit out blood. Ended up vomiting. She could hear him laughing.

“I need to take a piss then I’m gonna finish what my brother started. After that, I’m going to kill you,” he told her.

She heard his footsteps wander off into the trees. No worries. No way she was going anywhere.

Sara gulped air through her mouth. Tried to listen over the roar in her ears. She pulled her knees to her chest. A fetal position as if she thought it would help stop the pain. It did not.

She had to hurry. She had only seconds to reach inside her boot.

Plastic dug into her wrists. Every muscle screamed at her. Fingers numbed and swollen. She needed them to function, to pinch and grip, and do it quickly. Flap up. Razor first. The blade guard was stubborn, and she cut herself. Ignoring more blood, she managed to slice the zip-tie around her ankles.

Footsteps coming.

How could he be coming back already?

Fingers shaking now.

Don’t lose the blade. Cut. Don’t move. Stay curled up.

She couldn’t dig down far enough for the syringe. Her fingers hurt. Her boot was too tight around her ankle.

Squeeze. Grip.

“Hey, time to have a little fun.”

He was already there. Right behind her. Hand on her shoulder.

No more time.

67

Creed thought it was a long shot. Hank wasn’t officially a scent detection dog, but he knew how to find Scout and Grace. What had started as a game for the dog and Brodie had worked itself into serious business.

Now he hoped Hank could find Brodie. The two were inseparable. As soon as they left the house, the big dog’s nose was looking for her. Creed barely said, “Find Brodie,” and Hank took off, leading Creed to the forest through a mud-slick, narrow path.

Hank pulled and tugged. Ten times stronger than Grace, he almost dragged Creed along. He was doing everything he could to keep up and not lose his balance.

The storm made it so dark inside the forest that it was like running in the middle of the night. Roots jutted up out of nowhere. Branches swayed down low, heavy with rain and wind. It became an obstacle course. But Hank appeared to know exactly where he was going.

Maybe the dog was simply taking Creed down the same path he and Brodie had followed many times before. It would still be filled with her scent. Would they get to her meadow and find it empty?

Somewhere on a parallel destination, Jason and Sully were following Scout. He’d picked up a scent from the cigarette butts Sully had collected. They’d activated GPS tracking on their phones so they could keep track of each other. He wished Brodie had done the same.

He didn’t blame his sister for taking off with Sara. She was the first person Brodie had ever met who shared the same experience. It must have felt like they were kindred spirits. Both were survivors. Now, the two of them were fighting the same enemy all over again. Or was Sara leading Brodie right into the hands of her accomplice?

Creed just wished Brodie had trusted him. How could she not know that, of course, he’d fight right alongside her?

Hank skidded to a halt. Creed almost tripped over him. He grabbed for a branch before he lost his balance. With his free hand, he reached under his shirt for the Ruger in his waistband. Someone was coming straight at them.

He crouched down close to Hank, shoving the big dog behind him to shield him with his body. The dog was not happy, but Creed held the leash short and tight. A paw swung up and batted him between the shoulder blades.

Brodie stumbled out from between the trees and startled at the sight of them. Eyes wide, she kept quiet, but relief swept over her face. When she saw Hank, she fell to her knees and waited for Creed to release him.

“We found Orlando. Sara has a gun on him. She tied him up. In the meadow.” Her whispers came out between chuffs of breath.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”

She shook her head. Gulped in air. Swatted wet hair from her face.

He squatted down in front of her. Waiting while she hugged Hank, and the dog took care of her in a way that Creed would never be able to. She smiled at him as her fingers examined his new vest until she realized it was one of the bulletproof ones. Then her expression turned serious again.

He wasn’t sure how to tell her what he knew.

“Brodie, there’s a chance Sara might be working with Orlando.”

Her eyes stayed on Hank when she said, “I know.”

It wasn’t what he expected.

“You know?”

“They said some things like they already knew each other.” Finally, her eyes looked up and met his. “But Ryder, she’s scared. I could see it. She’s scared of him. And when she told me that she’s on his list, too, I could tell she believes he’ll kill her. She's not lying about that.”

“Okay.” He pulled out his cell phone. Checked Jason’s location. Sent a text that he had Brodie. Then added:

Sara's holding Orlando. In the meadow. Meet you there.

“Jason, Scout and Sully are headed that way,” Creed said.

He wanted to tell her to take Hank and go back to the house. To be safe. But that was probably exactly why she left with Sara without telling him. She didn’t need his permission or guidance.

So instead, he asked, “You mind leading the way?”

When they arrived, Jason and Sully were already there. Jason had Scout on a tight leash, but the dog had finished his job and now, sat at Jason’s side.

The man Creed presumed to be Orlando sat leaning up against a shrub. His hands and feet were zip-tied. He watched all of them with an odd expression. The lines in his face seemed to telegraph pain then shift to amusement. Jason held a handgun at his side. Sully had a shotgun.

“Where’s Sara?” Brodie wanted to know.

“She’s not here,” Jason said.

Brodie marched to stand directly in front of Orlando. “Where’s Sara? Why isn’t she here?”

He shrugged as if this amused him.

Then she did something Creed had never expected. She kicked his leg, and the man howled in pain. That’s when Creed noticed the swollen ankle.

“Where is she?” Brodie demanded.

“My associate has her,” he said through gritted teeth. “She’ll be fine.” But his face said otherwise.

“Associate? Young fella, right?” Sully asked. “He’s the one who’s been spying on Brodie. Smoking those candy cigarettes.”

“You both came here to kill me and Sara.”

“No, that’s not true.” Orlando attempted to scoot and slide away from her. The slight movement looked painful. “This is all a terrible misunderstanding. I didn’t even know Sara was here.”

Orlando leaned his torso to see around Brodie so he could address the men as if hoping they would be more reasonable. His eyes landed on Creed. “I would never hurt her. Tomas is another story. He thinks he has a score to settle.”

Creed pulled out his vibrating phone. A text from Hannah. To the others, he said, “Sheriff Norwich will be at the house in ten minutes.”

“County sheriff?” Orlando said, relieved. “Yes, that would be good. I’m sure he’ll understand that all of this was just a misunderstanding.”

“I’m sure she won’t,” Creed told him. “You might have been able to buy Deputy Perry, but believe me, you won’t be able to do that with Frances Norwich.”

“I don’t know any Deputy Perry.”

“Guys! We need to find Sara.” Brodie shouted.

Creed had never heard her shout before. She paced like a wild animal in front of Orlando. Her head swiveled, eyes darted and searched between the trees. Hank kept up alongside her, his big head tilted and watching her for direction.

The storm was moving on, but layers of heavy clouds still clogged the sky. Rumbles of thunder could be heard now in the distance.

Suddenly, Brodie spun around to Jason. “Can Scout find her? We need to find Sara. They did something to her.”

“I didn’t hurt Sara.” This time Orlando sounded impatient, almost defiant. “I’d never hurt her.”

Creed stepped forward, prepared to put a wedge between the two of them if necessary.

“She was on your list. You were going to kill both her and me.”

“I told you, I’d never kill Sara.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”

“No, you’re wrong. I would not hurt her. She’s my daughter.”

Brodie stopped to stare at him. Her entire body went still, and Creed knew she was trying to determine if he was telling the truth. She believed it was her superpower. He’d seen her be right too often to doubt it.

“She doesn’t know.” Orlando twisted and shifted, trying to ease the pain from his ankle as much as the discomfort from his admission. “I took her from her mother when she was five. Iris agreed to raise her. I never wanted her to know.”

“But now I know.” The voice startled all of them.

Sara stumbled out from the edge of the woods. She could barely stand. Mud and red clay covered her. Face swollen and caked with blood. Hair tangled. Clothes stained and shredded.

“Sara?” But Brodie didn’t move.

Sara was in bad shape. Skinned knees showed through shredded jeans. Blood still ran from her nose and down her chin. Creed had no idea if she was bleeding anywhere else.

He shoved his Ruger into the back of his jeans and went to her slowly. Her glazed eyes watched him, but he wasn’t sure if she really saw him.

He offered his arm. No reaction. No protest.

He moved closer just in time to catch her as she collapsed.

68

Brodie watched Ryder scoop up Sara’s limp body into his arms.

“Is she dead?”

“No, she can’t be dead.” Orlando moaned.

“Ryder?” Brodie pleaded, venturing closer.

Sara had come out of the woods and collapsed. There was blood on her face. Mud caked everywhere. Ryder had caught her before she hit the ground. Everyone remained quiet as he laid her down long enough to check her pulse, look for wounds and lift an eyelid. Then he picked her up.

“We need to get her out of here,” he told Jason. To Brodie, he said, “Can you lead the way?”

But Brodie still didn’t move. She couldn't move.

Fight or flight or freeze.

She knew when to fight. She knew when to run. But suddenly, she was paralyzed. Her heart pounded. Deep breaths weren't enough.

Hank nosed her hand. When she still didn’t respond, the big dog poked his nose into the side of her leg. Then he leaned against her, just to make sure. Almost as if he wanted to physically hold her upright.

“Yes, okay,” she finally said.

“Sully, can you stay here?” Ryder asked. “Make sure this guy doesn’t move until I bring Sheriff Norwich back?”

“Absolutely,” and the old man lifted his shotgun.

“Is she going to be okay?” Orlando wanted to know.

Everyone ignored him.

“Jason, I need you to come with us. Let’s take turns carrying Sara.”

“You got it. Scout, stay here with Sully.”

“Let him go with you, son. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Go on now.”

Halfway through, Ryder asked Brodie to stop. It was single-file here on the path. Somehow the men were able to make the handoff. Brodie heard Sara groaning into Jason’s shoulder, then her head lolled back.

Feet frozen. Stomach knotted. Had she died just now?

“Brodie,” Ryder’s voice was gentle but urgent. “We need to keep moving.”

When they broke out of the woods, there were headlights in the front yard. Hannah directed traffic. Flashlights came at them with silhouette figures behind them. Brodie recognized Sheriff Norwich.

“Hannah didn’t mention we needed an ambulance?” Norwich told Ryder.

“We’ve got this.” To Jason, Ryder said, “I texted Dr. Avelyn. She’s still at the clinic. Maybe you can help her figure out Sara’s condition.”

Jason nodded, and with Scout alongside him, they headed toward the medical clinic, which was entirely lit up.

“Brodie, do you and Hank want to stay with Jason and Sara?”

He was asking her. Giving her a choice.

She nodded. Before she turned to follow Jason, she could hear Ryder instructing Norwich’s team.

"I’ll lead the way, Sheriff. There are two men. One is shackled with a swollen ankle. The other one. I’m not sure. He might be dead.”

“Is that young woman going to be okay?” Brodie heard Norwich ask Ryder.

She stopped in her tracks to listen for his response.

“I hope so, but I honestly have no idea.”

69

Two weeks later

David City, Nebraska

Maggie took a seat in the back of the crowded, buzzing courtroom. Pakula would join her before the doors closed. Ryder and Brodie were already up front. When she’d invited the person sitting next to her, Maggie had forgotten the woman was a national celebrity. Heads turned. Whispers came from behind cuffed hands. People shifted in their seats to get a look at Olivia James, Brodie's and Ryder’s mother.

Olivia didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she was used to the attention. Her nationally syndicated television show aired every morning and gave tips on lifestyle, from decorating to entertaining to creating gourmet meals. Ironically, she had no answers for how to bridge the gaps in her own family.

Maggie had met the woman for the first time over Christmas at Ryder’s. Olivia had breezed in for the day and returned to Atlanta that night. Immediately, Maggie had felt a palpable tension between Olivia and Ryder. An unusual disquiet had settled between her and Brodie as well. But Olivia was here now. For all their sakes, Maggie hoped this trial might close some doors on a very long and painful past.

The locals simply noticed Olivia James and moved on. The national media, however, treated the sighting like a bonus. Too many of them gawked. No photos were allowed. Some handed Olivia their business cards. A few were bold enough to ask for interviews or photos later.

Olivia quietly and politely told all of them that today wasn’t about her. She was here for her daughter and would not be available for anything else.

When the buzz about her settled, Olivia leaned over to Maggie and said, “I can’t believe how brave she is.”

“Yes, she is.”

Over breakfast, Maggie had tried her best to prepare Brodie. She was surprised but pleased to see a confidence in her eyes. Chin up, shoulders back. Her appetite was finally better than Maggie had ever seen it. In the past when Brodie was nervous, she’d break apart her food with her fingers. Pinches of a sandwich instead of a bite. An instinctive habit from years of hunting for hidden drugs. But this morning, she had cut and forked sausage and eggs and spooned up berries as if she were starving.

Ryder, however, had only coffee. Which was totally not like him.

There was still an uneasiness between him and Maggie. He had reassured her they were good. Of course, he understood why she had withheld the information about the list of Charlottes. That’s what he said. But something was different between them.

For now, this trial was the most important thing. Everything could wait. Or so Maggie told herself.

Everyone’s attention quickly and noisily shifted as Iris Malone was brought into the courtroom from the front entrance. She wore a navy-blue suit jacket with a white blouse and matching blue slacks. The woman leaned on her cane, her limp more pronounced. But there was nothing weak or vulnerable about this woman. Instead, the expression on her face was smug. There was a confident arrogance about her.

Iris’ eyes immediately found Brodie. She attempted to pin her down with a hard stare meant to intimidate. To her credit, Brodie didn’t bother to glance at her.

Before Iris took her seat, she stood with a practiced hunched back and looked out over the rest of the crowded courtroom. She was searching for someone else.

The prosecutor had submitted that they would have a last-minute witness. Rumor from Pakula’s inside source reported that Iris wasn’t worried. She’d heard Orlando had been arrested in Florida.

Already there was talk of a continuance, which would delay the trial. Pakula said Iris was convinced this would work to her advantage. She even believed it would give her a reason to dismiss the entire case if, in fact, the new witness was Orlando. She couldn’t possibly be connected to a known drug dealer, a thug, and a murderer just because he worked with her brother. The whole thing played nicely into her original story.

Orlando certainly had his own problems. Kyle Lawrence had identified him and Tomas as the men who lured Amanda Davidson to an abandoned property in Mississippi and then killed her. They would have murdered Kyle, too, if he hadn’t escaped. Amanda had been running drugs for Orlando for years. Unfortunately, they’d never know her whole “fantastical” story. The fact that she was on Iris’ list of Charlottes to be eliminated meant she knew too much.

The doors were getting ready to close.

Maggie watched for Pakula. She kept the seat on her other side reserved for him. Her position allowed a view of the lobby through the back door, where a state trooper was now stationed. The sound of movement and a rumbling came from outside the door as the others arrived.

It was time. The show was about to begin.

70

David City, Nebraska

Brodie sat statue-still. Her jaw hurt, and she realized she was clenching her teeth. Breakfast had quelled the butterflies in her stomach, but now, it felt like those same butterflies had returned as cockroaches. She could feel Iris’ stare piercing the side of her face.

Jason had told her she didn’t need to be brave 24/7. She was trying to take his advice and lean on the people who cared about her. Still, she wished Jason and Hannah could be here. But there were a bunch of dogs who needed them more than Brodie did. Besides, she and Jason had already texted each other about a thousand times since she'd left. Even now she felt the phone vibrate in her pocket, and she couldn't wait to see what he had to say.

“They’re getting ready to close the doors,” Ryder whispered to her.

They turned in their chairs to watch the back of the courtroom.

Brodie wondered if Sara was nervous. If she had cockroaches of her own. Though she doubted it. Sara was so strong. The two of them had spent a lot of time together in the last weeks while Sara recovered in their guest room. She and Shadow had needed the rest. But it was obvious she wasn’t used to anyone waiting on her.

They’d spent hours talking, sitting in the backyard with Shadow and Hank. It was like having an old friend who shared the same stories, even if the experiences were sometimes horrific.

But Sara wasn’t ready to discuss how she felt about Orlando being her father. According to Sara, she had no memory of her mother. Hannah told her it might be part of the trauma of being separated. She also told Sara that if she ever wanted to find her mother, Ryder had offered to help.

Despite Sara not being a Charlotte, it sounded like Iris’ treatment of her was just as harsh. Her so-called assignments when Orlando took her, became a relief to Sara, only because she could escape from Iris. And although Orlando had never abused her, the life he chose was surrounded with violence and dangerous men. Sara wasn’t ready to talk to Brodie about some of those experiences yet.

A state trooper entered and gestured for Sara to come in. She waited at the door for Granny El, and the old woman looped her arm through Sara’s. The crowd buzzed at the entrance of Eleanor Dunn. The townspeople probably thought she had been too incapacitated to live on her own. Sara had believed she was dead. Now, the old woman practically danced alongside Sara, wearing a lavender pantsuit and bright blue eyeglasses. Her silver hair was cut and styled. Sara still had bruising on her face, but she looked strong and confident.

Brodie turned to watch Iris’ reaction. Iris could make her face look calm, but her lips became thin, hard lines. Her jaw twitched. Her eyes never blinked.

Sara and Granny El came to the same row where Brodie and Ryder were seated, and they scooted down the line. Granny El sat next to Brodie. She smiled at her, and as soon as she was seated, she took Brodie’s hand. Her small fingers laced through Brodie’s. On the other side, she could see Granny had done the same with Sara’s hand.

Sara had told Brodie how she had left a note on Pakula’s windshield when he and Maggie were in David City for Iris’ hearing. She talked about the ledger she’d found. Pages and pages of names and information, all in Iris’ handwriting. Then she told Brodie about the hit lists Iris had given her and Orlando.

All of it seemed so unreal, but none of it surprised Brodie. What did surprise her was what Sara had decided to do with those lists.

At the back door, the state trooper gestured again, and a tall woman with red hair stepped through the door. Some of the locals who recognized the waitress from the Village Café gasped out loud. Rachel Collins had disappeared over two weeks ago without a trace. All they knew was that an FBI agent had been asking a lot of questions about her. By now, they thought she might be dead. None of them knew she was Charlotte #6.

And they didn’t know the young woman who now accompanied Rachel. Despite the different hair colors, the two women resembled each other enough that they could be sisters. Teresa Graf had disappeared almost a month ago from her home in Cheyenne, Wyoming. On Iris’ hit list, Teresa was Charlotte #4.

As they made their way to the front row to join Brodie and Sara, Brodie watched Iris.

Now, she couldn’t hide the expression on her face. It was a mix of surprise and anger. Her attorney leaned over and said something, but Iris didn’t even look at him. Her eyes glared at the women.

Maggie had told them that Iris was expecting to see Orlando. He was the one she could explain away. A thug, a murderer, a drug dealer.

But Sara? This would be a betrayal that Iris would never forget. Rachel and Teresa? Iris expected the two women to already be dead.

Back in Florida, as Sara recovered from the injuries, she had confessed everything to Brodie. Sara had never intended to hurt anyone on her list. Instead, she chose to kidnap the women, convincing them to hide. They would need to make it appear that Iris was winning. In fact, Sara had even tried to save the women on Orlando’s list. She’d gotten to Nina Wrobel too late. The woman ended up in the lake at Chalco Recreation Area. But Sara had pledged that her dog, Shadow would never be left alone or in danger ever again.

Ironically, Sara had fixed up Iris’ house at the same time she made repairs and remodeled Granny El’s. So, Rachel and Teresa had to be convinced to hide in the very house Iris had held them captive. Sara knew no one would dare to look there. She delivered supplies and messages. She promised it would only be until the trial started. She intended to find as many other Charlottes as possible and bring them there.

But then she discovered she was on Orlando’s list. If any of them were to survive, Sara knew she would need to take out Orlando before he took out her.

In the final minutes before the judge came in, Granny El leaned over and whispered to Brodie, "You girls aren't alone anymore. You have each other. You're family." She squeezed Brodie’s hand, smiled and added, “Oh, and you're all coming over for dinner tonight. Sara and I have prepared a feast.”

Brodie looked down the row of women who had only entered her life in the last two weeks. Rachel, Teresa, Sara and even Granny El were all such strong women. They were survivors. Warriors. And now, they had each other to lean on.

Finally, Brodie understood what Jason meant. She didn't need to be brave all by herself anymore. With her other hand, she took Ryder's, ignored his look of surprise and smiled when he gave hers a gentle squeeze.

Acknowledgments

Friends are the family we choose. I want to thank my friends who have been an important part of my family for a long time: Marlene Haney, Sharon Car, Doug and Linda Buck, Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Pat Heng, Dr. Enita Larson, Patricia Sierra, Amee Rief, Ed Rief, Anne and Keith Brown, and Dr. Elvira Rios.

Also special thanks to:

Shirley Merritt, one of my oldest and dearest fans who has been reading my novels from the very beginning, has come to dozens of my book signings and bought more of my books than anyone I know. I appreciate your dedication and support.

Dr Jen Hebel, for sharing your K9 handling experiences and giving me new and exciting ideas.

Christin Pruess, for being a good sport and helping Maggie and Pakula figure out an important piece of the puzzle.

Deb Carlin, for everything you do to take care of our readers—and me—along with all the overwhelming tasks of getting each book published and distributed.

Maggie, Huck, Finn and Grace, for all the joy and sloppy kisses. I don't even mind that you're not as well trained as Ryder's dogs.

My readers and VIR Club members: thank you for reading, sharing and recommending my books. I couldn’t do this without all of you.

And last, this book is dedicated to Dr. Enita Larson, who has spent way too many hours listening to me talk about dogs and answering my questions. I am blessed to call you friend.

ABOUT ALEX KAVA

Alex Kava writes thrillers that combine facts with fiction. Her K9 handler Ryder Creed rescues abandoned dogs and turns them into scent heroes.

Chasing Creed
Alex Kava and her westie Maggie O'Dell

Alex Kava is the New York Times, USA Today and Amazon bestselling author of twenty-three novels that include the critically acclaimed series featuring K9 handler Ryder Creed and the international bestselling series with FBI profiler Maggie O’Dell. She’s been awarded two Nebraska Book Awards, a Florida Book Award and the Mari Sandoz Award. Published in thirty-seven countries, her novels have sold millions of copies and have appeared on bestseller lists in the UK, Australia, Germany, Poland, Italy and Japan. When she’s not writing, Alex enjoys spending time with her pack of Westies and one Jack Russell terrorist named Grace. They are definitely not as well trained as Ryder Creed’s dogs but just as loved.

To learn more about Alex Kava, Maggie O’Dell and Ryder Creed and his K-9 team, join her on Facebook page and become a V.I.R. member (Very Important Reader) at www.alexkava.com.

A HUGE THANK YOU!

First off, I'd like to thank you for choosing to read CHASING CREED. If you enjoyed it, the best compliment a reader can pay an author is to tell a friend. I would be truly grateful. A few words can make all the difference in helping new readers discover my books.

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And as always... thank you for reading my books.

Sincerely,

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