KILLER PLOT

STELLA KNOX SERIES: BOOK THIRTEEN

MARY STONE

STACY O’HARE

Copyright © 2025 by Mary Stone Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To those who battle the unseen wars of the mind—your strength inspires, your courage endures.

DESCRIPTION

Their fate isn’t carved in stone. It’s written in blood.

Three months ago, Special Agent Stella Knox finally took down the man she’s spent her entire career chasing—the man responsible for her father’s death. Now she and Special Agent Hagen Yates are enjoying a well-deserved leave of absence in a secluded cabin in rural Pennsylvania, where the snow falls heavy, the fire crackles, and the silence feels almost too perfect.

Until they discover a body.

Hanging upside down from a tree in the icy woods, a psychiatric patient from the nearby hospital has been ritualistically killed—his throat slit, his blood drained, and cryptic symbols carved with chilling precision into his flesh. The word written in the ancient language of gods and demons portends what’s to come.

Death.

The storm trapping them in this isolated town is no longer their greatest threat. With a killer hiding in their midst, Stella’s instincts tell her the hospital holds answers—but are they unraveling a murderer’s motives or awakening something far darker? In a town suffocating under snow and terror, the line between sanity and madness blurs, and no one is safe from what’s coming next.

Brace yourself for the shocking twists and unrelenting suspense of Killer Plot, the thirteenth pulse-pounding installment in the Stella Knox Series by bestselling authors Mary Stone and Stacy O’Hare.

1

Laurence Gill hunched his shoulders against the cold, its bite as relentless as a set of snapping teeth. Wind knifed up from the lake, slicing through his thin sweater. All around him, pines bent and swayed in the gusts like worshippers praying at a temple.

He hoped they were praying. He needed the woods to intercede for him.

But the icy wind kept blowing, dropping swirls of snow that coated the rocks and the earth until he could no longer see the ground. His feet, bare beneath slacks—he’d lost his too-big boots while running—were numb. The cuffs dragged in the snow, wet and freezing. Pine needles stuck to the tops of his toes, glued to his torn nails by grime and ice and congealed blood.

He stumbled on.

Nothing would make him go back to the hospital. That was where they lived. He had to keep going.

They were after him. The demons. The monsters.

They wanted his blood.

They wouldn’t stop until they’d taken it all.

Laurence didn’t want to believe there were monsters, but he could not deny what he knew as facts. Monsters existed. They wore innocent faces. Familiar faces. And they were chasing him through the snow.

He’d refused his medicine again today, just as he’d refused it all week from those miserable nurses and that wretched doctor. He had a method now. If he pushed the pills up between his upper gums and cheek, when he opened his mouth and lifted his tongue, they never knew. When they were gone, he’d spit the poison into the toilet and watch as all those toxins swirled into oblivion.

He needed a clear mind to identify the monsters.

Down would go all the stuff that numbed his brain and clouded his thoughts. He didn’t need to make it easy for them. He knew what they were trying to do. They’d begged him for it.

Just a little blood. That was all they wanted.

But after the begging came the laughter, and he wasn’t fooled. A little blood wasn’t all. A little blood was just the beginning. All his blood. That was what they wanted. Every single drop.

Well, the demons wouldn’t get it. Not if he had anything to say about it. Not while he could run.

He clambered over a rock, his feet sliding on frozen moss. When the moment came, he’d known he needed to move fast. He’d swallowed the small paper message from his friend, telling him to run, and planned a quick but rough method of escape.

Run in order to be saved You know where to go. That was what the message had said.

The snow was thick now, falling in flurries that stuck his damp hair to his forehead and whitened his shoulders. He only knew his hands and feet were still connected to his body because he could see them. All sensation had disappeared. A blessing and a curse.

He could barely see the trees ahead. Although he’d left before lunch, less than two hours ago, the light was dim under the low clouds. Snow had stolen the color from the world and left him nothing but a black-and-white landscape.

He slipped down a stone. The sharp rock bit into the bottom of his foot. The pain was so deep, it burned. He ran on.

“Lauuuurence. Lauuuuurence.”

They were calling him. Their voices echoed through his head, his name tumbling with the ice in the wind.

“Lauuuurence. Lauuuuurence.”

There they were again, whispering under the creak of the pines.

He placed his hands over his ears, but the voices wouldn’t stop. They chanted his name, pulling him back to them.

Laurence gripped his head tighter and picked up the pace.

Faster. He had to run faster. The farther he got, the safer he’d be. He had to keep going.

A hill rose in front of him. Rocks dotted the slope. Tree roots carved ridges into its surface. Laurence pushed his bleeding toes through the snow on top of a boulder and climbed. He grasped a thick root that arced out of the frozen earth. His fingers stung, but he hauled himself up.

The voices faded, or maybe his heavy breath drowned them out. Despite the cold, he was sweating under his thin top. He had to keep going.

He’d make it. The summit was just a few yards away now. Three more steps, then two, and he’d be over this ridge and could keep going. They’d never catch him.

He could beat them. He was sure of it.

Laurence’s finger curled around a rock, and he dragged himself onward.

By the time he was on top of the ridge, his sodden sweater stuck to him. The wind whistled past, stealing his air and smashing it against the bark of a pine tree. A teardrop froze on his cheek.

A clearing lay in front of him.

And there, in the middle of the snow, beneath a long, twisted branch, exhaling puffs of hot breath into the frigid air, stood his savior, waiting for him. Relief washed over him.

“Laurence.”

There was something wrong with the way his friend said his name. He wasn’t sure what about the tone that made him stop short. Then he noticed a knife in his savior’s gloved hands.

“Are you going to kill the monsters?” Laurence’s mouth felt heavy with the cold. He barely understood the words coming out of his own throat.

“I’m going to save you.” But his savior didn’t step forward.

Laurence knew something was very wrong. He looked into his savior’s eyes and saw the truth.

A monster with a familiar face.

“You?” His breath puffed out before him.

Behind him, another monster, a stranger, at least, not wearing the familiar face of one he thought of as a friend, stepped up behind him. Laurence felt its presence at his back. But the betrayal of the one in front of him froze him more than the whipping wind and icy ground ever could.

The second monster slammed into him from behind. Laurence toppled forward.

Fluffs of fresh snow met his face. Between the weight of the monster on top of him and the snow melting in his nose and mouth, he felt like he was drowning. His limbs would not fight. The numbness seemed to have spread to his heart too.

Because he didn’t fight back when the monsters began their gruesome work.

2

An early Pennsylvania snow fell heavily outside the cabin window, piling up on the sill and darkening an already gloomy afternoon. But nothing could disturb the sense of peace enveloping Special Agent Stella Knox.

She lounged on the sofa of their rented cabin near Lake Erie, her bare legs curled under a woolen blanket. Her head lay in the crook of Hagen’s shoulder. His muscular arm wrapped around her so that his fingers rested gently against her hip.

This was what extended leave looked like.

The fire crackled in the grate while hot cocoa steamed in the cup in Stella’s hand. Bubs snored quietly on the rug. Hagen’s pit bull-boxer mix was recovering well. A few months ago, one of his hind legs had been amputated after suffering a bullet wound defending his master from a malicious intruder.

Nashville was truly in the rearview mirror.

Hagen extracted his arm and rose. “Come on. You can watch me cook.”

Setting down her cup, Stella took out her phone, noted the time, and grinned. “Can I say I love starting dinner at three thirty in the afternoon? I mean, we just had lunch.”

Special Agent Hagen Yates shook his head as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a hunk of meat wrapped in butcher paper. “The life of leisure. I could get used to this, babe.”

She smiled. He’d announced that about once a day since they’d made their way into the woods.

More than three months had passed since Joel Ramirez—her father’s longtime partner on the Memphis PD and the man responsible for his death—had been shot dead.

In the weeks that followed, as they’d tracked leads, written reports, and talked to the district attorney, a strange quiet had settled over the Nashville FBI office.

Little had turned out the way Stella had expected.

She thought she’d be overcome with relief once her father’s killer was dead. Closure would free her from the burden she’d carried since her father was gunned down by his corrupt partner. Finally, she could live as others lived, with joy instead of the constant tug of her father’s badge tucked inside the box next to her bed.

But as the coroner had lifted Ramirez’s broken body into his vehicle, there had been a look of peace on his face. He looked just like her Uncle Joel from the old days and not like the evil man he truly was.

She’d been wrong about it all. The burden had lightened, but it hadn’t lifted completely.

Though Ramirez was dead, they’d brought in his right-hand man alive, a corrupt Memphis police officer named Hal McKay, who’d been with Ramirez almost since the beginning.

And McKay couldn’t wait to loosen the guilt he’d borne for so many years.

He’d started talking before they’d reached the station. He knew his rights and had no interest in them. She and Hagen wrote everything, recorded everything. They followed up on the names he gave them and collected the evidence he pointed them toward. Each arrest brought more deals, more confessions, and more evidence.

They had cut off the head, but they still had to deal with the rest of the body.

Throughout the end of summer, the team was busier than it had ever been. But when it was done, when the organization had been dismantled and the files passed to the district attorney, there was nothing more to do.

They had the usual day-to-day work of the FBI, surveilling suspects and arresting the occasional wanted criminal who’d wandered into the team’s patch. And that was it.

Stella underwent a new firearms course and helped to review the online activity of a terrorist suspect. But without the shadow of Ramirez waiting at the end of the day, there was too much empty time, too little on her mind, and no clear idea how to fill it.

She’d been running in fourth gear for years. The sudden deceleration was confusing and unnerving.

So when Hagen suggested taking an extended break, Stella supported the idea enthusiastically. They’d aim for somewhere remote, pick a spot on the map, and use their time to get to know each other. Crime wouldn’t distract them. They wouldn’t have to chase down a criminal or look for evidence at blood-soaked scenes.

Stella would give up the apartment that Samantha Monahon had bugged, store her belongings in Hagen’s town house, entrust Scoot, her goldfish, to the temporary care of her neighbor, Emily Little, and for as long as they could, they’d leave murder and violence and victims far, far away. They’d live quietly, take long hikes, nurse Bubs back to health, and just talk. Learn how to be intimate without a single distraction from the outside world.

Supervisory Special Agent Paul Slade had counted the days of overtime the Bureau owed them, added the vacation time they could take in advance, and thrown in some unpaid leave—a reward for breaking the most dangerous criminal organization in Tennessee.

They had two months to do as they pleased.

Stella hadn’t expected the break to feel so right.

They’d rented a cabin a couple of hours outside Pittsburgh in the wooded hills of northwest Pennsylvania—an area Hagen had read about as he sat in the Nashville Public Library one day, watching a fraud suspect while leafing through an old National Geographic.

The life of leisure suited them. They walked daily. They boated on nearby Lake Erie, ate their way through Hagen’s recipes, enjoyed the quaint charm of Claymore Township at the base of their mountain oasis—only a thousand souls strong in the offseason—and tried not to think about when this strange break in their lives would end. They’d kept the real world at bay.

Now the real world was intruding upon their peace. They’d pulled a few more days out of Slade, dragging his generosity beyond his limits, but this would be their last week before they returned to Nashville. A few more days, and they’d be taking cases and chasing criminals again. Their new life, together, would begin.

Perched on a stool in the kitchen, Stella sipped her cocoa and folded her fingers between Hagen’s, who was consulting a recipe book. His attention still on the page, he squeezed gently.

For a big man, he had soft hands, their backs marked only by a thin line of hair running up his pinkie. They were big and strong, yet gentle enough to hold her. She liked the way he slipped his fingers around her waist as they walked, and she trusted the sense of security they gave her.

She squeezed back and watched the fire as it spread along a log. It was clear Hagen would stay in this place forever if he could.

Stella had seen how content he’d been with a morning jog, an afternoon hike, and evenings in the kitchen, stirring a pot while trying not to add more stains to his apron. The absence of work didn’t appear to bother him. If the weather blocked a hike, he picked up a book he’d found at the town’s Salvation Army and lost himself in fiction.

He avoided thrillers and police procedurals, preferring instead the classics he hadn’t bothered to read when he was younger. The dog-eared Joseph Conrad on the bedside table was keeping him awake far too late.

Whenever Stella mentioned the return to the office, Hagen would shrug and purse his lips, like a kid being told school was just around the corner and that he’d have to put away his surfboard soon.

But the return was niggling at Stella. She worried about what waited for them in Nashville. For as long as she’d worked in law enforcement, every step she took had moved her closer to the man who killed her father. Every case gave her more experience. Each new contact could yield information that moved her investigation forward. And she always knew where she was going.

Now that Ramirez was dead, she felt directionless, as though she were heading for a place unknown without a GPS. The thought of tackling the day-to-day work of the FBI without that personal, long-term goal made her nervous. She hoped she’d still be an effective investigator, even without the motivation of finding her father’s killer.

She sipped her cocoa and pushed all thoughts of work to the back of her mind. They still had a few more days of solitude.

From the adjoining living room, Bubs yelped in his sleep. He did that sometimes. Hagen put down the knife he’d been using to score the ham and ambled toward the dog, bending down to stroke his head.

With the rooms warmed by the fire and the oven, Hagen wore a tank top, and as he scratched the space between Bubs’s ears, his “Vindicta” tattoo between his shoulder blades, written in Gothic script, twitched.

The word had shocked Stella when they’d first made love. It reaffirmed just how determined Hagen had been to exact revenge against Ramirez for his own father’s death. Her own tattoo—“Justice” in a similar font on her right wrist—was small enough to be almost unnoticeable.

She joined him in the living room and ran a finger over the letters on Hagen’s broad back, following the swirls of the tattooist’s ink. It would be a permanent reminder of how far Hagen had come.

Under Hagen’s hand, Bubs opened his eyes. He lifted his head. His ears stood erect. He’d heard something.

Before either of them registered anything, a knock sounded at the door.

As Stella wrapped a blanket around herself, Hagen reached for a shirt on the back of the couch. Still closing the buttons, he peeked through the curtain before opening the door. A gust of icy wind set the flames dancing in the grate and prompted a small growl of complaint from Bubs.

In the doorway, wrapped tightly against the cold, stood Mark Tully. The Claymore Township sheriff’s deputy was in his mid-twenties, lightly built, and had a thin brown beard that he kept neatly trimmed, though it barely rose from the level of his jawline and only underlined his pink cheeks.

The young deputy had become their only friend in the small town of Claymore. Stella and Hagen had met him on one of their trips to the town bar over their rural sojourn, and they’d drunk beer as they swapped law enforcement stories.

Steady, attractive, and personable, Mark had never needed to handle anything nastier than the accidents that happened too frequently on the winding mountain roads. Stella and Hagen had held back their stories of serial killers and psychopaths, focusing instead on their time as city cops.

Stella pulled the blanket tighter as Mark nodded a greeting. “I’d give you a hug, but y’know, the icicles.”

The fire was hot in the small living room, and under the wool blanket, she was only wearing shorts and a tank top.

Hagen closed the door slightly and tried, in vain, to block the chilly wind. “Mark, you look frozen. You want to come in? We’re just…erm...”

Mark lifted a gloved hand.

“I’m good, thanks. I can’t stay, though that fire sure looks inviting. Just wondered if you’ve seen anyone come up this way. One of the patients from the psychiatric hospital outside town is missing.”

Stella twisted on the sofa. The hospital lay between them and the town. They passed the signpost every time they traveled up and down the treacherous mountain road. The building was at the end of a narrow lane that forked right and wound up the mountain.

“In this weather?”

Mark stamped the snow off his boots. “Not good, huh? Been gone a few hours already. Since before lunch, apparently. Another orderly found one of his boots near the turnoff to the hospital. It’ll be dark soon, and this weather won’t get any better. Got a bad spell coming in off the lake. Could last a few days, this stuff.”

Hagen shook his head. “We’ve been inside all afternoon. Haven’t seen or heard a thing.”

“He’s missing a boot?” Stella glanced at Tully’s own snow-encrusted boots. She couldn’t imagine what the same crusty ice would do to a man in bare feet.

“At least one.”

“You got a search team?” Hagen’s voice had turned urgent. Stella knew Hagen had done the weather math too and come to the same negative conclusion.

“A bunch of untrained volunteers. But, yes, we’re meeting up now at the bottom of the turnoff to the hospital. That’s the patient’s last known position. You guys want to come out and join us, I’ll give you a ride.”

After she and Hagen exchanged a brief glance, Stella threw off her blanket and headed for the bedroom to change.

3

The snow was still falling as Hagen and Stella got out of Mark Tully’s patrol vehicle to join the small group gathered by the side of the road leading up to the hospital. The search team numbered no more than a dozen men and a handful of women, all faces familiar to Hagen from the stores on Claymore Township’s Main Street.

They stomped their feet and clapped their gloved hands and made Hagen wish he was better prepared for this kind of weather. His hiking pants were waterproof as were his boots, but his coat wasn’t thick enough to keep out the wind, and the tightness of everyone else’s clothes suggested they were wearing the kind of thermals he’d never owned. Besides his hiking boots, the gas station-purchased wool gloves and knit cap now pulled over his ears were the extent of his cold-weather gear.

He rubbed Stella’s back and hoped she was handling the chill a little better. Spending a few weeks up north was one thing, but he couldn’t understand how these folks could stand this year after year.

“Right. Gather around, everyone. That’s it.”

The call came from Douglas “Doug” King, Claymore Township’s sheriff. He had a gruff voice that struggled past an overgrown mustache as thick and white as the snow. He was in his early fifties but looked a decade older. At six-four, his height was imposing. But the roundness of his stomach suggested he hadn’t chased a criminal in a very long time.

According to Deputy Tully, who took his place next to the sheriff, the most common crime in Claymore Township was public intoxication, and the most serious crime the pair had ever faced was a single incident of domestic violence.

As Hagen and Stella lined up on the edge of the group and braced themselves against the wind, Hagen envied the two law enforcement officers their cold but easy lives.

“All right, we’re looking for a white male, forty-three years old, named Laurence Gill.” Sheriff King waited for a gust to blow itself out, then rubbed his gloved hands together and continued. “According to Dr. Bill Silow over at the hospital, he’s vulnerable but not dangerous.”

Sheriff King paused again and peered through his spectacles at the group flapping their arms and pulling their woolen hats lower down around their ears. No one appeared to need reassurance that Laurence Gill wouldn’t kill them. All looked eager to get on with the search and head back into the warmth as quickly as possible.

The sheriff clapped his hands. “Now, Dr. Silow reckons that Gill’s been gone a good few hours. He’s not only badly dressed, but the doc tells me Gill is a rather frail individual, small build. A few inches shorter than you, I’d say.” He jerked his chin toward Stella, who stood at five-six. “So he could be suffering from hypothermia or even frostbite. Sun’s going down, and this weather’s getting worse, so we need to find him and get him back to the hospital as quick as we can.”

Deputy Tully stepped up. “We’re in communication with Dr. Silow, so if Gill returns to the hospital, we’ll know. He was last seen at the hospital almost six hours ago. And as you can see,” Tully pointed to a faint foot trail, which branched off from the side of the road, “it appears he turned into the forest here.”

Stella crouched by a particularly vivid footprint—the presence of toe outlines indicating he was barefoot—and took a photo. Then she opened the measuring app on her phone, which, Hagen saw over her shoulder, showed that the print was precisely ten inches long. That suggested Laurence Gill wore a size eight shoe.

Meanwhile, King nodded. “Since we really don’t have a lot of daylight left and we don’t have a lot of manpower, we’re going to perform what’s called a ‘hasty search.’ We’ll break out in pairs and move quickly through the forest. You’re looking for clues or the lost person in the most obvious places, like a cave or a ditch. That sort of thing.”

Tully opened a backpack and began to distribute walkie-talkies. “We only have a few, so it’ll have to be one per pair. Be sure to use them.”

King turned his walkie-talkie on. “I’ll be on channel one. Since we’re trained, Deputy Tully and I will start here at the tracks. But I want each pair of you to start twenty feet apart from each other. We’ll be in the center, so let’s get half of the group to the right of us and half to our left. Now, in a ‘hasty search,’ each pairing has free rein to search where you’d like, so use your instincts and be careful. It’s rough conditions out here. Good luck! Let’s bring this guy home.”

The group broke apart and, as they spaced themselves out along the road, made their way up the snow-covered slope into the forest. Hagen and Stella were twenty feet down the road from Deputy Tully and Sheriff King.

Hagen wished they’d had a bigger turnout…and at least one dog. The hills rolled steeply in front of him, but they also spread widely. He’d have wanted more manpower. A helicopter would’ve been useful too, though impossible to fly in this weather. With visibility limited to little more than twenty yards, the chances of spotting someone climbing these hills seemed pretty small.

Stella must’ve been thinking the same way. She took his elbow and pulled him away. “We’re looking for footprints, broken branches, and any other tracking signs we can find.”

They strode up the hill, scanning the ground. The snow was falling fast, covering up any shallow prints, like those from a bird or a squirrel. But she pointed out a trail of deer hooves. Meanwhile, the ice crunched under their feet and stuck to the sides of their boots. There were no human footprints beyond the ones leading into the woods, and no sign that anyone had come this way.

Stella strode a yard ahead.

“If he came through here almost six hours ago, moving on foot at roughly two miles an hour, then he could be twelve miles away by now. We need to hustle.”

“If he’s barefoot, I doubt he made it that far.” But Hagen strode faster.

“Let’s hope not.”

Laurence’s name echoed through the snowy forest as the other searchers called for him. The wind whipped away their shouts, and as the snow swirled between the trees, the search party became a series of dark, hazy slashes scattered across the slope.

Hagen and Stella strode on. The slope wasn’t steep, but the farther they moved from the road, the rockier the hill became. Their boots slipped on icy boulders. Branches broken in the storm poked through the snow like the blackened limbs of desiccated corpses.

As Stella marched ahead, Hagen stopped and took a breath. The cold air stung the roof of his mouth. A jog on an open road, a long hike on a forest trail…they were both fine. But bushwhacking around in the snow was for penguins and polar bears. They could keep it.

Halfway up the slope, Stella peered over her shoulder. The cold had put a redness in her cheeks he’d never seen before their arrival in Pennsylvania, a freshness and vibrancy that didn’t survive in the city. Maybe some things were better up north.

She smiled. It crinkled the sides of her eyes and warmed him.

“Come on, lazy.”

Just ahead of her lay a large boulder. Snow covered its surface, but a small indentation on the top of the rock—as though someone had laid a hand on it as they tried to drag themselves up the hill—was evident.

“There.” Hagen pointed.

Stella’s smile faded. She followed the line of his finger up the slope to the boulder. A boot similar to the one turned over to the sheriff’s office was half-buried in the snow. Beyond that, there were other indentations. With her hand cupped alongside her mouth, she hollered back, “Looks like tracks up ahead.”

He clambered up behind her.

The trees were thicker here, and snow covered the ground in patches between their trunks. The edges of some of those patches had been trodden down before a layer of fresh snow partially covered them. Though the footprints were unclear, it was possible someone had come this way as the flurries thickened.

Hagen lifted his cap from his head and wiped his brow. Despite the cold, he was sweating. “Flag the boot. Let’s follow the tracks up. See if they take us anywhere.”

Sheriff King and Deputy Tully were a good twenty yards behind them and moving much slower, their voices calling out, “Laurence!” getting fainter.

Hagen stepped over the rocks and slithered past some boulders, following the line Stella had already cut through the snow.

The patches of snow grew and merged, and the marks became clearer. Though whether they’d been made by the man they were seeking or someone else—or were merely revealing the rocky terrain beneath—Hagen wasn’t sure. Tracking wasn’t his thing. The only hunting his father had ever shown him how to do involved finding a new pair of sneakers at a discount price.

“Laurence! Lauuurence!”

Behind them, the search party’s calls became less pleading and more frustrated. The sun was beginning to set, and no one wanted to be out in these woods in this weather after dark. The only answer was a creak of the trees and a whisper of the wind in the branches. Ahead of Hagen, Stella pulled herself over the last rock to stand on the ridge of the slope.

She stopped. Her back straightened, then her shoulders sagged as though she’d taken a sudden deep breath and released it slowly. Hagen cursed under his breath.

Stella had found something. And judging by the way she stood motionless, it wasn’t something good.

As Hagen climbed, he braced himself.

He’d no doubt be looking at another corpse. Laurence Gill might’ve tried to shelter in the shadow of a rock or the hollow of a tree and died of hypothermia, freezing to death before the search party had a chance to find him.

Cold wasn’t the worst way to die. He and Stella had certainly seen plenty worse. Hypothermia was allegedly a slow fall into a deep sleep, the growth of a darkness that never ended.

But it was still an unnatural death. Hagen shivered and hauled himself to the top of the ridge to stand next to Stella.

At the bottom of the slope was a man’s body. But Laurence Gill wasn’t crouched behind a rock, and he hadn’t tried to take shelter from the wind in the hollow of a burned tree.

He was naked and hung by his feet from the bent branch of a pine tree, his curled fingers grazing the new snowfall.

His ribs seemed to jut from his chest, skin wrapped tight over each one, and a deep cut ran across his throat like a frown, coating his face with blood.

A wide circle of red spread across the snow beneath him.

And a faint trail of pink-tinged snow led away from him, into the depths of the forest.

4

Stella put two fingers in her mouth and released a loud, shrill whistle. The sound cut through the wind, blasted across the hill, and stopped the rest of the search party behind them, who’d been slashing through the heavy snow.

Hagen wiggled a finger in his ear. “Ow.”

“Chloe taught me to do that. A going-away present.”

He narrowed his eyes and held up the walkie-talkie the sheriff had given them. “You don’t want to just use this?”

Stella waved at the two figures behind them at the bottom of the slope they’d just climbed. “Too late.”

As Deputy Tully waited for the stragglers, Sheriff King moved up the slope slowly, zigzagging between the rocks. Stella and Hagen started down the hill toward Laurence Gill.

The body, still facing them, swayed in the wind. The rope and the branch creaked.

Laurence Gill was clearly dead, and the space in front of them was clearly a crime scene. In an instant, Stella was back at work, and thoughts of contamination, suspects, and evidence preservation replaced the expectation of an evening in front of the fire with a glass of wine and a naked Hagen.

Hagen shook the snow off his hiking boots. “I want to learn how to do that too. I can barely whistle a tune.”

“I noticed.”

“Really?”

“You whistle when you cook sometimes. It hurts.”

Hagen frowned. “Bubs likes it.”

“Bubs would eat out of the trash if you let him. He’s no judge of taste.”

“Says the lady who thinks frozen beef stroganoff is the height of fine dining.”

When the body was about ten yards away, they stopped. The length of rope had been wrapped around the trunk of a pine tree, then up over the branch, before binding the corpse’s ankles. The slash across the victim’s throat, the stain covering his face, and the six-foot-wide puddle of blood on the snow beneath him screamed a red intrusion into a world of white and black.

Apart from blood, Laurence Gill’s thin chest was covered in a sparse scattering of black hair, but the skin was a putrid shade of gray and pale blue, as though every other living tone had been drawn out of him. The extent of the trails of blood that began at the neck was unusual. They ran all the way down the victim’s torso, collecting in a pool around his groin and even further until they stopped on the upper part of the victim’s right and left thighs.

At first glance, it appeared the victim had been completely exsanguinated. And that he had been standing up when he was killed.

Hagen remained where he stood. “He looks like meat, left to hang.”

Stella shuddered. Vegetarianism was starting to sound attractive.

“Oh, hell.” The sheriff approached. His cheeks were almost as red as Laurence Gill’s, and drops of melted snow decorated the thick lenses of his spectacles. He stared at the corpse. “What on God’s good earth is that?”

Stella hugged herself, slapping her arms against the cold. “I think we’ve found your missing patient.”

Without taking his eyes from the body, the sheriff pulled the radio from his shoulder. “Mark, take them all back down to the road. Do not, I repeat do not, let any of them climb up this ridge. Looks like we’ve found him.”

The radio squawked. “Copy that. Want me to come up there when I’m done?”

“Yeah.” The sheriff released the button, then pressed it again. “Bring the portable forensic kit from the car. And the saw from the toolbox to cut him down. And bring a tarp. We’ll have to carry the body out of here somehow.”

There was a moment of silence before his deputy replied with a curt, “Copy that.”

The sheriff headed toward the puddle of blood.

Hagen’s arm shot out.

“Whoa. That’s a crime scene, Sheriff. Do you see that trail of blood leading away from the victim? Your man there didn’t cut his own throat, then tie himself up in that tree. There’s nothing you can do for him now except wait for forensics.”

Slowly, Sheriff King pushed Hagen’s arm down and removed his glasses from his face. His eyes looked much smaller without the lenses. He wiped off his glasses with the fingers of his gloves.

“Mark told me you two are FBI agents. On some kind of vacation or something.”

“On leave. From Nashville.”

“Uh-huh.” Sheriff King replaced his glasses and hunched his shoulders against the snow. “Well, this ain’t Nashville. The nearest forensic unit in Pittsburgh takes about two hours to get here at the best of times. And this is not the best of times. Roads coming in and out of town on both sides are closed now, which means we’re just about cut off here until this weather clears up.”

Stella blinked. “But that could take days.”

“Might even take a week or more. So unless you want to leave our hospital patient up there to feed the bears and the foxes, which I’m sure they’ll appreciate, I suggest we go ahead and cut him down now. As for evidence preservation, we’ll have to just do the best we can with the portable forensic kit.”

Stella took a deep breath to focus. The woods and the hill disappeared. She wasn’t on leave in Pennsylvania. She was looking at a crime scene. There was evidence to collect and clues that would tell them what had happened here and who’d caused it. And they were on their own.

They’d need to gather as much information as they could before the weather destroyed the integrity of the scene. “Let’s just be careful, okay?”

The three of them made their way down off the ridge toward the clearing below. Stella approached from one side and Hagen from the other. She squatted next to a boulder at the side of the clearing, hands on her thighs. There was little they could do here to avoid contaminating the scene.

From over the gale, Hagen called out, “There’re some clothes behind this rock. Looks like a pair of pants, boxers, and a lightweight sweater. Neatly folded but all soaked through with water and blood by the looks of it.”

Stella shouted back, “Any shoes?”

“Nope. No socks either.”

Even from where Stella stood, on the edge of the bloody snow, she could see that the victim’s feet were covered in dirt, pine needles, and more blood, confirming Laurence Gill had made his way through these woods barefoot. She wondered what had driven him out in this weather so ill-prepared.

Or who.

Stella drew nearer to the pool of blood beneath the body. Surrounding the red pool, and leading off into the forest, faint marks tinged with blood decorated the snow. They were shallow and smudged, but they must’ve been footprints, and they wouldn’t last long in this weather.

She photographed them with her phone, then followed the bloody trail until it turned lily white. She reached a shallow creek, where the prints stopped. The smudged quality of the boot prints gave her the feeling that she was looking at two sets of prints, one on top of the other. With the falling snow, it was hard to say for certain.

Of course, the enlarged boot print could simply be that the person walking away from Laurence had slipped on slick ground every few steps. Stella bent over to examine the indentations. The fast-falling snow had eliminated any possibility of identifying the make of the boots that made the prints.

Still, after she photographed and measured the footprint using the app on her phone again, she was reasonably sure whoever had killed Laurence had feet that were at least eleven inches long. This suggested that the killer wore a size eleven shoe, men’s. But the print could’ve been larger. It was hard to say for certain.

In the creek where the boot prints stopped, the water ran too fast to freeze. The stream poured away down the hill in the direction of the road, bubbling over the rocks, dragging twigs and pine needles and occasionally throwing up small splashes that dug holes in the snow on its banks. Whoever had come this way had waded through the water to hide their trail before driving off.

Back in the city, Stella would’ve been scouring for security cameras, and there would’ve been a good chance she’d have a plate and an ID within minutes.

She’d get nothing here.

She made her way back toward Sheriff King, staying a careful distance from the prints. The weather might destroy them in time, but even out here in the woods, she was too professional to risk damaging the site herself.

Hagen and Sheriff King had moved around the scene to stand behind the body. Hagen’s hands were on his hips, his head at a curious angle. They’d seen something. And it must be something particularly special to hold his attention like that.

Stella’s pulse rose. She walked faster. When she was still a good twenty yards away, she called, “Bad tattoo?”

Hagen shook his head. “You need to see this.”

She came around, trying not to tread on any of the blood still sinking into the snow. What she saw drove out all thoughts of wind and cold and the growing dark. The creaking of the rope on the branch faded. The prints down to the creek dissolved.

All that remained were the bloody marks on the man’s back.

This is new.

They covered almost every inch of his skin from the back of his neck to the top of his thin buttocks. Tiny, short lines and triangles pointed this way and that, as though a razor-footed bird had walked all over the victim, slicing into his flesh. They were as clear as footprints in the snow but small and bloody and detailed.

She took photographs from a variety of angles. If she had to guess, these marks were made with a scalpel.

Sheriff King wiped the lenses of his glasses again. The redness in his cheeks had faded, and his face was now almost as pale as the ground. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He looked at Stella with hope in his eyes. “Have you?”

Hagen spoke up first. “This one’s new for us too.”

Heavy footsteps thudded on the other side of the hill. Deputy Tully appeared on the top of the ridge, a large tarp hanging from one shoulder and the forensic kit in hand. He took one look at the body swinging over the bloody ground, then bent over and retched, vomiting behind one of the boulders.

Stella felt for him. She’d never gotten sick at a crime scene before. But she’d seen plenty of burly cops throw up their dinners at the first sight of blood. Everyone reacted in their own way and to different things. Stella knew bodies made Hagen queasy too, but only on slabs in morgues. When the corpse was by the road, in a dumpster, or even hanging from a tree, he was always solid.

The young deputy slithered down the slope toward the clearing, stopping at the edge of the bloody snow. His face was as pale as the sheriff’s.

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

Hagen offered him a smile. “Don’t worry about it. You managed to miss the crime scene. That was some good aiming.”

Tully stared up at the body. “How did he…who could have…what do…”

“‘How’ and ‘who’ are questions you’re going to have to answer. Along with ‘why’ and ‘what the heck?’ But that forensic kit will be a help.”

Stella peered at the marks on the man’s back. They made no sense to her at all.

Hagen clapped Tully on the shoulder. “Relax, Mark. As for what you’re going to do now, we can’t leave him here, so you’ll have to cut him down.”

5

By the time Hagen positioned himself near the hanging body, darkness was falling, dropping the temperature further and plunging the scene into a dimness, bolstered by the glow of their flashlights on the snow.

Stella continued to photograph the scene, making sure she got the prints and the marks and the bloody slash across the throat as best she could. Then Hagen and Sheriff King held the body still as Tully cut through the branch above the victim’s feet, being careful to keep the knot at the top of the rope intact.

When the deputy finished, they lowered the body carefully onto the tarp. With similar care, Sheriff King and Mark rolled it up to secure the victim. Meanwhile, Hagen placed the clothes they’d found behind the rock in plastic evidence bags from the kit.

As they lifted the tarp, the lightness of the load surprised Hagen. The first time he’d helped paramedics move a critically wounded man from a road accident, he’d struggled under the weight, his fingers fighting for grip on the stretcher.

Since then, he’d always prepared for the surprising weight of a dead body, as though life itself had a lightness that could counteract a person’s bulk. Laurence Gill was a short man with little muscle and very little heft to speak of.

With Tully and Hagen each taking an end of the rolled-up tarp and the sheriff holding up the middle, they carried the body over the bloody snow and back up the hill. Stella led the way. The journey down to the road took three times as long as the hike in. They stumbled with the makeshift stretcher in one hand and their flashlights in the other.

Snow swirled in the beams, and Tully slipped twice on a patch of ice. The body almost slid out of the tarp as he fell. By the time they reached the road, the deputy’s cheeks were a healthy pink and his uniform was soaked from his cuffs to his belt.

They laid the body on the back seat of the sheriff’s car and held it in place with seat belts.

“I’ll go into town with the sheriff and the victim,” Stella said to Hagen, behaving as though Slade himself had sent them to the site and the case belonged to them. “You ride with Mark.” She slid into the passenger seat.

Sheriff King tapped on the snow-covered roof of his car. He hadn’t invited Stella to ride with him. But if he was thinking of telling her he didn’t need her help, a glance at the body-shaped tarp on the back seat changed his mind. He climbed behind the wheel and set off carefully down the hill, the chains on his tires leaving deep imprints in his wake.

Hagen watched them go before following Tully to the only remaining car on the road that led to the hospital at the top of the mountain. After handing Hagen a snow brush, the deputy turned on the engine and waited as the wipers swiped the snow off the windshield. More than half an inch had covered the car since the search party set out. Hagen helped the process along by swatting the snow off the windows.

When he finished, he joined Tully in the vehicle, breathing a sigh of relief at the blast of heat on his face.

The deputy turned to him. “Sorry about…you know. What happened up there.”

“You mean donating your lunch to the forest animals? Don’t worry about it. Just maybe next time, you might want to eat more nuts or something. They like those.”

Tully’s face flushed. “I mean…I’ve seen a dead body before. These roads, they’re super dangerous. In the winter, man, we get a fatal accident up here near the turnoff to the hospital every two weeks. People drive like they’re on the highway, but you gotta be real careful. Even with chains and stuff. They take the corners too fast, they slide off the road. It’s real nasty.”

“I get it. And I know the turn you’re talking about. Gives me the willies every time we come back from the grocery store. And that’s without this blanketing.” Hagen peeled off his gloves and held his fingers in front of the hot air vent. “Your department must’ve seen some pretty mangled bodies.”

“Oh, yeah.” The deputy put his foot on the gas. The wheel spun, sending out a spray of snow and mud before the car skidded onto the road. “Arms almost wrenched off. Brains on dashboards. If people saw what I’ve seen, man, they’d always wear their seat belts. Heck, I don’t think they’d ever leave home.”

Tully slid through the stop sign at the bottom of the road leading to the hospital but managed to fishtail the car right, onto the main road into Claymore Township. He kept his foot on the gas even as they approached the infamous tight bend. Only at the last minute did Tully touch the brake, and Hagen braced himself for the car to fly over the corner and tumble down the side of the hill. The wheels dug and gripped, and the vehicle shot around the turn.

Hagen clenched his seat belt, side-eyed the deputy, and exhaled slowly.

The cars from the search party had already carved dark lines on the snow-covered road. Tully kept the wheels neatly lined up on the tracks and hit the gas, closing the distance between the vehicles. “I don’t know why that body got to me, though. I mean a dead body’s a dead body, right?”

Hagen shook his head. “Accidents happen. Someone made a mistake. Maybe they drove too fast on an icy road and didn’t see…didn’t see the corner coming.”

Hint, hint.

On the next bend, Tully turned late and too fast. He hadn’t even entertained Hagen’s hint.

Hagen slid to the edge of his seat, chalking the usually prudent deputy’s speed up to a surge of adrenaline. “But what we saw up there wasn’t an accident. Someone did that. They chose to do it. That was evil. And Mark…” He looked at the deputy. “Judging from those cuts on the victim’s back, they’re going to do it again.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Well, I can’t say for certain. But those marks looked almost like a killer’s signature. It’s common for serial killers to have certain actions, in this case perhaps this mutilation of the victim’s back, that they return to again and again. We usually find they are manifestations of a fantasy that evolved a long time before their first killing. In fact, the fantasy often stems from childhood.”

Tully met his gaze. Hagen had to point at the windshield to get him to look back at the road. The deputy put his foot down, as though he wanted to get off that hill and into town as quickly as possible.

“I…I guess you guys must see this kind of stuff all the time, huh? Probably just another day at the office for you.”

Hagen wished that wasn’t true. The last couple of months without blood, gore, risk, and the need to confront murderers unburdened by a conscience had been wonderful. He’d felt free.

For the first time since his father’s murder fourteen years ago, there’d been nothing pushing him on or dragging him down. The rage which had burned in him for so many years had sizzled out, his hunger sated. Hiking, cooking, and relaxing with Stella had given him everything he’d wanted since they’d finished their investigation of Joel Ramirez.

He knew this break couldn’t last forever. Soon, they’d go back and face the worst of the world again. But he also worried about what that moment would bring. He’d always known that each case he worked could lead him closer to the man who’d murdered his father.

Now that he’d found that man, there’d be no payoff beyond the satisfaction of cracking each case he encountered. That satisfaction would have to be enough. But the thought that it might not be frightened him more than any serial killer ever had.

He didn’t want to face that fear.

Not that he was sure the corpse in the woods had been the victim of a serial killer. It could have been an opportunistic killing. The victim could have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But his instinct told him that was wrong. The markings on the victim’s back were too unusual, too brutal to be the handiwork of someone who had never done this before. Or, at least, who had never fantasized about doing this before.

However, that in itself didn’t mean anything either. Hagen considered that both could be true. This killing could still have been opportunistic, in the sense that that victim selection was random. And yet the actions of the killer—the way the killer killed—was the result of a lifetime of fantasy.

But who else would be walking around the forest in the middle of a snowstorm waiting to happen upon someone to kill? At best, it seemed unlikely. The location of the crime scene certainly suggested that this killing had been planned, as opposed to one of convenience or opportunity. For now, he concluded it was best to move forward under the assumption that this killing was deliberate.

Hagen stared out the window at the swirling snow. A few more days without the sight of spilled blood would’ve been perfect. But now even that respite was over.

“We see it all the time. But we’re supposed to be on leave now.”

Tully grimaced. “Sorry, man. Just bad timing, I guess. Never had a murder like this before in Claymore Township. Lucky for us you’re here.”

He slowed as he approached the next turn but not enough to stop Hagen reaching for the handle above the passenger window. By the time Tully straightened the car, they’d caught up with Sheriff King and Stella. The sheriff was driving at a more civilized pace, which was a relief.

In the distance, over the tops of the pine trees, Lake Erie was no more than an inky stain under a dark sky. They were coming to the bottom of the hill, and Deputy Tully put his foot down despite the ice on the roads. “Especially if what you say is right.” At least he kept his eyes on the road as he spoke.

“What did I say?”

“That it would happen again.” Tully glanced at Hagen. “Are you sure about that?”

Hagen thought for a moment. He didn’t want to be right, but he suspected he was. Even so, he couldn’t be entirely sure.

“Well, again, I don’t now beyond a shadow of a doubt. But that setup looked very deliberate. The slashing of the throat, the arrangement of the body. The fact that it was done in the middle of nowhere. My impression is that too much thought went into that scene for this to have been a one-off. And indeed, to waste it on a single victim…my sense is that there was a reason the killer organized everything like they did.”

“Then we’re going to need your help.” Tully adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Sheriff King won’t admit it, but this is out of our league. I saw the way you guys worked the scene, took pictures and all, before we cut him down. Your girlfriend, there? Stella? She just got right down to it.”

Streetlights glinted over the snow, heralding the tiny hamlet of Claymore Township. Hagen muttered something about Stella being good at her job. The comment satisfied the deputy, but Hagen couldn’t keep worry from snaking through him.

Tully was right. Stella had dived straight back into work. She’d looked for the tracks, then assessed the site and followed the trail in the woods down to the creek. Investigation was in her blood.

She could do nothing else.

6

Stella fidgeted in the passenger seat as they passed the short buildings along Claymore’s Main Street. Snow also blanketed the town’s roads. But the turns here were wide and safe, not banked by a drop of several hundred feet down to the lake. It seemed almost irresponsible to her that the road was most difficult near the psychiatric hospital.

Sheriff King drove carefully. He kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, and his foot light on the pedal when it wasn’t hovering over the brake.

She wished he’d drive a little faster.

Not too fast, but just fast enough to bring them to their destination sooner.

She couldn’t wait to get the body out of the car, examine those strange marks on the victim’s back, and start delving into suspects. Even that short walk through the snow down to the creek had been intriguing. Each step had brought her closer to something or the possibility of something. She could’ve stumbled on the body of the murderer, dead from a wound inflicted during the struggle. Or a message written in blood in the snow. Or…

Or nothing.

And that was no less curious. From her preliminary investigation of the scene, the killer, or perhaps killers, appeared to have planned their escape. Or maybe they’d known the terrain well enough to use it to make their getaway harder to follow. Or maybe they’d just gotten lucky when they found that creek to mask their footprints.

One small step. That was all she’d taken. And now she wanted so much to keep going. She felt like a runner who’d just pulled on her shoes after time off to heal a stress fracture, ready to run a new race. The world was calling again, and Stella ached to meet it.

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the body folded under the tarp in the back seat.

“So who is this guy?”

Sheriff King adjusted his short fingers on the steering wheel.

“Besides his name, Laurence Gill, I can’t really say. I never met him. Been a patient up at the sanatorium for…oh, I don’t know, a few months, I think. That’s what Bill told me when he called, anyhow. Dr. Silow.”

“The sanatorium?”

“The psychiatric hospital. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to call it these days.” The sheriff snorted above his mustache. “Nuthouse is what it is. But I can’t say that anymore. Upsets some people, you see. Y’ask me, you call it something else, you just gonna⁠—”

“Is it a big place?”

“Naw. Doesn’t take more than about twenty patients at a time. Been there for…oh, must be more than sixty years now. They built it to hold the crazy offspring of Philadelphia bigwigs, you know? All those old landowners and senators and industrialists. They’d stuff their nutty family members up there in the hills. Out of sight and out of their minds.”

“So it’s been there for a long time?”

Sheriff King nodded. “Place was bought up and refurbished about fifteen years back. Had a big reopening and now takes in just about anyone.”

He paused, speaking more seriously now. “Actually, scrap that. I know for sure the hospital does not take in criminal or forensic patients. We all breathed a sigh of relief when we heard that. Anyhow, it’s a private facility, not state run. Some nonprofit in the city pays for it.”

Stella glanced over her shoulder in the general direction of the hospital, up on the mountain. She and Hagen had passed the road that led to it so many times but had never had reason to turn up that way. She wondered if Laurence Gill was the first patient who’d escaped.

And whether he’d be the last.

“Here we are.”

The sheriff pulled up to the town’s only Urgent Care Center and turned off the engine outside a side door marked Coroner. When he opened the car, an icy wind blasted in, bringing a flurry of snowflakes that settled on Stella’s legs. He pulled out his phone.

“We won’t be able to get the body to Pittsburgh for a full autopsy, not in this weather. But there’s a coroner’s office here with a refrigeration system. We mainly use it in the winter when some idiot takes a turn too fast on one of those mountain roads. It’s the biggest, coldest thing this town’s ever had.”

Hagen and Deputy Tully pulled up behind them.

Sheriff King peeled off a glove and took a ring of keys out of his pocket. He used one to open the door to the coroner’s office.

The others emerged from their vehicle, and they all set about the task of bringing Laurence Gill inside.

Rigor mortis, which set in about two hours after death, had begun by the time they arrived at the crime scene. Considering Gill had been last seen alive at the hospital at roughly ten thirty that morning and they had found his body at five thirty, it implied the time of death was somewhere between ten thirty and three thirty that afternoon.

But those numbers were probably off a bit with the cold and exposure, which could delay the onset of rigor mortis. And due to the extreme blood loss, there was no sign of livor mortis, which could have helped narrow the time of death even further.

Their gloved hands and the falling snow made gripping the rolled-up tarp a challenge. Stella placed her arms under the tarp to help Hagen and Tully ease him out of the car. She could feel the man’s bones—hard like stone—inside the polyethylene.

She curled her fingers to improve her grip on the slick tarp, breathing faster despite her desire to stay calm. This wasn’t just a victim, a case begging for investigation. The body in her arms was a person, someone who deserved justice for the crime committed against him.

“You okay?” Hagen held the end of the tarp next to Laurence Gill’s head.

She gave a small nod. “I’m good.”

They carried him inside the coroner’s office, past the desks and through a door near the back of the room. Sheriff King unlatched another door that opened into a refrigerated room. They all shuffled in and placed the body on a table.

Stella unrolled the tarp. Laurence Gill’s eyes were still open. He stared at the ceiling, his face trapped in a state of shock, as though his killer had taken him entirely by surprise. His complexion was still pale blue, but the red gash across his throat stood out starkly against his pale skin, its edges beginning to darken as the blood congealed in the cold air.

Stella wondered what kind of life he’d experienced behind those pale, unshaven cheeks. Her gaze softened with pity as she looked down at him.

Hagen stood next to the corpse. “We should⁠—”

“Anyone in here?” a hoarse voice cried out. “The front door was open.”

“Oh, darn.” The sheriff shook his head. “I know that voice. Follow me.”

Sheriff King led Stella and Hagen out into the main room of the coroner’s office.

The man who stood in the doorway, blocking the fresh air with a strong scent of alcohol, might’ve needed to turn sideways to walk in. The top of his head, with a heap of black-and-white curls, almost reached the doorframe. The long curls spread down his cheeks where they merged with a thick beard that reached almost to his eyes so that hair covered nearly all his face.

He swayed slightly as he eyed the sheriff through his curls. “What’s all the hubbub, bub?”

“What the heck are you doing here?” Sheriff King asked, approaching the man.

“I was walking around, y’see,” his slurred words were barely coherent, “and I saw your car. And I thought, gee, there might be a story there.”

“David, I don’t want to arrest you for being drunk in public again. Now I suggest you go home and sleep this off.”

“What I’m going to do,” David jabbed the sheriff in the shoulder with a thick index finger, “is get myself another bottle of tequila. Y’see, I finished my last bottle, and it’s…it’s very cold. And tequila, y’see…tequila is very good at warming you up. From the inside out. That’s what it does. The most important bits…first.”

Hagen lifted his chin toward the visitor and whispered to Tully, “I’ve seen that guy at the bar a few times. What’s his story?”

“David Broad. He runs the local newspaper. Used to work for the Philadelphia Inquirer. But too many liquid lunches, you know?” Tully shook his head with a pitying expression on his face. “Now he’s here, halfway up a mountain and, most of the time, halfway down a bottle.”

Sheriff King took the journalist’s meaty arm with one hand, and though David Broad was almost twice his size, pushed him back out the front door.

David stood outside, snow falling on his curls. “What’s going on in there, anyhow? There been another one of those accidents up in the hills?”

The sheriff reached for the door handle. “If you were sober, you wouldn’t need to ask.” He pulled the door closed behind him, turned the lock, and returned to the group, leading them back into the refrigerated room. Soon, they were all surrounding the body once more. “Now, what are we going to do with this guy?”

Stella stood over the corpse. Her breath hung in the freezing air. Laurence Gill’s expression hadn’t changed and never would. It’d be forever preserved in a state of shock.

“This is your case.” She pulled the tarp back over the victim’s face. “But you’ll want to move fast. Whoever killed Laurence has either killed before or at least thought about it deeply. Think about those strange carvings on the victim’s back. It’s incredibly unusual for a one-off killer to have a signature like that.”

Tully hooked a thumb toward Hagen. “That’s what he said.”

“We’ve seen crimes like this before.” Hagen nodded. “Way too often. I don’t know whether the killer has done this before, or if this is their first time, or even if they had planned on killing Laurence Gill in particular. As far as we know, they could have killed anyone, given the opportunity. But all of that said, if you don’t catch them soon, my strong feeling is that it won’t be their last.”

Tully crossed his arms. “The killer couldn’t have gotten far in this weather. All the roads out of the valley were blocked this morning.”

Sheriff King stroked his mustache. His fingers shook slightly. “Which means that, if your theory is right, if there’s going to be a next victim, it’ll be someone in Claymore.”

Tully narrowed his eyes. “It means that the killer’s from here too. One of us.”

Stella wasn’t entirely convinced it was the freezer’s cold air making the deputy tremble.

“Doug, I think we’ll need all the help we can get on this one.” Tully rubbed his gloved hands together. “These guys, they’re FBI, remember? They know this stuff better than we do.”

“They don’t know this town like we do.”

“But they do know how to run an investigation. I mean, have you ever looked into anything like this before? Because I know I haven’t.”

Sheriff King swallowed hard. “I mean, I’ve…” He stopped, looked down at the body. Laurence Gill’s nose made a small bulge at the top of the tarp.

“Doug, someone else could die,” Tully pleaded. “Someone we know.”

Sheriff King stroked his mustache again. Stella waited. The decision was difficult. On the one hand, someone could die. On the other hand, the sheriff had to admit he needed help. Still, she waited.

The answer came at last. “Fine.” Sheriff King glared at Hagen. “If you two can help us out here, I’d appreciate it.”

Stella pulled out her phone and headed for the door.

“We’ll have to call our boss, but I hope we can take this on.” She turned to Tully. “Do you have a coroner nearby?”

He nodded. “Should I give her a call?”

“Please do.”

She walked through the office area and stepped out the front door into the darkness of the early evening, her phone to her ear. Hagen, the sheriff, and his deputy followed closely behind.

Slade answered quickly. In the freezing air, his voice was like a warm blast, a friendly tone that brought Stella back to the life she’d left, one now beginning to call her back.

“Stella. Good to hear from you. How are things up in Pennsylvania?”

“Well, we’ve got a dead body.” Stella explained what had happened. She told him how they’d found Laurence Gill in the woods, the condition of the neck wound, and the strange cuttings on the victim’s back. And she told him that the local police had asked for their help.

The line was silent for a moment.

“You two. Wherever you go, trouble follows. Fine, help them out. And if you need anything from here, holler.” He blew out a long breath. “And when you’re done, I want your asses back here in Nashville. Playtime’s over.”

“Sure.” Stella tucked a loose hair up under her hat. “If you can find out anything about the victim, we’d appreciate it.”

“Send the details to Mac. Tell her I told her to get on it. And Stella?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful up there.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

Stella hung up, already pulling up her messages to text her friend and tech genius Mackenzie Drake. A smile touched her lips. She’d missed Mac.

She turned back to the sheriff and nodded. “We’re good.” Sheriff King looked relieved, though Stella was sure he’d sooner eat nails than admit it.

Tully had also wandered away with his phone to his ear, but he hung up and walked back, making new tracks in the snow on the sidewalk. “Just spoke to Dr. West. She’ll come down and look at the body. She’s having some car trouble, snowed in I think, but she said she’ll come by in the morning. She’ll meet us here at eight thirty.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing more we can do ’til morning besides head home to the missus.” Sheriff King slapped his arms against his sides. “It’s dark now anyhow, and I suspect everyone will be staying indoors tonight.” He eyed Hagen and Stella. “You two armed?”

Stella nodded.

Hagen headed toward the police cars. “So which of you is giving us a lift home?”

Sheriff King turned to his colleague. “Mark, I think you’ve got yourself a taxi service.”

The deputy didn’t move. He stared at his car, then at the white field behind it that had once been the road they’d come into town from. “I don’t think my car’s going to make it back up the mountain.”

Sheriff King rubbed his cheek. “You know what? I’ve got a better idea.”

He locked up and led Hagen and Stella to a small shed outside the urgent care center. The same key opened the door. In the middle of the shed, a tarp covered a large misshapen lump.

Sheriff King pulled back the plastic sheet with a grand flourish to reveal a snowmobile. “You ever ridden one of these?”

Stella shook her head.

Hagen nodded. “Once. On a family vacation in Aspen. Was a lot of fun.”

Sheriff King took a key from a rack and nodded toward a storage container on the side of the shed. “There’s a couple sets of helmets and goggles in that storage box. Use ’em. I’ll tell Dr. West we requisitioned the lot.” He tossed the key to Hagen.

Hagen caught it. His expression as he examined the snowmobile’s sleek lines and clean tracks was the warmest Stella had seen it since he learned his peaceful break was ruined.

7

A chicken lay across a cutting board on the table in the center of the room. The head had rolled six inches away, one glazed eye staring up at the ceiling. I dropped the body into a bucket of steaming water, washed the cleaver, and scrubbed the table before sitting down to pluck the bird.

There was that warmth again. Though the bird was dead and bled and should’ve been colder than a bag of frozen peas, the skin steamed and kept my fingers nice and warm as I worked. When the weather was cold, there was nothing better than handling a freshly scalded bird.

The feathers were out before the cold returned, and I placed the chicken back on the cutting board. With a small knife, I cut open the bird’s belly. The guts came out easily enough, so warm and slippery in my hands.

People didn’t talk enough about how smooth innards were to the touch. Gutting a chicken was like dipping a hand into a bag of silk and velvet cuttings. Anyone would think we’re supposed to reach inside and just feel around.

Chicken blood covered my hands. It coated my fingers, ran down my palms, and dripped off my wrists, splashing on the table. So fresh. So warm. On that frozen evening, I could imagine I’d pulled on a pair of living gloves. Outside the shed, the wind was blowing, and the snow was falling. But inside, all that live spirit kept my hands cozy.

I examined what I’d done in the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The blood had missed the heel of my hand, the part that had supported the knife. That section of skin glinted pink in the bulb’s bright light, a fitting contrast to the red stains everywhere else.

Soon, all the blood I spilled would cover the earth, and the world would be saved.

I placed the tip of my index finger on the end of my tongue and licked slowly.

There it was, that metallic taste, like sucking on the end of an iron nail. Blood was so strange. That something so easily spilled could have such a bold color and such a strong flavor shouldn’t be natural. Blood flowed like water. It should taste like water. Maybe then it would flow more often, and my job would be easier.

Would be good, too, if blood didn’t become so sticky so quickly.

I washed my hands under the faucet in the corner of the shed. Thick clots ran down the drain. My skin turned from dark red to rose to dark pink, then a lighter pink that still seemed to carry a hint of the blood I’d so recently spilled.

There was more blood, of course. No matter how much I tried to bleed the chicken before I gutted it, I never got everything. There would always be little corners where the clots would gather, and pools would collect, waiting for me to spill them again. Always such a treat, the moment I cut into a heart or a liver and found another puddle of blood I’d missed.

But a chicken was nothing. The blood had to be human to appease the ancient gods. That was the message. Only through blood could we be saved.

I had planned carefully and spilled my first blood, saving my first person. I chose him because he was so helpless. This world had crushed him so much that he couldn’t live in it anymore. I had saved him. I had redeemed him.

There was so much more to do. I had to save everyone I loved.

Truth was, I was just getting started. The challenge would grow harder from here on out, especially since they’d try to stop me.

I shivered as I pulled out the last of the guts and hung the chicken from a hook above the table. The thought of what was coming frightened me. I could admit that. But the work had to be done. Every sacrifice saved.

The more blood, the better.

8

The weather worsened overnight. Wind rattled the windows in Hagen and Stella’s rented cabin, so that neither of them had the heart to kick Bubs from the foot of the bed. They slept in each other’s arms, their legs folded around the dog’s back.

The snow was still falling when Hagen woke. A deep gray filled the sky, and a drift covered the bottom of the bedroom window so that the morning started much darker than it had the previous day. He was surprised to find the time was already a quarter after eight.

He showered and dressed and was in the middle of making an omelet when Stella joined him. She, too, was fully dressed, and her forehead was creased in thought. Her morning greeting was little more than a grunt broadcast over the top of her cocoa.

Everything had changed.

Yesterday, they’d been looking forward to a few more days of relaxation before the gradual building of a new routine. Now they were back at work. From her intense expression, it was clear Stella’s thoughts weren’t on the trail they were going to hike or how they’d pass the afternoon together. Her mind circled the victim, the crime scene, and the suspects they’d have to uncover and rule out.

She sipped her drink and checked her messages. “Nothing from Mac. Except a thumbs-up.”

“You only texted her last night. You haven’t even given her the victim’s Social Security number.”

Stella’s cheeks reddened. “Yeah, I know. But still, I thought⁠—”

“You thought Mac would take the name, feed it into the Bureau’s machinery, and come up with a complete victim history, including all the people who’d threatened to string him up and bleed him to death.”

“No! I just thought I might get a reply. Maybe I should’ve sent a more friendly message.” Stella ran the tip of her forefinger along the lip of her mug. “We haven’t really chatted since we left Nashville.”

Hagen served her breakfast, poured his espresso from his Bialetti macchinetta—the one luxury he’d brought with him from Nashville—and joined her.

“You will, so stop fretting. She’s probably not even up yet. Remember, Nashville’s an hour behind. But the more information we can feed her, the more we’ll get out of her.”

“Yeah.” Stella tucked into her omelet and flicked through the photos from the crime scene. The shots of blood-soaked snow, footprints, and the naked corpse clearly did nothing to curb her appetite. She shoveled a forkful of egg into her mouth. “We’ll have to start with Laurence Gill. We need to know who he is, what he was doing before he was hospitalized, and whether he had any enemies.”

Hagen sipped his coffee. “I got a text from the sheriff this morning. He said to come meet him at the coroner’s office. Then we should head up to the psychiatric hospital.” He lifted one shoulder. “An institution filled with people who act irrationally. The killer could’ve been a patient.”

“Or someone who should be a patient.” Stella took another bite of omelet and chewed slowly.

Hagen liked watching her eat the food he made. He’d promised to cook for her so many times before they’d coupled up. Now that he did it every day, he wondered why he’d waited so long. “It was a strange crime scene.”

“Oh, yeah. It looked, I don’t know…like something from a ritual killing.”

Hagen waited. She was on a roll, and he didn’t want to disturb her.

She bit into a piece of toast. “I mean the kind of thing a serial killer would do. That setup? With the rope and the slashed throat and the blood. And the marks on his back. What are those?”

Hagen checked his watch. “Maybe that doctor can tell us. We’re supposed to meet her soon.”

Stella glanced at the clock on the wall. It was the first time Hagen had noticed her check the time since they’d taken the cabin. For the last few weeks, they’d lived without a schedule or expectations or appointments. Their vacation really had ended.

She swallowed the last piece of omelet and gulped down her cocoa.

“Slow down, Stella. We’ve got time. That snowmobile’s pretty fast.”

“I noticed. I think you had some fun last night.”

Hagen smiled. He had enjoyed the snowmobile ride up the mountain, past the road that led to the hospital, and finally to their little cabin. The journey took about thirty minutes, and they should’ve been better dressed. But roaring across the snow in the night with Stella clinging to his waist had been a pretty good consolation prize for a difficult afternoon. He was looking forward to the ride back into town.

Stella tore a piece of bread to wipe the plate. “Yeah, but we need to move fast. Whoever did this will likely do it again. Sooner or later. The killing is too ritualistic to be a one-off. And, not to be rude, but I don’t think we can depend on Deputy Tully and Sheriff King to stop them. They don’t have the experience. This one’s going to be on us.”

“Maybe our unsub has killed before.” Hagen reached for his phone and performed a quick internet search. It wouldn’t be as useful as ploughing through a crime database. Details such as the marks on the victim’s back would probably have been withheld from the press. But he hoped he might turn up something.

His search returned a few results. Some bodies had been found hanging, but most were a particularly lonely type of suicide. Some reports mentioned naked victims while others reported massive blood loss. But none of the descriptions matched the chicken-scratch marks on Laurence Gill’s back. In addition to that, none of the reports were local.

“If they did kill before, looks like they got away with it. I’m looking at an article that says hundreds of people each year go missing in Pennsylvania alone. Their bodies are never found.”

Stella looked up from her plate. “Huh, that’s interesting. If you think about how far into the woods we found Laurence’s body, far away from the road or any trail or anything, then maybe the killers were hoping a bear or some other predator would get to the body before law enforcement did.”

“Would a Laurence feast be enough to wake a bear from hibernation?” Stella rolled her eyes at Hagen’s bad joke. Nevertheless, he soldiered on. “No, but seriously, it’s an idea. Anyway, beyond all that, there’s nothing else here. Or at least, if there is, I can’t find it on this.” Hagen slid his phone onto the table. A gust of wind blasted the window, spraying snowflakes across the glass.

He shivered. “I’m going to put on another undershirt. It’s cold work being at the front of the snowmobile.”

Stella raised her eyebrows. “Maybe we could swap. I’ll drive, and you⁠—”

“I’ll suffer for both of us. I’ll be down in a few minutes. And then we’ll head to the coroner’s.”

“Perfect. And I’ll clean up. You cooked.”

By the time Hagen had pulled on not one but two undershirts and layered a thin sweater beneath his large woolen one, Stella had piled the plates in the sink, together with the frying pan and the macchinetta.

She’d washed none of them. A bit of egg stuck to the handle of the coffee machine. Hagen rolled his eyes.

Stella’s coat and hat were already on. She tossed her scarf around her neck.

“Ready to go.”

“I’ll text the sheriff we’re on our way.”

9

Mac was already in her office at 7:45 that Thursday morning. The FBI’s Nashville Resident Agency was empty and peaceful. Stacy wouldn’t be in for at least another hour. Ander would roll up a few minutes later, about the same time as Caleb. And their boss, Paul Slade, would stride into his office at the end of the corridor at five minutes to nine.

Slade had become noticeably freer about punctuality since the explosion that left a scar above his temple. He still expected everyone to arrive on time, but he restricted himself to a hard glare and an occasional tap on his watch when someone arrived later.

“Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff” had become his mantra, though Mac sometimes wondered if he wasn’t just looking to give himself an easier life until he reached retirement. She hoped not. When another tough case came in, they’d need his hard-nosed direction.

She took a bite out of her chocolate muffin, logged into CODIS, and typed in the name Gill, Laurence. Stella had told her that the psychiatric hospital the victim escaped from did not house criminal or forensic patients. But that didn’t mean their patients were free from criminal behavior prior to their commitment to the hospital. All in all, the database was a good place to start her search.

She expected the results to fill the page. They ran on past screen after screen, the names and crimes of various Laurence Gills from Oregon to Florida, from the fifties until today. The results were a record of all the crimes that someone might commit, united only by a shared name. Some of the offenses were violent, others focused on property, with a few sexual crimes woven in.

Mac thought for a moment about searching for her own name. She’d liked to have seen what other Mackenzie Drakes had done. Maybe one of them had made a friend, stolen a car, and shot their way across the country before blasting through the southern border. Each record would’ve been a life she could have lived.

But her searches were recorded, and that wasn’t a search she wanted to explain.

She narrowed the criteria, shutting down the years and limiting the age of the victim to his forties. The results shrank, but there were still far too many possibilities.

Mac dropped back in her chair and checked the message she’d received from Stella again.

It was a strange one, and it came at a strange time.

She’d been out last night, on her first date with a guy named Anthony who’d also swiped right. His pictures had suggested washboard abs, and his short bio had talked of the kind of systems analysis she’d once considered studying. But whatever six-pack he’d built had long been buried under years of beer and burgers. His interest in computers had degraded into data entry. And his bio had been brief because he’d been saving up to deliver his entire life story in one unending monologue on a first date.

Stella’s text had been the most interesting part of the night.

A death in the small town they were vacationing in. A request to look into the victim. But no more details than a name, possibly misspelled, an age, possibly wrong, and a note that Slade knew about the request.

The message had amused Mac. That Stella had found herself investigating a potential murder even while off duty wasn’t surprising. Whether Stella attracted trouble or trouble attracted Stella, the two were rarely far apart for long. What did surprise Mac, though, was the brevity of the message and the absence of a follow-up call to tell her what happened.

She still hadn’t heard from her.

The silence was disappointing.

She and Stella had barely spoken since she and Hagen had asked for leave. The occasional text had replaced breakfast and cocktail hours. Stella had a boyfriend now, someone else she could complain to about life’s daily frustrations.

Mac had seen too many friends fade away after coupling up. The thought that Stella might do the same made her sad. And resigned to her own loneliness.

She had to believe that they’d talk again eventually. When she got back, Stella would tell Mac about the leave they’d taken and discuss the things she couldn’t say to or in front of Hagen. And they’d talk about Mac’s own frustrations too. Plenty of those had built up over the last weeks as life had continued.

Mac put the phone down and tried again. She’d need to narrow the search further. Stella and Hagen were in Pennsylvania, so she focused on the geographic area.

One result looked promising. A forty-three-year-old man named Laurence Gill arrested two and a half years ago in Philadelphia. The arrest wasn’t serious. The report suggested he’d been picked up for indecent exposure after the police found him wandering the streets naked. Two previous arrests were for disorderly conduct and loitering.

This Laurence Gill was no master criminal. His record was more indicative of the kind of descent into mental illness that often ended a brief life in an urban alley if no one was around to help. He sounded like a match.

Mac saved the file and wished someone had done a better job of saving Laurence Gill.

10

Outside the coroner’s office in the urgent care center, Stella unwrapped her arms from around Hagen’s waist, climbed off the snowmobile, and tried to shake off the morning chill. He sat astride the machine, gripping the handlebar, the engine purring quietly beneath him.

She tapped him on the back. “You gonna stay there all day?”

With a long exhale, he turned off the engine, resembling a boy forced to put away his favorite toy. “Sure you don’t want one more run?”

“Sure.” She patted his helmet. “On the way back. If you’re a good boy.”

Hagen pocketed the key and stepped off the machine. Snow was still falling. But in the daylight, they’d made good time from the cabin. The coroner’s office looked like it was closed, the lights dim and the shutters down. A drift was building beneath the window, the gentle slope merging the medical building with the landscape of the small town.

Stella rubbed her arms. “Hope the sheriff gets here soon. We’ll freeze to death out⁠—”

A loud bam made her jump. The sheriff stood behind her, inside, on the other side of the coroner’s window. He banged again on the glass before opening the door.

“Thought I heard you coming. That’s the problem with those snowmobiles. Make more noise than a leaf blower.” He shut the door behind them.

Warm air blew through the vents, and Stella pulled off her gloves and held her frozen fingers to the heat. Hagen unzipped his thin jacket. The snow fell from his shoulders to land with a small thump on the floor.

“The coroner’s office always closes when it snows?”

“When it snows like this. People stay home if they’ve got any sense and wait for the storm to blow over. Shouldn’t last too long. I just don’t want to encourage people to do anything as stupid as taking to the roads.”

Stella hoped the sheriff was right about the storm blowing over quickly. She and Hagen had made a habit of shopping every few days so he could always cook with fresh ingredients. But if the weather didn’t change soon, they’d be out of produce. The pizzas and lasagnas she remembered seeing in the local market’s freezer now seemed particularly inviting.

“This kind of weather happen a lot?”

“Didn’t used to.” The sheriff cupped his fingers to the window to peer out into the snow. “Dr. West told me she was on her way. Just hope she’s got good chains on her wheels. Used to get a blow like this maybe once every half century. But the same thing happened last year, and there was another five years back. You can put it down to climate change if you want, but it looks like it’s something we’re just going to have to get used to.” He jerked his chin. “Here she is.”

An SUV approached slowly up the snow-covered road, its yellow beams cutting through the dancing snow. The vehicle rolled to a stop in front of Hagen’s snowmobile. The engine died, and the warm color of the headlights faded.

Sheriff King opened the door and waved the doctor inside.

Dr. Nora West looked younger than a doctor had any right to look. She had a long face with pronounced cheekbones and straight brown shoulder-length hair on which just a few snowflakes had settled in the short walk from the SUV to the building. She carried a small backpack with a Red Cross symbol, as though she were about to rescue a trapped climber rather than examine a dead body.

As Sheriff King closed and bolted the door, the doctor glanced back at her SUV, slowly being buried in the snow.

“I hope this is important, Doug. Because I gotta tell you, I’m not happy driving in this weather.”

Hagen replied for the sheriff. He extended his hand. “It’s important, trust us. I’m Special Agent Hagen Yates. This is Special Agent Stella Knox. We’re from the FBI.”

“Dr. Nora West. I’m the general practitioner and elected coroner in this town.” The doctor shook their hands. She looked impressed and a little confused. “Is there a reason the FBI are all the way out here?”

“Vacation, initially.” Stella shrugged. “But now murder. We were on leave when we found the victim. We offered to lend a hand for the time being.”

The sheriff headed toward the refrigerated room at the back of the office. “We’ve never had anything like this. Someone dies round here, cause of death is almost always old age, bad driving, or deep boredom. Maybe all three together. This ain’t one of those.” He pulled the handle. “After you.”

Stella entered first. She wanted to make sure the victim hadn’t been touched since the previous evening. The doctor followed closely behind and waited as Stella pulled back the tarp.

The only thing that had changed was the color. The naked corpse was now a darker gray and a deeper blue than it had been the day before. The deep-maroon blood that had run down his face and torso until it stopped at his upper thighs had congealed and frozen, painting his features almost black.

The doctor made a small involuntary gasp, and Sheriff King stepped back, his hand in front of his mouth. Stella didn’t react at all. This was what she’d expected. A corpse less than twenty-four hours old—if her rough calculations were correct—and kept in a cold room would look nothing like a living person. The death would be written on its pallor, in the patterns on its skin, in the open, unstaring eyes. She’d seen the dead too many times to be shocked.

Dr. West swallowed. She put her bag on the floor and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Her gaze remained on the victim.

“He’s…what? Five-two male, less than 110 pounds, I’d say. Malnourished, too, judging by the protruding ribs. This isn’t a guy who got his three squares a day.”

“What do you make of the color?” Sheriff King remained by the door, as far from the body as possible. His cheeks were turning as pale as his mustache. “Of the body, not the face.”

“Yeah. I…I’d be surprised if there’s a drop of blood in him. He looks to be completely exsanguinated.”

“There was a lot of blood at the scene.” Hagen stood at the victim’s head. “And he was hanging upside down.”

Dr. West looked up. “Upside down?”

“Like he was diving into a pool.” The sheriff flapped his arms against the cold. “Stark naked and tied by his ankles.”

Stella examined the man’s feet. The rope had left a series of thick lines that marked and bent the Achilles tendons on both ankles.

“Well, that would do it.” Dr. West pushed gently on Laurence Gill’s chin. The body barely moved, but the deep slash that ran across his neck opened slightly to reveal more pink tissue and a small mass that Stella assumed was the larynx.

The doctor released him.

“Look, I’ll make a preliminary examination to see if I can get you a potential cause of death. But I’ll order an autopsy, and when the roads clear up, we’ll send the body to the M.E. in Pittsburgh to get that completed.” She gave Stella an apologetic look. “I don’t deal with a lot of murders.”

“We understand.” Stella was starting to like the doctor. She might’ve been more used to treating runny noses and arthritis, but she wasn’t intimidated to find herself in the middle of a murder investigation with the sheriff and two FBI agents. “Based on what you see, what can you tell us about how he died?”

Not that it wasn’t pretty obvious, but she needed an official testament.

Dr. West took a deep breath and pointed at the gash. “All four carotid artery branches are cut. I don’t see any other signs of violence, so unless there’s an internal injury I’m not aware of, or some kind of toxin in his system, I’d say that was the cause of death.”

“He bled to death?” Stella needed the verbal confirmation.

“Would’ve been fast, especially if he was hanging upside down. Even in the cold.”

Stella watched Hagen bend over the table to peer at the gash. Typically, unlike seeing a body at a crime scene, corpses lying on slabs in morgues unnerved him. Though he seemed to be taking this experience in stride. He looked chilly but relaxed.

“You think he was strung up before he was bled? Or slashed first and then hung up?”

“I don’t know. But look at this.” The doctor leaned across Laurence Gill’s naked pale-gray thigh and pointed at the bottom of the muscle. “After the heart stops, the blood starts to sink. It’ll collect at the lowest point in a process known as livor mortis. So I’d expect to see more coloration at the bottom. Here. Or if he’d been hanging by his ankles for a long time after death, then in his face. But there’s nothing. Apart from the blood on his face, he’s just about the same color all the way down. There’s no blood.”

Stella nodded to herself. She thought of all the bodies she’d seen. In homes, on the road, in cellars, and in school gyms. None of them had looked so consistently pale.

She pointed at the doctor’s gloves. “You got any more of those?”

“These? Sure.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a box. Stella took one pair and tossed another to Hagen. He caught them and, as he pulled the blue latex down his hand, sighed deeply.

Stella flexed her fingers. “Ready?”

Hagen nodded.

“Tell us what you think of this, Doc.” Hagen took the man’s shoulders while Stella gripped the victim’s hips. “We’re turning clockwise. Ready? One, two…”

On “three,” they turned the body.

The stiff corpse twisted over easily, as if they were moving a mannequin.

The body was still in the state of almost completely formed rigor mortis, even harder and more unyielding to the touch as he’d been when they cut him down yesterday evening. She knew that, under normal circumstances, complete rigor mortis indicated the victim was killed twenty-five to twenty-six hours prior. Considering the victim had been found in subzero temperatures, which froze the body’s biological fluids and subcutaneous fat, a prolonged stiffening of the body was to be expected.

As they turned him over, Stella feared the gash in his neck would widen and leave his skull behind. But the corpse was spared that indignity, and Laurence Gill lay face down on the slab, his flat buttocks exposed and his back bare.

The marks were darker than they’d been the day before. Or perhaps the skin had lightened, making them clearer. Stella wasn’t sure. But they were still there, a network of tiny triangles and thin scratches that covered the body from the top of the shoulders all the way down to the small of the back.

Dr. West took in a sharp breath as she bent over the victim. “What are those?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

“I…I really have no idea. They look like bird prints, but I don’t know any bird that would do that.”

Stella pointed a gloved finger at one mark. It looked like a drawing of a thin, headless fish. “It’s very neat, isn’t it? I’m guessing this was done postmortem. If he was alive, he’d have struggled, and…”

“And his back would be a mess.” Hagen finished her thought for her. “Still, whoever did this did it in the middle of a snowstorm. If it wasn’t so horrible, it’d be impressive.”

The doctor straightened with a nod. “There also doesn’t seem to be much bleeding or bruising around the scars or any signs of healing. So, yeah, I think you’re right. This was probably done after death.”

Stella agreed. At least the murderer had offered that small mercy. She took several pictures before they rolled him back over.

Dr. West spent a few more minutes examining the victim’s nails and the inside of his mouth, but aside from what appeared to be dirt, she didn’t find anything helpful.

She pulled off her gloves and picked up her bag. “Without an autopsy, that’s all I’ve got. I’ll get him down to Pittsburgh as quick as I can.”

“I think you’ve given us enough to go on for now. Thanks, Dr. West.”

Dr. West headed for the door, leaving Stella, Hagen, and the sheriff in the freezing room.

Sheriff King waved a hand over the corpse. “Let’s cover him up again, huh? Wife put some ham and cheese on a roll for my lunch. Sight of this guy is making me wonder if I’ll ever be hungry again.”

Out of the walk-in freezer, Stella stood under one of the vents and unzipped her coat. The warm air of the office was bringing her back to life. She took out her phone.

“You calling Mac?” Hagen slammed the freezer door closed. “Or Slade?”

“Mac.” Her friend could pass on whatever Stella told her. She hadn’t talked to Mac for too long and couldn’t wait to hear her voice again.

“Stella!” Mac’s voice was even warmer than the hot-air vent. There might’ve been an edge to it, though. A slight forced enthusiasm.

Stella put the difference down to distance. And the time of day. And the time away. “Mac! Long time no speak.”

“Too long. I’m just about to send you a file. I think I found the guy you were asking about. Short record, nothing special.”

Stella cut her off. “He had a record? I thought the psychiatric hospital up here didn’t take in forensic patients.”

“He was picked up for indecent exposure two and a half years ago. So maybe he was committed for a different reason. In any event, it sounds like he was heading down a bad path. What happened?”

“He hit rock bottom. We found him dead in the woods up here.”

“Oh, gosh. Poor thing.”

“Yeah. And it’s a homicide.”

“Yikes. But I had a feeling that was the case when I got your text. You two. Wherever you go, bad people with guns and knives are sure to follow.”

“Tell me about it. But right now, we’re not going anywhere. We’re snowed in and helping the locals.” Stella glanced at Sheriff King.

He responded with a tip of his hat and a rub of his palms beneath another air vent.

“Listen, I’m going to send a picture of some marks we found on the victim’s back. They’re weird. See if you can find a match in the database. Or something. They’re pretty distinctive.”

“All right. Sounds like a challenge. And snowed in, too, huh? Just do me a favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“Hit Hagen in the face with a snowball for me.”

Stella laughed.

Hagen frowned and drew closer. “She said something about me, didn’t she? What did she say?”

“She sends her love.” Stella said her goodbyes before disconnecting the call. “Let’s go check out that hospital.”

Hagen grinned. “I’ll fire up the snowmobile.”

11

Twisting the throttle, Hagen powered the snowmobile up the uncleared road leading to both Claymore Township Psychiatric Hospital and their rental. The 795cc engine roared. Stella’s arms gripped tighter around his waist. The rear track spat powder behind them, and the front skis slashed two scars into the pristine snow.

They hadn’t hit the mountain yet, and the road was still as smooth as the foam on a latte. A clear path ran between the trees, bending and curving with the landscape so that Hagen had to slide his weight and adjust his speed with the movement of the road.

Stella held him firmly, her cheek planted between his shoulder blades. Gripping the throttle with one hand, he rested his other hand on the back of Stella’s for a moment, until a sharp turn forced him to pay more attention to the road.

Besides their ride into town that morning, it appeared nothing and nobody had come this way. No other vehicles had left wheel marks in the snow since the search party returned to town. And in the continuing storm, no other cars were coming now, not until a snowplow cleared a path and spread salt over the ice.

Hagen could’ve driven like this all day, but the sled sliced through the snow for less than fifteen minutes before he reached a sharp turn around a wooded slope. To his left, the hill dropped steeply into the valley, the bank decorated with patches of snow gathered between the pines. He slowed, watching the skis and checking for fallen branches that could send the machine sliding over the edge.

They reached the turnoff for the hospital and found themselves on a slight incline surrounded by snowy trees, where the search party had met the previous afternoon. Hagen leaned into a gentle turn.

Stella tapped his ribs. “There.”

The tree line stopped. At the end of the road appeared a large, stately mansion made of limestone with two white columns framing the entryway. The building was set in the midst of what must’ve been a large lawn but was now simply covered in snow. Perched on the very top of the mountain, the structure and surrounding grounds surely had stunning views on a clear day.

The hospital had three floors. The roof was the same dull gray as the sky. Drifts had built up over the steps and gathered against the wall so that the front of the edifice looked like a smooth rock protruding from the side of the hill. Even the old sash windows were dark in the early afternoon gloom.

Hagen stopped the machine outside the front entrance and reluctantly killed the engine. The bite of the wind returned. There was no other sound until Stella mounted the steps beneath the columns, crunching carefully through the deep snow. Putting away the snowmobile’s keys, Hagen followed.

The front door was locked. But there was a buzzer, a camera, and a laminated sign that read, Press for Entry. They removed their goggles and helmets, and Stella pressed the button and looked into the camera. A moment later, there was another short buzz, and the door unlocked with a sharp click. She opened it.

The door swung closed behind them and locked with a loud snap.

They stepped inside the tall lobby. A set of broad stairs rose in front of them to the second floor. The wooden banisters were varnished to a shine and ended in the kind of looping, flat circle that invited the gentle caress of fingers. A man with a tonsure of white hair and a white beard sat behind the reception desk.

He smiled at them. “Hello, and welcome to Claymore Township Psychiatric Hospital. How can I help you?”

Stella, with Hagen right behind her, stepped up to the desk and held out her badge. “I’m Special Agent Stella Knox of the FBI, and this is Special Agent Hagen Yates. We’re here to speak to Dr. Bill Silow.”

The man nodded. “I’ll call him. In the meantime, you’ll need to surrender your weapons. We have a safe for this express purpose. You’ll receive them back upon your departure.” He pointed at their helmets. “You can set your gear at the end of the counter if you’d like.”

As the man picked up the landline and dialed, Stella and Hagen placed their service weapons on the desk and set their helmets, goggles, and gloves off to the edge.

The receptionist placed the phone back in the holder. “He’ll be right out.” He took their service weapons and placed them in the safe within the cabinet. “And thank you.”

“Thanks. We’ll just wait here.”

Two hallways opened off the lobby. In the long hallways, iron radiators lined the wall, ticking out a dry heat. The heavy scent of overcooked soup hung in the air from the unseen kitchens.

From the hallway to the right came the sounds of a cafeteria during the lunch rush. From this hallway, a short, pot-bellied man emerged, brushing crumbs off his vest. Hagen estimated his age to be early sixties. He had a friendly smile that warmed his small eyes. As he approached, he closed the glasses hanging on a black string around his neck.

“You must be Stella and Hagen, the folks who found poor Laurence. Doug said you’d be coming up to help. I’m Dr. Bill Silow, the hospital administrator. Would you care for some lunch?”

He stretched out his hand. Stella accepted it first.

“We’re fine, but thank you. And, yes, that’s us. We’re FBI on leave from Nashville. We’ve been staying up the road here for the last few weeks.”

Dr. Silow shook Hagen’s hand. His grip was firm but brief. Up close, the man’s breath smelled of cabbage.

“FBI, huh? That’s a lucky break. Glad to hear the sheriff’s getting a little help. He was pretty light on the details when we spoke, but if there’s been a serious crime…well, it’s probably a little too heavy for him.” He waved an arm in the direction of a door down the hallway past the cafeteria. “Why don’t you come on through? I’m sure you’ve got a ton of questions.”

He led them into a large office. The curtains were open, but more light came from the yellow glow of the banker’s lamp on the oversize desk than leaked through the window behind it. A leather armchair and divan took up one corner of the room. A heavy bookcase was filled with reference works on the likes of psychopharmacology and substance abuse disorders, a thick copy of the DSM-5, and other books by authors Hagen didn’t recognize.

The oak-paneled walls were decorated with glass-fronted frames of different sizes. Some of the frames were wide and flat, others deep and small.

All contained insects.

The flat frames held butterflies and moths, arranged by size and color, pinned to the boards through their thoraxes. Thicker frames held beetles and dragonflies, crane flies and lacewings. A few contained solitary spiders. Large black things two inches in length. Small-bodied critters with legs so long, their joints towered over their brown bodies. And tiny creatures that were hard to identify in the office’s dim light.

Hagen stood in front of one frame that held four small arachnids. They were no more than half an inch in size and as black as tar, though their round bodies were decorated with small red dots. Hagen squinted through the glass and shuddered.

Dr. Silow stopped next to him.

“Those are visitors from the South, just like you. Latrodectus mactans, the Southern black widow. As you might imagine, they’re more commonly found in the southern states. But we get a few of them up here. I’ve been lucky enough to catch some on my walks.”

Stella waved a finger over the other frames. “You catch all these others too?”

“Most of them. It’s something of a hobby, amateur entomology. One of the reasons I like living and working all the way out here. You never know what kinds of creatures you’re going to find taking a short stroll in the woods.”

Hagen pulled himself away from the black widows. “Usually something creepy. Like a dead body.”

“Creepy is…an interesting way to put what you found. Which would you feel is creepier, Hagen? Insects and arachnids? Or a human corpse?” Dr. Silow pointed to the divan. “You’re welcome to stretch out and explain.”

Hagen glanced at the divan. He wasn’t sure which creeped him out more, staring at spiders, finding mutilated bodies, or lying on a sofa and talking about his feelings.

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Stella grinned at him. The dozens of bugs and creepy-crawlies that lined the walls of that dark room didn’t seem to bother her. She stopped in front of the frame closest to the desk, the last in a line of certificates and diplomas declaring a medical degree from Penn State and the completion of a psychiatry residency at Temple University Hospital.

Though the certificates had yellowed over the years, the last remained clear, the paper still a bright white. The logo at the top of the page appeared to have been hand drawn. The Gothic lettering was crooked despite the visible pencil line intended to guide the writer.

“What’s this one?”

Dr. Silow drew closer until he was standing directly behind her.

“That’s the award I treasure the most. My daughter did the calligraphy, and my granddaughter drew the logo. They presented it to me after I became Claymore Township’s mayor.”

Stella swiveled toward him. “Sheriff King didn’t mention you’re also the mayor.”

Dr. Silow waved a hand. “It doesn’t mean much. The town is small enough for most decisions to be made communally. But someone’s got to do it, I was asked, and people seem to like me doing it enough to keep voting me back.” He shrugged and indicated the two seats in front of the desk. “Now, why don’t you both take a seat while I make you a hot drink? And you can ask me about poor Laurence.”

Hagen knew a hot drink always sounded delightful to Stella. No way would she refuse. But even as he decided he wanted one, too, he couldn’t help the flash through his mind of “poor Laurence” strung up and freezing in the cold. He’d never be warm again.

Silow headed toward a cabinet at one end of a bookshelf but stopped and wagged a short, heavy finger. “Have to warn you though, Laurence may be dead, but I still must be cautious about patient confidentiality. There may be questions I just can’t answer. Would you prefer coffee or tea?”

Hagen hadn’t realized how much he wanted a drink until it was offered. He asked for black coffee with no sugar and forgot to check if he was getting beans and not instant. An involuntary sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the hospital administrator pull out a small French press from the cabinet.

“Do you have any hot chocolate?” Stella, on the other hand, never had to worry about things like fresh beans. Almost every office in the country stashed packets of hot chocolate powder in a cupboard somewhere.

“Of course.” He smiled. “You’d be surprised how popular that is around here.”

As they waited for the water to boil, Stella asked how long Laurence Gill had been a patient at the hospital.

“About two years. He’d been sent by a nonprofit in Philadelphia, who began working with him, sponsoring him, after police picked him up a few months prior to that. And not for the first time, mind you. Nothing dangerous, but the last time, Laurence was naked and trying to climb a lamppost near The Barnes Museum. That’s the kind of thing that will get you taken into custody quick enough. But I need to stress that Laurence was not a forensic patient. He was not legally compelled to be here.”

Hagen watched the doctor pour the hot water into the French press and wait. He nodded his approval of both Dr. Silow’s assessment of law enforcement and his willingness to let the coffee brew before pressing the plunger on the press. Too many people were too quick with the push.

“So the nonprofit sent him here?”

“They do that sometimes. The nonprofit in Philly works with the police there. They try to find places for people with psychological disorders who pose minimal danger to the public but clearly need assistance. We take some when we have space.” He served their drinks and eased himself into the seat behind his desk. “Sending people like Laurence to prison just makes their conditions so much worse.”

Stella sipped her hot chocolate. She licked her lips, and her shoulders settled into the back of the chair.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Not as much as I would like, I’m afraid. He was very closed off. He didn’t speak much, even after years of therapy. Seemed happy here, though.” Dr. Silow unfolded a square cloth from a leather glasses case on the desk. He wiped his lenses carefully. “He’d lived alone. Not much family. Worked small jobs, which he kept losing. I got the impression he tried to avoid people.”

“Any reason?”

“Nothing specific. He was small and vulnerable. He’d often been bullied. I think he found the less he had to do with other people, the better.” Dr. Silow tilted his head, his eyes sad behind his glasses. “These were difficult sessions, to say the least. With Laurence, it was a bit like pulling teeth.”

Hagen cupped his hands around his drink. The snowmobile had numbed his fingers, even through his gloves, and the heat from the mug slowly brought them back to life. A small guy with no friends would have made an easy target in a prison. He wondered if the same principle worked in a psychiatric hospital.

“Any visitors?”

Dr. Silow shook his head. “No. When he was in his twenties, he was married and had a child. But his wife and daughter died in a fire that consumed their whole house. All the while, Laurence was out at a bar. There was nothing criminal about it, just terrible luck. That was really the beginning of his decline.”

Hagen shuddered. He wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. He let the doctor continue. “The only other family he had was a brother, Frank Gill, but he didn’t like to talk about him. He’d beat Laurence up quite badly a few times, even when they were adults. They hadn’t been in contact for years. He also mentioned a friend he’d made in his last job, bagging groceries in a store in Philadelphia. Someone by the name of Zach. I’m still not sure whether this Zach is real, but he never visited.”

“We’ll need to see the footage from your security cameras.”

Dr. Silow’s shoulders slumped. “I wish I could help with that. This building’s old. Despite all the money that went into the refurbishment, it still leaks like a cheap umbrella when it rains. The cameras have all been out of order since September.”

Hagen wasn’t surprised. Seeing someone following Laurence out of the hospital would’ve made his life so much easier. And his life had never been easy.

Stella had been writing down the names Dr. Silow had given. She lifted her head. “How did he escape?”

“Escape?” The doctor frowned. “This is a hospital, Stella, not a prison. And it’s a private facility that does not take forensic patients. So almost by definition, everyone is here voluntarily. If they give proper advance notice, and I, the psychiatrist, sign off on it, patients can come and go as they please.”

Hagen frowned. “I suppose that explains why the front door was locked.”

“It’s a necessary precaution, even if some patients find being closed in traumatic. But if they get the proper permissions, they’re even free to go into town. That said, by far the majority of the patients tend to stay on the grounds. At least until they’re ready to head back into society.”

Stella inclined her head. “So how do you think Laurence Gill walked out of here yesterday with no one noticing?”

Dr. Silow crossed on leg over the other and wiped imaginary crumbs off his lap. “That’s the trouble. Or perhaps the strangeness about all of this. Ever since he’d been here, Laurence had never once requested permission to leave. But yesterday morning, for the first time, he did.”

Stella leaned forward. “So you gave him permission to leave the premises yesterday? In that storm?”

Dr. Silow’s face reddened. “That’s right. He said he wanted to go for a walk in the snow. I agreed, as long as he stayed on the grounds. What else could I do? I thought the fresh air might do him some good.”

The doctor looked sincerely apologetic. Hagen had to give him that. Though he could have been putting on a good show. Hagen didn’t know the man so well.

Dr. Silow waved his hand toward the window. “You see, in the little time they have between therapy sessions and their scheduled activities, patients are free to roam to a certain extent. In the summer, there’s a doorway from the recreation room that leads outside where they like to sit. In the winter, they usually stay in the rec room. But they don’t have to. They can go back to their own rooms.”

“Are you suggesting you let your patients walk around the facility as they wish with no oversight?”

Dr. Silow chuckled. “No, not at all. Just the parts of the building where they have access to. It’s confidence-building, you see, having some autonomy, however staged it is. We keep all of the other doors inside the building locked, of course, like the kitchen and laundry room and entrance hall and other places like that. To say nothing of the front door.”

Hagen placed his mug down. “So walk us through what happened yesterday. Step by step.”

Dr. Silow took a deep breath. “I first saw Laurence at breakfast shortly after eight. That was where he asked me if he could have permission to go for a walk around the grounds. I said that was all right, if he promised to stay close. I also told him that it would have to be in a couple hours, right around lunch, since I had some other matters to attend to before giving my official authorization for him to leave the hospital.”

“What other matters?”

“I had a couple of therapy sessions. One-on-ones. Forty-five minutes each. I use the rest of the hour to collate my notes.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“Before I left him at breakfast, I asked if he had any cold-weather gear. Boots, jackets, gloves. As I expected, he said no. So I tasked one of the orderlies, Sam Harrop, to track him down an outfit from our lost and found after breakfast. I’ve spoken to Sam, who confirmed that he helped Laurence find winter gear at around ten yesterday morning and bring it back to his room. About an hour after that, around eleven, my second session ended, and I sent the official authorization for Laurence’s outdoor pass to the front desk.”

Hagen looked at the doctor intently. “So when did you next see Laurence?”

Dr. Silow’s features softened. “I didn’t. It wasn’t until lunchtime that I even realized he was gone. In fact, it was thanks to Sam that we knew Laurence was missing.”

Stella narrowed her eyes. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I was having my lunch when Sam came up to me and asked if I knew where Laurence was, since he was not in the cafeteria. This was right at noon. I remember because I’d checked the clock on the wall right at that moment. Anyway, I replied to Sam that Laurence was probably up in his room, since he liked to spend his free time there, alone. At that, Sam looked upset.”

“Do you know what upset him?”

“I asked him what was wrong, and he said he’d just looked into Laurence’s room, and that the parka and boots he’d picked out for Laurence weren’t on the bed. But the socks and gloves were untouched, like Laurence had left in a hurry. We found one of the boots at the turnoff. That’s when I called you. Well, when I called Sheriff King.”

Hagen remembered the boot he and Stella had found on the hillside. “The boots are accounted for.”

Dr. Silow shook his head. “I called the front desk and asked if Laurence had gone out. Floyd, the attendant said he had, about fifteen minutes prior. After that, since he was supposed to be on the grounds, I popped outside to get him his gloves and socks.”

“What did you do once you were outside?”

“I didn’t find him. So we extended the search and found the boot.”

The doctor paused, and Hagen got the impression he wanted to say more.

“Anything else significant?” Stella prompted. Hagen loved how in sync they were with each other when it came to witness.

Dr. Silow fingered the string on his glasses. His gaze passed between Stella and Hagen. “Doug was a…a little evasive on the phone last night. He said Laurence hadn’t died of hypothermia, and when he mentioned you were coming, I just assumed homicide. But I got the feeling he was hiding something.”

Hagen rested his elbows on his knees, thinking about how the sheriff had withheld the fact that Dr. Silow was the mayor. “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve known Doug a long time. I can tell when he’s holding back.” He steepled his fingers. “And I’m a psychiatrist. It’s my job to know when someone has more to say.”

“Laurence was murdered.” Hagen drank the last drop of his coffee. He usually left the dregs, but the arabica beans the doctor had used were too good to waste. “In the woods. His body was strung up and bled out.”

“Good lord.” Dr. Silow dropped back in his seat. The color drained from his face. “That’s…that’s…if there’s anything more the hospital can do to help, then, please…”

“There is something.” Stella pulled out her phone and showed Dr. Silow the picture of Laurence’s back. “Do these markings mean anything to you?”

The doctor put his glasses on, took the phone, and examined the picture closely. He zoomed in.

“These were…”

“On the body, yes.”

Dr. Silow covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, good lord. No. No, I haven’t seen them before.” He passed the phone back to Stella, his hands shaking slightly.

“None of the patients here have drawn these kinds of marks? Maybe in therapy or during recreation?”

Dr. Silow shook his head slowly. “No. I haven’t seen them before.”

Hagen watched Stella study the picture before turning off the screen. She looked disappointed.

“Is there anyone else here Laurence spoke to? Besides yourself and Sam Harrop.”

“I’m…I was his psychiatrist, but Ann Mayhew and Fiona Samuels were his nurses.”

Hagen chimed in. “Only two nurses for this entire facility?”

“There’s actually four, but Ann and Fiona took care of him between sessions. And to be honest, I had a sense that Ann knew Laurence better. She was on call when he disappeared. She might be able to tell you more.” Dr. Silow checked his watch. “Lunch should be finished by now, so she’ll probably be in the rec room. I’ll bring you through.”

12

Stella followed Dr. Silow out of the office back in the direction of the lobby. The instant hot chocolate he’d made had left a chemical taste in her mouth. Yet it was still comforting, warming her from the inside out. She hadn’t known she’d wanted one until he’d offered drinks.

He seemed like a good doctor. If the therapist she’d seen after her brother’s death had displayed half as much empathy as Dr. Silow, she might’ve continued past the second session.

They passed the dining room, where two orderlies swept squashed peas under the Formica tables. Past them, a single cook with a large brown stain on her apron was rinsing a giant pot in a kitchen sink filled with bubbles.

Stella turned to the doctor. “Sheriff King said you had about twenty patients here?”

“That’s right.” Dr. Silow slowed to wave to the chef. “Wonderful lunch, Celia. The shepherd’s pie was cooked to perfection.”

Celia grinned and waved a bubble-covered hand.

Dr. Silow continued to talk as they left the dining room. “We’re small, but I like to think we’re effective. Twenty patients, four nurses, Celia the cook and three orderlies who do…well, they do everything really. We couldn’t manage without them. Here we are.”

They’d reached the recreation room. Two round tables dominated the middle of the area. An upright piano stood in a corner, the lid closed. Two sofas took up the opposite corner beneath a window, which looked out on the snowy woods surrounding the grounds. Beside the second door, a window of frosted glass filled the far wall and opened into another room. This was likely the place where prescriptions were dispensed. Though obscured by the window, someone sat inside, focused on a computer screen.

Stella counted twelve patients in the room and one nurse. Two of the patients sat on yoga mats on the floor, stretching in unison with a video playing on the television mounted on the wall. A couple of patients sat at large easels, painting with watercolors. A trio clustered around a table, playing Jenga. One young man managed to get a block from the base to the top without tilting the whole thing. To Stella, that looked like a small miracle, and she almost joined in the breathless “oohhs” that the other Jenga players released.

One patient wandered back and forth through the room, talking to herself and tugging on the front of her oversize sweater.

A physically imposing young man—with a shaved head and pimples on his face—was seated on the sofa in the corner. He wore wide sweatpants that rode too high on his ankles and an Eagles jersey that he filled out well. And he was giving her a look of either skepticism or hatred or worse. In any case, the leer on his face twisted her stomach.

“Ann?”

At the sound of Dr. Silow’s voice, the nurse rose from the table. She was just a couple of inches shorter than Hagen, with broad shoulders and blond eyebrows plucked down to a pair of sharp, narrow lines. Her long hair was pulled back beneath her scrub cap, and her scrub top strained against her shoulders and chest.

Stella doubted she’d passed her mid-twenties and wondered whether she’d played varsity basketball or volleyball to warrant those broad shoulders. She had to imagine that the nurse’s blond hair and Amazonian build landed her looks, both wanted and unwanted, in a small-town bar. As it was, her tight scrub top seemed vaguely inappropriate.

Dr. Silow made the introductions. “Ann, this is Stella Knox and Hagen Yates. They’re FBI investigators. They were in Claymore on vacation, but Doug’s asked them to help investigate poor Laurence’s death. They’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Of course. I’d be happy to help.” Ann smiled at Hagen and touched his upper arm. “What do you want to know?”

On the sofa, the patient with the well-built upper body of an athlete stared at Hagen intensely from under a heavy brow.

“Is there anywhere we can talk? Privately?”

“Well, I’m on shift right now.” She found a spot on the nail of her left pinkie that needed a scratch with her thumb. “I need to be with the patients, y’know?”

“Fiona can replace you for a few minutes.” Dr. Silow crossed to the window. He leaned on the sill and spoke to the nurse in the neighboring room. Although the window was no more than three yards away, the doctor’s voice was too low for Stella to hear what he said.

The nurse rose and came through the door.

Dr. Silow slid the window closed. “I’ll leave the three of you to it. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”

Fiona gave Ann a brief and shallow smile, then meandered over to the patients at the easels. With more enthusiasm than the effort warranted, she complimented their work, receiving a doubling of effort in response.

Ann led them into the nurse’s room. She ignored the small, two-seat sofa sandwiched between a filing cabinet and a potted plant and made herself comfortable in the computer chair. Through the window’s frosted glass, the patients and the nurse were reduced to dark, blurry figures. Stella and Hagen remained standing.

“You been here long, Ann?”

About eight months. Came here straight after nursing school. You have to do a period of supervised clinical experience to qualify as a psychiatric nurse, you see. Soon as I’m done, I’m gone.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“Not much.” She examined her fingernails. They were a pale lilac, and the polish gleamed in the light of the fluorescent tube in the ceiling. “I mean, there are some good running routes around here, and the air’s fresh and healthy. Back in Pittsburgh, you can go for a run and feel like you’ve just smoked half a pack of cigarettes. But this town, jeez. It’s so small, it would drive anyone crazy.”

Stella blinked. She doubted the patients in the hospital were there because they’d been driven crazy by the size of the town. It was a strangely dismissive thing for a psychiatric nurse to say.

A loud thunk came from the direction of the recreation room. The frosted window slid open. Fiona’s hands rested on the sill.

“Can you just keep an eye out for me, Ann? Delia’s spilled something on her sweater. I need to help her change it.”

Delia, one of the painting patients, stood just behind Fiona. She had a sheepish expression on her face and a watery, purple stain on her sweater.

Ann nodded. “Sure. Maybe ask Sam to come in. Just so I’ve got another pair of eyes in there.”

Fiona agreed and led Delia away, assuring her that accidents happen and that she’d spilled dirty water on herself a thousand times.

Hagen frowned. “Sam’s one of the orderlies?”

“Uh-huh. They’re a big help, especially when one of the patients gets…you know…a little agitated.”

“Agitated?”

Agitated might be just what they were looking for.

“Yeah, I mean, don’t get me wrong. The patients are harmless enough. They listen to the staff and wouldn’t dream of hurting anyone. Plus, every member of the staff is trained to deal with situations, should they get out of hand. But take Delia. She thinks we’re being watched by invisible aliens who zap us if we step out of line.”

“Sounds like paranoia.”

“Paranoia’s a big thing in this place.” Ann clasped her hands in her lap. “We’ve got another patient who thinks the government can see everything we do and writes it all down in big black ledgers. And poor old Lottie. She believes some kind of old gods have come back and are trying to take over the world. Like something out of a Marvel movie. Honestly, sometimes I think their stories would be funny if they weren’t so sad.”

Stella perched on the end of the sofa. Ann’s attitude toward the people in her care was starting to annoy her. The nurses she’d met in her brother Jackson’s cancer ward had all been kind and sympathetic.

A man in the dark-blue shirt and pants of an orderly waved through the window. He was at least six-two, and his belly stretched his elastic waistband. He walked with the swinging gait of someone who’d long grown accustomed to his weight.

Ann waved back and tapped the side of her eye. “Thanks, Sam. Just keep an eye out for me, will you? I’ll be there in a second.”

Through the open frosted window, Stella watched him go. That must’ve been Sam Harrop, who’d helped Laurence find a set of winter clothes. They’d have to speak with him.

Instead of sitting at a table, Sam rested his shoulders against the far wall, surveying the room like a prison guard.

“What about Laurence Gill? Did he suffer from paranoia?”

“Laurence? No. Laurence was a little sweetie.” Ann shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know what was wrong with him. He never really said much, you know? Mostly, he’d stay in his room. If he came in here, he sat at the table, rocking from side to side and never talking to anyone.”

Hagen crossed to the wall window and rested the small of his back against the bottom of the ledge. “What about enemies? Did anyone here ever try to hurt him or⁠—”

The rest of his question was cut off.

The imposing patient with the shaved head in the Eagles jersey was on the other side of the open prescription window with a manic look in his eyes. In a rapid motion, his meaty arms wrapped around Hagen’s neck. Stella’s partner was dragged through the window into the rec room in two seconds flat.

“Get off me!”

They fell onto the floor. A scream burst from someone at the table. The shout was quickly followed by shrieks, a clatter of chairs, and the thump of feet running from the room.

Ann leaped to her feet. Her hand shot to her mouth, but Stella was already on the move.

She ran through the door to the rec room. Hagen was face down on the floor. The man-mountain lay across his back. Hagen’s throat was in the crook of his muscular arm, his eyes bulging, his cheeks red. Both hands were pressed against the patient’s arm, trying to yank it from around his neck.

Ann appeared and yelled, trying to deescalate the situation, even as she used a physical hold to try to unlatch the patient from Hagen. “Kenneth! Stop that. Calm down.”

But the patient’s arm was set solid, enveloping Hagen’s throat like a boa constrictor. Hagen’s face turned purple. A vein bulged on the side of his temple.

Sam grasped Kenneth’s other arm. The orderly was bigger and broader than Ann and succeeded in loosening Kenneth’s grip on Hagen. Stella moved in to help, but Ann gave her a sharp look that kept her rooted to the floor.

Despite their efforts, Kenneth’s arms were still locked around Hagen. If they didn’t do something soon, he would pass out.

Ann bent low over Kenneth’s ear. Her voice was softer now. “Kenneth, you need to let him go now.”

The man twisted his head and looked into Ann’s eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. The muscles under his cheekbones twitched as he looked back at Hagen. He released him immediately, falling back. “Shit. What have I done?”

Hagen flopped onto his back, gasping for breath as his attacker backed away and stood.

Now that he was standing, Stella was in awe at just how broad the man was. Not that he was so tall. At around six feet, he was slightly taller than average. But his chest was a wall of muscle. His face was as smooth and solid as a concrete ball.

Stella helped Hagen to his feet. His face was still red, and his breath came with a light wheeze.

“Ken.” Ann stood behind the patient. Her voice was gentle.

The muscles in Kenneth’s face relaxed into what appeared to be deep despair.

Ann dropped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him around to face her.

“Listen to me, Ken. You’ve made poor choices here. Something I told you never to do again. Sam’s going to take you to Dr. Silow now, and when I’m done here, I’ll come and talk to you. Okay?”

Kenneth gave a single nod, but Ann didn’t move. She pointed at Hagen.

“But first, you have to say you’re sorry.”

Stella stared at the nurse. She was treating this incident as if Kenneth were a toddler who’d done something naughty.

Kenneth turned around. He looked Hagen in the eye for a fleeting moment before dropping his gaze to the floor. “Sorry.”

Hagen dropped his fists. “We…” He cleared his throat and tried again. “We’re good.”

Sam put one hand on each of Kenneth’s forearms, pulling his arms slightly behind him in a secure hold, and led him away. Ann lifted a chair and tucked it back under a table.

“Sorry about Kenneth. He can get like that sometimes. Not often. But it can happen. Steroid abuse is known to cause aggression and irritability.”

Hagen sat down and rubbed his throat. “How much did he take?”

“A lot. When he started bodybuilding, everyone was doing it.” Ann gathered an armful of scattered Jenga blocks and dropped them into a bucket. “He’s usually fine, though. Really, he’s a nice guy. Most of the time.”

Stella peered down the corridor at Kenneth as Sam guided him toward Dr. Silow’s office. He looked docile enough now.

“Do you know where he was from around ten in the morning to about three yesterday afternoon?”

“Kenneth?” Ann stopped. “That’s right. He’d just come from his session with Dr. Silow. He said he was feeling tired and asked if he could return to his room to lie down. I said yes.”

“Is that normal practice, to allow patients to return to their rooms unsupervised during the middle of the day?”

“We have some discretion on the matter. I didn’t see anything wrong with it.”

“Okay, so when did you next see Kenneth? Lunchtime?”

“Kenneth wouldn’t miss lunch.” Ann dropped more pieces into the bucket. “Yeah, I saw him. He had lunch. Two portions, same as always. Then I gave him his medication, and he sat there on the sofa most of the afternoon, same as always.” She pointed to the couch before dropping her arm to her side.

Hagen was still rubbing his throat. He’d stopped wheezing, and his face had returned to its normal color. “Did he ever do anything like this to Laurence?”

Ann shook her head. “Never. He wouldn’t do that. He’s just a protector, that’s all. Of me, mainly. The only other time I saw him do that to another patient was when one was tipping clam chowder on my head.”

Stella fought the urge to snort at the image. “So Laurence didn’t have any enemies, as far as you know.”

“No, but he didn’t have any friends either.”

Stella showed Ann the picture of the markings on Laurence’s back. But like Dr. Silow, Ann claimed she hadn’t ever seen them before.

Patients were drifting back into the rec room. Some laughed at the mess Kenneth had caused, while others treated any scattered Jenga piece or puddle of spilled paint water as a contaminated area, staying as far away as possible.

Hagen stood up. “We’d like to see Laurence’s room. Where can we find it?”

Ann pointed down the corridor. “Upstairs, second door on the right.”

They left Ann to clean up the mess and made their way to the stairs. Stella waited for Hagen, who walked slowly, sliding his jaw back and forth.

“You okay?”

“Sure.” He cleared his throat, tried again. His voice still croaked. “Sure. Ten more seconds, and I’d have had him.”

“Five more seconds, and he’d have had your head off.”

“Just a race against time, then.”

“Yeah. You weren’t beaten by an eight-foot weightlifter high on steroids. You just ran out of time to show him who’s boss.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Maybe you’ll get another chance.”

They mounted the staircase, which was wide enough to walk side by side.

A short passageway at the top of the stairs led to a long hall that stretched away on both sides. The carpet was new but already peeling next to the wall. A security camera hung below the ceiling tiles. The light above the lens was dark, which lined up with what Dr. Silow said about them being out of order.

Inside the open door to Laurence’s room, two beds stood by the wall. One was neatly made with sharp corners, a smooth blanket, and an unmarked pillow. The bedside table next to it was bare, and the wall above the first bed was similarly plain and undecorated. There was a closed door near that bed. Stella assumed it was either a closet or the door to the bathroom.

The other bed was a mess. Half the blankets lay on the floor. The cabinet was covered in balls of tissues, crumbs of some unidentifiable snack and a half-empty glass of water. A picture showing a vase of bright-yellow sunflowers and dark-red poppies had been torn from a magazine and taped crookedly to the wall.

Against the institutional gray paint and the flurries of thick snow still falling past the window, the image looked like a brave but futile attempt to bring color to the place.

Hagen opened the cabinet drawer. There was nothing but two empty tissue boxes. A closet in the far wall held two pairs of blue slacks, a pile of white t-shirts, and a dark-blue sweater. A slim drawer contained enough briefs and socks to last for five days.

Stella shut the closet. “Guy’s got nothing.” She remembered the small pile of clothes found near his body, and a knot of sadness tightened itself in her gut.

Footsteps thumped softly in the corridor. Dr. Silow entered the room and strode up to Hagen. “I’m so sorry. I never thought…let me see.” He placed his hands under Hagen’s chin and examined his throat. “I think you’ll be okay. A little bruising, but nothing permanent.”

Hagen lowered the doctor’s hands. “Thanks. I’m tougher than I look. Tell me, did Laurence have a roommate?”

Dr. Silow’s gaze still rested on the side of Hagen’s neck, where a scratch, caused possibly by one of Hagen’s own fingernails in his struggle to break free, was slowly darkening. He shook his head. “Terrible. What a setback. All that work, all that progress. And now a write-up.”

“Dr. Silow?” Stella pointed at the neatly made bed. “Did Laurence have a roommate?”

The doctor glanced at the bed, then gave his attention back to Hagen’s neck. “Yes, Kenneth is Laurence’s roommate. That’s his bed over there.”

Stella stared at him. “The guy who just…?”

He pointed at his throat with his thumb. “The same.”

Stella recalled what Dr. Silow had said earlier. That Sam Harrop, the orderly, had helped Laurence get his winter gear at around ten, and that they brought the gear back to Laurence’s room together. That was right around the same time when Ann said Kenneth returned to this room that he shared with Laurence. “Do you recall Sam saying anything about seeing Kenneth in this room when he returned with Laurence and the winter gear?”

Dr. Silow shook his head. “No, not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

Stella decided to keep this information to herself for now, and changed the subject. “But Kenneth’s bed doesn’t seem to be slept in and there’s nothing personal in the area. Where does he sleep? In the closet?”

Dr. Silow lowered his arms and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “That’s Kenneth for you. Everything ordered and in its place. Makes his bed every morning, straightens his pillow, and lines up his blanket. Precision is important to him.”

“Not to Laurence, though.” Stella pointed to Laurence’s mess of a bed.

“No. Laurence was…well, his life was much more disordered.”

Stella crossed to the window. The snow was growing heavier, blanketing the grounds behind the building and burying the evergreens in the distance. White piles covered the bolts holding the drainpipe. Stella wondered whether Kenneth could’ve climbed down that drainpipe, chased after Laurence, and returned before he was missed. She tested it, but the window didn’t budge. It was painted shut.

But what would his motive be? Neither Ann nor Dr. Silow had given them any cause to suspect Kenneth was harboring a vendetta against Laurence.

Hagen’s phone rang. He checked the screen and answered. “Sheriff King…yes, we’re at the hospital.” He rubbed his throat. “No, nothing…nothing yet. Sure, sounds good. See you then.”

Stella raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

He pocketed the device. “Lunch at the sheriff’s tomorrow afternoon.” He looked impressed. “Don’t think Slade ever offered to feed us during a briefing. I’m starting to like it here.” He began to smile, but it turned into a cough that left him massaging the sides of his throat again. “Well, maybe Nashville isn’t so bad.”

13

Stella’s gaze returned to the window and the drainpipe that Kenneth could have climbed down. Once more, she considered the possibility that Laurence’s roommate might be the person responsible for his murder. She turned to Hagen, who was still standing beside Dr. Silow. “I think we’re going to have to speak to Kenneth ourselves.”

Dr. Silow raised his eyebrow. “You think he might’ve had something to do with this? I’d find that unlikely.”

Stella fought not to roll her eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, for one, I had a session with him myself just yesterday morning.”

That tracked with what Ann had told them. But Stella needed to make sure. “When was this?”

“It was my first session of the day. From nine to nine forty-five.”

Stella shook her head. “That doesn’t help him. Can you account for Kenneth’s actions yesterday between roughly ten in the morning and lunchtime at noon, the latter of which was when Ann said she saw him?”

Dr. Silow fiddled with his collar. “Well, no. I can’t personally. But I’m sure we can cobble together a timeline, if we ask the other members of the staff.”

“Then we need to do that. As of now, Kenneth has two hours unaccounted for, two hours that Laurence was also unaccounted for. That would’ve been plenty of time for Kenneth to kill his roommate down in the woods and return in time for a hearty lunch.”

Her focus landed on the door near Kenneth’s immaculate bed. She had an idea. Crossing the room, she opened the door, which revealed a closet, as she’d expected. Like the rest of Kenneth’s area, the closet was in pristine order, with stacks of shirts, underwear, and pants, folded to perfection.

Hagen poked his head into the closet. “I don’t know why, but it’s sort of surprising to me how organized Kenneth is. He certainly didn’t strike me as a neat freak.” He turned to Dr. Silow. “Was Kenneth in the military?”

Dr. Silow’s eyes lit up. “No. But still, that’s quite perceptive of you. His father was in the Marines. Ruled his house with an iron fist, or so Kenneth describes it. It’s almost certainly one of the root causes of his psychopathology. And indeed, his problematic behavior.”

Hagen had an inquisitive look on his face. “The Marines, eh? He’d have been taught how to make any number of different knots there, like the one that tied Laurence to the tree. I wonder if Kenneth’s father taught his boy some old tricks. Why is he here at the hospital?”

In a slightly jarring fashion, Dr. Silow smiled. “Without a warrant addressing Kenneth specifically, I can’t disclose any medical information.”

As they spoke, Stella examined the closet floor and found what she was looking for. She picked up a pair of white sneakers and looked at the shoe size under the tongue. Just as she suspected, the shoe fit.

She held the sneaker up, so that Hagen and Dr. Silow could see it. “It’s a size eleven and a half. This matches up with the size of the footprints of the killer we found in the forest.” That familiar adrenaline rush she always experienced when pieces were falling into place slipped through her veins. She rubbed Hagen’s upper arm in mock sympathy. “I’m sorry, honey. But we’re going to have to interview your favorite person in the world.”

Hagen let out an exaggerated groan. “Only if you promise to protect me.”

She placed Kenneth’s shoes on the closet floor and turned to Dr. Silow. “Please, lead on.”

A few minutes later, Dr. Silow stopped outside a door in a ground floor hallway they hadn’t explored yet. “This is where we keep patients after they’ve had an episode. To calm them down, until they’re ready to rejoin the rest of the group. Now, Kenneth was fine when I left him. But, please, I implore you to go easy on him and not rile him up unnecessarily.”

Raved nodded. “You have our word. We just have to ask him some questions.”

Dr. Silow drew in a breath, then opened the door. “All right. After you.”

As they stepped inside, Stella took in her surroundings. The room where Kenneth was napping on a couch—his long legs dangling off the end—was elegant yet comfortably furnished. There was another couch at a right angle to the one on which Kenneth lay. Bookcases lined the wood-paneled walls. Through the large windows, snow continued to drift onto the expansive white lawn in front of the building.

Dr. Silow approached Kenneth and gently shook his shoulder. But it appeared the bodybuilder was a heavy sleeper. It took Dr. Silow two more increasingly vigorous shakes to rouse Kenneth from his slumber.

When Kenneth saw Hagen, he sat right up, and his face turned a beet red. “Mister…listen…I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” He hung his head, like a hound that’d just been told he wasn’t not allowed to eat from the trash can.

Dr. Silow took a seat next to Kenneth and placed a comforting hand on the bodybuilder’s massive back. “It’s okay, Kenneth. And it’s very good you apologized.” With his other hand, the doctor motioned for Stella and Hagen to sit on the other couch.

Hagen cleared his throat as he sat and held out his badge for Kenneth to read. “Don’t give it another thought. We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Special Agent Hagen Yates from the FBI. And this is Special Agent Stella Knox.”

Stella nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

Kenneth glanced at the badge, and a curious expression crossed his face. “And I’m Kenneth Hannan.” He looked at Dr. Silow. “Am I in big trouble?”

Stella leaned forward. “We have a few questions we need to ask you, that’s all.”

Kenneth kneaded his hands together, like the first stage of oncoming agitation. “Shoot.”

Dr. Silow must’ve noticed the change in Kenneth’s manner as well. “It’s all right. Just tell the truth, and everything will be fine.”

Considering how agitated Kenneth now seemed, Stella wasn’t so sure about that. But she kept her opinion to herself. “All you need to do is to walk us through everything you did after breakfast yesterday. Right up until lunch.”

Kenneth’s eyes darted from Stella to Hagen, then to Dr. Silow. The kneading of his hands became more pronounced. “Um…uh. I dunno. I can’t remember. I’m not good at remembering things.”

Stella shared a brief but meaningful glance with Hagen. It was clear to her that Kenneth was being evasive, if not flat-out lying. While that didn’t necessarily mean he was the murderer, it certainly didn’t help his case.

This was the method she chose. “Mr. Hannan, your roommate Laurence Gill was murdered yesterday⁠—”

Kenneth sucked in a sharp breath. “Laurence…what?”

“Laurence was murdered, Mr. Hannan. I need to know where you were and what you were doing yesterday.”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t remember.” His fingers knotted together so tight that his knuckles turned white.

Stella kept her tone quiet but firm. “Mr. Hannan, we need to know your whereabouts to determine what information you may be able to provide to help the investigation.”

Kenneth’s face flushed red, and he closed his eyes against her questions. “No, no, no, no. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything.”

Dr. Silow gave Stella a meaningful look, silently reminding her to take a more sensitive approach, given his condition.

Stella nodded subtly in acknowledgment before turning back to Kenneth. “I understand this is very upsetting, Mr. Hannan. We’re not accusing you of anything.” Yet. “We just want to give you every opportunity to recall any details that could help. If you can’t provide an alibi right now, that’s okay. Let’s focus on what you do remember.”

Dr. Silow rubbed Kenneth’s back to soothe him. “That’s right, Kenneth. Slow down. Count your breaths, like we talked about in therapy. One, two...”

Kenneth followed the doctor’s instruction.

“Three. That’s good. And again.”

After a second round of breathing, Kenneth looked at Dr. Silow and nodded. “I’m good.”

The doctor kept rubbing Kenneth’s back. “Dig deep now. Tell us what you were doing.”

Kenneth leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and looked Stella squarely in the face. “Well, after breakfast, I had therapy with you.” Kenneth glanced at Dr. Silow. “And then…” As if apologizing, he hung his head once more.

Stella spoke gently, though it was taking every effort to keep her voice light. “It’s all right, Mr. Hannan. This is hard. Just share what you remember, even if it doesn’t seem important. Every detail helps.”

Kenneth took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Dr. Silow.”

“Go on, Kenneth. Whatever happened, you’ll get through this.”

“I was working out.”

Stella could’ve heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. That was not what she was expecting at all. Nurse Ann had told them he’d felt tired and had gone back to his room. But this would explain why Sam the orderly didn’t see him when he returned with Laurence to their shared bedroom.

Hagen seemed to read her mind, as he leaned forward. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. Could you repeat yourself?”

Kenneth sighed and shrugged, rolling his massive shoulders in their sockets. “I was working out. Yesterday was leg day. Can’t skip those.”

While Stella almost wanted to laugh, it was clear Dr. Silow did not feel the same way. The look on his face was grave. “Kenneth, you know I’ve strictly prohibited you from using the equipment in the exercise room.”

Kenneth’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t in the exercise room, I swear! I haven’t touched a weight since you told me not to. I’m only doing body-weight stuff these days.”

Dr. Silow shook his head. “It’s the same thing, Kenneth. Your condition is similar to an addiction. Until your mood has stabilized, you can’t put yourself in that position. It’s not safe.”

Stella leaned forward. She needed information on Kenneth’s alibi and didn’t want to witness an impromptu therapy session. “Mr. Hannan, this information about your whereabouts is very helpful. Can you tell us exactly where you were working out? And for how long? I know it’s hard to remember details under stress, so take your time.”

“I was up on the top floor. In Mel Warren’s room. It was empty. I knew he was going to be in the rec room after breakfast. He’s always there.” His eyes darted to Dr. Silow. “It…wasn’t the first time I’ve used it.”

Dr. Silow turned toward Stella and Hagen. “There are also patient bedrooms on the third floor, including Mel’s, who I don’t believe you’ve met. That makes sense.”

“How long was your workout, Mr. Hannan?”

“I always go ninety minutes. It’s the ideal workout length.”

Stella pressed her lips together to stop herself from starting a debate about workout lengths. The salient point was that if Kenneth was telling the truth, then he wasn’t their killer. But it was a big if. “And were you alone? And by that, I mean, can anyone verify that you were working out when you said you were?”

Kenneth smiled. “There was. Sam. You know, who works here. Near the end of my workout, he came in to change the sheets on Mel’s bed.”

Stella turned to Dr. Silow. “Can you confirm that?”

Dr. Silow looked confused. “Do you want me to go get him?”

“If you have his number, you can just call. Put it on speaker, please.”

Dr. Silow rose, took out his phone, and dialed, placing the phone on the coffee table and the call on speaker.

After a few rings, Sam answered. “What’s up, Boss?”

The doctor put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’ve got a question for you. Did you see Kenneth Hannan working out in Mel Warren’s room on the third floor late yesterday morning?”

There was a short pause. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble or anything.”

Kenneth leaned forward and spoke right into the phone. “Hey, man, it’s me. It’s Kenneth. We were talking⁠—”

Stella held up her hand. “Mr. Hannan. Please do not speak unless spoken to. It’s imperative we get Sam’s side of the story without interference.”

Sam’s voice came through the phone. “Uh…”

Dr. Silow perched on the couch by the phone. “Come on, Sam. This is important. Did you see him there when he said you did, or did you not?”

Sam cleared his throat. “All right, whatever. Yeah, I saw him. Sweating up a storm. It smelled like a locker room in there.”

“And when was this?”

“Must’ve been like eleven fifteen, something like that. About an hour after I helped Laurence, like you asked me too.”

Dr. Silow smiled. “Thanks, Sam. That’ll do.” He hung up and placed the phone back in his pocket as Kenneth exhaled and leaned back into the cushions.

Even if he had a solid alibi, Stella still wasn’t through with him. As Laurence’s roommate, he was now a witness. For the first time since she’d entered the room, she gave an honest smile to the bodybuilder. “Kenneth, that sounds pretty conclusive to me. What’s more, I believe you. I do need to ask you a few more questions, though. About Laurence Gill.”

The short-lived relief drained from Kenneth’s face. “Oh, Laurence. He’s really dead? Poor guy.”

Hagen nodded. “He’s really dead. But when was the last time you saw him?”

“At breakfast. We didn’t sit together or anything. But I remember he was there. He woke up in his bed that morning, like normal.”

“Why didn’t you sit together? Were you not friends?”

Kenneth hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t mind the guy. But, no, I couldn’t say we were friends. We were just so different. It was like the odd couple, us living together. First off, I’m huge.”

Stella snorted. “I noticed that.”

He put up his hands. “I’m not bragging or anything, it’s a fact. And you know, Laurence was a little guy. Shrimpy…no, that’s mean. I take that back. What I’m trying to say is that it’s tough for me to make friends with people who don’t share my interests. Like, whenever I go somewhere new, I size up all the guys. I can usually tell if I’m going to like them or not just by sight.”

Stella narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

Kenneth grinned. “Well, it’s their necks, you see. That tells me if they lift or not. And so, if someone’s got a thick neck, I’ll probably like them. I literally go down the line of dudes and be like, ‘thin neck,’ ‘thin neck,’ ‘thick neck,’ ‘thin neck.’ Anyway, Laurence had a very thin neck.”

This seemed like an odd way to choose one’s friends. But Stella wasn’t one to judge. She moved on. “Did Laurence have any enemies that you knew of? Anyone who would want to do him harm?”

Kenneth shook his head on his own thick neck. “I really have no idea. I don’t think anyone here. And he didn’t speak about his life back home at all. And I mean that. He never spoke about where he was from.”

Stella leaned forward. “So the last time you saw him was at breakfast, and before that, in your room in the morning. Did you two talk? Did he say anything to you? Or how did he seem?”

Kenneth furrowed his heavy brow. “Actually, now that you mention it, he did seem a little more jittery than usual. It was weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, he was talking to himself. That wasn’t so unusual. He did that from time to time. But he was more frantic, I guess. More like…kooky? I don’t know.”

“And did you hear what he was saying?”

Kenneth took a moment, as if transporting himself back to yesterday morning. The thoughtful look on his face abruptly morphed into a determined one. The memory had come back.

“Laurence was talking about demons. He said they were coming to get him.”

14

That evening, the fire crackled in Stella and Hagen’s rented cabin. Melting snow still dripped from their layers of outerwear hanging behind the door to widen the puddle around their boots. Bubs was stretched across the sofa, and Stella sat at the kitchen table flicking through the forensic photos on her phone.

Hagen lifted his gaze from the chopping board. He was preparing a winter stew.

“Hope you’ll still have an appetite after looking at those things.”

Stella pulled her fingers apart on the screen. Laurence’s body enlarged as she moved her fingers. The camera’s flash had turned his chest white. The blood that covered his face had left blank patches above his nose and on his forehead. The stain on the snow in the woods was dark enough to mistake for a deep hole that had opened beneath his swinging arms.

“I’ll be fine.” Stella zoomed in more on the cut across Laurence’s neck. “I wonder what kind of knife did this. Not having a forensic pathologist to examine the wound is very frustrating.”

Hagen sliced his cleaver through a chunk of beef. “Times like, this you remember how reliant we are on people in white coats to answer questions for us. We’ve got nothing but our wits this time. Our wits and a kick-ass snowmobile.”

She leaned the phone against a roll of paper towels. The sound of her call ringing through beat out the crackle of the fire and the chopping of Hagen’s knife.

“If the snowmobile’s kicking your ass, maybe I should drive.”

Hagen made a small gasping sound which quickly turned into a cough. “My ass is fine, thank you very much. Who are you calling?”

His question was answered by Slade’s voice, then his face, which appeared frozen on Stella’s screen. Their SSA freed himself from the lag and asked how they were doing.

Stella had participated in video briefings from a distance before, but this was worse. Bringing Slade into their Pennsylvania abode, even by video to brief him on a murder, was to make an office out of the place they’d built into a temporary but loving home.

He was sitting in his office. Stella remembered the color of the wall behind him, the creak of his leather office chair. The sight and sound of him were so familiar, and she realized she missed him.

She folded her arms on the table. “Not as well as we were doing two days ago.”

“When you didn’t have a victim?”

“Yeah.”

Slade shook his head. “I don’t believe a word of it. You don’t know what to do with yourself if you don’t have a case to solve. Now, what have you found?”

Stella squirmed in her chair. She hoped she wasn’t so reliant on violent crime and killers that she couldn’t find happiness without them. Drawing her knee up to her chest, she pulled her focus back to the case.

“The local coroner checked the victim. She confirmed blood loss as the cause of death but couldn’t say much more than that. We’ve got no chance of an autopsy before this storm blows over.”

“Think you’ll get more victims before then?”

Stella glanced at Hagen. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Stella understood. They were thinking the same way.

“Considering how hard it is to kill in a storm like this, I want to think we’ll be fine. But there’s a reasonable chance. The cut marks we found on the body were intentional, which suggests this wasn’t a crime of passion, especially when you consider the killer would have had to be carrying a line of rope to tie up the body at the time. And considering Laurence owns no property or any real assets, I can’t imagine the motivation for this crime had anything to do with theft.”

“Are you saying that this was an opportunistic crime?”

She heaved a sigh. “Not necessarily, since the body was found deep in the woods, far from any trail. But we can’t count that out. And the killer managed all of that in a blizzard.”

“So no thoughts as to motive?”

“We haven’t found anyone who’d have a motive to kill Laurence Gill. It seems like the murderer killed for a reason, and that reason appears to have nothing to do with who the victim was.” Stella rubbed the back of her neck. “So, no, I don’t think they’re done, whether it was opportunistic or not.”

On the screen, Slade nodded and asked if they had any suspects.

Hagen hacked off the end of an onion. “Bearing in mind what Stella just said about motive, there are at least twenty.”

“Seriously? Twenty solid suspects?”

Stella held up her finger. “The victim was a patient at a small psychiatric hospital. There are twenty patients. They’re supposed to be harmless, but who knows? Any one of them could be disturbed enough to have done it. But again, that leads me back to the precision of the marks on the victim’s body. This does not seem like a crime of passion.”

“And you’ve ruled out staff?”

“Not yet.”

“What about people outside the hospital? Friends? Family? People he might’ve pissed off?”

“The victim doesn’t seem to have spent much time, if any, in the town. There’s a brother somewhere and a friend. Maybe one of them had a grudge. We’re looking into that. Hopefully, Mac can help.”

Slade rubbed the scar on his temple. Stella swallowed. That scar had been her fault, the result of her insistence on chasing down Joel Ramirez. He’d supported her then, and he’d paid for it with a blast of shrapnel to his head.

“Did you find out if anyone was missing from the hospital at the time of the murder?”

“Everyone was there as far as we could tell.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “No one was reported missing anyway.”

“Or if they weren’t there, their absence wasn’t noticed.” Hagen finished dicing the onion with a flourish of his blade. “Though I think Kenneth’s absence would’ve been hard to miss.”

Stella grinned and answered the SSA’s quizzical look. “Hagen made a friend at the hospital. A steroid-addicted weightlifter named Kenneth Hannon who tried to strangle him to death.”

Slade’s gaze shifted across the screen. “Really? What’d you do to piss him off, Hagen?”

“I didn’t do anything. Didn’t get a chance.”

“You okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“Pleased to hear it. Stella, I hope you told the guy that if he wants to throttle Hagen, he needs to get to the back of the line.” His face dipped on the screen as he sank into his chair. “A big guy prone to random violence. Sure he’s not your man? That would wrap this thing up good and fast.”

“It would, but there are multiple people who can account for his whereabouts for most of the time that Laurence was missing. An orderly saw him in the morning, and one of the nurses insists our weightlifter was present for lunch and that he took his meds.”

“She reliable?”

Stella shrugged. “She’s a nurse. We’ve no reason not to believe her.”

“That also wouldn’t explain the marks on the victim’s back.” Hagen peeled a carrot and sliced it into rounds.

Slade sighed. “Okay, what about the brother and the friend?”

Hagen poured olive oil into a pot and tossed in the onions. They sizzled loudly. “The victim had a falling out with his brother, one Frank Gill. And the doctor at the hospital says the friend’s name is Zach. That’s all we got.”

“Okay, let’s see if we can find them.” Slade rubbed his temples again. The workday was almost over in Nashville, and he looked eager to get home. “Doesn’t sound like you’re getting very far. Listen, are you two sure you’re needed up there? Because the Bureau has been slow getting me replacements for Martin and Chloe. I need your asses back here.”

Stella’s stomach twisted tighter. She hated leaving Slade short-handed and under pressure. “I don’t think the sheriff and the deputy can handle this. And if we can’t, I have a strong instinct someone else is going to get killed. People are going to keep getting murdered until the killer’s caught.”

“And besides,” Hagen stirred the onions and pointed at the snow falling outside the window, “until snowflakes the size of silver dollars stop dropping out of the sky, we’re not going anywhere without a snowmobile, whether we want to or not.”

Slade took a deep breath. “Okay. So use the time you have, then get back here. You’ve got no forensics or evidence, and you need to start cutting down your suspects. What’s your plan?”

That question had been rolling around Stella’s brain since they’d trundled out of the hospital. She still didn’t have an answer.

“The marks on the victim’s back are the key. I’m sure of it.”

“Mac’s working on the pictures you sent her. Maybe she can help. And I’ll ask her to track down the brother and friend.” Slade stretched his arms over his head. “Enjoy that dinner tonight. Then get back over to that hospital first thing in the morning and start narrowing down your suspect list.”

15

When Stella woke the following morning, the snow was still falling past the frosted window. The bed next to her was empty, and the smell of coffee and eggs wafted back to her from the kitchen. Stella sniffed the air but pulled the covers over her head as the cold stung her nose.

Snow was overrated. That was the understatement of the year.

Sure, it was pretty and clean, but she’d had enough of it. It was time to get back to a place where they could drive on roads between lane markings she could see and stand outside without the wind taking away her breath or freezing the tip of her nose. That wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

A shout came from the kitchen. “Yo, Stella. Breakfast’s up.”

How Hagen managed to get out of bed so early every day, in this cold and with such zeal, still amazed her. At six thirty like clockwork, he was up and out for a run. Only the weather had been keeping him inside now, and Stella was sure that if the snow didn’t threaten his expensive sneakers, he’d have been out in this storm too. Even without his morning exercise, he was still waking early.

“Stella. Your omelet’s getting cold.”

She threw the blanket off and let the cold air take her. The only heating in the bedroom came from a small, loud electric radiator, which was better at keeping her up at night than making the bedroom comfortable. A chill scraped her skin through her pajamas.

Only hot chocolate and a hearty breakfast could help her now.

Stella checked her messages but saw nothing from Mac regarding the names of Laurence’s friends and family or about the marks on his back. She ate quickly, dressed quicker, and piled the plates in the sink. Wrapping her scarf around her neck, she perched on the arm of the sofa where Bubs was laid out, waiting for Hagen to finish in the shower so they could return to the hospital.

Bubs lifted his ears. Stella scratched his head, and the dog twisted his neck and licked the bottom of her hand. When he nudged her arm for another scratch, Bubs’s big brown eyes were full of pleading and sadness.

Yesterday was the most time they’d spent away from him since they’d taken the place. Hagen’s dog accompanied them everywhere, on hikes and grocery runs, and even on the occasional evenings in the diner, when Stella felt like eating something Hagen hadn’t cooked. Wherever they went, he attracted compliments for his looks and his three-legged agility.

Hagen came out of the bathroom. Stella watched, amused, as he struggled to adjust a sweater swollen by a shirt and three undershirts.

He pulled on his sleeves. They rode up his wrists. He tugged again. “How do I look?”

Stella grinned. “Like a pig trying to bust out of its doughy blanket.”

He shook his head, piled on his jacket, hat, gloves, and boots, and they left.

With his head bent against the cold and the snow, Hagen clearly enjoyed making the ride as much as he had yesterday. Sooner than she’d expected, he pulled up in front of the hospital’s wide stairs.

Stella led the way inside, where they again surrendered their service weapons at the front desk. Then they made their way through the hallway back to the recreation room where the patients had gathered the day before.

This morning, though, most of the patients were clustered into small groups and participating in more structured activities, like meditation and what looked like a drawing lesson led by a volunteer.

Other patients, though, rocked back and forth or tapped their heads violently, their eyes blank, their thoughts and feelings inscrutable. Stella hated not being able to read them. She had no idea what any of them would do next.

Sam the orderly was mopping part of the floor. Ann the nurse was helping an elderly woman arrange plastic flowers in a vase. And massive Kenneth was once again sprawled in his seat on the sofa, napping.

Seeing them, Ann left the woman she was helping and came over. “I heard you had a productive meeting with Kenneth yesterday.”

Stella nodded. “We did. Goes to show you can’t trust first impressions. Do you mind if we talk to some of the other patients today?”

Ann smiled, showing her perfectly arranged white teeth. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, but the teeth were bright enough for people not to notice immediately.

“Sure, you can talk to anyone you want. Here, I’ll introduce you to Lottie.”

She led them back to her seat where the elderly woman, who was in a loose floral dress worn under a thick blue sweater, was pushing a plastic rose into the middle of a glass vase. She was painfully thin, and the clip that held her long, graying hair was crooked, letting some of her locks stick out untidily.

Ann sighed. “No, Lottie. What did I tell you? Put the roses on the outside, then the lilies, then the sunflowers in the middle. You scatter the forget-me-nots throughout. It’ll be much nicer like that.” She pulled the rose out of the middle of the vase and moved it to the edge. “Here, there are some people who want to speak to you. This is Stella and Hagen. They’re with the FBI.”

Hagen sat in a chair next to Lottie’s.

She raised her head slowly to look at the new visitors.

Ann added another plastic rose to the vase and a small flicker of irritation passed through Stella. That was Lottie’s arrangement. Ann should’ve let her create it any way she wanted.

“Those are lovely flowers, Lottie. You make a lot of arrangements like this?”

“Oh, yes. I make a new arrangement every day.” Lottie leaned closer. “I have to. Ann keeps messing them up.”

Stella gave Lottie a conspiratorial smile. Ann wasn’t listening. She was busy rearranging the flowers, placing the roses around the edge of the vase and the dusty plastic sunflowers in the middle.

“Did you know Laurence, Ann? Were you friends?”

“Of course I know Laurence. He’s a nice man. Very quiet. We talk sometimes. He has the room next to mine, you know?”

“Really? I didn’t know that.” Stella glanced at Hagen. “What did you talk about?”

Lottie didn’t answer. She picked up one of the plastic flowers and began to study it. Then she dropped it back onto the table and turned to Stella. “They’re watching us, you know.”

Hagen leaned closer. “Who are?”

“Them!”

“Really? Are they watching us now?”

Lottie’s gaze shot around the room. She took in Sam, wiping his mop across a corner of the floor. Her eyes lingered over the other nurse, Fiona, as she led another patient, swatting angrily at an imaginary fly, to a chair in front of one of the jigsaw puzzles. She cocked her head at Kenneth, then Ann, then hissed, “Yes! They’re always watching us. They see everything.”

Stella pinched the bridge of her nose. The hospital must’ve been one of the few places in the country where cameras didn’t see everything. This was getting them nowhere. Interviewing drug dealers exercising their right to silence would’ve been easier.

“What did you and Laurence talk about?”

“About them.” Lottie gave a firm nod. “He knows who they are, y’see? He knows what they can do.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re very old.”

“How old?”

“Very old. Very, very, very old. They’re old gods, you know? They were here before us, and they’ll be here after us. And they’re still very powerful.”

Stella sighed. She’d had conversations like this before. During her first months in uniform, as she’d patrolled around Brookmeade Park, she’d tried to help the homeless sleeping rough each night. She’d bought them coffee and listened to their problems while her partner, Dan Garcia, watched and waited.

“You can’t help them.” That was what he’d told her once she’d heard the same stories of paranoia and anger and frustration time and time again and found that she had nothing to say to soothe them. “You don’t have the skills. And the city doesn’t have enough psychiatric facilities to look after them all. All you can do, all any of us can do, is make sure they don’t starve, overdose, or die of hypothermia. A real solution? That’s out of our hands.”

At least Lottie wasn’t sleeping rough. She had a bed and hot food and people to look after her. She was lucky.

Stella had a strong urge to give Lottie a big, warm hug, but she settled for a friendly squeeze of her shoulder.

At the next table, Fiona left her patient and the jigsaw puzzle of unicorns frolicking through a field and joined them. The nurse was older than Ann, with the first signs of crow’s feet already making their mark next to her eyes. Her brown hair was pinned down neatly, and, from the way she gathered the plastic flowers from the table and encouraged Lottie to continue with her arrangement, Stella sensed a quality of empathy about her that Ann lacked.

Stella waited while Lottie chose a spot in the middle of the vase for her rose. “Fiona, did you see Laurence leave the hospital on the day of…?” She stopped. Lottie had talked of Laurence in the present tense. The staff hadn’t told the other patients yet about his death.

Fiona picked up her line of thought. “No. But I wasn’t around much that day. I’ve been busy with Kyle there. He’s been relapsing in his condition lately. Dr. Silow asked me to spend a bit more time with him.”

She nodded toward the patient she’d guided into the room. Kyle was no longer looking for a piece of unicorn’s horn to add to the jigsaw. He seemed to be watching something only he could see flying around his head.

Hagen picked up a plastic sunflower and examined the cloth petals before presenting it to Lottie. He turned to Fiona. “How is Dr. Silow? Do you like working for him?”

“Oh, gosh, yes.” Fiona helped Lottie move the sunflower into place. She sat back to let Lottie decide the position, only intervening when Lottie appeared to struggle. “This is my third hospital since I became a psychiatric nurse. And it’s the best, by far. Small enough to really get to know the patients. A beautiful rural mountain setting, especially in the fall. And Dr. Silow is wonderful. He’s so dedicated. And he knows exactly what he’s trying to do.”

“What’s that?” Stella watched Lottie remove the forget-me-nots that Ann had arranged.

They hadn’t spoken to the hospital administrator and town mayor since yesterday’s conversation, and she was keen to know what others thought of him.

“He’s preparing the patients for life after their release. First, he deals with their conditions and their symptoms. But then he tries to give them a reason to keep going, to keep their lives in order.”

Lottie struggled to jam the fake forget-me-nots into place. She stabbed at the vase with their fragile stems.

Fiona took her hand. “Gently, Lottie. Like this.” She slid one stem into the vase and turned back to them. “That reason doesn’t have to be a career goal or anything grand. Just something that makes them proud. He thinks that’s important.” She paused. “I think it’s admirable.”

Hagen thanked the nurse for her help and motioned with his head toward the door.

Stella said her goodbyes to Lottie and wished her luck with her plastic flower arrangement.

As she left the recreation room, Stella looked behind her. The place reminded her of a cross between a youth hostel, a prison, and a kindergarten, a sad combination that had an air of something permanently lost. She hoped the patients were well looked after. And well-guarded.

She found Hagen standing at the bottom of the wide staircase.

“Want to do a check-in with our front desk attendant?” Stella pointed toward the front of the building. “See what he knows about Laurence leaving?”

Hagen gestured for her to lead the way.

The older gentleman greeted them with a firm handshake and asked if they were all finished.

“Not quite yet. We’re still talking to people, and now it’s your turn.” Stella gave him a bright smile, hoping it read as both charming and friendly.

“Fire away, Madame Agent.”

She asked the standard timeline questions and found everything lined up with what they’d learned so far. Laurence had handed over his pass, which checked out with the email Floyd had received from Dr. Silow, then walked out the front door.

“Anything notable about the encounter?”

Floyd shrugged. “Seemed normal enough to me. Laurence doesn’t go out. At least, not in my memory. But I figured it would be good for him. And he wasn’t wearing gloves, which I thought would bring him back in pretty quick, but he was only going to take a little walk.” The receptionist rubbed his forehead. “Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. Everything seemed so routine.”

Stella offered a comforting pat on his shoulder. “You’ll probably have lots of what-if questions after an event like this. It’s perfectly normal. Thanks for your help. We’re going to find with Dr. Silow.”

But when they went to check in with Dr. Silow, his office door was firmly closed. Though they then spoke to every other patient and staff member, they didn’t learn much more than when they’d arrived.

“What do you think?” Hagen considered her with his hands resting in his trouser pockets. They’d come to a dead-end, both in the hospital halls and in the investigation.

“I think it’s time to head back to town and consider our options.”

They retrieved their service weapons and headgear at the front desk before pushing through the front doors back into the cold.

The snowfall had lightened a little, but the ground cover was deep enough to reach past their shins. Dark clouds above and beyond the tree line threatened the return of the storm, and a strong wind from the west pushed icy fingers through Stella’s coat and chilled her face.

Shoulders hunched, they trudged through white fluff to their snowmobile. Stella remembered Mac’s request to hit Hagen with a snowball but decided this wasn’t the time. What they were doing was too close to work and too far from the leave they’d been enjoying.

Near their sled, the scent of tobacco hung in the air, and Stella wondered if the cold was making her hallucinate. She turned back toward the building. A window on the first floor was open a crack, and a thin trail of smoke drifted toward them, carried by the wind.

Stella touched Hagen’s arm and nodded toward the smoke, then left him to creep along the wall. The window opened into the kitchen. A large steel fridge was just visible against the far wall, the week’s menu stuck to the door.

Ann’s back was to her. She was talking to someone. “You’ve got to control your temper. It’s good you’ve calmed down now. At last. But you can’t keep behaving this way.” She took a drag of her cigarette, stretched out her arm, and flicked ash out the window and into the snow.

Stella pressed herself into the wall and slowed her breathing so she could hear better.

“What did Dr. Silow tell you? What did he tell you to do when that urge comes over you? Stop. Think. Take a breath. It’s happening too often now.”

“I’m sorry.”

The voice was mumbled and low. But it was clearly Kenneth’s. And the kitchen was a strange place for a psychiatric nurse to deliver treatment, to say nothing of her smoking inside, which was almost certainly against regulations.

“Better. But make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Ann lowered her voice into a husky, almost seductive tone. “You know how dangerous you can be. Come on now.”

She turned and raised the window sash a few inches. The burning stub of a cigarette arced past Stella’s nose to land hissing in the snow.

Before Stella could be outraged by the littering, the nurse slammed it shut tight, and that was that.

Hagen was shivering when she found him. She rubbed his shoulder, hoping the friction would help heat him. “We should head into town and warm up. There’s been a development.”

16

Deputy Mark Tully thumped a fist against the old, weather-beaten door and waited.

Going door-to-door doing wellness checks on his neighbors during a blizzard, as he was doing now—this was what he was used to, this felt like what his job should be.

Not investigating a brutal murder.

Wind numbed his cheek. Snow settled on the folds of his deputy’s hat. He huddled his shoulders, stomped feeling back into his frozen feet, and took a deep breath of invigorating cold air.

He loved this place.

Claymore Township was where he’d lived all his life, and he never wanted to live anywhere else. Pittsburgh and Philadelphia had pulled away so many of his classmates, drawn by the nightlife and the restaurants and the jobs that paid more money and offered better prospects than anything Claymore could provide.

He’d seen those prospects. He didn’t want them.

The scent of pine smelled best fresh from the tree, not sprayed from an aerosol can in a wine bar’s bathroom. When he looked up, he wanted to see the sky caught between branches, not imprisoned by the steel, glass, and concrete of buildings. There wasn’t much in Claymore Township, but there was more than enough for him.

And he knew everyone in the town. Pete at the store and Dottie at the diner. Sheriff King’s wife, Maureen, had taught him in high school. Claymore was more than his home. It was his family too.

He loved it even when winter came in November and landed with the weight of an overfed polar bear.

The door opened. Bert Gerrit stood at the entrance of his dark, one-bedroom house. He was in his eighties and had a face like an old potato—pasty, wrinkled, and with small, hard eyes that Mark sometimes thought could probe through walls. A blast of frozen wind moved the last tuft of white hair above his forehead, but Bert didn’t even bother to shiver.

He was dressed properly. His pants were tighter on his thighs than usual, which meant he was wearing thermals. The woolen socks half hidden by his slippers were almost as thick as his carpet, and the warm air that leaked through the open door told Mark that Bert wasn’t skimping on his heating. All was good here.

The deputy touched the tip of his hat, sending a small avalanche of snow to land on the porch.

“Morning, Bert. Just knocking on doors making sure everyone’s okay. You got enough food? This thing could last a few more days.”

Bert snorted. “’Course I have. You think I’ve never seen a cold snap before? You should’ve been here in 1958. One day of snow, and it came on as deep as your waist. We had to dig ourselves out of the house. This stuff’s nothing more than a light flurry.”

Mark suppressed a smile. If he had a buck for every mention some old-timer made of the winter of 1958, he’d have enough bucks to buy half the town and pay the heating bills for the other half. He tipped his hat again.

“Good to hear you’re managing well enough.”

Bert’s was the twelfth house Mark had knocked on that morning, and everyone had been dressed properly, with the heating on and the pantry full. People in Claymore Township were a hardy, independent bunch. And every one of them liked to be told they were hardier and more independent than everyone else.

“Just make sure you leave the water running a trickle. You don’t want your pipes freezing up now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bert closed the door halfway. “And you stay safe out there, young man. Wouldn’t want you catching a cold or nothing.”

Mark tramped back through his footprints to the snowmobile. The townsfolk were taking the weather in stride, but there’d be trouble later. Pipes were going to burst. When the snow melted, leaks would enter roofs and walls, and the roads were going to have even bigger potholes than they had before. He hoped Dr. Bill Silow was already thinking about the clean-up. The mayor was a smart guy, but he had a hospital to run as well as the town.

Mark wiped the snow from the back of his snowmobile and fired up the engine. The next house was a hundred yards away.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He read the message.

Hey, Mark. Snow’s dragging down your gutters. Thought you should know!

A picture followed. The gutter on the side of his house was full of snow and bowed like a heavy washing line.

“Dammit.”

If he didn’t take care of that now, the whole thing would come down. He was grateful for the heads-up. Everyone looked out for each other in a small town.

He called Sheriff King and told him he needed to run home for a few minutes.

“Not a problem,” the sheriff said. “Don’t forget, I’ve got those FBI folks coming by later for lunch at one to talk about that killing. Make sure you’re done by then and get yourself over here.”

Mark told him he’d do his best and checked his watch. Quarter to eleven. There was plenty of time. It wouldn’t take him more than two hours to clear the snow from his roof and empty out the gutter. Nailing it back into place could wait.

He turned the throttle and powered the snowmobile along what had once been a road but was now an empty, snowy path.

The death of the patient at the hospital was a strange one. Heat crept up Mark’s neck as he remembered his reaction to the sight of the body. Those FBI folks must’ve thought he was just some kind of rube, not used to dead bodies at all.

That wasn’t true. He’d seen plenty of fatal road accidents. The first time, he’d just stood there frozen in place by the blood and the twisted limbs and the open, unseeing eyes. But he’d been fine ever since.

Laurence Gill’s body had been different. Hagen was right. An accident was just the work of fate. But a murder was the result of evil, a dark presence that had settled into his town and needed to be rooted out as quickly as possible. Someone had wanted to do that—slice open Laurence’s throat and hang him up and mutilate the body.

Mark shuddered as though ice had run down the back of his neck. Whoever had done that was colder than the weather.

His house was coming up, and he stopped the snowmobile outside his snowed-in garage. The gutters in the front were fine, but when he walked around to the side, he saw how the wet, heavy snow had filled the gutter and pulled it a good foot away from the roof.

That was rotten luck. Surprising too. He’d only replaced the gutters a couple of years ago. The bolts were new. They should’ve been able to hold up through the winter, even in a blizzard like this.

The ladder was in the shed in the backyard. Mark slipped around the house, keeping a safe distance from the bottom of the gutter. His boot landed on the handle of a rake, pushing it deeper into the snow. He stopped.

He hadn’t used the rake in months. Plus, it should’ve been in the shed. And it was lying on top of the snow, which didn’t make any sense. Footprints in the snow led away from the house and out through the yard.

The rake. The gutter. Wouldn’t have taken much effort to use the one to drag down the other.

Mark had never been one to anger quickly, but it rose in him then. If this was the work of some neighborhood kids, he’d make sure they had a long uncomfortable night in the station cell.

A gust of wind blasted over the house, pulling a spray of snow from the eaves. The bent gutter creaked and groaned and finally cracked, dropping a load of snow onto his back and shoulder, throwing Mark to the ground.

“Dammit. For crying out loud.”

He dragged himself out of the snow, brushing the ice from his coat.

Anger thickened in his veins. The weather and all its dangers melted. The discovery of the patient’s mutilated body in the woods yesterday was shoved to the back of his mind, something for those FBI folks to concern themselves with. All he could think about was getting his hands on those troublemakers and teaching them a damn good lesson. Like they had nothing better to do than make trouble in weather like this.

The fall had covered much of the footprints, but there were some dips in the snow leading to and around the old apple tree with its big, wide trunk. From there, they seemed to head on toward the shed.

Mark trudged on into his backyard, stomping through the snow. The wind blew. Anger and determination drove him on.

The apple tree was just a few yards away. As he grew closer, he noticed another set of prints circled around behind the tree.

He slowed.

If those kids were hiding, he’d have them now.

“All right, you…” Mark took one long stride and rounded the tree. He stopped, frozen. “Wait. What?”

The figure behind the apple tree’s wide trunk wasn’t one of the kids from the neighborhood. Those brats were small enough to pick up by the scruff of the neck. This person was taller and well-built.

Mark couldn’t see the figure’s face behind the thick scarf. A woolen hat even hid their hair, and the boot that sank into the snow as the intruder stepped toward him was bigger than any kid’s.

Not to mention the neighborhood kids could never—would never—have slashed a blade across his neck that fast.

17

Mark Tully’s body hung lifelessly, like a forgotten marionette. The snow beneath him drank greedily, a growing crimson stain spreading with each slow drip from his open throat.

My breath caught in my chest as I examined his face. Mark. The friend who laughed easily, who once offered warmth in a world that had long since frozen over. The emptiness in his eyes was like an accusation. A whisper of doubt crept through my mind, gnawing at the edges of my certainty.

“You understand, don’t you?” I murmured more to myself than to him. My voice wavered, a thin crack in the brittle night. “This is for you. For all of us.”

The wind tugged at his hair, lifting it like a child’s hand might have done. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing the grief threatening to surface. Mark was gone. Freed. Saved. But the ache in my chest was sharp, a splinter wedged too deep to remove.

Such an odd thing, experiencing two emotions at once.

“He’s free.” My guide’s hand squeezed my shoulder, and I fought not to wince. His voice was steady, a tether in the storm. “You gave him the greatest gift.”

Inhaling deeply, I opened my eyes and nodded, the sting of regret dissolving into cold purpose. My guide was right. Mark was free now—free from the darkness that had been swallowing him whole.

Mark and Laurence, both free. It had been an easier thing to lure Mark out into the world than Laurence, so it seemed like I should have done a better job, because I only needed to focus on the task at hand. There weren’t any extra steps, like getting a small note to Laurence or planting the seeds of salvation in his ear. With Mark, I could concentrate, and yet…I still felt like I hadn’t done a good job.

A gust of wind swept through, sharp and sudden, nearly knocking me back. Mark’s body twisted on the rope, the motion slow and almost gentle, as though he could no longer stand looking in my direction.

The lines of his back came into view, the jagged carvings glaring at me. My breath caught as I gazed in horror at the imperfections, the clumsy symbols etched into his flesh. I reached out and traced the crooked lines, each one a thorn in my side, a reminder that even salvation wasn’t without flaws.

The carvings…they weren’t right. The lines veered off, crooked and clumsy. My teeth ground together as I took a step back, staring at the mess I’d made of his skin. The ancient marks—letters as old as time—were supposed to be perfect. Each symbol a key to salvation, a step closer to redemption. These symbols, these sacred cuts, had purpose. They were the map out of chaos, the light in the darkness. My guide had shown me that.

I had tried to make them perfect. I really had. I’d spent hours practicing on paper and then chicken skins. But I could never achieve the kind of brilliance my guide was capable of. There were no words for how low I felt.

If the symbols weren’t correct, then the ritual could not be completed. But Akkadian cuneiform was such a difficult writing system to manage. It was so foreign. So many of the letters and words looked so alike. The subtlest change could alter the meaning of the word entirely. Like the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug.

And if the meaning was changed, then what I’d done to Mark had been in vain.

He would never be saved.

My thoughts were the deepest black.

“It doesn’t matter.” My guide’s voice was low and steady, sliding into my ear like a warm thread, unraveling my doubt. “The symbols don’t need to be perfect. The blood flows just the same.”

Although my guide always told the truth, I didn’t believe him. Not this time. “No. They’re wrong. I’ve defiled them.”

“You’ve freed him.” His tone was sharper, his expression fierce. “The markings are only the end. The blood was the beginning. You bled him first, as you must. The soul can only escape when the vessel is emptied. The carvings seal his redemption.”

I exhaled, the air a pale cloud. He was right, of course. He was always right. The blood had to flow first, hot and vital, purging sin. The upside-down hanging—that was necessary too. It was what the old gods demanded. The reversal of man, a rejection of the world’s corruption. The draining cleansed.

“He’s clean now,” my guide reminded me. “He’s free.”

I nodded, my hands still trembling. But it wasn’t from the cold. The warmth of Mark’s life had faded, leaving the day brittle and sharp around me. I hoped he understood and was happy now that he was beyond pain, beyond fear. I’d saved him from all that.

But the symbols…they mattered to me. They were my offering, my part in the ritual. They were how I spoke to the old ones, to the truth pulsing beneath the surface of this brittle world.

“There’s no time.” Urgency tightened my guide’s voice. “More must be freed. The tide is rising. We must not delay.”

A shiver curled down my spine, but it wasn’t the cold or even fear. It was anticipation. The tide—the river—of blood was coming. A cleansing flood that would wash away the rot. My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms. We had to set it flowing.

“I know.” All doubt evaporated. “I know who’s next.”

A shadow flickered at the edge of my mind, a face I knew well. Someone still trapped, still drowning in this world’s corruption. They needed me. Needed us. My pulse quickened.

“Good.” His tone was warm and approving. “You’re ready.”

The wind picked up, tugging at the hem of my coat. I turned away from Mark, his vessel swaying gently, as though in agreement. Snowflakes caught in my lashes, cold pinpricks against my skin. The woods whispered around me, voices in the shadows, voices only I could hear. The old ones, waiting.

I wiped the blade clean on the snow, the steel gleaming even in the darkness. It was ready for the next salvation. And so was I.

“They won’t understand. They’ll try to stop me.”

“They always do.” My guide’s expression was soft with pity. “But the righteous walk through the storm while the blind cower beneath their roofs. They will see when the flood reaches their doorsteps.”

I breathed in the icy air scraping my lungs. The metallic tang of Mark’s blood was on the back of my throat. It steadied me, anchored me.

“I’ll save them.” I held my arms out, as if the action would force the words into the universe. “All of them.”

“And you will be saved.” He had a beautiful smile. “Through the blood you spill, the world will be redeemed.”

I smiled too. My fingers traced the handle of the blade, feeling the power it held. The work was hard, but it was holy.

He reached out, gripping my shoulder. “For now, you must remain calm in the presence of others. They must not know of your mission, and you must only speak of the normal things people speak of. The weather. The news. Do you understand?”

I gripped his hand. “I understand. I’ll be what they expect. Dull. Normal. Just like them.”

“Good.” He kissed my cheek. “Hide your fire beneath the ashes. The time will come to let it burn.”

As I walked away from the mortal vessel, my boots crunched over the snow. The darkness of the woods welcomed me, wrapping around me like a cloak. Somewhere ahead, the next soul waited. The next sacrifice, the next salvation.

The tide was rising, and I would not stop until it swept us all clean.

18

Mackenzie Drake drove down Nashville’s I-65. The sun was shining, and Lana Del Rey was crooning on the radio. At that moment, Mac didn’t feel like a special agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigations, an expert in cyber analysis. She felt like a college student again.

For once, she wasn’t stuck behind her desk, clicking icons in software with names as opaque as their contents. She wasn’t trying to crack open a mobile phone or decrypt a secret text message. She was heading to Vanderbilt University to speak with an anthropology expert. But she was going to the campus early, hoping to consult the central library, a place where books were made of paper and answers were found by scanning shelves, not searching databases.

The thought made her strangely excited. Sometimes, the old ways were still powerful.

Besides, she hadn’t gotten very far with all the new technologically savvy ways.

Her search for Laurence Gill’s brother, Frank, and a friend of his called Zach, last name unknown, had come to nothing. She’d found the records of his substance abuse and his two convictions for assault, neither of which had produced serious injury. But there was nothing in the last five years, and he had no known address.

The marks on the victim’s back were potentially the most telling clues.

Mac had never seen anything like the pictures Stella had sent her. None of the cases they’d solved over the last few months and nothing she’d found in the FBI’s records showed anything that came close.

The design the killer had made was so intricate. The lines so delicate. This was no passion-driven slashing of a victim’s body. It wasn’t about hate. Thought had gone into those shapes. They had meaning and reason, even if she had no idea what either of them were.

Just thinking about those marks made her heart race. Stella had given her an old-fashioned code to crack. And she was going to enjoy solving the puzzle, though she was starting with no more than a guess.

Bird footprints.

That was what the marks reminded her of. And with no match for anything else in the database, she figured it was as good a place to begin as any. Those prints had to mean something.

Hence, Vanderbilt University and the expert.

She turned off the highway and parked in the lot closest to the Anthropology building, where they planned to meet. The walk would take about eight minutes, but Mac didn’t mind. The air outside was unusually crisp and fresh, but the cloudless sky was a beautiful bright blue. This was one of those autumn days when her lungs would freeze if she sucked in too much air too fast.

And she was about forty-five minutes early for her meeting, anyway, so she took her time.

Mac strolled on past the dorms. Some students would be in their rooms now, preparing for their afternoon classes or making plans for the weekend. Their career choices were still ahead of them. She might even see some of them in a few years, sitting in the shared office across from hers.

They could certainly do with some new agents. Since Martin’s death, Chloe’s departure, and Hagen and Stella’s leave, they’d been dangerously short-staffed. No wonder Slade wanted Hagen and Stella back as soon as possible.

A blackbird fluttered from the windowsill of a dorm room to land on the sidewalk in front of her. The tops of its wings were decorated with red and yellow bands. Mac waited and watched as the bird hopped through a puddle of dirty water under a drainpipe. Its feet left thin, triangular lines on the sidewalk.

Mac sucked in her cheek. They weren’t an exact match to the marks on the victim’s back, but they were unnervingly close.

At the library, she figured she might spend her time usefully. She asked the student at the reference desk to point her in the direction of books about symbols. The student typed, led Mac through the library, and handed her Man and His Symbols by Carl G. Jung.

She sat at a nearby table. From out of her bag, she took a sketchbook, where she had attempted to recreate the symbols found on the victim’s back. Maybe she could find those red lines and triangular patterns in the book, and maybe that would tell her something.

After a few minutes and a quick flip through the book, she determined she wasn’t going to find it there. She’d need another book.

A voice spoke behind her. “Mūtum.”

Mac replied without thinking. “Bless you.”

She turned to find a tall, slim man in a tweed jacket and a blue tie with a knot too small for the collar of his shirt. His mid-length brown hair flopped from a side parting, and the eyes behind his glasses were a deep, dark brown.

Mac estimated his age at about a year or two above hers, but his clean-shaven cheeks and the way he stood, with a book gripped under one arm, made him look a little younger.

“No.” He pointed at her sketch. “‘Mūtum.’ That’s that mark in your notebook. It’s Akkadian cuneiform, the ancient writing system of Mesopotamia. But it’s upside down. You’ve written it the wrong way.”

“Oh.” Mac closed her sketchbook. She wasn’t supposed to let civilians see pictures from crime scenes. But excitement was growing in her chest.

The marks were cuneiform. Not random scratches. A language.

“What does it mean?”

“It’s ‘death.’” He frowned, peering closely at her. “Are you a student here? I haven’t seen you around.”

“I—”

“Sorry, I’m Werner Solberg.” He tried to stretch out his hand, almost dropped his book, caught it, and tried again. “I’m a PhD student. In the Anthropology department. Akkadian isn’t really my field, but I did look at a few cuneiform tablets at Yale. You’d be surprised how often they talk about death. You need any help?”

Mac shook his hand. He had a strong grip, but not too strong, and his fingers wrapped neatly around the back of her hand. She held on a little longer than she should’ve before releasing him.

“I think I do. I’m Mackenzie Drake. Mac. Looks like I’ve got a text that needs translating.”

Werner smiled. He had a wide smile that appeared quickly and lingered. “Then do you…you know…want to get a coffee? Maybe? My Akkadian’s pretty basic, but I might know someone who knows more.”

“Can you give me an hour or so? I’m meeting someone, and it’s rude to cancel. Let me double-check with him.” Mac texted the expert to see if he’d be ready soon.

The responding text came back. Apologies. Need to reschedule. Family emergency.

Apparently, it wasn’t rude to cancel on her.

Mac mentally rolled her eyes as she texted back. I hope your family is okay. Talk soon.

She slipped the phone into her pocket next to her badge. “Looks like I’m free, actually.”

Werner grinned. “Perfect.”

She followed Werner out of the library. The bookshelves hadn’t given her what she wanted, and the expert had fallen through, but she was pleased to still find answers.

And smart, handsome, dark-eyed guys called Werner.

19

Hagen sat in a booth at Dottie’s Diner, where he gripped a mug of coffee and placed his face over the rising steam. Warmth came slowly back to his cheeks, a sensation he doubted he’d ever feel again. The ice that had settled across the top of his brow dripped onto the table.

Doherty “Dottie” Perkins hovered over his and Stella’s table, a full pot of coffee in his liver-spotted hands. His white apron was stainless above his pink-and-green flannel, and his gray hair was piled neatly beneath his hat. The owner of Dottie’s Diner was in his early seventies and was fond of hinting that he was ex-Hell’s Angels. The old biker was thin as a willow branch, but just as difficult to break, Hagen imagined.

“You gonna drink that coffee, bud, or inhale it?”

Hagen lifted his face from the steam. The snow had grown heavier as they’d ridden into town from the hospital, and the wind had picked up too. So although the diner’s heating was on full blast, even moving an inch from the rim of the mug brought back the chill. “If you can pour it into a big enough tub, I’ll swim in it.”

Dottie took the chance to top him off. “Tell you what, why don’t you start by pouring that coffee into that big body of yours? Get yourself all warmed up from the inside. If you want any more, you holler. How’s your hot chocolate?”

Stella lifted her mug, which was topped with at least an inch of whipped cream and a scribble of chocolate syrup. She grinned. “Surprised you’re open today. Can’t imagine you’ll have too many customers in weather like this.”

Apart from Hagen and Stella’s booth, every table was empty, every stool at the bar unused.

Dottie pursed his lips. “I haven’t closed the doors on this place since I opened them forty-three years ago. A sprinkle of snow won’t make me shut up shop now.”

A gust of wind rattled the doors and whistled past the window. Snow splattered against the glass. Dottie returned to the kitchen.

Hagen sipped his coffee. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying riding that snowmobile. But how anyone would want to put up with this weather year after year beats the heck out of me.”

Stella smiled. “Be good to get back to Nashville, huh?”

Hagen hadn’t thought so until now, but he was starting to miss the place. He could even put up with the summer heat. “I guess. While Slade still remembers our names.”

“And not to spit when he hears them. I can’t say we’re doing a great job whittling down the list of suspects, like he told us to.”

“No.” Hagen took a long drink. Not for the first time, He was surprised at how good the coffee was, for a diner in the middle of nowhere. “Whoever did it would need to have been strong enough to handle the weather, kill Laurence Gill, and string him up. That would point to Kenneth, but of course, his alibi checks out.”

She dug her spoon into the cream. “I don’t think you’d need to be a weightlifter on steroids to deal with Laurence. He was a small guy. Ann could’ve done it.”

Hagen scratched his cheek. Stella had told him what she’d overheard as they’d gotten back to the snowmobile outside the hospital. But what it meant, they were still puzzling out.

“I guess Ann could’ve done it, but she doesn’t have a motive. Or at least, none that we can see now. Do you think another patient could’ve been responsible?”

“Let’s think this through.”

“I think we can rule out Lottie. I doubt she could even lift the rope.”

“Yeah.” Stella dug another scoop out of the whipped cream towered on her hot chocolate. “And if we rule her out on account of her size and age, we can probably rule out most of the people we saw in that room. At least acting alone. I doubt any of them had the strength to string up a dead body by themselves.”

When she scraped the cream off the spoon with her tongue, Hagen thought she looked like a child slowly working her way through an oversize cake as she continued.

“What I’d really like to do is get a sniffer dog in that facility and a team with UV wands. We find spots of blood anywhere, we crack this case.”

Hagen grinned. “I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t think Bubs would cut it as a sniffer dog. The only thing he sniffs is lampposts. I doubt the sheriff has any UV gear, and even if he did, that place looks clean. They were washing the floor when we got there. I don’t think bloodstains would last very long.”

“So we have zero suspects. Well, there’s anyone who’s employed by the psychiatric hospital. Ann, Fiona, Sam, Celia the cook, the old man at the front desk. But for all of them, we’re really grasping at straws, if you ask me.”

“Then it’s someone outside the hospital.”

“Dr. Silow said Laurence never requested to leave the facility. He certainly didn’t look the type to have made enemies in the town that fast.”

Hagen finished his coffee quickly. The last mouthful had dropped from hot to warm. “There’s his brother and⁠—”

He was interrupted by a blast of freezing air. The door had burst open, and David Broad stood in the entrance. Despite his large size, even he couldn’t stop the icy wind whistling around the diner, twirling the redundant ceiling fans and knocking the menu holders onto their sides.

Dottie hollered from behind the counter. “Will you close that thing? You’re letting all the warm air out.”

The journalist swung the door closed behind him with a flick of his wrist. He strode toward the counter, but when he saw Hagen and Stella in the booth by the wall, he changed direction. Sliding onto the bench next to Hagen, he pulled down the hood of his coat and rested his elbows on the table.

“You’re those out-of-towners helping Doug and Mark, aren’t you? I saw you at the coroner’s office. Do you mind?” He dug into the pocket of his coat and extracted a notebook little bigger than a postage stamp and the stub of a pencil about the size of his thumb. The end had been chewed into a ragged strip, and the point was almost entirely blunt. He proffered it to them.

Hagen recoiled from the stink of tobacco and tequila that seemed to ooze from the journalist’s beard, breath, and coat. “Um, yes. Don’t record this. We’re off the record here.”

“Sure. We’re just chatting.” Broad flipped the grimy notebook on the table, uncomfortably close to Hagen’s coffee. “You’re not from around here, not with those accents. I hear you’re FBI? What can you tell me?”

Though empty, Hagen inched his coffee cup away. “Nothing. What can you tell us?”

“Me? Just what I heard. A mutilated body in the woods. Is that right? Have we got a killer in the town?”

Stella leaned toward him, then immediately pulled back, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “How’d you hear that? Bar’s closed. We’re the only ones in the diner. Where are people talking?”

Broad snorted. “You think being stuck at home would stop people talking in this town? Place like this, even death won’t shut them up. Phones are still working, and nothing’s going to stop their tongues. What can you tell me?”

“I can tell you to go away.”

“Aw, come on now. What have you found? You close to catching the killer?”

His gaze darted from Stella to Hagen and back again.

Hagen, sliding to the end of the bench, sized him up. There was an intensity in the way the journalist pressed his questions that bothered him. And David Broad was a big guy. Laurence Gill could’ve sat on him and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Tell me something, Broad. Where were you on Wednesday around midday?”

“Where was I?” Broad’s thick eyebrows rose. “Wow, you guys have nothing, do you? So there is a killer out there. What are you looking for?”

“A big murderer who kills people. So where were you?”

The tip of Broad’s pencil hovered over his tiny notebook. “Great quote. Thanks.”

Hagen held his hand up. “Don’t use it. Tell me where you were. Then get lost.”

“I—”

His hood rose up the back of his head, as Dottie pulled him out of the bench by the top of his coat. “What have I told you about coming in here and bothering people? Go on, out!”

Broad stood, and Dottie prodded him in the shoulder. He marched toward the entrance of the diner and yanked open the door. A flurry of snow landed on the doormat. Broad spat his answer over his shoulder. “I was at home. Getting drunk.”

He slammed the door behind him.

Dottie tutted. “That man. I swear, if he doesn’t drink himself to death one of these days…”

“You sure it’s a good idea to send him out in that?” Stella winced as the wind rattled a loose tile on the roof. “Wouldn’t want any accidents.”

“Don’t you worry about him. David Broad is so pickled, his blood’s probably ninety proof. Practically got antifreeze flowing in his veins.” He refilled Hagen’s cup. “Besides, he only lives next door.”

He headed back to the kitchen, and Hagen returned to his position on the bench. A faint odor of alcohol lingered in the air.

“I feel like we’re adding to the list of suspects, not cutting it back.”

Stella pushed her mug away. It was still half full. “Maybe. But we still don’t have a motive.”

“I’d like to know where Laurence’s brother is and that friend, Zach. He might be able to tell us more about Laurence’s life before he was hospitalized. I take it you haven’t heard anything from Mac.”

Stella checked her messages. “Nothing.”

There was a note of disappointment in her voice and a touch of surprise. She was expecting her friend to come through.

Hagen tapped his fingers on the table. “You know, we might be going about this all wrong. We’re thinking like FBI agents.”

“How should we be thinking?”

“This is a small town, so maybe we should think like small-town cops. First principles. Start with the usual suspects. Most murders are performed by people who know the victim.” He flattened his palm on the tabletop. “If you were a cop in this town, in any town, investigating a serious crime, where would you begin?”

Stella thought for a moment. “But this isn’t a usual crime. This is⁠—”

“A murder. Committed by a murderer who, if not a patient at a psychiatric hospital, had a motive, means, and opportunity. And who probably has something in their background that gives them away.”

Hagen pulled out his phone and dialed. Sheriff King took no more than two rings before he answered.

“Sheriff, I know you said there was no crime in Claymore Township, but I just wanted to confirm. Anyone in this town have a history of violence?”

“Like I said, not really. We had one guy, Jake Griggs. Used to hit his wife after he’d had a few. She left him eventually, and he moved away. That was a few years back.”

“He hasn’t returned?”

“Nope. That’s why I didn’t mention it.”

“And no one else? You’re telling me this town’s really that quiet?”

At the end of the line, Sheriff King sighed. “This is a small place. Look, there was one young man who came in from Pittsburgh trying to sell some fentanyl last spring. A bunch of the guys got together. Spread his nose across his face and ran him out of town.” He chuckled. “I gave them a slap on the wrist and told them to hit harder next time. They’re good guys. This thing? It’s a whole other world.”

Hagen believed Sheriff King. Some people got a taste for blood. But there was a big gap between a bunch of guys giving each other the courage to deal with an out-of-town drug dealer and the kind of violence meted out against Laurence Gill. They needed to go back further.

“We need to know more about the victim. Dr. Silow mentioned he’d been picked up by the police, and he’d been arrested before in Philadelphia. Can you see who bailed him out? If it was his friend Zach, we might be able to track him down and get a better grip on Laurence’s life.”

“I’ll see what I can find out, though those Philly boys aren’t always so forthcoming with us small-town sheriffs. But maybe I’ll have something for you before you come over. The wife’s got a whole spread waiting for you.”

Hagen checked his watch. He’d forgotten the sheriff had invited them for lunch. Lucky he’d called.

“Great. See you soon.”

20

The sheriff’s house lay just off Main Street. It was larger than most of the homes in the town, with two stories and a backyard that merged with the hillside and drifted into the tree line in the distance. The snow on the front steps had been trodden down, then refilled and trodden down again, but it hadn’t been cleared.

Stella assumed Sheriff King was waiting for the storm to stop before he shoveled his share of the sidewalk. She could imagine him recognizing his civic responsibilities before finding a reason to avoid them.

She followed Hagen carefully to the door, slipping on the ice beneath the snow.

The sheriff greeted them in his uniform. A brown wool cardigan covered his shirt, though the air in the house was as thick and warm as freshly baked bread. The edge of his badge was just visible beneath the cardigan’s zipper, and his gun hung on his hip. He might’ve been in his own house, but he was still the sheriff, on duty and ready for the call.

“Come on in, before we let the heat out.”

Stella followed Hagen inside and waited while the sheriff closed the door. He pointed at their shoes.

“Better leave those on the rack. Maureen wouldn’t want you dragging snow onto the carpet.”

Stella placed her hiking boots on the rack behind the door. Ice dropped from their soles to land in small piles on the rubber mat beneath. She set her helmet and goggles on the mat itself. Finally, she hung up her fleece jacket and her holster with her service weapon on the standing coat rack.

“You’re working from home today, Sheriff?”

Sheriff King rocked on his heels. His thick, winter socks had a small hole by the big toe.

“If I don’t have to take a step outside that front door all day, I’ll be very happy. Got Mark going around to the houses, making sure everyone’s okay. And there’s not much I can’t do without a phone and an internet connection. Heck, if those city folks can work from home anytime they don’t feel like getting in their cars, don’t see why I can’t do the same thing when a blizzard blows through the town and sends everyone indoors.”

Hagen added his shoes and other outdoor gear next to Stella’s. “The police should set an example.”

The sheriff pointed at him. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Stella tried to imagine Slade taking a snow day and found the image too ridiculous. Even after his injury in the trailer park, he’d been back at the office within days, a large white bandage hiding the stitches Ramirez’s trap had given him. She wasn’t sure if Sheriff King was smart, sensible, or just plain lazy in a town whose slow ways had been its biggest draw.

The kitchen door opened, bringing with it an odor of soup thick enough to spoon out of the air. Sheriff King was a full six-four in his socks, but the woman who emerged from the kitchen was only a couple of inches shorter. And only an inch or two came from the pile of dark curls that ran from the top of her head to her shoulders. She had a round face that matched her strong build and, despite the cold air outside, was wearing a t-shirt under her denim apron that was too tight on her wide arms.

Sheriff King introduced her.

“This is my wife, Maureen. This is Stella and Hagen.”

Maureen wiped her fingers on her apron, then offered her hand. Her grip was stronger than Stella expected, and she held on so long that Stella suppressed the urge to pull away.

“You’re that couple who’s been staying up at McAllister’s old cabin the last couple months. I heard his kids were renting it out. His daughter’s a Taurus, you know.” Maureen’s eyes twinkled as she sized up Stella. She had friendly eyes that made her look ready to listen and understand. Though her last comment was a bit of a non sequitur.

“Do you mean like astrology?”

Maureen didn’t appear to hear Stella’s response. “It’s nice up there. Nothing grand, but comfortable. Especially for a young couple like yourselves.”

Stella smiled. “It is. We’ll be heading home soon, but we’ve had a wonderful time here.”

“The McAllisters built that cabin back in ninety-one. I was in high school.” Maureen stood straight. “But Doug tells me you’re helping him out with some case of his. The death of a patient at the sanatorium?”

The sheriff stiffened. The movement was slight. But just enough to inform Stella that he hadn’t told his wife the details of Laurence Gill’s death. He might work from home occasionally, but he knew better than to turn his home into his work.

Her father had done the same. Her mom would never get more than the most basic details of the crimes he was investigating.

Stella wasn’t going to tear down the walls Sheriff King had constructed.

That said, he hadn’t told Dr. Bill Silow that Laurence Gill had been murdered, so maybe withholding pertinent information was a character trait.

“That’s right. Hopefully, we’ll have it all figured out soon enough.”

“I do hope so. Those poor patients have hard enough lives already.” She hooked a thumb over her meaty shoulder. “If you’ll just excuse me. I’ve still got the lunch to finish up.”

Sheriff King clapped a hand on the back of Hagen’s neck and guided him inside. Stella trailed behind them.

The living room was larger than her entire studio apartment. A set of French windows opened onto what had to be a garden in the summer, which ended in a shed at the end of a snow-covered yard before disappearing, unfenced, to the hills in the distance. A small desk in front of the windows held an old computer screen on which the emblem of the Claymore Township Sheriff’s Office glowed against a blue background. Sheriff King really had been working from home.

A round table under the front window facing the road had been set for five. The tablecloth and paper napkins folded neatly under the cutlery made the meal look much too formal for a midweek working lunch.

Stella drew in a long breath. This wasn’t the time for something that looked like a shrunken Thanksgiving dinner.

The sheriff perched on the arm of the sofa and turned to Hagen. “So I talked to Philly. Laurence Gill was bailed out twice by a guy named Zach Piper. I checked his record. Piper’s been arrested three times for assault.”

Stella resisted the urge to give a small whoop of joy. Someone outside the hospital who knew and hated Laurence might be just the solution they needed.

“I also talked to one of Laurence’s arresting officers.” The sheriff folded his arms. “He said he remembered the pair of them arguing inside the police station after Piper bailed him out. The fight got kinda heated. He had to warn them he’d be putting them in separate cells if they didn’t take their trouble somewhere else.”

“You have an address?”

“Uh-huh.” Sheriff King scratched his chin. “He’s somewhere off the coast of Jamaica. Working on a cruise ship. Unless that ship took a diversion to Lake Erie, it wasn’t him.”

Stella bit the inside of her cheek. Sheriff King had gotten her hopes up only to knock them straight down.

The sheriff checked his watch. His face folded, and he threw a dark look in the direction of the kitchen.

“I don’t know what’s taking Maureen so long. Stella, why don’t you go see if she needs any help? Otherwise, we won’t be eating ’til suppertime.”

He laughed, and Stella had a strong urge to punch his teeth in through his mustache. If Sheriff King had anything to say about the case, he should say it to her too. She wasn’t going to be kept in the clubhouse while the men talked business on the green.

The look she gave Hagen had all the force of a well-struck three iron.

Hagen headed toward the door. “I’ll go.”

“No, no. You stay here and sit.” Sheriff King grabbed Hagen’s elbow and nudged him down onto the couch. “Let the ladies talk in the kitchen. I’m sure we gents can find plenty to chat about, huh?”

Stella clenched her jaw so tight, her teeth squeaked. The last time a colleague tried to shunt her away in the kitchen, she’d been barely three months in uniform and on a stakeout in a rented apartment. Her colleague had regretted his request, first when he’d eaten what she’d made in that kitchen. And later, when she’d told him exactly what she thought about his request as he tried to wash the chili powder off his tongue.

But she doubted Sheriff King had anything more interesting to say about the case. His wife might have insights about the town they could use.

“Sure, I’ll go see if Maureen needs any help. But I warn you, Sheriff, if you two start gabbing about the Real Housewives of New Jersey, he’ll talk your ears off.”

“Is that right?” Sheriff King grinned. “So who’s your favorite housewife, Hagen? I just love that Teresa.”

As Hagen stammered out that he’d never actually seen the show, Stella made her way to the kitchen.

The door was open, and Maureen was standing in front of the sink. As Stella paused in the doorway, the sheriff’s wife tilted her head back, lifted a glass of water, and swallowed. She sighed. Two pill bottles stood on the counter next to her, one orange and one white. Stella tried to see what she was taking, but the labels faced the window and the print she could see was too small to read.

“Just wanted to see if you needed a hand,” Stella called out, as though she’d only just arrived.

Maureen jumped and spun around. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and her mouth hung still slightly open.

Stella lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. I don’t mean to⁠—”

“Oh, no. That’s fine.” The surprise vanished, and warmth returned to Maureen’s face. She took another sip of water and slid the bottles along the counter away from Stella.

“Multivitamins. I started taking them when I played varsity volleyball and never lost the habit. I swear, they’re the best thing to stay fit and strong.” She ran her eyes over Stella’s slim form. “Not that I need to tell you anything about that. You look like you could run a marathon in, what? Less than four hours, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Me neither. Running was never my thing. Closest I ever came to a marathon was trying to watch all three Godfathers in one sitting. You ever seen them?”

“Yes, I⁠—”

“I slept right through the third one.” Maureen took a large knife and began attacking a bunch of parsley on a chopping board that lay on the counter. Stella asked again if she needed any help, but Maureen shook her head, setting her curls dancing between her broad shoulders.

“Just a little company. I don’t think Doug’s spent more than ten minutes total in this kitchen since we moved in here thirty years ago. You can talk to me while I finish up. There’s some wine by the stove and some glasses in this cupboard, if you want to help yourself.”

An open bottle of white wine stood near a bubbling pot that was sending a strong, meaty smell through the house. Stella took a glass and gave herself a splash.

“Pour you some as well?”

“No, no. Been helping myself all morning. Cook’s privilege. I swear, if Doug knew how much of his wine went into the food and how much went into me when I cook…well, he’d buy much cheaper wine for one thing.”

She laughed loudly. It sounded forced, as though she knew she was supposed to show she was having fun, even when she wasn’t. Stella buried her face in her wine glass and sipped. The wine was good.

“Thirty years here, huh? You grow up here?”

“Claymore Township born and bred. Went to the local high school. Taught there for more than thirty years, too, before I took early retirement. That was, oh, a few months back now.”

“Wow. Small-town woman.”

“Oh, yeah. Not too many of us still here.” Maureen lifted the chopping board and scraped the parsley into the pot. “Most people in Claymore Township are like the McAllister kids, your landlords. They move out to the city as soon as they can. Maybe they come back here for vacation in the summer. Parents often follow them eventually, to be near the grandkids.”

“And your husband’s from here too?”

Maureen smiled as she stirred the pot. “We were high school sweethearts. And Bill up at the sanatorium, he’s from here too. You met him, right?”

Stella nodded.

“He and Doug go way back. I’ve probably got some photos around here somewhere of the two of them in onesies.”

“From last year?”

“I wish!” Maureen threw her head back and laughed even louder. The sound grated on Stella’s ears. “I’d frame that picture and put it on the wall. No, they’re childhood friends, those two.” She gave Stella a lopsided grin. “The psychiatrist and the sheriff. It would make a good sitcom, wouldn’t it?”

She picked up some sprigs of thyme and basil and marjoram and gathered them together. Taking a length of twine from a drawer, she wrapped the string around the stems. “These won’t keep unless I dry them, and we won’t get fresh now that winter’s settled in.”

With a look of intense concentration, Maureen looped the twine around the stems. But, when she went to tie it, the stems fell onto the counter. “Can you give me a hand here? I was never very good at tying knots.”

Stella put down her wine and tied the thread with a double bow.

Maureen took the bundle of herbs. “Thank you. I’m all fingers and thumbs these days. I should’ve been a scout like Doug was.” She laid the bunch of herbs to one side. “I’ll hang that up later. Not as good as fresh, but a shame to waste it. Once it’s dry, I’ll put it away in Tupperware. Can’t beat Tupperware.” She waved toward where a neat pile of plastic boxes made a small tower on the counter. “Do you like cooking, Stella? I’m sure you do.”

“Me? No. It’s Hagen who⁠—”

“Oh, yes. Men do like their barbeques, don’t they?” She waved an imaginary spatula and growled. “‘Give me fire!’”

Stella forced a smile. “Yeah, that’s Hagen all right.”

“I’ll give you some recipes. I have some good ones I’ve clipped out of magazines and printed from websites. Good old-fashioned bakes and pies. Doug just loves them. We can go over them together if you want.”

“Sure. Maybe later.”

Maureen smiled. “It’s a date.”

She pulled on a pair of oven mitts, opened the oven, and removed a tray of roast potatoes. They steamed and crackled, and when she dumped them into a large bowl, the needles of rosemary released their sharp aroma. Maureen handed the bowl to Stella.

“Now why don’t you take this through? I’ll bring the pot.”

Carrying the bowl, Stella returned to the living room, a slight spring in her step as she walked away from that conversation.

Hagen was already sitting at the table, and the sheriff was with him. Hagen looked up as she came in, and his eyes seemed to search hers for the contents of the conversation she’d just had. He must’ve known she’d asked about the town and tried to learn something that could help the investigation.

She liked that he knew her so well. She also wished he’d spent time with Maureen instead of her. Stella placed the bowl of potatoes in the middle of the table on a blue silicone mat.

“So what have you two been talking about? Teresa and Luis again? I told you, Hagen, it’s old news. Let it go.”

Hagen cast an eye over the potatoes. “I’d like to say I wish I knew who they were, but unless they’re a pair of serial killers, I really don’t care.”

Sheriff King stabbed a potato with a fork and chewed. He looked like an old hamster, with his full cheeks and his white whiskers. “I was just telling Hagen about Ann Mayhew, the nurse up at the hospital.”

Hagen caught her eye. “She and Deputy Tully were an item for a while. They were dating.”

“Wow, so you guys did gossip while I was out of the room.” Stella slid into the chair next to Hagen. “Good for you. But I’m surprised Mark never told us about it during one of those nights at the bar.”

“He’s a pretty closed book when it comes to his personal life. But it was big gossip in the town when they started going out.” A small piece of potato stuck to the bottom of his mustache. “There was even more gossip when they broke up. They were only together for a couple of months or so. But I think, for Mark, it felt like a couple of years.” He speared another potato. “Mark reckons that woman’s crazier than some of her patients.”

He laughed, seemingly happy with his comparison.

Stella rested her elbows on the table and looked at him. “Why’d he say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ll need to ask Mark that one. I’m sure he’d be happy to tell you all the thousand nutty ways of Nurse Ann.”

Stella glanced at Hagen. They had shared beers with Tully a few times in the town bar. Tully had told them about the area and the hiking trails and mentioned how much he loved the place and what a great town Claymore Township was to raise kids. But he’d never mentioned Ann. The relationship must’ve left a scar he didn’t want to touch.

Once again, she wondered about the odd conversation she’d overheard between Ann and Kenneth at the hospital. It hadn’t sounded like anything to do with Tully. “Do you know when they stopped dating?”

“Oh, a while ago. At the beginning of the summer, I think.”

Maureen came in, carrying a giant closed pot with her oven mitts. Sheriff King leaned out of the way, and Maureen lowered the pot into place. The sheriff checked his watch again.

“Where is Mark anyway? He should be here by now.”

He took out his phone and dialed. His expression didn’t change. The phone remained next to his ear. After a few moments, he hung up.

“Strange. Not like him not to pick up when I call. I’m not Ann.” He let out a guffaw that no one echoed.

Maureen peeled off her oven mitts. “Maybe the weather’s interfering with the connections.”

Sheriff King nodded. “Could be.” He turned to Hagen. “He only lives a few houses down. Why don’t I get my snowmobile out? We’ll see if we can’t rustle him up.”

Stella stood. The thought of talking about pies and Tupperware made the snow look positively inviting. “I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t be long now.” Maureen lifted the lid from the chicken soup. “The food will get cold.”

The sheriff began putting on his winter jacket. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll hurry back.”

Stella and Hagen followed suit. Maureen had a strange, concerned look on her face, and it was directed right at Hagen’s thin jacket. “Son, is that what you’re planning on wearing in this weather?”

Hagen tugged at his zipper. “Yeah, not too much snow where we come from.”

Maureen shook her head and crossed to the closet by their front door. “That won’t do at all. Here, take this.” She opened it and handed him a thick parka from the rack within. “It’s my old one. I reckon we’re about the same size.”

Hagen hesitated, but Maureen pressed the garment into his hand. “Go on. You can return it when you head back south.”

He tugged on the new coat and zipped it up. “Wow. We’d better get outside. I’m starting to sweat in here.”

21

With his helmet and goggles firmly fastened, and his service weapon secured in its holster, Hagen mounted his snowmobile and waited for Stella’s arms to wrap around his waist again. They followed Sheriff King down the empty, snow-packed road. The wind had picked up, and visibility was no more than twenty yards. A fresh squall was already beginning to cover the tracks Stella and Hagen had made earlier.

Even despite the goggles, Hagen squinted against the cold. With his new coat, riding the snowmobile was even more thrilling with Stella’s close hug, and he could’ve gone for hours. When Sheriff King pulled up outside the small, one-story home only a couple hundred yards down the road, a twinge of disappointment twanged through him. Another snowmobile stood out front—presumably belonging to Deputy Tully—but no lights were on in any of the windows, despite the midday gloom.

Hagen jumped off the vehicle and removed his helmet. Most likely, Tully had come home after a tiring morning and fallen asleep on the sofa.

They trudged through the snow to the door. The sheriff knocked loudly. There was no reply. Sheriff King said something, but the wind whipped away his words.

Hagen leaned over the sheriff’s shoulder and brought his ear closer. The sheriff shouted again, “I said he’s probably forgotten all about lunch. Forgetful little…”

A gust drowned out the rest of the sentence. Sheriff King pushed past Hagen and lifted a flowerpot next to the mat. A small silver key glittered on the paving stone. He pushed the key into the lock with a grin. “Let’s wake him up.”

Hagen and Stella followed the sheriff inside.

The house was cold. The lights weren’t on in the living room and neither was the heat. Tully wasn’t sprawled, exhausted, across his black leather sofa. The oversize television attached to the wall was off.

They all wandered into the kitchen, which was also dark. If Tully had returned and made himself a hot drink to recover from all the door-knocking, the smell of coffee had long dissipated.

Hagen touched his hand to the kettle. Sure enough, it was cold. So were the oven and the range. He turned in a small circle, taking in the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and the leaky faucet that dripped. Something was off here. By instinct, his hand moved to his weapon. But he didn’t take it out of its holster.

“That was Mark’s snowmobile outside, right?”

Sheriff King nodded. “Sure was.” He raised his voice. “Mark? You home? Mark?”

“Why don’t you call him again?”

The sheriff nodded and wandered into the living room to make the call.

Outside the kitchen window, the wind whistled through the creaking pine trees. Hagen looked out onto the desolate, snow-covered town. If they had any sense, the people of Claymore Township would all be huddled snugly indoors, cuddling up under blankets on couches by the fire.

The blizzard just wouldn’t stop.

What if it never stops?

Hagen imagined the snow piling up higher against the houses so that the windows were covered, and then the rooftops, until finally the chimneys were subsumed. The snow would keep falling and falling until the weight of the frozen water collapsed all the little homes, flattening them. And then the trees would be covered, and then the mountains.

The snow would fall until there was nothing but white and cold.

Despite seeing the most heinous and gruesome crimes, in that moment, Hagen could imagine nothing so terrible as that kind of burial.

Stella sidled up to him, snaking her arm around his waist. “Really makes you appreciate the South, huh?”

Hagen shivered despite her warm touch. “I’ll say. As much as I’ve enjoyed being here with you, I think I’m ready for some sun.”

The sheriff’s voice called from the other room. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Hagen rested against the kitchen countertop. It was cold to the touch. Clearly, no one had been inside this house for a few hours, at least. But then, why was Tully’s snowmobile outside?

As he moved back to the living room, the sinking feeling in Hagen’s gut dipped lower.

Sheriff King pointed to a closed door. “His bedroom’s right through here. Mark?” The sheriff knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he called out again. “Hey, Mark! We’re coming in, I hope you’re decent.”

He opened the door. Hagen and Stella followed him inside. The bed was still unmade, the covers piled on one side, but there was no one there.

The sheriff put his fists on his hips. “Now where the heck is⁠—”

Stella took in a sharp breath.

“There.” She pointed through a window into the backyard.

The snow lay in a thick white sheet across a lawn that spread to a small wooden toolshed in the far-left corner. A barren apple tree dominated the other side of the yard.

A rope was attached to the trunk. The line ran up and over a branch.

Suspended above a wide circle of blood-soaked snow, the naked body of Deputy Mark Tully swung upside down in the wind.

22

Stella grabbed at Sheriff King’s coat as he threw open the patio door to race toward the corpse.

“No. No, no, no.”

The sheriff was strong and heavy, and he slipped out of her grip, falling on his chest into the snow.

“Maaa-aark!” he cried as he scrambled to his feet. His arms flailed, and he fell again, right on the footprints that ran from the side of the house to his deputy’s body.

Hagen pinned the sheriff’s arms to the ground. “Doug, stop! You’ll destroy the scene.”

Sheriff King tried to throw Hagen off, but the FBI agent was younger, stronger, and more experienced at pinning people. The sheriff stopped struggling. He lay face down in the snow, panting. Steam rose from his mouth as he worked to catch his breath.

Hagen released him.

The sheriff pushed himself to his knees and lifted his head.

With her service weapon in hand, Stella followed his gaze. Hagen unholstered his as well.

Like Laurence Gill, Deputy Mark Tully had been tied by his ankles. His knuckles brushed the top of the blood-soaked snow. His skin was as gray and dull as the clouds. His back was covered in bloody scratches that reached the top of his buttocks. Though he faced away from them as the wind pushed him gently back and forth, it was obvious he was dead.

Stella pressed down on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

With her phone in hand, she approached the body, taking care not to step in the blood beneath the branch or disturb the deep blood-tinged boot prints that led from the side of the house to the tree. The snow was trodden down next to the trunk, so that the pink prints became a single field, and Stella struggled to tell whether there was one set, two, or more.

Blood had sprayed across the trunk of the tree where his neck had been sliced.

The carvings on Deputy Tully’s back were similar to those on Laurence Gill’s, but the lines were longer, the patterns larger, and the range of marks was more limited. The same four or five patterns repeated across the deputy’s ribs. The carvings looked clumsier, but the idea was the same.

As Stella photographed the scene, Hagen drew up next to her.

“I don’t think there’s any need to check for a pulse. Look at the carvings on his back. They seem much sloppier than the markings we found on Laurence’s back. Maybe the killer was in a hurry this time.”

“Maybe. But we’re also in town, not out in the woods. Killer might’ve been worried about being disturbed. Maybe a neighbor seeing them.”

“Then why do it?” Hagen bent closer to the body. “The doc said Laurence was dead when these marks were made. Once a job’s done, criminals tend to run.”

Stella examined the scratches. “I guess they mean something to the killer. A part of the act. It’s not just the kill that matters. This stuff does too.”

“You’re thinking ritual? Like some kind of satanic murder?” Hagen made a low whistle. “Haven’t heard about one of those in a long time.”

A wave of nausea rolled through Stella’s stomach. Ritual killings could get very sadistic indeed. She hoped they weren’t dealing with some kind of cult.

A stifled choke came from the sheriff, who was still kneeling in the snow.

Stella ignored him. She had to. She circled the patch of blood that had turned the ground beneath the tree pink, until she was standing in front of the body.

Despite his position, a tuft of the deputy’s short hair was stuck to his forehead. The slash across his throat was as wide and long as the cut on Laurence Gill’s neck. Blood had run through Tully’s thin beard to pool in his nostrils and drip off the tops of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. More stained his chest beneath the cut, darkening the skin under the mat of brown fuzz between his pecs. A trail ran all the way down him to his legs.

On her phone, Stella brought up the picture of Laurence Gill. Blood covered the upper part of the victim’s thighs. And yet both bodies had hung upside down.

“Hagen, look at this.”

Hagen stood behind her and peered at her screen, his gaze flicking between the corpse on the screen and the body that swung in front of them.

“I see. Blood ran down their thighs before it flowed over their heads. They were killed standing up. The doc said there were no other wounds, so⁠—”

“So a quick slash to the throat, blood poured down, then both victims fell to the ground. They were stripped quickly, then hung up to bleed out.” Stella pointed to the side of the shed at the back left of Mark’s yard, where a small bundle of something was covered in a thin dusting of snow. “There are his clothes.”

Hagen walked away from the scene and crouched in front of them.

“The snow’s not even a quarter inch deep on these. Sheriff, when was the last time you spoke to Mark?”

Sheriff King still hadn’t moved. His legs must’ve been numb from cold, but he remained there, half buried in the snow, staring at the body of his dead colleague.

“Sheriff!”

The sheriff shook his head. He seemed to remember where he was.

“Would’ve been…I don’t know…two or three hours ago, maybe.” He pushed himself up and brushed the snow from his knees. “He called. Told me he was stopping by his house to…to fix his gutter. I shoulda…I shoulda offered to help.”

Stella joined Hagen beside the deputy’s clothes.

“Probably happened as soon as he got here. Killer will be long gone now.”

The clothes had been folded neatly as though they’d just washed, ironed, and made ready for someone to slide them into a drawer, just like Laurence Gill’s. But the collar of the shirt was stained with blood, and more splashes decorated the tops of the deputy’s boots.

“His gun’s still here.” Hagen pointed out the belt on the deputy’s pants. The holster hung over the side of the pile, the weapon still in place. The grip was covered with a thin layer of snow.

Stella took a sharp breath. For a law enforcement officer to have been murdered without even the chance to defend himself was the worst, most demoralizing way to go. At least her father had been found with his gun drawn and lying by his side.

She stepped away. The bloody footprints continued through the snow past the shed and down through the trees.

“Hagen.”

She could see that he saw them. He put away his own gun, then drew the deputy’s weapon from the holster and slipped the magazine out.

“Forensics isn’t coming, and even if they were, they wouldn’t find anything.” He checked the rounds, then slammed the magazine into place and called back to Sheriff King. “It’s a full mag. Wait here. We’ll be back soon.”

He returned the deputy’s weapon to its holster, drew his service weapon again, and set off in the direction of the footprints. Stella followed close behind with her Glock in hand.

The footprints passed into a small wood at the end of the property, the blood growing fainter with each step the killer or killers took. The tracks faded in and out as the trees blocked the snow and left open patches on the ground. After a few moments, they emerged on the bank of a small stream that flowed over the rocks and carved a dark path through the snow.

Stella stopped, her hands on her hips. “Dammit. That’s what happened at the other site. Killer must’ve made the approach and getaway through the stream. Hid their footprints.”

Hagen lowered his weapon. “If we had more personnel, we could see where they came out. But which way are we supposed to go? Left? Right? How far?”

“They’ve got maybe an hour lead. Maybe more. Could’ve gone miles.” Stella gazed up and down the creek. “By the time we find where they left the stream, tracks will be gone.”

23

On the way from his home for the last time, Deputy Mark Tully lay slung over the back of Sheriff King’s moving snowmobile. He was wrapped in a tarp tied down by bungee cords, both of which the sheriff had taken from his garage. Even in these difficult conditions, they were mindful not to contaminate the scene unduly.

As they had at Laurence Gill’s crime scene, they took pictures from every aspect and documented everything the best they could. With that done, they sawed the branch holding the body, to maintain the integrity of the knot holding him up.

Hagen followed behind on his snowmobile, Stella clinging to his back.

They might not have access to the specialized equipment at FBI HQ in Nashville, but both he and Stella were determined to go by the book as best they could. It was true, however, that the crime scenes were a mess. They couldn’t control the weather.

It was important to stay positive. They were on a hunt.

The sheriff was light on the throttle. Whether he was moving slowly out of respect or because he didn’t want the deputy to tumble off the snowmobile, Hagen wasn’t sure. But he was grateful for the chance to move slowly and think.

When he’d started chasing Joel Ramirez, he’d had no faith at all in the justice system. Courts were just places where sports were played, arenas in which lawyers sparred and the best competitor with the most powerful rhetoric—and usually the largest fee—won. He was convinced he’d never find justice for his father there.

He’d been wrong. Stella had told him that. Eventually, he’d believed her.

If Hagen hadn’t, if he’d killed Ramirez when he wanted to—outside the safe house where the state was holding him in witness protection—he would’ve been the one facing justice.

When Joel was finally gunned down, it was in self-defense, not because of anger and revenge.

Stella had been right. Ramirez was dead, sure. But justice had been served. His right-hand man, his corrupt fellow cop, Hal McKay, was in a cell, suffering daily, regretting everything he’d done since he’d agreed to go into Joel’s service. And in his guilt, Hal turned over Ramirez’s entire organization and ensured more justice was served.

None of that would’ve happened if Hagen had put two bullets in Ramirez’s skull on that dark night, waiting outside his safe house.

Stella made him a better man. She made the world better. Grateful, he squeezed the hands that held him around the waist.

Somehow, they would find justice again.

Hagen hoped they’d catch Tully’s murderer. And he hoped he wouldn’t have to squeeze a trigger to do it.

Sheriff King slowed to a stop outside the coroner’s office. The key was on his chain. He unlocked the door, then stood aside as Stella and Hagen hauled the deputy into the refrigerated room.

Mark Tully was much heavier than Laurence Gill had been. Carrying the first victim had been like lifting a child. Hagen could’ve carried the body by himself. Tully had the full weight of a well-fed man, someone who’d so recently been full of life, who glugged his beer like a teenager and shoveled peanuts into his mouth by the handful. Someone who should’ve lived so much longer.

They shuffled inside and laid the body next to the frozen sheet containing Laurence Gill.

Stella began to unwrap the tarp covering the deputy.

“Now, just a minute.” The sheriff left the door open slightly. “What do you think you’re doing? Can’t you just leave him in peace?”

Stella didn’t wait. “I want to compare the victims. Hagen, can you open up Laurence Gill for me?”

Hagen undid the tarp that covered the first victim. The movement was like unwrapping a frozen turkey. The body inside was as stiff as a plank, and the skin had turned a sickly shade of bluish-gray, the giant slash across the throat faded from a vivid red to a dull, brownish black.

Sheriff King spun away, his hand over his mouth. Stella asked Hagen to turn the body over.

Side by side, the differences in the marks on the victims’ backs were clear. The patterns were the same. Both were decorated with lines of triangles and arrows and occasional dots. But the shapes carved into Mark’s back were as big as Hagen’s fist while those on Laurence’s back were small and intricate. One was calligraphy, drawn with care. The other was handwriting, scrawled in haste.

Stella stepped away. “I wish I knew what the heck those things are and what they’re for. What was going through the killer’s mind?”

Hagen shivered. The temperature in the coroner’s freezer wasn’t much lower than the temperature outside. But there weren’t any bodies outside, and the sight of the blue-toned corpse sent a chill down his spine. Whatever those marks were for, they weren’t going to find the answer here.

“Let’s get them covered up. When we find the killer, we can ask.”

Stella closed the tarp and placed the rope on top. “If we knew what the killer was thinking, it would be a lot easier to find them.”

They stepped outside. Sheriff King closed the door. His fingers trembled as he turned the lock, and as soon as he was done, he jammed his hand into his coat pocket. His face was pale, and Hagen thought back to the moment they’d learned of Special Agent Martin Lin’s death.

To lose a colleague was every law enforcement officer’s nightmare. Death, which was always near, had grazed him. It had struck a friend, leaving a hole and the ever-aching questions of how it had chosen that colleague and whether he could’ve stopped it.

That was what Sheriff King was experiencing. Through the rest of his service and into his retirement, he would always carry the memory of his fallen deputy with him.

He’d just have to find a way to live with it.

“Sheriff, when Mark called you, what was he doing?”

Sheriff King shuffled his feet in the snow. The wind had died a little, but he hunched his shoulders against the cold.

“I told you this already. He was checking on his gutters. But I had sent him out that morning to knock on doors, make sure everyone was okay. Some of the folks around here, they’ll skimp on their heating to cut their bills or run out of food with the shop closed and all. But they’d be too proud to ask for help. He was just making sure everyone had what they needed.”

Stella gave him an uneasy smile.

Hagen could see that the death of the deputy was getting to her too. Though Mark had been a buddy, they hadn’t known him long.

She’d have been thinking of Martin, too, and dredging up that painful guilt.

“That was a good idea.”

“It was Maureen’s idea. She went out to do the same thing this morning. I don’t know if there was much to it. Doubt anyone around here would’ve asked Mark for help, even if they were huddling around a candle and eating the wax, but he was dedicated. He’s just not…” Sheriff King sniffled. “He was never the type to sit around indoors for long. Soon as I suggested it, he jumped at the chance.”

Hagen pulled off his gloves. He’d been wearing them too long, and despite the cold, wanted some fresh air on his skin. His fingertips were pink and puckered. “What did he say on the phone?”

“Very little. Just that he was going to fix his gutters, and he wouldn’t be long. I reminded him about our lunch, and that was it. That was…that was the last I heard from him.”

“How did he know his gutters needed fixing?”

Sheriff King shook his head. “Someone must’ve called him. Or sent him a message.”

“Someone who was out in the weather this morning?”

“I guess.”

Stella sat sideways on the back of the snowmobile. “We need to know who made that call. His phone is probably still in his uniform. Do you know how he opens it?”

Sheriff King adjusted his hat. He looked tired. The afternoon had barely begun, but he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “He’s got a password. Never liked using the fingerprint thing. Probably…probably his birth date or something. He was never very careful about that stuff. He’ll have it on the computer somewhere.”

Hagen hoped he was right. Cracking the phone could take days. And the sheriff was going to be busy and distracted.

“Does he have family in town?”

Sheriff King buried his face in his hands. “Aw, Christ. No. His folks moved to Pittsburgh a few years back. They wanted to be near his sister. Maureen’ll know where they are.” He dropped his hands and looked up in alarm. “Maureen. She’s…she’s at home. By herself and…and this…this killer’s on the loose.”

Hagen slapped him on the shoulder. “Go. Grab the phone on the way. If you can’t figure out the password, we can get one of our Cyber people to help.”

“That sounds good. What are you going to do?”

“We’ll head back up to the hospital and see if anyone went missing this morning.”

Sheriff King wagged a finger. Color was returning to his face. “That’s a good idea. Check that nurse. Ann. She dated Mark and she was close to the patient. I’m telling you, she’s the link. I always thought there was something off about her.”

Hagen glanced at Stella. The sheriff might have something. The nurse did link both victims.

He pulled on his gloves and raised his hand as Sheriff King mounted his snowmobile.

“Tell Maureen we’re sorry we missed lunch.”

24

Placing her weapon back in its holster, Stella watched the ice spray from the tracks of Sheriff King’s snowmobile as the machine raced away from the coroner’s office. He’d been slow on the journey over from Mark’s house. But without the body draped over the back seat, the sheriff handled his snowmachine like a real competitor. And Stella could imagine him arriving home, running up the frozen steps, bolting the door, and pulling the curtains closed before checking if his wife was okay.

Hagen was already on their machine, waiting for her. As she climbed onto the back seat, about to fasten her helmet and goggles, her phone rang.

She fumbled to locate her cell in her jacket before getting off the snowmobile and answering.

Mac’s voice brought the sounds of Nashville. The rumble of a road on which cars could drive. The honking of trucks. A country singer on the radio declaring she’d recover from her lost love and rebuild her life.

For the first time since she and Hagen had taken their leave, Stella wanted to go home.

“Hey, Mac, what’d you find?”

“Something good, I think.”

The wind gusted fiercely, almost drowning out Mac’s words. Stella huddled against the wall of the coroner’s office.

“Something good, you said? You cracked those marks?”

“The marks? Oh, those. Yeah, maybe. I met a guy.”

Stella’s eyebrows rose. “That’s nice, Mac. But listen, it’s kinda cold out here. Maybe you can fill me in on your love life when I’ve defrosted.”

“I mean I met a guy who might be able to help. I was in the library.” She paused, and the wind howled in her place. “I’d initially thought those marks might’ve been modeled on bird tracks. So I went to look up if they were actually symbols. And if so, what they meant.”

Snow gusted past the wall. Hagen dismounted and joined her next to the building. Huddling against the storm, he mouthed the question, Mac?

Stella nodded. She put the phone on speaker and turned up the volume. “Bird tracks? Really? Never took you for a naturalist, Mac.”

“Yeah, I’m not. Turns out they’re nothing like bird tracks. But, Werner, this guy I met in the library, saw them. He said they’re cuneiform.”

Hagen bent over the phone’s speaker. “Cuneiform? What the heck’s that?”

“Don’t you know anything, Hagen? I thought your folks sent you to some fancy private school.”

Stella raised an eyebrow at Hagen. He hadn’t told her much about the private school he and his sisters had attended. But she knew he’d put most of his effort into sports until his father died, and he discovered a new interest in his grades.

“They did.” Hagen shouted into the phone. A flurry left a light dusting of flakes on the seat of the snowmobile. “I learned to drain beer-pong cups, not master Latin. Let’s hurry this up, Mac. We’re freezing our asses off out here. What’s cuneiform?”

“So according to Werner, it’s an ancient writing script. He thinks this is Akkadian, an empire that was around about…four thousand years ago.”

“So we’re looking for a four-thousand-year-old killer who’s roaming the woods of Pennsylvania, slashing throats and writing messages?” Hagen rested a shoulder against the wall. “I dunno…seems unlikely.”

Stella ignored him. “Did your new friend give you a translation?”

“Not yet. It’s not Werner’s field, but he’s got a friend at the University of Chicago who specializes in this stuff. I’ve sent the pictures over. If he’s right, and those marks are a language, we’ll know what they mean soon.”

Stella took a breath. The icy air chilled her lungs. They were getting somewhere. Maybe. If some guy in the library knew what he was talking about.

“Were you able to find anything on the victim’s brother?”

“No. It’s like he’s fallen off the planet.”

Hagen climbed back on the snowmobile and fired up the engine, as if impatient to get a move on. Stella let him wait. He could hold his horses for a moment.

“Thanks, Mac. Listen, try to give that guy in Chicago a nudge. We’ve got another victim. Looks like the same marks on his back but cruder. I’ll send you pics. I really hope he’ll be the last.”

After saying their goodbyes, Stella hung up and joined Hagen on the snowmobile, finally fastening her helmet and goggles. With her arms wrapped around him, they were soon roaring up the mountain road to the hospital.

She hugged him tighter and closed her eyes. The marks on the deputy’s skin burned a fiery red on the insides of her eyelids.

A message written on the victims would make sense. Serial killers had a habit of wanting to talk to their pursuers. The Zodiac Killer scrawled on a car door after stabbing Cecelia Shepard and Bryan Hartnell at Lake Berryessa. The Manson Family wrote on their victims’ walls in blood.

And Stella herself had seen a similar message in a gym above the bodies of murdered cheerleaders not so long ago.

She’d never heard of a message being delivered in an ancient language, though. And she had no idea who in this small town in the hills along Lake Erie would know one.

By the time they drew near the hospital, the gusts had turned from occasional angry blows to a sustained rage. Every time Stella peered out from behind Hagen’s shoulder and opened her eyes, she received a face full of ice that drove her into cover behind his back, despite her goggles.

She hugged him harder.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not much.” The wind dragged away his words. He eased up on the throttle. “I’m not even sure where the road ends and the mountain begins.”

Stella squinted through the blinding snow. She couldn’t see more than five yards in any direction. The ground, the clouds, the air were all the same featureless white.

Hagen slowed the snowmobile to a crawl. Stella’s cheeks had long ago lost all feeling, and even through her gloves, her fingertips were numb. Snow was whipping horizontally in front of them, and she wondered how Hagen was coping with nothing to shield him from the wind.

Hagen’s body jerked beneath her grip. “Whoa!”

The white curtain tore, and a pine tree loomed in front of them, just off the shoulder of the road, its branches buried under snow.

Hagen yanked the handlebar. The back of the snowmobile swung around, skidded, and was dragged forward by the turn of the front track.

Stella shouted into his ear. “We’ve got to get out of this. It’s too dangerous.”

“Almost there.”

The whiteout grew even more opaque, but the front wall of the hospital became visible through the snow. Windows appeared in the wall, lined up alongside each other with their sills half buried under drifts like the lazy eyelids of clients in an opium den.

Hagen turned the throttle and skidded to a stop in front of the entrance. Stella hopped off the machine, and when he followed, they held hands, guiding each other up steps that had become little more than an undulating white ramp.

After being buzzed in, the silence when the door slammed closed behind them was jarring. A moment passed, and then laughter and conversation clattered down a hallway away from the lobby.

Ice melted and dripped from Stella’s shoulders onto the floor. Her cheeks burned as the blood flow returned.

Stella peeled off her gloves, goggles, and helmet, and took deep breaths of the warm air. She never wanted to go outside again. They dropped their service weapons with Floyd the receptionist, who as before, placed them in the locked cabinet and alerted Dr. Silow of their presence.

They stacked their gear at the end of the counter like before.

Dr. Silow appeared out of the hallway, his glasses gripped between his fingers.

“Good heavens. What on earth could possibly bring you out here in weather like this? Is it—” His voice cracked. “Did something else happen?”

Hagen brushed the snow from his shoulders and thighs and waved in the direction of the administrator’s room.

“Coffee. Hot coffee. Then talk.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting in Dr. Silow’s office again. Hagen’s face was buried in his coffee, and Stella was holding on to her hot chocolate as though it were the only thing standing between her and death by blizzard.

Dr. Silow sat slumped in his chair. His face was pale, and the fingers that still gripped his glasses trembled.

“Poor Mark. That poor, poor boy. I don’t think there’s been a murder in this town since… well, I don’t think we’ve ever had one. And now we have two in the space of a few days.”

Stella set her cup aside. Feeling had returned to her face, and her thoughts were sharpening. “Has anyone left the hospital today? Any of the patients?”

Dr. Silow shook his head. “I don’t believe so. We had roll call at lunch an hour ago, and everyone was here. You’ve seen the weather. None of the patients could’ve made it into town and back in this.”

Hagen finished his coffee. His cheeks were red, though the damp stains on his pants where snow had settled were only beginning to lighten.

“What about staff?”

“They’ve been here too. Everyone’s remained on the premises since the storm started.” Dr. Silow jutted out his chin. There was some steel behind that welcoming, friendly face. “I don’t want people getting trapped at home. I’m already short-staffed as it is, but fortunately, the hospital isn’t full. So anyone who was on duty yesterday has been bedding down in the empty rooms. And that includes me.”

He hooked a thumb behind him, and Stella noticed a cot folded by the wall beneath the window.

“I slept here last night, and I’ll be sleeping here again tonight. This place is as good as sealed.”

Hagen pulled his lips into a thin line. “And you’re sure no one left? The nurses, Fiona and Ann? Sam the orderly? The cook. What was her name?”

“Celia.” Dr. Silow fixed his gaze on Hagen. “Yes. Ann, Fiona, Sam, all of them have been here since last night. I’ve seen them myself. It’s been hard on them, this weather, but there’s nothing they can do. You can see for yourself no one can drive anywhere until this storm ends.”

“Not in a car. But what about snowmobiles?”

“We don’t have any snowmobiles here. We’ve got enough food to last two weeks. I don’t think this storm will stick around that long, but until it ends, no one who was here when this weather rolled in has been able to leave. Or will be able to leave now.”

Stella sank back into her chair. Dr. Silow was right. Ann might’ve been the link between Laurence Gill and Mark Tully, but there was no way she could’ve made the journey into town that morning on foot, killed the deputy, and gotten back in time for lunch without being missed. Not in this weather.

Not even on the most temperate spring day could she have done that. It was a twelve-mile journey, there and back.

Hagen rose. “Thanks. You don’t mind if we stick around for a bit, ask a few more questions, do you?”

“Honestly, Hagen. I don’t think you two have much of a choice in this weather but to stick around.” Dr. Silow stood up. “Let’s get you something to eat first. You both look starved.”

25

Stella finally thawed out as they sat in the dining room with a couple of sandwiches filled with Celia’s leftover roast beef. The meat was as dry as the bread, overcooked and impossible to resurrect, even with a generous spread of mayo and mustard.

Hagen chewed slowly, begrudgingly, and Stella felt for him. She was used to eating tasteless food. Hagen had standards.

“Wonder how lunch would’ve turned out if we’d stayed at Sheriff King’s?”

He swallowed. “I’m guessing it would’ve been better than this cold boot leather slapped between a couple of pieces of bathroom tile. Not even a side of au jus to help everything go down.”

“You’re still eating it.”

“I’m still hungry.” He took another bite. “You know, I really hope the killer’s here in the hospital. Because I don’t feel like getting back on that snowmobile and driving through that blizzard again.”

The thought of going out anytime soon made Stella shudder. The storm had grown worse while they’d spoken to Dr. Silow. The flakes were as big as quarters. They plummeted past the dining room window like coins flying out of a Vegas slot machine after a jackpot.

But it was more than that. Even though she agreed with Dr. Silow—that it was implausible Ann could’ve come and gone from the hospital and killed Mark—something in her the hospital was at the heart of this investigation.

“I think we should spend the night. I want to get a better feel for this place. I don’t think it could hurt.”

“I hope you’re right.” Hagen peeled the top layer of bread from the sandwich and smeared more mustard from the jar. “The mustard’s good.” He talked through a full mouth. “Because if no one here was able to get out, kill the deputy, and get back, then we’re in the wrong place. The killer must be in town somewhere.”

“If.” Stella was trying to be hopeful. “What Dr. Silow said made sense. But he could be wrong. Or lying.”

“Lying? You think he’s involved?”

“I don’t think we can rule anyone out. And right now, his word’s all we got that no one left the hospital.” Stella finished her sandwich, leaving the hard crusts on her plate. “Besides the obvious logistical problem of getting there and back in this snow without anyone noticing, or without being seen, we have another issue. Nothing links Laurence Gill with the people in town. His life, such as it was, was here at the hospital. It has to be someone here.”

“Mark Tully’s life wasn’t here. A cop gets killed, the first thing you do is look at the worst people he arrested.”

“But the worst people he arrested are what? A drunk? A bunch of people who committed assault, but the charges were dropped? It’s a big jump from there to stringing someone up from a tree, bleeding them to death, and carving an ancient script into their back.” Stella dug her knife into the mustard jar and licked the end. The dry heat warmed the inside of her nostrils. “To say nothing of the fact that the cop in question was killed in exactly the same manner as a civilian.”

“I hear you. That said, though, we still haven’t located Laurence Gill’s brother.”

“But if we did? Why would he have killed Mark Tully?” Stella shook her head. “No. I don’t know how a killer here could’ve gotten into town and back this morning. But the only thing linking the two victims is this hospital. I think we’re in the right place.”

Ann Mayhew passed through the corridor. The blond, athletic nurse nodded a greeting to them, then continued on her way. Her heavy footsteps thumped on the stairs. Nothing in her manner suggested she was hiding anything or that she was the suspicious person Sheriff King had described.

Hagen finished his sandwich. He took his empty paper plate and Stella’s into the kitchen. As he threw them into a trash can, Stella put the mustard away.

The window was closed now. A faint hint of tobacco lingered in the air, and Stella remembered this was where she’d seen Ann talking to Kenneth, that strange conversation she hadn’t made sense of yet. Even Kenneth, for all his strength, couldn’t have made it into town and back. The weather was worse than ever, and they hadn’t even been able to make it to the tree line yesterday.

Hagen washed his hands and dried then on a dishcloth. “Maybe you’re right. If we’re going to get stuck somewhere, this is the place to be. Let’s go talk to Ann.”

They left the kitchen and followed Ann up the stairs to the second floor. A sign at the end of the passage indicated the nurses’ room. A door on the left was open, and as they passed, Stella noticed Lottie sitting on the end of her bed, knitting.

She stopped in the doorway. “How are you today, Lottie?”

The old woman shook her thin shoulders. “Very well, thank you.”

“What are you making there?”

Lottie lifted her knitting needles, small pieces of wood connected by a plastic cord. A cylinder made of yellow yarn hung from the needles and cord, like a brightly colored sweat band.

“It’s a protector.”

Hagen joined Stella in the doorway. “What are you trying to protect?”

The old woman scowled. “Myself, of course. Silly boy. When I put this on, no one can see me. Watch.”

She pulled her protector over her untidy gray hair. The bottom of the circle landed just above her ears. She looked like a young hippy attending a fall festival.

Hagen lifted an eyebrow. “I can still see you, Lottie.”

Lottie’s shoulders sank. She pulled her protector from her head. “Well, it’s not finished yet. But when I’m done, they won’t be able to see me. None of them. I’ll be safe, understand? If they can’t see me, they can’t find me. And if they can’t find me, they won’t be able to take me.”

Stella didn’t laugh. She stepped into the room and sat on a chair next to Lottie on the bed.

The old woman shuffled aside to give her space. She lowered her knitting with a sigh.

Stella had a strong urge to put an arm around her shoulders, pull her close, and tell her everything would be okay. Lottie wouldn’t need to knit a cover for her head or worry about being seen. She just had to trust the police, the FBI, the people who cared for her. They’d make sure she was safe.

“Who are you hiding from, Lottie?”

“Them. I don’t know their names. No one does. Not anymore. No one worships them anymore, you see. But they’re back, and they’re very angry.”

“Do you know what they look like?”

Lottie shook her head. “You can’t see them. They’re invisible. But they’re very old and cleverer than us, you see. They see everything.” She leaned closer until her dry, cracked lips were almost at Stella’s ear. “And they’re very, very cruel. Merciless.”

A shiver ran down Stella’s back as Lottie’s breath touched her skin. “But who are they?”

Lottie sat straight again and continued with her knitting. “Can’t tell you. I’m busy. I have to finish. There’s no time.” Her knitting needles clicked and clacked as the strand of yarn wove into her head cover.

Stella rejoined Hagen by the door.

Lottie looked so alone in that room and so vulnerable. She was clearly frightened and entirely cut off from the world. And she was also utterly incapable of committing the crimes they’d seen. Her small frame wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in that weather, and as for hauling a victim up with rope…Stella just couldn’t see it.

They left her to her knitting and continued down the hallway.

The nurses’ room was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Two old velvet armchairs in matching shades of red had been placed in opposite corners. A kitchen counter with a microwave, a sink, a jar of instant coffee, and crumpled boxes of herbal tea took up one wall. And a small, round table provided a place for the nursing staff to sit and eat and complete their paperwork in private. Barely hidden by a thin curtain, a window looked out onto the whitewashed landscape.

Ann sat in one of the armchairs. Her thumb slid across her phone screen. In her other hand, she held a half-eaten chicken drumstick. She looked up as they approached, and her face froze before breaking into an uneasy smile. “You’re here again.”

Hagen perched on the arm of the chair across from her. “We are.” He pointed at the drumstick. “That looks good.”

Ann bit into the chicken and tore away a strip of skin, which she pushed into her mouth with a finger. “I can’t stand Celia’s cooking. I think she had her taste buds removed when she was a kid. Everything that comes out of her kitchen is bland, flavorless, and overcooked. If I think I might be stuck here for a while, I bring my own food.”

Stella sat down in the chair that Hagen was perched on. A pair of rubber boots stood behind the door. Bits of ice still stuck to their shaft, and a puddle of water had formed around the soles.

“Those yours?”

Ann nodded. “Stepped outside for a cigarette after lunch. Honestly, ever since I moved here, I’ve been smoking more and more.”

“And apart from your cigarette breaks, you’ve been here all day?”

Ann waved her drumstick. “Where else could I go? Have you tried taking a walk in that stuff outside?”

“Have you?”

Ann took another bite of flesh. She chewed carefully. “Stay between these four walls long enough, and before long, you’ll end up like half the patients. You’ll never be able to leave.”

Hagen frowned. “Where did you go?”

“Not far. But, hey, you two made it up here. You don’t need me to tell you what it’s like out there.”

“We used a snowmobile.”

“Nice.”

Stella narrowed her gaze on Ann. Maybe she’d underestimated her. Maybe Ann could’ve hiked down in the snow and back. Or maybe somewhere out in the trees, she’d hidden her own snowmobile.

Mark Tully knew her. They’d dated. She could’ve taken him by surprise, and she was certainly strong enough to have hoisted him into a tree. She might, then, have cut back through the brook, rejoined her hidden snowmobile, and taken some back route to the hospital they didn’t know about. It was possible.

But the distance to town was so far, this line of thinking gave Stella pause.

She placed her hand on Hagen’s knee and squeezed gently. He didn’t need to be told what to do. He knew how she thought.

“Ann.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we have some bad news. Deputy Mark Tully was found dead this morning.”

Ann froze. A piece of chicken dropped from the drumstick. Her gaze skipped from Hagen to Stella and back again. “Oh, my gosh. What…what happened?”

Stella kept her full attention on the nurse. Few killers could avoid giving themselves away when they heard about the death of their victim. Psychopaths could copy shock and horror they didn’t feel, but for everyone else, there was always a tell. The flicker of a smile on the edge of the lips. A flatness in the voice that came from too many rehearsals of feigning surprise. A searching look as they watched for a sign they’d been rumbled.

Ann displayed none of those tells. Her face paled, an involuntary physiological reaction she couldn’t fake. Of course, she could have grown pale thinking they were closing in on her as the murderer. The response didn’t clear her completely.

She swallowed, though she’d taken no fresh bite from the drumstick. She blinked quickly, as though she were trying to absorb what she’d heard and was struggling to keep it in.

“Is…is his…is what happened to Mark connected to what happened to Laurence?”

Hagen made a small nod. “We think so. There are signs that suggest the two crimes are related. I understand you two were close. When was the last time you saw him?”

Ann put the drumstick back in her lunch box and closed the lid. Her appetite appeared to have faded, though she licked her fingers before she answered. “Last time was maybe a week ago. We used to date, when I first got to Claymore. Guess you heard that, huh? But only for a couple of months. He was getting kind of serious, you know?”

Stella leaned forward. “And you weren’t serious?”

“Not with Mark. I mean, he’s nice and all, but there’s something just too…I don’t know…safe about him. You know? He’s a cop.” Ann ran her hand over the chair’s velvet arm. Her fingers left dark streaks where she stroked against the nap of the velvet. “No offence or nothing. I ended it, like, five months ago. Saw him in town a few times after that, but we’ve never done more than wish each other a good morning.”

She shrugged.

Stella sank into the armchair. There was nothing in Ann’s response that suggested guilt, nothing to prove she was the kind of psychopath who could feel no emotions and yet portray all of them. And further, her account matched the timeline of their relationship that Sheriff King had told them. That didn’t mean she was innocent either.

“We just had a quick chat with Lottie. She has some…interesting views. Do you know where the patients get their ideas from?”

“You should ask Dr. Silow.” Ann wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Though, if you’re asking about Lottie, don’t expect a short answer. She’s been here for years. What’s she saying now? Still going on about old-timey gods or something? It was the Mafia when I arrived and Big Pharma before that. She’ll always find something.”

Stella’s urge to give Lottie a big hug deepened. “She get any visitors?”

Ann rose from her chair and put her food box in the fridge. There were only two other boxes in there. Both had names written on their sides in thick black Sharpie.

“The sheriff’s wife Maureen comes by sometimes.”

Stella straightened. “Maureen King? Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Ann closed the fridge. “You didn’t know?”

Hagen furrowed his brow. “Didn’t know what?”

“Maureen was a patient here once. Must’ve been…I don’t know. A little over a year ago? Before my time. I got here like a month or so after.”

If Ann had managed to hide her shock at the news of Mark Tully’s death, Stella had no such success hiding her surprise at Ann’s news. She nearly slid off the chair. “What was she here for?”

“Again, this is all secondhand information, as I wasn’t here at the time. But I heard she had a breakdown. A schizophrenic episode.” Ann shrugged and returned to her armchair. “She was in some sort of car crash. A bad one, I think. Not far from here. You’ve seen what the roads are like. Her car went off a cliff. She got out alive, obviously, but I heard she had some serious brain trauma⁠—”

“And the trauma brought her here?”

Stella’s brow furrowed. She’d seen some terrible road accidents before, crashes in which torn torsos hung through the shattered remains of windshields, and flames turned dead families into roasted corpses.

“Well, no, she went to the urgent care center in town initially. She came here after.” Ann tugged at the toe of a thick, woolen sock, suddenly more thoughtful. “Whenever she came here to visit, I felt for her.”

“Why?” Hagen pressed his hands onto the tops of his knees.

“Well, you see, the same thing happened to me. Not exactly the same, mind you. But very similar. I was in a car crash too. With severe head trauma. I like to think I made it out all right. But both of my parents died.” Ann sniffled. “Mommy and Daddy.”

Stella softened. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

The nurse looked at Stella with bleary eyes. “Both of Maureen’s parents were in the car. They didn’t make it either. She blamed herself. She wanted to drink, so she let her father drive, even though there’s no lights on those roads at night and he was…well, he was ancient.”

Stella thought of all she and Hagen had been through to bring justice to the man who’d killed their fathers. But if they hadn’t killed Ramirez out of self-defense, following protocol, she didn’t want to imagine how she would feel if she’d been responsible for his death.

Hagen lowered his head and rubbed his temple with his thumb. “I can see how that could eat her up.”

“Oh, yeah. Guilt and depression spiraled into fear, then paranoia. Eventually, the sheriff brought her here. She roomed with Lottie for a while.”

She roomed with Lottie.

What that meant, if it meant anything at all, Stella wasn’t sure. But connections were forming. They’d learned the marks on the victim’s backs were from an ancient language. And that Lottie kept talking about ancient gods and demons. And according to Kenneth, Laurence was muttering about demons the morning he was killed.

Ancient language. Ancient gods. Demons. It was fuzzy, but something rattled in Stella’s brain, just below the surface.

“Were they close, Maureen and Lottie?”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone likes Lottie. They always sit together in the rec room when Maureen comes to visit. Maureen, Lottie, Kenneth. Sometimes Laurence. They’d get him to join them sometimes. They used to make origami animals together.” The corner of Ann’s lips curved up. “You should’ve seen the sheriff’s face when he came to pick her up. He couldn’t understand what the heck she was doing, making these little paper birds.”

Maureen, Laurence, Lottie, and Kenneth. The four of them together.

Stella clenched her hands into fists. She wanted to throttle Sheriff King for not telling them his wife had been hospitalized and knew Laurence. The things she could’ve told them. The snowfall was too heavy for them to attempt a trip down the mountain, even in the snowmobile. But they might be able to ask her over the phone, if they still had service.

“How is she now?”

“Far as I know, she’s fine. It’s never easy to find the right medication, you know? And then you’ve got to find the right dosage and make sure the patient actually takes it.” Ann bobbed her head. “But Dr. Silow’s a smart guy. He did a nice job with Maureen.”

“We’ll want to see her patient records.”

“That’s Dr. Silow’s department. And I’m sure you’d need a warrant to see those.”

Stella tapped Hagen’s leg. They thanked Ann for her help and headed back to the stairwell.

Stella leaned over the rail. “I think I want to have a word with Maureen King.”

“Me too.” Hagen started down the stairs. “And that’s a conversation we need to have in person.”

He opened the front door and stopped. Snow flowed across the front of the building as though the hospital were a downhill skier racing through a slalom. The snowmobile was buried at the foot of the steps, and the wind whipped past them to drop flurries at their feet.

Stella helped Hagen push the door closed. She sat on the bottom step of the hospital’s broad staircase and took out her phone.

Hagen joined her. “You calling Maureen?”

“The sheriff. We might not be able to get into town, but I want to know why he didn’t tell us she was a patient.”

Hagen put his hand over the phone. “She’ll be with him.”

“So?” Stella frowned. “You think she might be involved? I suppose we don’t really know what she was doing this morning, before we arrived at their house.”

Hagen lowered his hand. “She had to have left for a while. That killing took time. Stripping the body, making the marks, stringing him up. We’re talking half an hour, forty minutes at least.”

Stella stilled. “Sheriff King said she’d gone out to check on their neighbors.”

Their eyes met, but there was still doubt on Hagen’s face. She knew what he was thinking.

“You saw the sheriff’s reaction. He couldn’t have been involved. No one could fake shock like that.” She checked her phone. There were still full bars of service. “We need to ask her about her alibi in person to see her reaction, but I want to talk to him now.”

She found his number and dialed. Sheriff King sounded far too calm when he answered. Stella could imagine him relaxing in his living room, a bourbon in his hand, the fire crackling in the hearth.

“Glad to hear you two are safe and sound. At the sanatorium, are you?”

“That’s right.”

“Looks like you’re going to be stuck there now. The weather system’s really settled in on us. Should be clearer in the morning, but I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere today.” He lowered his voice. “And I guess if our killer’s got any sense, he’ll be staying put too.”

Stella stretched her legs. Hagen put his ear next to hers. She adjusted the phone so that he could hear.

“Sheriff, why didn’t you tell us your wife knew the first victim?”

The line was silent for a moment. When the sheriff’s voice came again, it was still quiet but slower, each word weighed and measured. “I didn’t tell you, Stella, because I didn’t think it was relevant. She’s got nothing to say about Laurence Gill that you don’t already know and is relevant to this case.”

Hagen pulled the phone closer. “You don’t think we should’ve been the judges of that? You don’t think we should’ve known your wife was a patient at this hospital?”

Again, the line fell silent. Again, the sheriff’s voice returned calm and strong. “I don’t think my wife’s medical history is any of your damn business. Now, if you’ve got questions for Maureen about Laurence or Mark or Jumping Jack Flash for all I care, you’re welcome to come down and ask her yourself. We’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

The line went dead.

Stella let her phone dangle between her fingers. “I guess we’d better talk to the doc about those records.”

“And get a room for the night.”

26

Dr. Silow found an empty room for them at the end of the corridor on the second floor. Besides two beds on opposite walls stripped to their thin, striped mattresses, there was nothing in it. Sam brought them some bedding and left them to it.

The room was a far cry from the cabin, and an even farther cry from the home Hagen owned in Nashville. He hadn’t expected luxury on his leave, but he had hoped to steer clear of hospital rooms.

After pushing the beds together, he pulled the cover over a thick comforter and buttoned the end.

“You know, if either of my sisters found out I’d had to spend the night in a psychiatric hospital, they’d be worried sick.”

Stella dressed the pillow, then tested it by laying out on the mattress. Her comforter still lay folded at the end of the bed.

“I’m sure they’d be happy to learn you were finally getting the help you need.”

Hagen snorted. “Yeah, that’s probably exactly what they’d say.” He fell silent for a moment.

That might’ve been their exact words…

“You know, there were times as I thought about Ramirez and all the things I was going to do to him…” He tossed the comforter onto the bed and straightened the edges. “This was before I knew who I was after, of course. But there were times when I dreamed about the revenge I was going to take, that I thought maybe I should speak to someone. A professional.”

Hagen busied himself with the bed and didn’t look at Stella. He’d shown her a vulnerability he’d never shown to anyone else. Their stay at the psychiatric hospital was having an unintended effect.

When he finally lifted his gaze to hers, the laughter had slipped from her face. Her eyes softened, their sparkle replaced by sympathy and understanding and concern.

The more time he spent with her, the more he loved her.

Stella rested her cheek on her hand. “Did you? Talk to someone, I mean.”

Hagen nodded. “You.” He straightened his pillow, then leaned over Stella’s face and kissed her on the lips. “Eventually.”

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Activities in the rec room were replaced by a brief group therapy that Stella and Hagen weren’t invited to attend, then the patients were sent to their rooms to rest before dinner. The gloom outside the building darkened as the day neared its end.

At six thirty, they joined the patients and staff in the dining room for supper. As they made their way down the stairs, Hagen whispered to Stella that he hoped the evening meal would be better than lunch had been. He was disappointed. The soup was thin, the fries soggy and undercooked, the chicken schnitzel oily and bland.

Hagen sat across from Lottie in the middle of one of the two long tables that dominated the room. As she ate, Lottie hid her food behind her arm and bent over her plate like a student protecting an exam.

The wind blew hard outside the building, and strong gusts seemed to shake the walls. At one loud shriek of the wind, one of the patients jammed her hands over her ears and moaned loudly, rocking from side to side.

Fiona the nurse left her place at the end of the table and crouched beside her. She spoke quietly, rubbing the patient’s back with the palm of her hand, until the rocking slowed and the patient was ready to return to her meal.

Kenneth sat at the other end of the table, next to Ann. When he wasn’t shoveling fries into his mouth, he glared down the table at Hagen.

Hagen tried to avoid looking in Kenneth’s direction. He gave him the creeps.

With the meal over, Dr. Silow invited Hagen and Stella to the rec room. The tables, which had been covered with Jenga blocks, plastic flowers, and jigsaw pieces, had been pushed against the wall, leaving the floor clear.

The piano was unlocked, and the woman who’d moaned at the wind over dinner sat at the keyboard and lifted the lid. She played the prelude of Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque. Hagen swayed with the piece’s gentle rhythm.

The shifts in the legato took him back to lazy Sunday afternoons when the weather was too wet to play outside. His father would work in the study, and his mother would listen to classical radio while he played cards with his sisters as the rain rattled on the window.

Their team had taken on a case where they’d taken down a murderous classical musician not too long ago. Followed by his murderous classical musician daughter. But those scenarios weren’t enough to cloud his appreciation for classical music or the memories of his childhood.

“Debra’s very good, isn’t she?”

Hagen had been so busy listening, he hadn’t noticed Dr. Silow come up behind him. The doctor invited them to sit on the sofa while he brought a chair over. More patients drifted in from the dining room, after having helped to clear the tables and sweep the floor.

Hagen whispered his answer as Debra entered the second movement. “She’s remarkable.”

Dr. Silow nodded. “She trained at Juilliard. Was just starting her career as a concert pianist when she fell ill.” The doctor cocked his head and listened as the soft notes of Clair de Lune filled the room. “The goal is to get her back on stage and touring again. I have every confidence in her.”

Stella leaned across Hagen, keeping her voice low. “Is it common for pianists to suffer from mental illness?”

Hagen tried not to laugh. Dr. Silow looked confused.

“We had a couple of cases a few months ago. The perpetrators in both were concert pianists.”

“Oh.” Dr. Silow nodded deeply. “How interesting. There have been studies linking creativity to mental illness, but the second isn’t a requirement of the first. And I really don’t believe pianists are overrepresented among the mentally disabled. I don’t think you need to be mentally disabled to play the piano either.”

“Maybe learning the piano makes you mentally disabled.”

“My granddaughter’s learning the piano.” Dr. Silow peered at Hagen from under his white eyebrows. “I assure you she’s as well as anyone else. But you may have something. It’s certainly possible her refusal to practice is driving her parents over the edge.”

Hagen smiled at Dr. Silow’s joke as Debra shifted to a waltz he didn’t recognize. Dr. Silow clapped his hands and waved toward the center of the room. Patients rose from the seats around the wall. They coupled up and danced. As a rule, they moved with excellent rhythm, though there were a few who danced without any regard for the meter or steps.

Dr. Silow whispered, “Some of the patients would spontaneously start to dance when Debra played. Now I encourage them. Even brought in a dance instructor for a spell to teach during recreation time.” He watched as Nurse Ann waved away Kenneth’s invitation before giving up and joining him on the makeshift dance floor.

“In this place, we manage their lives. We tell the patients when to eat and what to eat. When to sleep and when to wake up. When to take their pills and when to attend therapy or rest. They’ll all leave here one day, and then they’ll have to make decisions for themselves. A thousand different decisions every day.”

Hagen watched Kenneth sway with Ann. Her hand rested easily on his shoulder. If it wasn’t so inappropriate, they would have looked like a well-matched couple.

“You make life sound difficult.”

“Oh, it can be. For some people. All the choices we make every day can be overwhelming. My aim here is to give the patients a sense of control, a belief that they can manage their lives.”

“By dancing?”

Dr. Silow chuckled. He had a pleasant laugh that started in his eyes.

“No. Dancing like this simply reminds them that they have a place in the world.” He paused and scratched his beard. “In therapy, I try to give them a goal. Their own goal. It might be something they’d once wanted and forgotten. Or maybe they’d failed and given up. But everyone needs a goal, a bearing by which they can set their lives and traverse the years safely.”

Hagen thought back to the two bodies they’d seen hanging upside down from trees and wondered whether a goal alone was enough to provide safety.

Debra’s fingers raced over the keys. The world outside seemed to fall away as the music swelled. Hagen could even push the murders and their perpetrator to the back of his mind.

He stood up and extended his hand to Stella.

She grinned, cocked her head, then put her hand in his and rose to her feet.

He drew her close, his fingers locked in hers, one arm around her waist. She gazed up at him, and he pulled her closer.

The waltz played on. Hagen led, moving his feet to the rhythms of the music and bringing Stella with him.

The storm outside faded. The scream of the wind died. Beneath the notes of the waltz, Hagen and Stella danced, swaying between the patients of the psychiatric hospital of Claymore Township.

27

The storm worsened during the night. The squall rattled the windows in Stella and Hagen’s room. Gusts whistled around the building and whipped through the trees. The vent pumped out dry heat so thick, the air in the small room was stifling even though the floor was icy to the touch.

Stella lay on her side of the bed, one leg outside the covers.

Dancing with Hagen had been strangely comforting. She hadn’t expected him to ask her. She thought he’d be content to sit and watch and push Dr. Silow to tell them more about the hospital and its patients.

But when he held out his hand, taking to the floor had seemed the most natural thing in the world. Dancing with Hagen among the people who’d reached an end and were in search of a new beginning let the outside world disappear for a little while.

They hadn’t danced long. The evening ended early in the hospital, due to the patients’ need for sleep, a natural side effect of their medications. Debra’s playing was rewarded with a round of applause—and some appreciative yelps from one of the patients—and everyone drifted contentedly up the stairs to their rooms after that.

But sleep wouldn’t come to Stella. Bright-yellow light leaked through the gap beneath the door. The mattress was too hard, the comforter too thick. Hagen lay beside her, fidgeting every now and again. And they were no closer to finding the killer of Laurence Gill and Mark Tully than they’d been when they’d arrived. She was restless.

“Hagen?”

“Mm.”

“You awake?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” Stella adjusted her pillow. The cover smelled of cheap laundry detergent. “You think this storm will be over by the morning?”

“I hope so. The sooner we can dig that snowmobile out and get back into town, the better.”

Irritation tightened Stella’s chest. She knew what caused it. “I’d really like to have a word with that damn sheriff. I can understand him not wanting to spill his wife’s medical secrets. But not telling us she’d been a patient here? That’s nuts.”

Hagen yawned loudly. “Almost a lie by omission.”

“It’s held us up. She might⁠—”

A particularly strong gust of wind banged against the window. Something creaked, then broke with a loud crack and crashed to the ground. Someone screamed, a blood-curdling, full-throated shriek that raised the hairs on the back of Stella’s neck and made her prop herself up in bed.

Footsteps thumped through the passage. From the corridor, drifting in under the door, Fiona’s soothing voice was reassuring a patient it was just the wind. Everything was fine. They should go back to sleep.

More footsteps entered the picture, closer to the stairs. Ann barked at someone to go to bed, and Lottie yelled that they were coming to get her.

“They’re coming! They want my blood. They won’t get it!”

“Come now, Lottie.” That was Sam’s voice. “No one’s coming for your blood. Everything’s as it should be. Come on now, back to bed with you.”

Footsteps padded away, a door shut, then another, and the silence returned, punctuated only by the shrill cries of the wind.

Hagen’s voice came from his twin bed beside her. “People are worried, huh? Scary night.”

“You’ll be fine, Hagen. I’ll protect you.”

“Thanks, babe. I appreciate that. But I was thinking about Bubs. Hope he’ll be okay all alone at the cabin.”

Stella was silent for a moment. She’d been too distracted to think about Hagen’s dog, forced to spend the first night away from them since he’d been shot back in Nashville.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s probably burrowed in the bed, sleeping soundly across our pillows.”

And peeing and pooping all over the floor. Ugh.

Hagen laughed quietly. That sounded like Bubs. “Good night, babe.”

She turned away from the light under the door and closed her eyes.

When Stella opened her eyes again, the night was still dark. The wind had lightened, the whistles of the air around the building now no more than heavy sighs. She checked her watch. She’d been asleep for two hours.

Outside their room, the hospital was quiet. There were no footsteps in the passageway. Yet she could hear a faint voice coming from somewhere near the stairs.

She tried to focus. The voice was male and low, little more than a whisper. Although Stella couldn’t make out the words, she could hear the frustration in the tone, something urgent and angry.

She swung her legs out of bed. The floor was cold on her soles, but even the chill of the linoleum was welcome compared to the heat of the furnace. She pulled on her jeans.

“Stella?” Hagen’s voice was hushed.

“You awake too? I want to check out that noise.”

The covers of Hagen’s bed rustled. “I’ll come with you.”

She opened the door a crack. A triangle of yellow light stretched across the room like a shard of colored glass. Every door in the corridor was closed. From the next room came a gentle sound of snoring.

The voice had stopped.

Stella crept forward.

The corridor was much colder than their room, and she shivered. Hagen pulled the door quietly closed behind her.

There was the voice again. It was coming from a room next to the stairwell, from Lottie’s room, faint but audible. “Please, please, no.”

Stella jogged close to the wall to avoid creaking floorboards. Her hand dropped to her side and landed on her hip where her weapon usually hung. There was nothing but a belt hook.

Hagen padded behind her. There were two of them. If Lottie was in trouble, Stella was confident they’d manage.

She slowed as they drew near the room. Lottie’s door was open an inch.

The voice shifted. “I’m going to kill you. I want your blood. I want all your blood.”

Stella shuddered. The voice was deep and gravelly. It seemed to rise from somewhere in the speaker’s belly, pushed up like lava from the heart of a volcano.

“No, no, no.” There was Lottie again. Frightened. Pleading.

Hagen slipped past Stella. His expression serious, his eyes focused. He laid his fingers on the door and met Stella’s gaze.

She wished she were armed. Without a weapon in her grip and the ability to impose her will on a criminal, she felt almost naked bursting into the room. She was just going to have to make do.

The voice came again. “I’m going to drink all your blood. I want it. I need it!”

“Nooo.”

She nodded.

Hagen pushed the door gently. Half an inch. An inch. There was the closet. A rug on the floor. The bed.

Stella froze.

There was Lottie. She was sitting up in bed. Her back was straight, her eyes wide open. She lowered her chin and growled, “Yes! Your blood will be mine. All of it. I need it. I’m going to bleed you.” Lottie’s face changed completely, as if taking on another persona as she uttered those words.

Stella poked her head all the way into the room. There was no one else there. Lottie was, in fact, talking to herself.

The woman pulled her head into her arms, burying her face behind her elbows and begged again, “No, no. Please. Leave me alone.”

Lottie shot her head back up as her character changed back again. Her torso jerked. And her head snapped toward the door. Eyes that were as blank as the wall aimed straight at Stella.

She shouted, “Gooo!”

Her strength extinguished, Lottie dropped onto the bed, pulled the covers over her head and, in a second, was snoring quietly.

Stella pulled the door closed. Her heart was racing. Her mouth was dry. Now she understood why Lottie had stayed in the hospital for so long.

Hagen mouthed a question. You okay?

Stella nodded, her hand over her heart.

Someone giggled.

The sound came from the end of the passageway and was no more comforting than what they’d just witnessed in Lottie’s room. Hagen followed the sound.

They crept past the room that had once been Laurence Gill’s but was now just Kenneth’s. His door, too, was partially open. As they passed, Stella peered inside. Laurence’s bed had been stripped. The picture of the flowers was gone, and the cabinet was clean.

She swore quietly to herself. They should have told Dr. Silow to leave everything as it was. At least until they’d cracked this thing. On the other side of the room, Kenneth’s messy bed lay empty.

The giggle came again. A woman’s laugh, far too relaxed and happy for this time of night. It seemed to come from the nurses’ room.

Stella followed Hagen down the corridor. He slowed and lifted a hand, warning her to stop. A warm light spilled through the window and out of the open door. Hagen shifted closer to the wall. He peeked in.

Stella wanted to pull him out of the way, but he remained there for a moment, blocking her view, before he stepped back and let her see.

Kenneth was sitting in the armchair in which Ann had sat that afternoon.

She was there, too, on his lap.

One of her hands was inside his open pajama top. The other caressed the back of his neck. She chewed on his lower lip, and when he pulled his face away and nibbled on her neck, she put her head back and laughed.

Nausea surged in Stella’s throat. A nurse and a patient. The danger she was putting herself in. The harm she could cause his recovery. Everything happening in that room was wrong.

The conversation she’d overheard now made perfect sense.

She had to do something about it. She took out her phone and recorded what Ann and Kenneth were doing for proof, should she need it. Furious, she stepped in through the open doorway. “Hey, what the heck do you think you’re doing?”

Ann swiveled around and looked aghast.

Stella’s phone was still in her hands, still recording. “You have to stop it. Right now.”

28

Stella woke the next morning wondering where she was. A dull light threw a faint glow into the room. Dawn was just beginning, and though snow was still falling, the wind had died, and the flurries that splattered against the window were small and tame.

Her first thought was the memory of confronting Ann and Kenneth in that nurses’ room—a nurse and a mental health patient prone to sudden outbursts of violence. Disgust and horror rose from somewhere deep within her, and she hoped confronting them would put a stop to it.

She took in her surroundings. Hagen’s bed was empty. Even here, in a snowbound hospital, he’d risen early.

Stella threw off the covers. In the passage, the patients’ doors were still closed. Fiona emerged from one of the rooms. Her uniform was clean and pressed, as though she hadn’t just worked a double shift and missed the chance to go home before working again.

She wished Stella a good morning as she gripped the mug of coffee in her hand and headed toward the nurses’ room.

“Hot chocolate. Definitely need hot chocolate first.”

“Good luck with that,” Fiona called over a shoulder.

Stella loped down the stairs. Hagen was in the dining room with Dr. Silow. Both were already nursing their drinks.

Dr. Silow raised his cup. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Great. Maybe you should rent out rooms here.”

She took a seat at the end of the table. The rest of the dining room was empty. The hospital hadn’t risen yet. Dr. Silow pushed his chair out.

“Hot chocolate’s your poison, right?”

“You remembered.”

He tapped his temple. “A good memory’s essential for this kind of work. I keep the cocoa in my office. Special occasions.” His brows pinched together. “Hagen has shown me the video of what happened last night. I’m afraid Ann and I have to have an unpleasant conversation. I’ll be back in a moment with your drink, and then I’ll be terminating her employment.”

Stella thanked him and watched him go before turning to Hagen. “What do you make of last night’s lovers?”

Hagen sipped his coffee. “I think Ann Mayhew’s got a taste for danger and the professional ethics of a sewer rat.”

Stella gave a short nod. “I agree. But the road from sleeping with a patient to murdering two people is long.”

“Yeah, I was just asking Dr. Silow if Laurence could’ve had a sexual relationship with any of the patients or staff. He dismissed the idea completely. Laurence kept himself to himself, and relationships between staff and patients are entirely unethical, he said.”

“But if Ann’s willing to break that rule, what other rules is she willing to break? We could be dealing with a psychopath, someone willing to follow an impulse without thought for the consequences.”

“Maybe.” Hagen didn’t sound convinced. “Even if Dr. Silow doesn’t know what’s happening in his own building, I’ve got to believe he’d spot a psychopath in his own psychiatric hospital. He’s no fool.”

“Then maybe Ann’s motive for killing Laurence Gill was completely rational.”

Hagen eyed her over the top of his mug.

Stella pressed her palms flat on the table. “Laurence must’ve known his roommate was in a relationship with a nurse. Maybe they killed him together to protect their relationship and save her career.”

Hagen nodded slowly. “Then they made the murder look like a ritual killing to throw law enforcement off the scent. That would fit.” He bit his lip. “But then why kill Mark Tully?”

“Maybe he knew about Ann’s new relationship. Or maybe once they’d acquired a taste for killing, they decided to take care of her ex too. Or perhaps…”

Stella scratched her head. The marks on both of the victims’ backs would fit this motive, actually. But something about it didn’t fit. Ann struck her as unprofessional but not a killer.

Hagen tilted his head. “You’re not sure, are you?”

“No. And we still need to talk to the sheriff and his wife. I want to know why he didn’t tell us about her stay at the hospital.”

Hagen finished his coffee and pushed his cup across the table. “Let’s remember, that information came from Ann too.”

29

The drive back into town from the hospital was much easier than the drive up had been. The worst of the storm had ended, and the sky had even brightened a little.

As Hagen turned off the snowmobile, the door of the sheriff’s house opened.

Sheriff King’s deep voice rolled over the snow. “So how was your stay at the hospital last night?”

Hagen remembered what Ann had told them about Maureen, and a deep irritation at the sheriff’s secrecy settled in his chest. “Had its moments. We need to talk.”

Hagen let Stella lead him into the house and kept silent as he removed his boots and helmet and left them on the rack. Stella asked where Maureen was.

“She’s out back.” The sheriff flicked an arm toward the kitchen. “She’s got herself a little shed back there where she dries her herbs in the winter and so on. You should see her fruit trees. Pawpaws, persimmons, you name it. Like having our own little farm.”

“Can’t be much to do in the winter, though.” Stella dug her toes into the soft carpet.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Even in weather like this, she can find things that need preparing or canning or un-canning. Or something. I keep the snowmobile in there. But apart from that, she won’t let me near the place.” The sheriff strode into the living room. “Come on in, now. I want to know what happened up there at the hospital. Did you speak to Nurse Ann?”

Hagen and Stella followed the sheriff. The table on which they were supposed to have eaten their meal yesterday held a lace cloth with a vase of flowers on top of it. The sheriff dropped onto one end of the sofa beneath the window, his hand resting on the arm.

Hagen blew out a hard exhale, his eye twitching. No one in uniform should look that relaxed, especially not at a time like this.

“Yeah, we spoke to her. She said she didn’t leave the hospital yesterday, and we’ve got no reason not to believe her.”

Sheriff King frowned. “You sure about that? Because I’m telling you⁠—”

“Yeah, we’re sure.” Hagen couldn’t keep the bite out of his voice. “Looks like she’s got herself a new guy, though.”

“Is that right? Well, I didn’t think she’d wait too long. She was never one to⁠—”

“He’s one of the patients.” There was an edge to Stella’s voice that echoed Hagen’s.

The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Well now, ain’t that something? I’d like to say that news surprises me, but honestly, it doesn’t much. Ann always struck me as the kind of girl who just did whatever the heck she wanted.” He let out a little chuckle that rankled Hagen’s nerves. “Guess she found a good match, though, carrying on with a patient.”

“Anyway, we reported her to Dr. Silow, and she’s been fired.” Stella’s eyes flashed. “But what about you?”

“Me?”

“You.” Stella took a step toward the sheriff, her back ramrod straight. “Why didn’t you tell us your wife was once a patient at the hospital?”

The sheriff’s face fell. He sat straight, and his fingers curled around the arm of the sofa.

“My wife? I told you. My wife’s private medical history is none of your damn business.”

Hagen glared at him. “You don’t think your wife’s experience at the hospital in which a patient was murdered is relevant to the investigation? That she knew the victim?”

“No, she…” Sheriff King hesitated. His mouth opened and closed several times without speaking.

Hagen realized the sheriff wasn’t a man used to being challenged. In a town like this, the badge would always be enough to deliver whatever he wanted, without question. Hagen wondered which way he’d break. He could cooperate or resist. If he chose resistance, he’d find the FBI knew how to break down people who didn’t want to cooperate.

The sheriff took a deep breath. He dropped his chin onto his chest, and the air seemed to leak from him.

Not resistance, then.

“She…she just needed a little help after her parents died. That’s all. It was a…a traumatic period. It was a bad crash, and she was in the car and…you know, they were a close family.”

The sheriff pulled his lips into a thin line. The movement puffed out his mustache and hid more of his face.

“She was released long before Laurence Gill was murdered. Before he was even a patient there! You need to focus on the people who are there now. Not the people who were ill a year ago or whatever. Today’s patients. They’re the ones who are sick in the head now, not Maureen.”

Hagen stiffened, anger coursing through his veins. The sheriff’s own wife had needed help, and yet he still had such little regard for the hospital’s patients. He walked to the end of the room and pushed aside the curtain. There was the garden and the shed and the hills disappearing into the low clouds.

Life must be good as a small-town sheriff. He let the curtain drop.

“Who told Mark about his gutters? You looked into it, right?”

“Oh, I forgot about that damn gutter. I’m telling you, you need to focus on that nurse.” Sheriff King wagged his finger at them. “What kind of person fools around with a dangerous mental patient? Someone under her own care, dang it! There’s probably a law against that. As soon as this weather clears, I’m gonna⁠—”

And now came resistance.

Stella moved first. She stood over Sheriff King, her hands on her hips and her face curled into an angry scowl. “Dammit, Sheriff, I don’t want to hear another word about Nurse Ann. She’s being dealt with. And besides, she’s not our problem right now. Our problem is whoever sent Mark to his house. Were you able to trace the message or not?”

Sheriff King shifted in his seat. He scratched his cheek and licked his lips for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. It was Bill.”

Hagen blinked. “Bill? Dr. Silow? The hospital administrator?”

“Yeah, Bill. His house is right across the street from Mark’s. He must’ve seen the damage and told him. I don’t know what things are like in Nashville, but people look out for each other around here.” Sheriff King glared at Stella, his eyes flashing.

She glared right back. “Listen, I⁠—”

“See? I told you, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Bill never hurt anything bigger than a butterfly. I’m telling you, get your heads on straight and focus on Mark’s crazy ex and that loony tune boyfriend of hers.”

Stella stepped back. One hand was still on her hip, while the other held her chin in a meditative pose.

Hagen knew what she was thinking.

Dr. Silow had told them he’d been at the hospital, hunkered down in the storm for the last two days.

Either he was lying, or the sheriff was.

30

My thumb slipped down the screen. Again and again. Message followed message, urging us all on, reminding us what to do and all we had to gain.

Kill them all.

Blood cleanses.

The end is coming.

Save the ones you love first.

Reading the messages helped. The fog in my head lightened.

I needed to be reassured I was doing the right thing. I had to remember why we were doing it, why all this planning, all this bloodletting, was so necessary.

There were times when I struggled, when I had doubts. I wondered if I was going in the right direction.

Those doubts even spoke to me during the sacrifice.

I thought it’d be easy. Up went the body. Out came the blood. As the essence poured from the wound and those old letters carved their way into the skin, there’d be a flash of enlightenment. A feeling of some sort. A kind of ecstasy, or at least some relief.

I’d been so excited. So expectant.

But there’d been nothing. Just the steady gush of hot blood into the snow and the creak of the rope in the wind. I supposed it was the people I saved who felt the release. Because as the corpse swung and the gush turned into droplets, all I felt was disappointment.

A great hole seemed to open up inside me, as though I’d woken in the middle of an empty field and didn’t know which way to turn. I was lost again. As bewildered as the night they’d pulled me out and beamed that light into my eyes. The paramedic waved it from side to side and, when my vision returned, all I could see was Daddy.

And Mommy next to him.

Their faces covered in blood. Their heads smashed, their hair black and pink.

I was alone. Lost. I’d never felt so afraid. So abandoned.

That loss came back as the drips of blood slowed, and when I washed my hands in the icy stream.

My North Star was always with me. Guiding me, keeping me on the right path. In the darkness, he would always show me the way.

I remembered his words and what they meant. However dark the world would become, if I knew the direction to take, I’d always find the light.

That was why I had to keep going. Every other direction was chaos and darkness.

My mission was clear. I had to save the ones I loved.

There was no other way.

The messages on the screen continued one after the other. The glow of the phone’s screen lit up my little room.

Blood redeems.

I can’t wait to act.

Don’t be afraid. Peace will come.

But I was afraid. Even with all my careful planning, I might’ve made mistakes.

I had someone looking out for me, though. Not everyone was as lucky as me. I had someone to protect me, someone who loved me and would do everything possible to keep me safe. He might not look like the smartest guy in the world, but his heart was always in the right place.

That thought made me smile. The heart was what made the blood flow.

He’d always love me, and I’d always love him. Whatever happened.

I trembled at the thought of what I knew I had to do. Save the ones you love first.

The message came through loud and clear. My true love would have to go next.

Laurence was saved because he needed a way out of this world, and I was the person to do it. Mark was saved because I wasn’t sure how much time I had left. I had to start redeeming those I cared about now. There was no time to waste.

Then, like their souls, mine would be saved too. The redeemed and the redeemer.

We’re on the right path. Stay the course.

A smile crept across my face as I read through the messages again. All I had to do was keep going. Nothing could dissuade me from my purpose. Blood had to flow.

I had to redeem the person I loved the most.

31

“I could see myself living here.”

Mac stretched her neck. She mimed swishing the hem of a long ballgown as she sauntered down the Queen Charlotte staircase at the Cheekwood Estate & Gardens from the art exhibitions hall.

The ornate ironwork railings attached to the wooden banister curled and twisted like a vase of flowers. The red carpet was soft beneath the rubber soles of her low Converses. At the bottom of the staircase in front of her, the gray marble floor of the vast Georgian-style house’s entryway was polished and smooth.

Mac stepped toe-first onto the marble and curtsied deeply. “Why, yes, sir. My dance card is full. But I’ll be happy to add you to the waiting list.” She straightened. “On second thought, I love the house, but I couldn’t handle going to those fancy balls with all those strange dances.”

Werner Solberg shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. “Like a mazurka.”

“What the heck’s a mazurka?”

The anthropology PhD student she’d met the day before at Vanderbilt rocked on his heels. On anyone else, the move would’ve looked pretentious. But with his shoulder-length hair and corduroy jacket, Werner looked like a lecturer making a point. It suited him.

“No idea. Sounds like a Turkish mosh pit.”

Mac laughed. “I can see that. All those nineteenth-century ladies throwing themselves into the front rows of the violin quartet.”

“Nineteen thirties. That’s when the house was built.”

Mac’s laughter faded. She was joking, not looking for a correction.

Werner stopped rocking. He pushed back a curtain of hair. This clearly wasn’t the first time he’d been caught delivering a history lecture at the wrong time. “But you’re right. They were probably pogoing to violins in the thirties too. Maybe.”

She looked around at how random life could be. On any given day, someone could come into your life and upend your plans.

Yesterday, during their long conversation after leaving the library, Werner had told her his friend would send him the translation of the cuneiforms in the morning.

She could have asked him to email it to her as soon as he got it.

She should have asked him to tell his friend to send it to her directly.

But Mac did neither. Instead, when he’d texted this morning to say they he had the translation, she’d asked him to print it out so they could discuss it in person.

Mac smiled and, holding the end of the banister, swung toward the exit.

They emerged onto Swan Lawn. The early winter grass had long lost its green lushness. Now it lay dry and pale yellow. The fountain in the middle ejected a gentle spout that dropped with a light tinkle into the shallow pool. But the air was cold, and as they made their way to the wisteria arbor, Mac pulled her coat tighter and slipped her arm through Werner’s.

The move was bold for a first date and outright audacious for a work meeting. But she didn’t care.

After leaving the library, they’d talked in the university café about her work and his research. His family in Wisconsin and her brothers and their Civil War reconstructions. He had a ton of questions about that. Mac could imagine Werner and her brothers talking for hours about muskets and battlefields and the itchiness of those old uniforms.

He was different, quieter than the men she usually met in bars or matched with online. The calmness in his soft brown eyes behind silver-framed glasses put her at ease. And she was sure he wouldn’t be put off by her math skills or comfort with technology. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d be intimidated by her ability to set up the home Wi-Fi network.

Werner had been on her mind as she searched databases for information about Laurence Gill’s brother. He’d still been on her mind when he texted that morning.

For a place to meet, a suggestion of one coffee shop had followed another, until Werner had mentioned he lived close to Cheekwood. Mac had heard of the place but never visited.

And it was the weekend.

So here they were.

Holding on to Werner’s arm, she admired the neatly tended flowerbeds, the manicured lawns, and the sculptures scattered throughout the garden.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. It’s beautiful.”

“And powered by coffee. Probably why it turned out so well.”

“By coffee?”

The morning was halfway over, and Mac had already drunk two cups. Now she wanted a third.

Werner tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. He rocked again on his heels.

“The Cheek family made a brand of coffee. They sold it through a hotel in the city called Maxwell House and made a fortune when they sold the company.” He waved an arm toward the mansion with its flat Georgian pillars and neat triangular pediment. “This is what they did with the money.”

Mac was impressed. “So this is what a jar of Maxwell House brings. I thought it was just a warm, fuzzy feeling. You’re just a gold mine of interesting little factoids, aren’t you?”

Werner’s cheeks reddened. The color glowed on his pale skin, the result, Mac assumed, of too much time in dark libraries and lecture halls. When he smiled, the new pink tone made his complexion lively and friendly.

“Actually, the American Country Place Era isn’t my period at all. Too modern. But when you agreed to meet here, I read up on it.”

Mac smiled again. She appreciated the effort.

They reached the wisteria arbor. The vines weren’t in bloom, but their thin stems climbed the metal arches and closed them in. A bench looked out over the reflecting pool, and they sat in the cold air and admired the view. Away in the distance lay the green expanses of Warner Park.

Mac’s phone rang in her pocket.

Stella. Mac’s stomach tightened. For the first time, a call from her wasn’t something she’d leap to answer. Right now, it seemed like Stella was interrupting. She and Werner hadn’t even had a chance to discuss the translation yet.

“Sorry, I have to take this. Do you have that translation, by the way?”

Werner gave her a small, understanding nod. He removed a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.

“Hey, Stella.” She took it, turned away, and continued without stopping, eager to finish her report and get back to Werner. “So it looks like I’ve found Laurence Gill’s brother.”

“Oh…” Stella sounded surprised. “What did you⁠—?”

“He’s in Thailand.”

“Thailand?”

“That was why he was so hard to find. He took a flight to Vietnam, slipped over the border, and was caught with enough heroin to land himself a fifteen-year stay in a Bangkok prison. If you had him as a suspect, you’re going to have to rule him out.”

Mac waved her fingers at Werner. He smiled back. He did look cute there, sitting with his arm across the top of the bench, his corduroy jacket unbuttoned despite the cold. Mac wanted to be next to him, her shoulders underneath that arm.

“Oh, and I’ll send along a full report, but I have a translation of that weird writing that you found on the victim’s backs. Apparently, it was written four thousand years ago, by an Akkadian priest.”

“Wow.” Stella’s voice chirped in her ear. “So crazy to think that people have been writing for four thousand years.”

“I know. Anyway, the translation comes from a recently discovered artifact, a tablet. It’s making the waves on the online history groups.”

“What’s it say?”

Mac opened the page and read aloud. “‘The impending apocalypse can only be redeemed through a river of blood.’ But there’s a note here by the word ‘river.’ It says that the Akkadian word was translated to ‘river,’ but it could also mean ‘ocean’ or ‘waterfall.’ The implication is that it’s lots and lots of blood.”

Stella waited a moment to respond, as if to see if there was anything else. “Wow, cheery stuff.”

Mac returned the piece of paper to her pocket. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Possibly.” Her friend’s voice had turned thoughtful. “That someone’s taking this stuff way too literally.”

32

Stella slipped her phone in her pocket, pulled her gloves on, and climbed onto the back of the snowmobile. Riding the thing had been fun for a while, but if she never sat on one of these machines again, she’d be happy. In fact, if she never saw snow again, she’d be happy.

But while Dr. Silow’s house wasn’t far from the sheriff’s, driving would still be easier and faster than trying to tramp through more than a foot of snow.

Hagen swiveled to face her. “So what did Mac say?”

“She’s located Laurence Gill’s brother. He’s out of the country. Wasn’t him.”

Hagen made a small groan. “That’s a shame. With the brother ruled out, whoever lied goes straight to the top of the list. Either Dr. Silow when he said he hadn’t left the hospital. Or the sheriff when he said Dr. Silow told Mark about the gutter.”

He turned the key in the snowmobile’s ignition.

“Let’s go see if the doctor came home.”

Stella held his shoulder. “Just a second. Mac said she also got a translation of those marks cut into our victim’s backs.”

“It’s the name of the killer?” Hagen twisted back in his seat. His grin suggested he knew that was too far-fetched.

“Yeah, like we ever get that lucky. It’s about how the impending apocalypse can only be redeemed through a river of blood. The expert she was in contact with recognized the text. It’s from an ancient artifact, a tablet, and the translation was published recently. People have been talking about it in online history groups.”

Hagen’s right eyebrow rose. “Seriously? People do that?”

“Apparently. Some people have hobbies, I guess. Anyway, this tablet caught their imagination. The expert says old tablets like these aren’t rare, but when they turn up, online lunatics often jump on them.”

“Great, so we’re looking for a lunatic.” Hagen turned the key. The snowmobile coughed to life. “Doesn’t exactly cut things down.”

They roared away from the house. The skis carved new lines into the snow, and the rumble of the machine broke the town’s silence. Although the morning was almost done and noon was approaching, nothing stirred except their machine. Snow still drifted down and lay thick enough on the ground to keep people at home comfortably ensconced under a blanket or perched by a window watching the weather. Stella wrapped her arms tighter around Hagen’s waist.

Dr. Silow’s home was just past Tully’s on the opposite side of the road. Hagen didn’t slow, but Stella’s eyes didn’t leave the front of the house as they roared past. Behind that house, with its broken gutter and dark windows, was where they found Mark hanging head down from an apple tree, with lots and lots of his blood soaking the pristine snow.

A fire lit in Stella’s chest, hot and furious.

She hadn’t known Mark Tully long or well. But she’d known so many like him. Young cops filled with enthusiasm and dedication. They were always the fastest to rush to someone’s help, the first to arrive, and the last to be infected with cynicism. Every small town, every community, depended on people like Deputy Tully.

They had to find the killer. They had to stop this horror from happening again. Whether the sheriff had lied to them or the doctor had, whether Nurse Ann was as unstable as her boyfriend or just covering for him, they’d find whoever was shedding blood, and they’d deal with them.

The roar of the snowmobile’s engine faded. The machine stopped. Silence returned.

Hagen released the handlebars and sat straight. “We’re here.”

The two-story house in front of them was larger and newer than Tully’s. A short passage connected the house to the garage next to it. The window on the second floor was decorated by a white semicircle that reached almost to the bottom of the roof’s ornate eaves. The shutters on the ground floor window were closed, and Stella could imagine the sunlight, dappled by the juniper growing in front of the house, warming the home’s spacious living room.

Her attention drew to the plain stretch of snow between the snowmobile and the front of the house. There were no footprints and no tracks. The snow was as clear and soft as the top of a marshmallow. But that was no surprise, considering how heavy the storm was the previous night.

There was, however, an envelope taped to the front door.

“Looks like the doctor hasn’t been home. He spent the night at the hospital, right?”

Hagen stepped off the snowmobile and pocketed the key. “If he did come back, which I’m not saying he did, he certainly didn’t go through the front. Of course, we can’t be certain because of the heavy snowfall, but it looks like no one’s been up that path since we were at Tully’s yesterday.”

Stella nodded toward the envelope on the front door. “Should we check what’s in that?”

“After you.”

Stella stomped a few steps through the heavy snow and took off her gloves. She removed the envelope from the door and pulled out the piece of construction paper within.

It was a drawing of a spider with a note in a child’s handwriting. Stella read it out loud.

“‘Dear Grandpa,

Mommy and I came by to bring you dinner. But you’re not home. I can’t wait to play with more spiders!

I love you,

Jane.’”

Below the child’s scrawl was a line in more grown-up handwriting.

Dad—We’ll stop by again tomorrow or Saturday. Love you.

Stella held the note out to Hagen, who took it. “They must have put this note up on Thursday night. It would be weird to come home and not take down this message and bring it inside.”

Hagen handed the letter back to her, and she returned it to the envelope. “Agreed, if he often uses this door to go in and out. But let’s take a closer look.”

They stomped through the snow toward the front window. The going was hard, and their feet left deep prints in the powder. When they reached the house, Stella aimed a light from her phone between the slats in the shutters.

The beam landed on the back of a beige leather sofa. It passed across the wall to reveal framed pictures of three young girls grinning at the camera. Stella assumed they were Dr. Silow’s grandchildren. Even in the glare of her flashlight, the girls looked friendly and relaxed. One of them had probably written the note.

Stella lowered the beam to the table beneath the pictures. A desk held a lamp with a large magnifying glass. A shadow grew up the wall. A carapace as long as Stella’s hand, curved and smooth. Eight legs as thin as sticks. Antennae that curled from a small head but ended in points as sharp as stilettos.

Hagen pushed Stella’s flashlight down. The bug was returned to the darkness.

He exhaled loudly. “That is one strange hobby. Taxidermy I could understand. Dead squirrels in waistcoats are cute. But bugs? Who does that?”

“Maybe he’s working his way up to squirrels. Doesn’t look like he’s been here lately, does it? And that note, that seems pretty definitive.”

They tramped through the snow to the back of the house, but there, too, the snow was clean and undisturbed. Stella stopped. Her heart beat fast. She didn’t want to mark that smooth snow with her boots.

Words fell from her mouth before she fully understood their meaning. “So the sheriff lied. He lied to us. Dr. Silow couldn’t have told Mark about his busted gutter. He wasn’t here.”

Hagen tramped back around the house. His stride was longer now, the prints he left wider spaced.

“So the sheriff’s our killer? He doesn’t look the type.”

“No.” Stella strained to keep up. Her legs weren’t as long as Hagen’s, and she had to skip to match his pace. “Maybe he’s protecting someone. Like his wife.”

“Maybe.” Hagen didn’t turn around. They had to get back to the snowmobile and return to the sheriff’s house as quickly as possible. “Or just himself.”

Stella tried to move faster. Each step required her to lift her feet almost as high as her knee. But Hagen was racing ahead. “Dr. Silow is his friend, too, you know? They’ve known each other since they were kids.”

Hagen reached the snowmobile, leaped onto the back, and jammed the key into the starter. “Whoever he’s protecting, he’s guilty. He lied to us. I don’t like being lied to. Especially not by a fellow law enforcement officer, and especially not when we’re investigating murders in his own damn town.”

The engine rumbled as Stella climbed onto the back and hugged him close. The snowmobile lunged forward. Hagen turned the handlebars, and the machine rushed through the snow, bouncing gently over the moguls formed by the journeys they’d already made from the house.

The sheriff’s house was only a few hundred yards away. Hagen twisted the throttle. The engine screamed. Stella tucked her head tighter into Hagen’s back. He was right to move as quickly as possible.

If Sheriff King knew something about Tully’s death, if he was protecting someone or had done it himself…

The thought horrified her.

Mark Tully was his colleague. His friend. The betrayal hit Stella with all the power of a horse kick to the gut.

She lifted her mouth to Hagen’s ear. “Go faster.”

Hagen lowered his chin and turned the throttle. The wind blew through her hair.

Sheriff King’s house was right up ahead.

A crack rang from the house. Snow shot up in a brief spout from the ground in front of them.

Gunfire.

“Hagen!”

He yanked the handlebar. The snowmobile swung to the left as a second crack burst from the sheriff’s window. A bang echoed from the snowmobile, and the machine toppled over, sliding across the snow.

33

Hagen lay under the snowmobile. One leg was trapped beneath the side of the machine and the ground. The other leg rested across the seat. Pain burned from his shin to his knee.

Next to him, Stella took cover behind the sled and tried to push it off him.

Crack!

A shot burst from the house and struck the bottom of the snowmobile.

Hagen tugged his leg. It wouldn’t move. He, too, pushed at the end of the snowmobile, but the thing was heavier than a motorcycle.

Crack!

A bullet struck one of the skis. Shards of plastic snapped away and showered his arm.

Stella touched his shoulder. “Are you hit?”

“Not yet. But I can’t move. Can you see where it’s coming from?”

Hagen twisted his shoulder. His head was partially buried in the snow. The bottom of the snowmobile towered over him like a wall.

With her weapon unholstered, Stella peeked out from behind the snowmobile. “Looks like the side window of the sheriff’s house.”

Another shot blasted pieces of the snowmobile into the snow.

“Guess we got our answer.”

Hagen dug his hands into the snow and pushed. His foot moved a little. A dull pain made his knee throb.

Crack!

Hagen whipped his service weapon from his shoulder holster. He aimed over the top of the snowmobile and shot blindly.

Stella ran through the snow. She kept her head down and lifted her legs like pistons until she reached a car on the street. The snow had turned the vehicle into a small hill, and she dived behind it. She was still twenty yards from the house.

An ache filled Hagen’s chest. Stella couldn’t do this alone. He had to do something.

With an almighty heave, Hagen pushed the snowmobile with one foot and dragged his trapped leg until, at last, it was free. The machine rolled and righted itself, rocking on its suspension. Another shot took a chunk out of the seat.

Hagen’s leg burned, but he could move his toes. Nothing was broken.

He squatted behind the snowmobile and took aim. There was the house and the window, partly hidden by a snow-covered hedge. He couldn’t see a gun or the sheriff.

Stella knelt behind the car. With a sharp crash, a bullet shattered one of the windows and sprayed glass over the top of her head.

Fury burst through Hagen. Over the last weeks, he’d thought only briefly about how well he and Stella would work together in the future, whether they’d be able to put aside their feelings for each other even as they put themselves in danger.

He’d always known Stella could look after herself. He didn’t need to look out for her. Her strength was one of the things he found most attractive and exciting.

But now she was being shot at, and a rage like Hagen had never known flooded him. He wanted nothing more than to bulldoze that house to the ground with the sheriff in it.

He fired six rounds toward the house’s window to ensure coverage.

The glass exploded.

Stella crouched behind the car, her weapon in hand. She put her free hand to her mouth and shouted to Hagen, “Cover me.”

Before Hagen could squeeze the trigger, she ran toward the house.

34

Doug knelt on his sofa. He still had eight more rounds in his Glock 35 and a fresh magazine at the ready. In thirty years of service, he’d never drawn his weapon. He’d expected to reach retirement with that record intact.

He took a deep breath and tried to steady his shaking hands.

It had all become too much. Maureen’s accident cast such a shadow over the house. In those terrible days, he was frightened to walk out the door, scared of what he’d find when he came back. The weeks after the car accident that killed her parents had been like living with the dead.

He’d been resistant to putting his wife in the old sanatorium. All that nonsense Bill spouted about helping people integrate back into society.

Find a focus.

Set a goal.

Bullshit.

He’d told Bill that people just needed to buck up. When things got heavy, the important thing was to get a grip. A good hard talking to, that was all anyone ever needed.

But Bill, he thought he knew better. He always did. Ever since he went off to those fancy colleges and came back with all those psychology degrees. He thought he could cure the incurable.

He’d told his old friend as much. “Put normal people in those places, and all you’ll do is make them crazier than when they went in.”

But his old friend just laughed and told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.

So he’d trusted him. When the time came, he’d caved and accepted Bill’s offer of help.

And, to his surprise, Bill had helped.

Slowly, gradually, life returned. Maureen’s eyes found their twinkle. Sometimes, there was even a smile. A small one, but a smile, nonetheless. She even started teaching again.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

Within a month of her being home, conversations shrank again. Out of all the things in the world there was to talk about, Maureen only wanted to speak about ancient history. And not in a general way. But about a tablet, an artifact, about a warning from four thousand years ago.

He’d liked it at first. The discovery of some ancient clay tablet with writing no one had read for thousands of years interested him about as much as the contents of a week-old newspaper, but it was better than nothing.

But it awakened something in Maureen.

More than a goal, it became an obsession. The only topic of conversation. Every minute, she’d reach for her phone, flick across the screen, and add her own comments.

She wouldn’t let him see what people were saying.

“You wouldn’t understand.” That was how she’d reply when he asked to see what she was reading. “Everyone says not to tell anyone who wouldn’t understand. When I think you’re ready, I’ll show you.”

He thought she was being silly and hoped it would pass. Everything was under control. That was what he’d told himself.

So when they’d found Laurence Gill, he hadn’t thought for a minute it was her. Deep down, she was still the sweet, caring woman he’d married. He just assumed one of the other patients had done it.

But Mark. He was a good cop. Diligent and caring. He wouldn’t let go until he’d solved the crime properly.

But he’d brought in those two FBI agents. Now he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t kill those agents, they’d figure it all out eventually.

They must’ve discovered already that he’d lied.

There was no getting around it. He’d kill them, then he and Maureen would disappear. Head north into Canada. People would think they’d just gotten lost in the snow. They’d find somewhere quiet and live off the land.

They could do it. They could make it work.

Doug lifted his gun and aimed. There was no target. The snowmobile was standing upright again. Stella must’ve still been behind the car.

Well, as soon as she moved, he’d have her. Then he’d take out Hagen.

A feeling passed through him, a strong emotion he’d never felt before, a combination of fear and sadness and regret. It dragged on him like a riptide pulling a swimmer out into the ocean.

It wasn’t fair. They should’ve been able to retire and live out their lives in peace.

But he could look after Maureen. He knew he could. Bill didn’t know shit. Only he could keep his wife safe.

Doug fired two shots at the car. Footsteps landed softly from inside the house behind him.

That must be her. His love. His obsession.

“It’ll be okay, honey.” He turned. “I’ll take care of you, whatever happens.”

His wife beckoned him to follow her. “My dear, come with me to the shed. I’ve got something there that will keep us safe.”

Doug looked outside, his thoughts filling with confusion. He couldn’t imagine there was anything in the shed that could save them. But he also couldn’t defend this position for long either.

“Come on, dear, follow me.” She disappeared down the hall, to the back, where the shed was.

Pressing the fresh magazine into his Glock 35, he trotted after his wife.

His snowmobile sat beside the shed where he’d left it. The door to the shed itself was closed, and he reached out to open it.

He was greeted with the glint of a kitchen knife swinging down toward the meat of his throat.

35

Stella crouched beside the wall of the house. She panted heavily, her breaths coming in thick clouds that hung briefly by her face before the wind pulled them away and removed her camouflage. Sweat pooled in the palms of her gloves around her gun.

The shooting had stopped. Broken glass lay in the pile of snow beneath the sill. The silence was as thick as the drift.

Footsteps thudded through the snow behind her. The rhythm was off, a th-thump rather than a regular thump, thump.

Stella pressed her back against the wall. She dropped her arms and lowered her weapon.

Hagen was limping from where the snowmobile had crushed his shin. He stopped behind the hedge, peered over the top, then stumbled forward, stopping in front of Stella on the other side of the window. The bottoms of his pants were torn. Blood smeared the hems.

Despite the limp, the snowmobile hadn’t done him too much damage.

He aimed his weapon at the window. “Sheriff King! Throw your weapon out. Do it now!”

There was no reply. The wind whistled through the bare branches of the elm tree. Somewhere behind the house, a door creaked.

Stella followed Hagen’s call. “Sheriff King. Throw your weapon through the window and come out with your hands up. You know the drill. Don’t make us come in there.”

Still, there was no answer.

The sheriff didn’t call back. He didn’t fire a warning shot or order them angrily away. He didn’t even offer the kind of sob-filled apology Stella had heard so often from people who’d lost control before wondering how it had all happened.

The silence grew heavier and thicker.

Stella crept closer to the window and lifted her head. A triangle of broken glass still clung to the corner of the frame. The dining room table still held the vase of plastic flowers. The emblem of the Claymore Township Sheriff’s Office glowed on the computer screen in front of the back window.

Besides the broken glass, the room was very calm. The sheriff must’ve changed locations.

Even still, she should be able to take down Sheriff King if he came through the door.

“No sign of him. Let’s try the door.”

Stella jogged over and twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. She waved Hagen over.

He hobbled up behind her. He moved slowly, avoiding putting too much weight on his left leg.

But his gun was in his hand, ready to shoot. He looked at her. “I’ll open the door. You go in first. Be ready in case the sheriff’s on the other side.”

She nodded and set herself in a ready stance, her weapon prepared to fire. Hagen turned the handle and pushed, and the door swung into the house.

Only an empty hallway, a closet, a shoe rack, and a table with a porcelain bowl filled with keys greeted them.

Stella scanned the entryway. “It’s clear. Let’s move on.”

The kitchen was empty. The stove was bare. Two pill bottles stood on the counter. As Hagen pointed his gun at the window, then at the open back door, Stella checked the bottles.

The first was the multivitamins she’d seen Maureen take. The bottle was almost empty. The second was full and contained Thorazine, which Stella knew was an antipsychotic. She looked at the date it was filled. Beginning of July. And the bottle was full.

Maureen had stopped taking her pills—months ago.

Hagen moved toward the back door.

From somewhere behind the house, a snowmobile engine revved up.

Stella locked eyes with Hagen. “He’s getting away!”

36

Hagen charged out of the house, the pain in his leg fading to a dull throb. Prints in the snow led to a large shed at the back of the yard. Stella ran next to him. She was nimbler than he was and soon passed him.

The roar of an engine so close sent him down to one knee. He lifted the gun just as the snowmobile raced from alongside the shed toward the tree line.

“Stop!”

The snowmobile pressed on. Hagen’s finger curled around the trigger.

The driver’s shape was indicative of Maureen, but the cloud of snow the machine churned up made aiming impossible. In a second, the snowmobile dropped into a dip, and by the time it rose up the other side, the driver was already out of range.

“Hagen!”

Stella had reached the entrance to the shed. She waved him forward urgently before disappearing inside. He ran, favoring his bad leg.

The smell struck him before he reached the door, a mixture of rotting meat and the metallic taste of blood. There was no light, and as he stepped inside, Hagen needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Directly in front of him, like a curtain, three dead chickens hung by their feet from hooks in the ceiling. A bunch of drying herbs rustled in the wind next to them. The scent of thyme and basil added a note of sweetness to the shed’s putrid odor.

On the floor in the center of the room lay the sheriff, twitching haphazardly, with blood leaking from his throat. Stella knelt beside him, trying to staunch the flow.

Hagen pushed the chicken carcasses out of the way. His eyes adjusted. The darkness lightened.

The sheriff’s face and shirt were stained. His hands rested by his side. A box-cutter lay on the floor by Stella’s feet, the blade buried in a puddle of blood.

On the walls of the shed, scrawled in thin red lines, were three of the marks they’d seen on the victims’ backs. They looked like they’d been there for a while.

Simple triangles. Short, simple slashes. Scratches like crows’ feet.

Maureen had done this. She’d killed them all.

Anger flashed through Hagen, followed by a deep cut of disappointment.

He’d seen her, spoken to her, visited her house. And he’d missed her guilt. He’d been such a fool.

“Hagen.”

Stella pushed on the wide gash that ran under the sheriff’s beard. Blood dripped off her gloves.

The recriminations would have to wait.

Sheriff King was almost gone. The seriousness of the wound was as clear to Hagen as it must’ve been to Stella. He was bleeding too fast. He had minutes left, maybe less.

He gripped Hagen’s pant leg.

Hagen crouched at his side.

“She…she hit me.” His voice was little more than a hiss.

Hagen leaned closer.

Stella adjusted the pressure. More blood leaked between her fingers. She shook her head. Her breath was coming quickly, and Hagen wanted to pull her out of there, take her away from this awful scene.

We’re supposed to be on leave.

Sheriff King grabbed Hagen’s hand. “I’m…I’m sorry. I tried…tried to stop her.” Blood gurgled from his mouth. “Not her…fault. She’s sick. This shit,” he let Hagen go as his finger jerked in the direction of the marks on the wall, “made her crazy.”

Stella pushed harder on the gash across the sheriff’s throat. Hagen placed his hands over hers. The blood was slippery. Even with his gloves, his fingers slid.

She leaned closer. “What are these things?”

Stella’s question landed like a slap. At any other time, they’d be telling the victim to hang in there, that help was on the way.

There was no point. All they could do now was extract information before the sheriff died.

Sheriff King groaned. Blood had darkened his white mustache, but his face was pale, and he blinked slowly. “History…online. I…I thought…good for her. Helped. But…too…much. She…obsessed.”

He was fading.

Hagen pressed Stella’s glove against the wound. He had to stop the blood for as long as possible.

“Where did she go?”

“Sa…sa…”

The sheriff’s voice trailed away, became a final moan and exhalation. His mouth hung open, and his hand dropped onto Hagen’s wrist.

Hagen stood and stepped away. Blood dripped from his fingers. Frustration burned deep inside him.

“Shit. Where’s she gone? And why would she kill her husband?”

Stella looked at the marks on the wall as she peeled off her gloves and let them fall into the bloody puddle on the floor. “Those marks…remember what the translation was? That the apocalypse will be redeemed through a river of blood.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“She’s killing them to save them…that’s it. Because she couldn’t save her parents.”

“So she’s killing people she likes or loves…but who else is there?”

Stella knelt and retrieved her gloves. When she rose, she had a steely look in her eye. “The sanatorium. That’s what he was saying. That’s what she always called the hospital. She’s going to kill Lottie.”

37

I saved us all. Laurence and Mark and Doug and Me. When the day came, we’d all be redeemed together. There was only one more person to bring with me.

I couldn’t wait.

Doug never used the snowmobile much. He knew I didn’t like the noise it made. And the mess. I didn’t mind it now.

All year, it would sit under the tarp, taking up space in my shed. I never thought I’d drive the thing. He would never let me.

But it wasn’t so hard. More stable than a motorcycle. Couldn’t really fall off one of these machines. Well, not unless you drove it very badly.

I was careful to keep the throttle steady. Not too fast. It would probably have been better if I could see clearly. But snow had started falling again, and the world had turned black and white.

Dark trees. Bright snow. Nothing in between. Everything was sharp and clear.

The carving knife swung in my coat pocket like a crusader’s sword.

All that talk about finding a purpose and setting a goal. I didn’t need that anymore. I’d found a goal. Thanks, Bill.

Poor Doug.

He’d tried to protect me. I knew he would. He was always such a sweet guy. Even after all these years, I knew he still loved me.

That was why I sacrificed him too. To prove my love. So that he’d be redeemed.

The road curved, and I turned the throttle.

A pit seemed to open in my stomach.

I forced myself to remember what my guide said. The prophet was the truth.

We would be redeemed. All of us.

I remembered the words on the tablet. They were written at the dawn of time, a world-changing discovery. The prophet told us that.

Soul-saving knowledge for the lucky few who knew.

I was so grateful I was one of them, so grateful my guide had showed them to me. There were so few people who knew the truth like I did.

The hospital loomed in front of me through the snow.

Lottie’s soul was waiting.

38

“We’ve got to go after her.”

Stella stood in the shed’s doorway. Behind her lay Sheriff King’s fresh corpse. In front of her, the lines of the skis on Maureen’s snowmobile carved a narrow road through the trees.

She had too big of a head start. Maureen would almost be at the hospital by now.

Hagen pushed his gloved hands into the snow. The blood on his wrists turned pink in the ice, but the sleeves on his coat were still darkly stained.

“The snowmobile’s screwed. The gas tank’s punctured, and the front’s busted.”

“Shit.”

Stella took out her phone. She called Dr. Silow. If they locked the doors, shut the windows, crowded the patients into a room…maybe they could stop Maureen from getting in.

The line rang and rang again. No one picked up. She tried the general number. The line rang twice. A woman’s voice answered. “You have reached Claymore Township Psychiatric Hospital. There is no one available to take your call right now. Please leave your number and⁠—”

“Dammit.”

They were stuck. The hospital was less than five miles away, and they had no way to reach it. This was going to be a massacre.

Hagen headed back through the yard, following their footsteps and the thin trail of blood in the snow. “What about Deputy Tully’s snowmobile? It’s still outside his house.”

“Too far. By the time we get there and find the keys and⁠—”

“We’ve got to do something, Stella!”

“Yes…wait…”

The hallway. A porcelain bowl. A bunch of keys.

Car keys.

Hope flared.

Stella raced into the house. She ran through the kitchen, over the mud and ice they’d tracked onto the hallway carpet, and she picked up the bunch of keys that lay waiting in the bowl. She glanced at her gloves.

The blood made her gloves sticky. She didn’t want to wear bloody gloves, risking bloodborne exposure.

Making a quick decision, she yanked her gloves off again, set them by the bowl, and mentally noted to grab them when they came back. After a fast washup, she stepped out of the house and pressed the button on the key fob. From the garage beside the house something beeped. Stella lifted the garage door. The panel rumbled up as Hagen joined her.

In front of them was a Ford pickup. The grill sparkled. The blue paintwork gleamed. The oversize tires lifted the cab high above the road.

“Go wash your hands. Fast.”

He rushed to the kitchen, dropping his gloves next to hers. She heard some water splashing, and then he was back with her.

In the city, the truck would’ve been far too much, like driving a tank to do the weekly shopping. In the snow-covered hills above Lake Erie, though, Stella worried the pickup was too little. There were no chains on the tires, and she had no idea whether the treads were suitable for winter weather.

Hagen reached for the keys.

“Now we’re talking.”

She snatched her hand away.

Hagen’s left leg was still bleeding. The bottoms of his pants were torn where he’d dragged his foot out from under the snowmobile, and he winced when he adjusted his weight.

“I’m driving.”

Hagen started to protest, but Stella cut him off by stomping over to the driver’s side. Leaving Hagen to take the passenger seat, she climbed behind the wheel. The engine rumbled, its three-and-a-half-liter engine ready to take on the mountain. As Hagen yanked on his seat belt, she eased the truck into four-wheel drive before pulling onto the uncleared road.

The back wheels spun as she turned. Stella winced and eased up on the gas, then tried again. The back tires found their grip. The truck lurched forward. Soon, they were heading up the main road through town toward the hospital.

Hagen tore at the hem of his pants. A gash about three inches long from where the snowmobile crushed his leg oozed blood. It could do with cleaning and would need stitches. But they’d both suffered worse over the last months. He found a box of tissues in the glove box and dabbed at the wound.

“You’ve got to go faster, Stella. The longer we wait…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Almost thirty people were in that hospital. Maureen would kill every one of them.

She pressed the gas. The engine screamed. Ice crunched under the tires. The truck slid sideways.

“Shit.”

She turned into the curve and let up on the gas. The wheels bit again. More gas. The truck darted straight ahead.

That was better. She could do this.

She kept the speed steady. They left town and pulled out onto the road that led up the slope to the hospital.

As they rose, the weather changed. The snow, which had fallen with the consistency of sawdust just minutes ago, thickened into fat clumps the size of a dime. They covered the windshield as fast as the wipers could smear them across the glass.

Stella’s heart raced as she leaned closer to the windshield. She couldn’t slow down. The speedometer ticked up past fifty. Fifty-five. Neared sixty.

Hagen’s jaw was clenched, his knuckles white on the dash.

She shouldn’t have been doing more than forty on this road, even in good weather with a clean roadway. She could understand now how easily Maureen’s parents could have died on this mountain.

The windows fogged, and a gray curtain fell over a scene almost entirely white. Stella squinted through the windshield. She could barely see past the nose of the truck. Steering mostly by memory, she followed the thin lines in the snow the sleds had made on their journeys to and from the hospital.

Again, the tires spun. The truck slowed and slipped to the right. Stella turned the wheel. Nothing happened. The truck continued sliding sideways, out of control, heading for the bank. Hagen braced himself. Stella lifted her foot, then pressed the pedal. The truck slid. The engine screamed.

At last, the tires gripped again, and the truck jolted forward.

Stella exhaled slowly and added gas. She needed to focus. They had to get there. “You think she’s arrived yet?”

Hagen released his grip on the dash. His breathing slowed. “She had a head start. But we’re moving faster…watch out!”

The mist in front of the windshield cleared. Directly ahead was the last curve on the main road, before the turn to the hospital. The curve was sharp. The edge of the road ended in a straight drop down the slope, through trees and onto the lake hundreds of feet below them.

Stella made a hard left.

The back of the truck swung ninety degrees, and they slid sideways. The edge of the road loomed closer. Stella lifted her foot, yanked the wheel right and slowly pushed the gas, but the truck continued to slide.

From behind her came the loud whine of a rear tire spinning in the air. Beneath the window, the mountain dropped straight down through trees to the frozen lake below.

The front tires bit. The truck pulled away from the edge.

Stella released the breath she’d been holding. Her heart rate slowed.

The truck straightened and, there, in front of them was the hospital.

A snowmobile stood beside the front steps.

39

The truck slid to a halt, wheels locked.

Hagen was out and running even before the vehicle stopped moving. He could ignore the pain in his leg when he was sprinting through the snow. The cold and the adrenaline numbed everything.

Inside the building, someone screamed.

Hagen pulled his weapon from his holster and sprinted as best he could up the stairs, the pain from his wound throbbing with every step. Reaching the door, he skidded to a stop.

Blood was smeared on the handle. Sheriff King’s blood, he assumed. He hoped it wasn’t anyone else’s.

He pressed the buzzer and banged on the door, with Stella following suit. The door buzzed and unlocked, and in they went.

Maureen stood at the foot of the stairs.

She held a large knife in one hand. Blood stained the cuffs of her sleeves and splashed across the middle of her coat. She looked like a slaughterhouse worker who’d forgotten to put on her overalls.

Floyd was at his desk. When he saw them, a look of relief crossed his wrinkled face, which was quickly replaced by worry. “I buzzed her in. I didn’t know she’d have…I’m sorry.”

Maureen’s gaze was fixed on Ann, who stood nearby. Hagen momentarily cringed at the sight of the nurse, but he didn’t have time to wonder what she was still doing there. Kenneth was between them, his bulky form protecting his lover, while Dr. Silow had stopped in the hallway, where it ended at the entryway.

His hands were raised, palms out, as he pleaded with Maureen. “Put the knife down, Maureen. Please. Let’s just talk.”

Hagen raised his gun. “Listen to him, Maureen. There’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt.”

Maureen smiled at Dr. Silow. It was a strange smile that seemed to express both pity and contempt.

She tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed. “No one else needs to get hurt. I just want to see Lottie. Let me see her now, please. Everyone else can go away.”

“We can still talk.”

“But we’ve talked before, Bill. How many sessions did we sit through, you and me? So many hours.” She giggled, as though those hours had all been wasted and Dr. Silow was too naive to know.

The doctor wasn’t put off. “There’s always time to talk.”

“Time?” Maureen’s giggling grew into full-throated laughter. “There’s so little time left, Bill. If only you knew.”

Hagen steadied his aim. At this distance, he couldn’t miss.

“No. Hagen, no!” Dr. Silow leaped forward, his hand outstretched. His face was taut. His fingers trembled. “Maureen and I are going to talk. Aren’t we, Maureen? We’re just going to talk.”

With her weapon in one hand, Stella pulled gently on Ann’s arm. She whispered, “Come on. Let’s get you and Kenneth out of here.”

“No!”

Maureen moved faster than Hagen expected. In two rapid steps, she crossed over to Dr. Silow and wrapped her arm around his chest. She pulled him close and held her knife at his throat.

“If she takes one step, I’ll sacrifice him now.” Maureen shifted her head behind the doctor’s. She might be in the middle of a psychosis, but her instincts were good.

Hagen had one eye and a temple to aim at. An inch to the right, and he’d miss. An inch to the left, he’d kill the doctor. Either way, they’d have to tackle Maureen unarmed.

He held his fire.

Dr. Silow’s face was pale. His round chest heaved. For all his work with unstable people, he’d likely never been in a situation like this before.

Stella held on to Ann’s arm, ready to pull her and Kenneth to safety. “Maureen, you’re right. If you kill him, you’ll save him. And you don’t want to save Bill, do you? After how much he hurt you? That wouldn’t be fair to your real friends.”

This was perhaps the oddest negotiating tactic Hagen had ever heard. It was a strange argument. But he had to hand it to Stella—she had to try something.

At the very least, it bought time.

Maureen brought the edge of the blade to Dr. Silow’s cheek. A single upward movement, and she could give him a close shave.

“We were friends, though, once. Remember that? Maybe you deserve to be saved after all. Just like I saved Doug. And Mark and Laurence. I’m going to save them all. That’s my goal, you see, Bill? I found a goal. I’m going to redeem as many people as I can, beginning with my friends.” She gripped the knife so tightly, her knuckles gleamed. “Now, where’s Lottie?”

“Maureen, I…that’s not what I…” Dr. Silow lifted his chin. The movement did little to free him. “Put down the knife and let me go.”

“That’s right. I’m going to redeem her.” Maureen pressed the blade harder into his skin. A trail of blood dribbled out.

“Nooo!” Kenneth roared. He charged them.

As Hagen called for him to stop, Kenneth—large and lumbering—crossed Hagen’s line of fire. But when he reached Maureen and the doctor, he stopped.

For a second, he stood there unmoving, a foot in front of them. It felt unnatural, like he was suspended in time. After several seconds passed, Kenneth’s arms lifted to his chest, and he collapsed to the floor, flopping onto his back.

Blood leaked from a wide gash beneath his rib cage.

Maureen efficiently returned the bloody blade to the doctor’s throat.

“Oh, Kenneth. I didn’t mean to redeem you. I don’t even like you.”

Ann took half a step forward. She froze. Kenneth lay at Maureen’s feet. His breath came in short wheezes, and his cheeks turned the color of putty. But Maureen still had the knife. And she was still using the doctor to block Hagen’s shot.

Kenneth groaned. Ann dropped to her knees. Her hands reached across the space between them.

“Ken. Oh, Ken. Hold on. Just hold on.”

Frustration welled in Hagen’s chest. His finger burned on the trigger. Maureen had already killed so many. There was no doubt she’d kill all of them if she just had the chance.

She might take the doctor. But she’d get no one else. Not Ann. Not Stella or him. Not any of the other patients. One bullet was all he’d need.

And if he could just take the damn shot, he’d save the doctor too.

He shifted right, but Maureen saw him. She ducked her head behind the doctor’s shoulder and dragged him back toward his office.

“Uh-uh. No guns. I’ve still got too much work to do.”

She stood in the doorway. Stella crouched next to Ann and tapped her back. The nurse crawled to Kenneth and applied pressure to the wound.

Hagen focused his aim. He’d take her and save the doctor. This town’s nightmare would be over.

In one smooth movement, keeping Silow in front of her, Maureen dragged the doctor back into the office.

She slammed the door behind them.

40

“Dammit.”

Stella raced past Ann and Kenneth and skidded to a stop in front of the office door.

Watching Hagen aim his weapon and struggle to find a shot had been infuriating.

They had to stop her now.

She put her eye to the keyhole. What she saw made her almost pump her fist in victory.

Maureen had let her captive go.

Dr. Silow backed away. He reached the desk and, without lowering his gaze from the knife in Maureen’s hand, carefully made his way around. He was putting an obstacle between them.

They had time.

Stella stood up and gripped the door handle. Hagen’s arm was extended, his weapon ready. Hers was too.

She gave a small nod. He returned it.

Stella threw open the door.

Hagen took three rapid steps forward, and Stella braced for the blast of a gunshot.

Instead, she got the doctor’s voice, loud and urgent. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”

Stella followed Hagen into the room. His gun was aimed at Maureen. His finger rested on the trigger. But the doctor had reached the safety of the other side of the desk. Both his hands were raised again, and while his face held an expression of shock, the control he’d displayed when they’d first met him had returned.

“How’s Kenneth?”

Stella frowned. Now wasn’t the exact time for chitchat. She realized an instant later what the doctor was attempting to do. He was protecting Maureen.

She glanced over her shoulder. Ann held Kenneth’s hand and whispered quietly while Fiona applied a bandage to the wound and wrapped it tightly around his chest.

The nurse met Stella’s gaze. “We’ll need to get him to a surgeon. But we can hold him over. He’ll live.”

Dr. Silow breathed out slowly. Color returned to his face. “Okay, that’s good. Someone call Dr. West. She’ll have to do in a pinch.”

Stella wanted to scream at them all to focus on the crazy woman with the knife but held her tongue. These people knew Maureen better than she did. If the psychiatrist thought it was better to distract her, she’d allow it.

Finally, Dr. Silow turned his attention to Maureen. “I need you to put that knife down.”

Maureen didn’t drop the knife. She lifted it over her shoulder. The blade rested under the bottom of her ear and the tip pointed at a framed display on the wall behind her. The shadow box was filled with small bees, all facing upward like an angry swarm. One of Dr. Silow’s creations, surely.

“But I like this knife. I need it, Bill. I have to keep it.”

“Just put it down, and we can talk this through.”

Hagen kept his weapon trained on her. He moved slowly around the desk, placing himself next to the doctor. If Maureen lunged, Hagen would shoot her in the chest. If she tried to leave the office, he’d shoot her in the back.

They had her now. She couldn’t kill anyone.

Except herself.

Slowly, Maureen lifted her chin and placed the edge of the blade against an artery.

Stella’s heart fell. She didn’t want Maureen to die. Despite all Maureen had done, despite all the blood she’d spilled, they could save her.

She was mentally ill. Sick. Dangerous, yes, but ill. Maureen needed help. And she had answers to questions that Stella still had.

Dr. Silow lowered his hands and relaxed his shoulders. He looked surprisingly calm. “Maureen, why don’t you tell me what you want?”

“I want what you gave me.” Maureen slid the blade up and down against her neck as though she were scratching an itch. “You gave me a purpose, you see. A goal. An ending.”

“An ending?” Dr. Silow cocked his head. “What do you mean by an ending? I didn’t give you an ending, Maureen. Quite the opposite.”

Stella glanced at Hagen. His arm must’ve been growing tired now, holding his weapon like that. There was only so long a situation like this could last before something broke.

Either someone surrenders. Or someone dies.

Maureen laughed. It wasn’t the light laugh Stella had heard when they’d talked in the kitchen. It was a strange, cackling laugh of the deranged.

“Oh, the ending isn’t mine, Bill. It’s yours.”

Her tone was triumphant, as though she were revealing the killer plot of a story they’d all been unwitting players in.

Hagen scowled. His arm straightened. “Put the knife down, Maureen. Do it now.”

Still, Maureen laughed. “And yours.” She looked at Stella. “And yours too. The ending is everyone’s. The end of the world is coming. It’s already here. Only those who bleed will be redeemed. And only those who shed blood.”

She lifted her chin.

Dr. Silow shouted, “No!”

In one smooth movement, Maureen slashed the knife across her own neck.

41

Stella caught Maureen as she fell, causing them both to tumble to the floor.

Blood spurted in a two-foot spray from the side of Maureen’s neck. A line of red dots shot across the framed bees on the wall. A puddle as sticky as honey grew by the side of her head.

Dr. Silow shouted, “Nurse! Nurse!”

Pocketing his gun, Hagen rushed to Maureen’s side. Stella struggled to her feet, one hand still trying to stem the flow of blood, hot and sticky between her fingers. Hagen added both of his hands to hers.

Fiona ran into the office. She barged past Hagen and pushed Stella’s hands off the woman. A fresh spurt of blood arced over Fiona’s shoulder to splat against the wall. Fiona jammed a large piece of gauze over the gash.

Blood saturated the material, then snaked around it. Maureen had done a better job on her own neck than she’d done on her husband’s. She was going fast.

Her face was gray. She blinked once, twice, then her mouth opened, and her head rolled to one side so that her cheek came to rest in the bloody puddle by her ear.

Fiona dropped onto the office floor. The soaked gauze fell away. A small trickle of blood oozed out of the wound.

“She’s gone.”

Dr. Silow collapsed into his chair. His cheeks had paled again, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. “And Kenneth?”

“Ann’s with him. Even though she crossed the line, she’s still a nurse.”

The tension in Stella’s chest eased a little. Ann’s presence would help. Perhaps especially so, since she was not just a nurse to Kenneth.

Dr. Silow’s arm shook as he ran his hand over his head.

“I…I don’t understand how this happened. How did I miss such a disaster?”

Stella’s hands were red up to her wrists. “Do you have a sink and antibacterial soap?”

Dr. Silow nodded. “Come with me.” He led them to a small bathroom outside the office. Stella ran the water. She and Hagen leaned over the sink and started to scrub.

“I don’t think you can blame yourself. She wasn’t taking her meds. We found a full bottle of Thorazine in the kitchen.”

“That’s an antipsychotic.” Dr. Silow pinched the bridge of his nose. “I prescribed it myself. But…but from not taking her meds to…to this? To kill Laurence? And Mark? And Doug too? Oh, gosh. Maureen was…she was ill. But she was never violent.”

Hagen took a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. He passed the towels to Stella and took more for himself. Stella was grateful. She’d been exposed to all kinds of bodily fluids today, and she couldn’t get clean enough.

She rubbed at her palm. The blood wouldn’t come off so easily. “She was digging around in some history stuff she found online. The sheriff said she was obsessed with it. Some apocalyptic tablet from thousands of years ago. Sounded like it sent her down a rabbit hole.”

Dr. Silow dropped his head into his hands. “It is my fault. I told her to find a focus. To give her life new meaning after the tragedy she…I thought…I thought she’d go back to teaching. That was what I wanted. When she did, I…I thought she was okay.”

Her hands finally clean and dry, Stella headed back to the office and Maureen’s body. “I don’t know what kind of history you teach in this town. I didn’t learn anything about the Akkadian empire when I was in school. Kinda grateful now.”

“They don’t teach anything about that stuff here either.” Fiona eyed Maureen’s body, then tore her gaze away. “I don’t know what happened to her. But you can’t blame yourself, Bill. You can’t.”

Stella crouched next to the body. “Got any examination gloves?”

Fiona tossed her a box from the desk.

After pulling them on, Stella rummaged in Maureen’s pockets until she found the dead woman’s phone. She turned it on and cursed, hoping Maureen still had enough electrical conductance in her body for this to work. Thankfully, she did. After disabling the passwords, Stella took a look.

There were few apps on the home page. A browser. Email. Dispatch. The icons did little to hide the background image.

The picture was of a clay tablet. Its texture, shape, and gray color reminded Stella of the kind of rock she might’ve pulled out of a stream to admire its smoothness. The kind of stone her brother had taught her to skip over the tranquil surface of a lake. Only a few thin cracks marred its shape.

But across the tablet’s surface were a series of marks. Short lines and triangles. The same marks she’d seen on Laurence Gill’s back, on Mark Tully’s back, and on the walls of Maureen’s garden shed.

“The end of the world. That’s what this stuff’s supposed to say.” She traced her finger over the old writing. “It certainly brought her world to an end.”

42

Stella woke late the following morning. The snow had stopped falling at last. Outside the window, a quiet peace had settled over the hill. Hagen was already up, and the kitchen emitted its familiar early scent of fresh coffee and eggs. Bubs lay at the foot of the bed, snoring quietly.

Stella stretched and enjoyed a lightness she hadn’t felt for days.

The case was behind them. Maureen was dead. She’d taken three victims before taking her own life—redeemed herself, as she’d put it.

The M.E. in Pittsburgh had sent a report on Laurence Gill. Exsanguination was now the official cause of death. But the most interesting piece was in his stomach contents. Laurence had swallowed a small piece of paper with the words Run in order to be saved. You know where to go.

One phone call to the sanitorium, and Silow had gained a confession of sorts from Lottie. She’d slipped the paper under Laurence’s door. Maureen had given her instructions to pass it on a certain date and time. So that explained how Laurence had chosen that moment to head out into the snow.

Lottie was too upset by events to understand her role.

Maureen, for being as sick as she was herself, had managed to wreak havoc.

Too many people had died. But more would’ve died if she and Hagen hadn’t stopped her. The danger to the town had passed. They’d done a job…a job that wasn’t even theirs.

She kicked off the covers and headed to the kitchen, where Hagen was preparing to flip an omelet. Stella stopped and watched. He did it with such panache. A little flick of the wrist, and the omelet leaped out of the skillet, somersaulted once in the air, then slid down the side of the pan.

A little piece of Stella always wished he’d flick too hard and the omelet would get stuck to the ceiling. There were times when Hagen could be just a little too smooth.

She took her seat as he served her breakfast. He’d already finished his coffee, but he poured himself an orange juice and joined her. After Dr. West had reached the psychiatric hospital yesterday and tended to Kenneth, she’d cleaned and stitched the wound on Hagen’s leg. He barely even limped now.

“How long do you think you’ll need to pack?”

Stella sipped her cocoa. “Less time than you. I brought half the clothes you did.” She winced. He still wasn’t using enough sugar. “And I don’t waste time folding everything like origami when I pack.”

Hagen shrugged. He had a thick skin for her teasing. “I don’t want creases in all the wrong places.”

“You fold your boxers, Hagen.”

“Especially in my boxers.” He lowered his glass and fixed his dark-green eyes on hers. “You put the wrong crease in a pair of underwear, and things can get very painful. Knew a cop in San Francisco had to have surgery after he packed his boxers badly.”

“Really?” Stella laughed. “Did he recover?”

“Eventually. Sings soprano in the San Francisco Opera now. He’s very happy.”

Stella almost choked on her bite of omelet.

Hagen grinned. His eyes softened, and Stella leaned across the table and kissed him. He tasted of orange and salt and a hint of coffee, and such a warmth grew within her.

This was the Hagen she loved. Not just the man who could take down a suspect, hunt a serial killer, and dive headfirst into a siege. Not even the man with the squarest chin she’d ever seen, the most chiseled cheekbones, and eyes that in the right light glowed like ancient jade.

The man who could make her laugh.

In these last weeks, until Mark Tully had knocked on their door, they’d done nothing but laugh and make love and take long walks through trees that seemed to have been planted just for them.

That laughter had been missing these last few days as they’d delved into the multiple murders plaguing the small town. The old Hagen had returned, the one she’d first met in Nashville, a law enforcement officer with courage and focus and determination.

Now their leave was over, and they were heading home.

To Hagen’s home. Their home.

Stella had given up her apartment after Joel Ramirez’s death. Every time she thought of the camera that had been placed by her bed, she felt nauseous. Every moment she’d spent there since Ramirez’s demise, she thought she was still being watched.

In that small studio, Samantha and Joel were able to see her from any angle. They’d watched her as she ate, as she flicked through television channels. As she slept.

The memory turned her stomach. She couldn’t go back there.

But Hagen’s home had been compromised too.

Not his bedroom. Not his most private places. But Ramirez and Samantha had bugged his living room with a state-of-the-art audio device. As he cooked in his kitchen and ate his Korean food from a bowl on the sofa.

He’d changed the light fixtures since then and redecorated downstairs. She hoped the change would be enough.

Because tonight they’d be home, and tomorrow, they’d be back in the office, receiving a briefing from Slade about some new case. Some new killer prowling the streets of Nashville. Or a criminal organization spreading its tentacles into their city.

There’d be no woods to stroll through, their arms around each other’s waists. No late mornings and complex, home-cooked dinners every night. And there’d be no Joel Ramirez for them to chase together, forcing them to trust each other blindly.

Stella worried the Hagen whose company she’d enjoyed so much over the last few weeks would remain behind in the Pennsylvania hills. The thought made her sad.

They’d need a new goal. A focus they shared. A mission to keep them together.

Yet as Stella ate the omelet and sipped the cocoa Hagen had made her, she could already sense the outline of that goal.

Claymore Township was a small town. Less than a thousand people. For a few days, it had been threatened by a woman with a dangerous obsession. The work Stella and Hagen performed together had brought peace and security back to the town.

It was enough.

And if bringing peace and security was enough in Claymore Township, it should be more than enough in a city the size of Nashville. Breaking up criminal gangs. Hunting serial killers. Stopping sadists from torturing and dismembering and terrorizing the public.

Surely, that should be a big enough goal for them both.

Stella sipped her cocoa again. The bittersweet taste was growing on her.

Hagen finished his juice and left his glass in the sink next to the skillet. His plate stuck out next to it, and his coffee cup stood on the counter.

“I’m going to get dressed. Why don’t you clean up, then we can start packing? We’ve got a long drive. If we can hit the road by ten, that’d be great.” He stopped as he passed to caress her cheek and kiss her forehead.

She glared at the dirty kitchen. The plates from the meal they’d eaten last night were there too.

Sure, he’d cooked both meals. But still.

She added another spoonful of sugar to her cup.

Stella finished her breakfast and cleaned, scrubbing the skillet until the last pieces of egg had been removed. By the time the plates were drying on the rack and she was dressed, Hagen was still only halfway through his packing. They had less than an hour before he wanted to hit the road.

She opened her suitcase, grabbed an armful of her clothes from the closet, and dumped them on the bed next to his neatly folded pile.

“I bet I finish before you.”

Hagen eyed her pile. He lifted a blue plaid shirt that Stella didn’t remember him wearing once during their stay and laid it on its front. Carefully, he folded the arms back as though handcuffing a prisoner, then lifted the cuffs to the back of the collar. He brought the sides in, then folded the body of the shirt into thirds. By the time he was done, the shirt looked like it was ready for a sale tag, and the effort had taken almost two minutes.

At least a dozen more shirts lay in waiting. He shook his head. “I’m not taking that bet.”

Stella picked up her pile of clothes, dumped it into the suitcase, and zipped it closed. “Shame.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Stella jumped. It was a knock like that from Tully that had led them to a body in the woods and put them on the hunt for a disturbed killer.

But Mark Tully was dead, and there were no more bodies to find.

She hoped.

Leaving Hagen to continue his slow packing, she opened the door.

Dr. Silow wiped his feet on the mat and stepped in out of the snow.

He looked as though he’d aged a year in the days since Stella first met him. Despite the red patches on his cheeks the cold air had generated, the skin above his beard was loose and pale. His white hair was mussed, and the confidence he’d displayed at their first meeting in his office was gone.

“I’m glad to catch you two before you go.”

Stella invited him to take a seat. He lowered himself carefully onto the sofa in front of the fire. She pulled over a chair from the kitchen table as Hagen stepped into the room, a half-folded shirt draped over his arm.

“You’re just in time. As soon as we’re finished packing, we’re out of here. How’s Kenneth doing?”

Dr. Silow raised his head. Being asked about the welfare of his patients seemed to please him.

“He’s doing okay. The wound wasn’t as bad as it appeared. He and Ann are leaving as soon as they can arrange transport.” He took a deep breath. “Terrible thing they did. So unethical. If I’d had any idea about their relationship, I’d have fired her long before yesterday. She’ll have a hard time finding work now.”

“Maybe it’s good you didn’t know.” Hagen leaned against the wall. “They seem to be good for each other. Could be exactly what they need.”

Dr. Silow smiled. “You might be right, Hagen. You might be right.” He thumped the arm of the sofa with his fist. “But that’s not why I came. As you know, Claymore Township’s sheriff and deputy are both dead. As the mayor, I’ve spoken to the county, but they don’t have any replacements yet. So I have no one to keep law and order here.”

Stella’s stomach tensed. She could see where this conversation was leading, and she wasn’t sure she liked its direction.

“That’s rough, but our boss needs us to⁠—”

“I know. I took the liberty of calling him. I’ve reassured him that your weapon discharge has been thoroughly investigated and you’re free to perform your duties.”

“Oh, that’s great.” Stella cocked her head at Dr. Silow. He might be the mayor, but she wasn’t sure why he was giving them a pass.

“There was another thing your Mr. Slade wasn’t happy about, but after I explained that I’d discussed the sheriff vacancy with the governor, there wasn’t much he could say.”

“The governor?” Stella was sure her eyebrows were all the way up to her hairline.

“Yes. He has generously agreed to allow you to step in as temporary co-sheriffs until a permanent replacement is selected to serve out the rest of Sheriff King’s term.” He folded his hands in his lap. “A replacement shouldn’t take more than a week. Maybe two. If you agree, of course.”

He cast his gaze from Stella to Hagen. The small eyes beneath his white eyebrows pleaded. Stella could see the openness that enticed patients to talk about their feelings, and she understood the charm that had made him mayor.

She wasn’t sure what to say. Her mind was already back in Nashville, in the office, in the briefing room. She wanted to see what the rest of her life looked like. But the end of their leave had been ruined. She’d enjoyed her time here. And a few more days of walking and nature and easy living was hard to refuse.

“Hagen? What do you think?”

Hagen smoothed the front of the shirt he’d folded. He examined the neat folds, then he lifted the shirt from his arm and tossed it back toward the bedroom.

They were staying.

They walked Dr. Silow back to his SUV. The sun was out, and the snow would soon melt, clearing the road and opening the area again. They watched him make his slow way back down the hill, the chains on his tires gripping hard on the ice.

Hagen slipped an arm around Stella’s waist. “Let’s take a walk.”

He called Bubs as they slipped on their winter wear and hiked up the hill through the snow. There were no footprints except the thin lines left by birds and foxes hunting for food. The snow was as soft and smooth as a cashmere blanket. Each crunch of ice under Stella’s boot gave her a small note of satisfaction.

They had no direction, but somehow, without Stella thinking about it or Hagen mentioning it, they found themselves climbing the low rise in front of the clearing where Laurence Gill’s body had been found.

The sawed-off tree branch where he’d hung stretched over the patch of earth like a coffin lid.

Hagen ran his hand up the trunk of the tree. “Laurence was a small guy, but it couldn’t have been easy to tie him up like that.” His fingers probed the wear on the bark where the rope had wrapped around.

Stella stilled, her mind whirling back to their odd, aborted lunch at the King residence. In the kitchen, Maureen had asked her to tie off the herbs. “I was never very good at tying knots,” she’d said. “I’m all fingers and thumbs these days. I should have been a scout like Doug was.”

Her stomach twisted. “Did you remember how complex the knot was that held up the victims?”

Hagen nodded. “Yeah, sure do.” He stopped and eyed her quizzically. “Why? What are you thinking?”

Stella didn’t reply right away, but even a few seconds of silence couldn’t give her a good answer. “I don’t know. But she did tie a surprisingly good knot, didn’t she?”

The End.

To Be Continued…

WHAT’S NEXT?

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If you enjoyed the Stella Knox Series, I’d love to introduce you to my Sky Stryker Series.

Fatal Secrets (Sky Stryker Series: Book 1)

Sky Stryker arrives in New York armed with a pen and an eye for true crime. When she's pulled into the world of elite modeling by her gorgeous cousin, she expects to be writing about fun and glamor...not human trafficking and murder. When her cousin disappears, Sky finds herself working the case with the help of a handsome fashion COO, a sharp supermodel, a private investigator, and a retired FBI agent. As Sky delves into the secrets, scandal, and seediness of the modeling world, she doesn't realize the killer has a new target: Sky Stryker.

SERIES READING ORDER

Killer Kickoff (Stella Knox Series: Bonus Story)

Killer Smile (Stella Knox Series: Book One)

Killer Style (Stella Knox Series: Book Two)

Killer Shot (Stella Knox Series: Book Three)

Killer Spirit (Stella Knox Series: Book Four)

Killer Memo (Stella Knox Series: Book Five)

Killer Note (Stella Knox Series: Book Six)

Killer Encore (Stella Knox Series: Book Seven)

Killer Knockout (Stella Knox Series: Book Eight)

Killer Fame (Stella Knox Series: Book Nine)

Killer Blast (Stella Knox Series: Book Ten)

Killer Deal (Stella Knox Series: Book Eleven)

Killer Setup (Stella Knox Series: Book Twelve)

Killer Plot (Stella Knox Series: Book Thirteen)

More Stella Knox Series books coming soon!

HAVE YOU READ MY OTHER SERIES?

Latest Series:

Journey Russo Series

Sky Stryker Series

More Series:

Emma Last Series

Ellie Kline Series

Charli Cross Series

Shadow Island Series

A Villain's Story Series

Kylie Hatfield Series

Psychological Thrillers:

Don’t Tell

Gone Viral

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How does one adequately express gratitude to all those who have transformed a shared dream into a stunning reality? Let us attempt to do just that.

First and foremost, our families deserve our deepest thanks. Their unwavering support and encouragement have been our bedrock, allowing us the time and energy to translate our collective imagination into the words that fill these pages. Their belief in our vision has been a constant source of strength and inspiration.

As coauthors, our journey has been uniquely collaborative and rewarding. Now, with Mary also embracing the additional role of publisher, our adventure has taken on an exciting new dimension. This transition from solely writing to also publishing has been both a challenge and a joy, opening doors to share our work more directly with you, our readers.

We are immensely grateful to the entire team at Mary Stone Publishing — a group who believed in our potential from the very beginning. Their commitment extends beyond editing our words; it encompasses the tireless efforts of designers, marketers, and support staff, all dedicated to bringing our stories to life. Their expertise, creativity, and passion have been vital in capturing the essence of our tales and sharing them with the world.

However, our greatest appreciation is reserved for you, our beloved readers. You took a chance on our book, generously sharing your most precious asset—your time. It is our fervent hope that the pages of this book have rewarded that generosity, offering you a journey worth taking and memories that linger.

With all our love and heartfelt appreciation,

Mary & Stacy

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nestled in the serene Blue Ridge Mountains of East Tennessee, Mary Stone crafts her stories surrounded by the natural beauty that inspires her. What was once a home filled with the lively energy of her sons has now become a peaceful writer's retreat, shared with cherished pets and the vivid characters of her imagination.

As her sons grew and welcomed wonderful daughters-in-law into the family, Mary's life entered a quieter phase, rich with opportunities for deep creative focus. In this tranquil environment, she weaves tales of courage, resilience, and intrigue, each story a testament to her evolving journey as a writer.

From childhood fears of shadowy figures under the bed to a profound understanding of humanity's real-life villains, Mary's style has been shaped by the realization that the most complex antagonists often hide in plain sight. Her writing is characterized by strong, multifaceted heroines who defy traditional roles, standing as equals among their peers in a world of suspense and danger.

Mary's career has blossomed from being a solitary author to establishing her own publishing house—a significant milestone that marks her growth in the literary world. This expansion is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of her commitment to bring thrilling and thought-provoking stories to a wider audience. As an author and publisher, Mary continues to challenge the conventions of the thriller genre, inviting readers into gripping tales filled with serial killers, astute FBI agents, and intrepid heroines who confront peril with unflinching bravery.

Each new story from Mary's pen—or her publishing house—is a pledge to captivate, thrill, and inspire, continuing the legacy of the imaginative little girl who once found wonder and mystery in the shadows.

Discover more about Mary Stone on her website.

www.authormarystone.com

Stacy O’Hare

Growing up in West Virginia, most of the women in Stacy O’Hare’s family worked in the medical field. Stacy was no exception and followed in their footsteps, becoming a nurse’s aid. It wasn’t until she had a comatose patient she became attached to and made up a whole life story about—with a past as an FBI agent included—that she discovered her love of stories. She started jotting them down, and typing them out, and expanding them when she got off shift. Somehow, they turned into a book. Then another. Now, she’s over the moon to be releasing her first series.

Connect with Mary Online