WATER.�

�Check.�

�Granola bars.�

�Check.�

�Apples. PB and J sandwiches.�

�Check, check.� Janet paused, looked up from the day packs opened on the B&B�s quilted bed. �How much water?�

�I�m going to say two bottles apiece,� Chuck replied. He was lacing up his hiking boots, banging his heel against the hardwood floor to ensure a tight fit.

�It�s really hot out,� Janet hedged. They�d fled Hotlanta for the weekend, heading north into the mountains only to discover the humidity was marginally better here than in the city they�d left behind. Just what they needed: a heat wave in Appalachia.

Chuck considered the matter. �Better throw in three bottles apiece. We definitely want to stay hydrated.�

�Sure,� Janet said, trying to keep from sounding sarcastic. As if they knew what they were doing. As if Chuck�s hiking boots hadn�t just come from a sporting goods superstore, while both backpacks had been dug out of the dusty bowels of his parents� garage. Janet hadn�t even bothered with real boots, sticking with her tennis shoes. Chuck had already warned her about rolling an ankle on the trails. Seriously, she�d just wanted a romantic weekend at a B&B. She and Chuck had been dating nearly a year: short enough that they were still making the effort, long enough that a getaway weekend sounded fun.

But hiking? That was Chuck�s idea of a good time. Personally, she would�ve gone with room service and sex, but given the way her boyfriend was now clomping around their quaint room with blatant hiking boot satisfaction, that wasn�t happening. Maybe at the end of the day. Assuming either of them could still move.

�You have the map?� she asked him now, as she was a city girl and knew it.

�Yep. Trail is marked. Four miles round-trip, one-thousand-foot elevation gain. We can do this.� He stopped long enough to waggle an eyebrow at her, offer a reassuring kiss.

She acquiesced while leaning all the way into him. He could be charming, with his mop of brown hair, thick lashes, and dark puppy dog eyes. And he was fit, an up-and-coming ADA who burned away his courtroom frustrations running half marathons. Given how much she enjoyed every inch of that runner�s body�.�.�.

Fine, she would hike. For love, people had done worse.

She stepped back, hefted up the first pack, grunted a little at the weight.

�We�re going to earn those water bottles,� she said.

Chuck swung the second pack onto his own back as if it were nothing. �We got this,� he said.

�Promise to carry me?�

�I don�t want to use up all my strength. I still have some plans for us, end of day. I�ve heard the views are excellent from the trailhead. But I�m kind of wondering��he leaned closer, whispered in her ear��if sex on a mountaintop won�t be even better.�

�Sweaty and pine needly,� she told him, but he had her attention now. Hiking. Huh. She didn�t even like gyms. But the great outdoors, coupled with the promise of the right reward�.�.�.

�We got this,� she agreed hoarsely. Then, after fighting with the straps of her pack, she followed her lanky, cute-as-sin boyfriend out the door.

IDATED ONCE. PJN. PRE Jacob Ness. I remember brushing out my sun-streaked hair till it glowed California gold. Then I�d line my lashes in deep purple and go heavy on the mascara to bring out the gray depths of my eyes. A wisp of a dress. Thin spaghetti straps, a hem that barely brushed mid-thigh. Why not? I�d spent my childhood running around the wilds of Maine and I had long, graceful legs to show for it.

In those days, I was a girl on fire. I didn�t just enter a bar, I sauntered: bright, shiny, the life of the party. I was young and arrogant. And stupid. Dear God, so stupid. Even now, eight years later, I wish I could go back and have twenty seconds alone with my younger, stupider self.

But no such luck. So instead, bright, shiny me headed to Florida on spring break. And like tons of pretty college coeds, I donned my wisp of a dress and headed out with my bestest buds, all almost as golden and giggly as me, ready to rock the palm trees. We downed tequila shots. We shimmied across peanut-strewn floors. We spurned good-looking guys for downright sexy ones.

Then�.�.�.

I danced myself away from the protection of the bar lights. Into the shadows of the sparsely populated beach, listening to some song only I could hear in my tequila-soaked head.

And Jacob Ness, who later told me he�d been watching me for hours, snatched me off that beach. Yanked me right out of my life, my pretty girl bluster, my young and glorious ways. He came. I disappeared. And for the next four hundred and seventy-two days, I learned about an entirely different kind of existence. One involving a coffin-sized box and the whims of a vicious predator who�d always wanted his own personal sex slave.

Again, if I could just have twenty seconds alone with younger, stupider me�.�.�. But there are some mistakes you never get to take back. And there are some experiences there is no returning from.

There is what was. And now there is what is.

But I still miss that girl sometimes. Especially on a night like this one.

BOSTON SERGEANT DETECTIVE D. D. WARREN was in love.

She�d never meant for it to happen. In fact, once upon a time her life had fallen into three carefully planned phases: work, work, and work. She indulged in the occasional all-you-can-eat buffet, because a girl needed a hobby. Or maybe that was her shoe fetish. But either way, she�d spent the majority of her adult life happily kicking ass and taking names. Some of her fellow investigators found her obsessive, if not prickly. Not her problem. Following an on-the-job injury, she�d become a supervisor of homicide�technically a step up, though the truth was that D.D. was happier in the field than behind a desk. Her former squad mates, Phil and Neil (and now petite, perky, pain-in-the-ass Carol), had finally gotten used to her hands-on ways.

Today�s phone call from SSA Kimberly Quincy�inviting D.D. to join a major taskforce that was re-opening several cold cases attached to an infamous predator�was the stuff of policing legend. D.D. should be thrilled, giddy, dancing in her brand-new smooth-as-butter black leather boots. Except, of course, she�d fallen in love.

She�d had to return home. Alex, her crime analyst husband who taught at the police academy, totally understood the demands of her job. He�d been the same way once. Now, at this phase of life, he could afford to slow down, admire her zeal, and smile at her in such a way that stated I told you so without him ever having to utter the words.

What had brought her low? Totally captured her heart, then ripped it from her chest, so that every day she had to leave it behind? They had a son. Six-year-old, hyper, adorable Jack. Who raced around the house in Avengers pajamas with his favorite canine sidekick, Kiko. Jack jumped, their spotted rescue pup jumped higher. Jack sprinted across their fenced-in yard, Kiko ran faster. Jack wasn�t into shoes, but Kiko certainly loved to gnaw on an expensive pair of heels, which Jack then quickly hid under beds and behind sofas, anything to cover for his partner in crime.

Jack was silly, wild, and way too charming for D.D.�s or Alex�s mental health.

Which made it so hard to stand in the family room and state, �Mommy has to go away for a few days. Probably a week.�

Jack approached it smartly: no immediate waterworks. Instead, he�d played the brave young man. Head up, shoulders back.

�Okay, Mommy. If that�s what you have to do to catch the bad guys�.�.�.�

While his lower lip trembled. Then, suddenly flinging himself sideways, he wrapped his skinny body around Kiko�s seated form.

�At least I still have you, girl. I know you�ll never leave me.�

He aimed a single glance over his shoulder to see if D.D. had caught the show.

Leaning against the wall, Alex broke into mild applause and congratulated Jack on his performance. Which made both D.D. and Jack glare at him with uncomfortable similarity.

�Your mom�s gotta go,� Alex chided their son. �Now give her a hug and stop auditioning for Broadway.�

Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, the six-year-old had forced himself to his feet. He gave his mother a pat on the back.

�I will miss you,� he declared stoically. �Please text.�

�How much TV is he watching?� D.D. demanded of Alex.

Her husband shrugged. �So many superheroes, so little time.�

�I will be home as soon as I can,� D.D. told her son.

�Sure,� Jack sniffed.

D.D. found herself turning to the dog�honestly, the shoe-eating canine�for moral support. Kiko gave D.D. her back.

�Well then,� D.D. said, addressing her husband. �Will you at least take my calls?�

�Always,� Alex assured her. �I�ll even accept FaceTime.�

�At least someone still loves me.�

Alex put an arm around her shoulders. �The heartbreak of little boys,� he murmured in her ear.

�Parenthood ain�t for sissies,� she mumbled against his shoulder.

He kissed her softly. �You know he�ll get over it in another minute. Go get �em, slugger. We�re both proud of you.�

�Three to four days,� she muttered. �Seven tops.�

�Federal taskforce?�

�Yep.�

�Gonna catch a bad guy? Maybe even bring some poor lost person home?�

�I hope so.�

�Then don�t worry about us. Your menfolk will be fine. Though I make no promises about too much TV or Frosted Flakes for breakfast.�

D.D. shrugged. �I like Frosted Flakes for breakfast.�

�Perfect, we�ll blame you.�

Which is how D.D. found herself back in her car, travel bag beside her, returning to BPD headquarters with one more awkward conversation to go. Love, such a complicated and powerful emotion. Able to topple the strongest among us, to waylay the unsuspecting, and to wriggle deep inside a woman heretofore laser-focused on her career.

It all made sense till Flora Dane sauntered into BPD headquarters with Keith Edgar at her side. One look at the tightness in her shoulders, the bounce in his step, the way they both glanced at each other while trying not to glance at each other, and D.D. was forced to remember the other half of love. The part that didn�t bloom and grow. The colder, starker truth that love could cost you everything.

And often did.

DO YOU HAVE A NAME?

I can almost remember mine. It hovers on the edge of my memory. I lost it the night the Bad Man came, and the gun exploded. Then my mother was gone, and my words went with her.

I see a picture. Hazy, shimmering around the edges. Sometimes I get a fragrance, like a flower. Other times the image dims, becomes silvery like the moon. Then I can hear my mother�s voice, soft and low. Humming. Walking around the house, washing our clothes, stirring the pots on the stove, she was always humming. Sometimes, I try to hum again. I place my hand against my throat, feeling for the vibration. I have a memory of sound, of words, of lips that worked and a mouth that spoke. But no matter how much I focus on my mother�s hum, will her happiness into my throat, I can�t make anything come out.

The Bad Man came. My mother told me to run but I didn�t. And our pack of two is no more.

Girl. That is what they call me now. Girl, do this. Girl, wash that. Girl, come here. Girl, go away.

I picture the bad people as black shadows with narrow eyes. The men, the women, they all appear the same to me: a mass of darkness I walk among every day, fetching this, tending that. I keep my head down, my feet silent as I hobble through the halls, dragging my weak leg behind me.

I have a scar. Long and searing across my temple into my hairline. And my left eye and the corner of my mouth droop, my face appearing slightly melted. But I don�t mind my scar. In the middle of the night, I trace the thick ridges with my finger over and over again. This is my mother. The last piece of her I will ever have. Like the special pottery she had from her own mother. You don�t have to own many things, you just have to have the right things.

�Run,� my mother said.

But I didn�t. I turned. I reached out my arms for her.

The crack of the bullet. My mother falling, myself falling.

The Bad Man standing over me.

Girl, fetch that.

Quiet as a mouse, I do, I do, I do.

SSA KIMBERLY QUINCY HAD TRACKED killers, taken down art forgers, and tackled government corruption. Her father, Pierce Quincy, had been one of the Bureau�s most legendary profilers, meaning she had both pedigree and reputation on her side. Still, leading a multijurisdictional taskforce was its own kind of challenge. Like herding a pride of lions.

She had fellow agents in the room, plus a county sheriff. And now, adding to the party, a Boston cop, a kidnapping survivor, and a true-crime enthusiast/computer analyst. The agent in Kimberly was slightly annoyed; the investigator in her was genuinely impressed.

Kimberly had been the agent who�d finally identified Jacob Ness as a serial predator, and led the raid on the motel room where he was holed up with Flora Dane. In a career full of memorable moments, Kimberly would never forget that day. The way Jacob Ness, eyes and nose streaming from the tear gas, had tended to Flora first, wrapping her face in a wet towel. Tenderly. Right before he handed her his gun. And Flora used that gun to blow out his brains.

Flora had then turned and stared at the incoming SWAT team with the blankest face Kimberly had ever seen. There was reading about the effects of long-term trauma, and there was seeing it up close and personal. It had been nearly an hour before Kimberly had gotten Flora to respond to her own name. That hour had been one of the longest of Kimberly�s life, when she�d feared they hadn�t rescued a woman after all, but only a shell of one.

The Flora who stalked into the room now, assessing the law enforcement occupants with an upward tilt of her chin and a defiant glare in her eyes? That woman was a far cry from the blood-spattered ghost Kimberly had pulled from the motel room. But Kimberly knew that while the girl might be stronger, she was still PTSD personified. As Kimberly had discussed with Boston sergeant D. D. Warren earlier by phone, she wasn�t sure if including Flora in this investigation was a good idea or not.

Then again, Flora hadn�t just survived Jacob Ness, she�d studied him, adapted to him, and even, in a matter of speaking, befriended him. She was his legacy, and in the days ahead, the entire taskforce would most likely need her insights to get the job done.

D.D. now ushered Flora and Keith to two seats. She took the third at the end of the table, closest to Kimberly. The trio had arrived in Atlanta shortly after midnight, though none looked worse for the wear. Fortunately, the recently built FBI field office was within miles of a Marriott, making for a short morning commute.

Kimberly cleared her throat, then started handing out the binders she�d been up all night preparing. Introductions were made, including for Flora and Keith. Whatever the other law enforcement officers thought about having two civilians in their midst, they were professional enough to keep it to themselves.

Kimberly got down to business.

�As many of you are aware, most serial predators have two lists: their official victim list and their so-called asterisk list�victims law enforcement believe predators may have killed but have never been able to substantiate, often because we lack human remains. Hence statistics such as Ted Bundy murdered at least thirty women, but maybe killed as many as a hundred. Why the discrepancy? Because we can�t prove the rest.

�In the case of Jacob Ness, whom you all know operated in this area and was ultimately ambushed in an FBI raid in a motel room outside of Atlanta, we�ve definitely tied him to multiple rape and murder cases. But following his death, he�s remained a person of interest in the cases of six missing women. All fit his victimology and timeline of operations. But none of these bodies have ever been recovered, leaving us with open cases and plenty of questions.

�Which brings us to ten weeks ago, when skeletal remains were found off a hiking trail in the small mountain town of Niche, Georgia. The forensic anthropologist positively identified the body as Lilah Abenito, one of the women believed�but never proven�to be a victim of Jacob Ness. I think we all understand the importance to her parents of having answers once and for all. To have their child be more than a name on some infamous predator�s asterisk list.�

Kimberly waited a beat.

�What we do know: Lilah was a seventeen-year-old Hispanic female first reported missing from Alabama fifteen years ago. The actual circumstances of Lilah�s disappearance aren�t well documented. Her parents were both illegals and waited several days before contacting authorities. Her father worked at a local diner as a dishwasher; her mother took in laundry. According to them, Lilah wasn�t one to get into trouble. Serious student, no known boyfriend. She was supposed to walk straight from school to her job at a local nail salon. She never made it. Forty-eight hours later, her parents filed a report. Local police conducted a rudimentary investigation without results.�

Kimberly glanced around the room at her makeshift taskforce, most of whom were rapidly flipping through the reports she�d photocopied last night. The initial investigation�s findings were part of the binder. It was neither the best nor the worst inquiry Kimberly had ever read. Clearly, the police had been inclined toward labeling Lilah a runaway, though her parents had denied it vehemently, and follow-up with her classmates had not revealed any signs of trouble on the home front. From an FBI point of view, with knowledge of a serial predator operating in the vicinity, the investigation was cursory at best. For the knowledge the local LEOs had at the time�.�.�.

�Fifteen years ago,� Kimberly continued now, �social media was still in its infancy. So, given what we�re accustomed to being able to learn about a teenager in this day and age, there�s hardly anything on Lilah. Her parents claimed she was a good girl, looking forward to attending community college in the fall and becoming the first member of her family to graduate. Except, one bright sunny afternoon, she disappeared. Until ten weeks ago.�

Kimberly paused again, let everyone absorb. Kimberly believed in personalizing cases, had learned it firsthand from her profiler father. The victim had to matter�because God knows that in the weeks and months to come it would cost them all significant pieces of their personal lives to pursue justice.

�How did Jacob Ness become a suspect in the disappearance?� D.D. spoke up first.

Flora Dane, Kimberly noticed, remained completely expressionless. They could�ve been discussing the weather. But Kimberly didn�t doubt that Flora was registering every word.

�The age and gender matched Ness�s known targets. Also, the town where Lilah disappeared is near a major truck stop.�

�Her abduction occurred within Ness�s preferred hunting grounds,� D.D. translated.

�Exactly.�

�Cause of death?� Flora spoke up. She stared at Kimberly balefully.

�Unknown. The forensic exam was limited by the lack of any remaining soft tissue and the fact that many of the bones are still missing.�

�You don�t have the full skeleton?�

�Scavengers, unfortunately, wreaked havoc with the site, given the shallow burial. Looking at what was recovered, Dr. Jackson identified a broken hyoid bone, which can be a sign of strangulation. However, in a girl that young, the hyoid bone often isn�t fused yet, so Dr. Jackson can�t conclusively rule that as COD.�

�He preferred knives,� Flora said. Every investigator was gazing at her now. Flora kept her stare on Kimberly.

�True. But remember the timeline. If Lilah Abenito was indeed one of Ness�s victims, her disappearance fifteen years ago would mark her as one of his first.�

�He beat his wife. Raped a teenager. She wasn�t his first.�

�First kill,� Kimberly amended, keeping her tone as matter-of-fact as Flora�s.

The Mosley County sheriff raised his hand. �Hank Smithers here. I�ve read about Jacob Ness. I understand your point that this girl disappeared from his known hunting grounds. But there are two locations for us to be considering. The second, where her body was dumped, is in my neck of the woods to the north. We�re talking more mountains than highway. How do you figure that?�

�We don�t,� Kimberly said honestly. �That�s one of the questions we need to answer. Now, Miss Dane��Kimberly nodded toward Flora��in her statement regarding her own abduction, thought she was initially held in a mountain cabin. It�s possible Ness has a connection to northern Georgia, Mosley County, whatever. We�ve never been able to identify that cabin, and as you can imagine, we�d like to.�

�The remains were found off a hiking trail,� Keith interjected, frowning. Kimberly had watched him flip through the binder. From what she could tell, he�d scanned the entire contents in a matter of minutes. �How far up the path?�

�More than a mile.�

�Incline?�

�Six hundred foot altitude gain. Trail gets significantly steeper after that.�

Keith turned to Flora. �He strike you as a hiker? Because I�ve never read about him doing any physical activities, not even high school sports.�

�The Jacob I knew was a fat, out-of-shape addict. I can�t imagine he was magically fitter eight years prior.�

�Hauling a body one mile uphill is no mean feat,� Keith added.

�You�re assuming he was carrying her,� Kimberly replied blandly. �For all we know, Lilah was alive when she walked up that trail.�

�He led her to the location he wanted, then killed her,� Flora stated. �Now that sounds like Jacob.�

�Or he had help.� Keith, looking at Kimberly again.

She nodded slowly. �It�s important to note what we didn�t find in the grave. Clothing. Shoes. Physical restraints. None of that. The body was laid out in the shallow grave unbound and completely naked.�

�Forensic countermeasures,� D.D. interjected. �He removed any objects that might yield evidence.�

�That�s certainly a possibility. To be clear, Jacob didn�t take those steps with his other known victims?�

�No, he just dumped them, bloody clothes and all.� Flora again.

�Maybe that means she was special,� Keith spoke up thoughtfully. �First victims, there�s often a personal connection to a serial predator. Meaning Jacob took extra precautions because he had more to fear if someone found the body.�

�All reasonable assumptions,� Kimberly said to the taskforce. �But just that�assumptions. We don�t want to get too far ahead of ourselves. While there�s good reason to consider Jacob Ness a prime suspect in Lilah Abenito�s abduction and murder, we don�t know that he did it. We don�t know anything at all, which is a huge injustice to her and to her parents, who all these years later, are still waiting for their daughter to magically come home.�

�There�s more than one serial killer running around the mountains of Georgia?� Sheriff Smithers drawled sardonically.

�We need to take things one step at a time,� Kimberly agreed, �and keep an open mind.�

Kimberly gave the room a moment to process. When none of the taskforce argued with basic investigative protocol, Kimberly cleared her throat and moved on to the next pertinent part of the briefing. Basically, bringing everyone else in the room up to speed on a conversation she, D.D., Flora, and Keith had started nine months ago in Boston. And a scary discussion at that.

�We recently had some developments regarding Jacob Ness�s recovered laptop. The computer initially appeared devoid of data. Further analysis by our techs revealed Ness had taken steps to automatically clear his computer activity on a daily basis�a much higher degree of sophistication than we expected from a man with limited formal education. Recently, however, Miss Dane and Mr. Edgar helped us identify Ness�s username and password, unlocking a host of dark web and cloud-based activity on the laptop. It�s clear now that while Ness was a loner in real life, on the internet he actively sought out and participated in forums with members who shared his own predatory instincts. The question is, did any of these virtual partnerships result in a real-world relationship?�

Kimberly nodded toward one of her fellow FBI agents, a striking twenty-eight-year-old woman with glossy black hair. �Su Chen,� Kimberly addressed the agent directly, �is one of our best computer analysts. She�s been studying Ness�s laptop for the past few months.�

Keith sat up straighter, as if eyeing the competition. Kimberly admired the hostile glance Su sent his way before picking up her notes.

�The identification of Jacob Ness�s username and password have been pivotal.� A slight nod toward Flora and Keith. �The good news about online forums is that they�re searchable; once we have a username, we can trace much of the subject�s online activities. Unfortunately, the web is a steadily evolving environment. I haven�t had luck identifying any particular group from seven years ago.�

�What about posing as Ness online, waiting for one of his former associates to contact you?� Keith asked immediately. Kimberly understood the question; nine months ago Keith had used that strategy to assist with another homicide investigation. They had been fortunate that Ness had used a pseudonym for his online activities, meaning many of his dark web contacts didn�t realize he was a serial killer who�d been killed in an FBI raid years ago.

�I�m in ongoing virtual conversations with two different subjects at this time,� Su replied coolly. �So far, their interest is purely porn, which I�m guessing was their previous relationship with Ness. Given the seven-year gap, I�m sure other participants are wary of Ness�s sudden reappearance, so success might not be overnight, but I have faith in the strategy.�

�Can I study the laptop again?� Keith asked.

�What do you hope to find?� the computer expert asked.

�What could a second pair of eyes hurt?� Keith countered.

Agent Chen studied her civilian counterpart for a moment or two. �I will see what I can do,� she said abruptly.

Battle of the nerds, Kimberly thought. �Other questions?�

�What next?� the sheriff, Hank Smithers, asked.

�We go to Niche,� Kimberly replied. �Expand the search grid around the first set of remains.�

�You think there might be others,� the sheriff said.

�Jacob is a suspect in the disappearances of five other women. Lilah Abenito isn�t the only victim, just the one who was found first.�

�Shh�.�.�. rimp,� the sheriff muttered, editing his curse nicely.

�There may indeed be more graves,� Kimberly continued. �Also, the forensic anthropologist is working on narrowing the time of death to give us a tighter investigative window. Meaning recovering additional pieces of the skeleton would help.�

Sheriff Smithers nodded. �I can get us a dog team, as well as local searchers. There are people in the area who know those woods like the backs of their hands.�

�Perfect. Then, computer aside, we�re looking at old-fashioned groundwork. Checking property records. Circulating Ness�s photo. Fifteen years is a long time��

�Not in my county,� the sheriff interrupted. �What it lacks in size, it makes up in memories.� He glanced at D.D. �I�d work on that accent if I were you. And for the love of God, don�t mention you�re from the North.�

Kimberly honestly couldn�t tell if the man was joking or not. But she figured D.D. didn�t care one way or the other.

�If Jacob was in the mountains, how�d he get there?� Kimberly continued now. �Does he own a vehicle we�ve never discovered to go with this property we never found? Does he have an associate, maybe a personal connection in the area who helped him out? We need to be flashing Jacob�s photo to motel owners, bartenders, retail clerks. If he was staying in a local cabin, he�d have to come to town for food, booze, drugs. Before, we were searching northern Georgia. Now, we have a town. Let�s hope that leads to the break we�ve been waiting for. Any questions?�

No one raised a hand. With a final nod, Kimberly closed up her binder, signaling the meeting was over. She�d just risen to standing when Flora spoke up.

�How sure is this Dr. Jackson that the remains belong to Lilah Abenito? You said the skeleton isn�t even complete�.�.�.�

�In addition to facial recognition, Dr. Jackson was able to match a childhood injury from Lilah�s medical file to a healed break on the skeleton.�

�Okay,� Flora said.

Kimberly eyed her suspiciously. �What do you mean by that?�

�I�m going to meet Lilah Abenito,� Flora announced. �Best place to start, right? With the victim?�

Then, without awaiting permission or approval, Flora got up and left.

D.D. DRIVES. THE RENTAL CAR is in her name and I wasn�t going anywhere without her, that much was clear. Keith sits in the back. I could tell he was torn about joining us, his concern for me warring with his desire to track down that agent and get his hands on Jacob�s laptop. But in the end, he chose me. Should I be flattered?

No one speaks. We stare out our windows, study the bright sky and the miles of concrete that seem to be Atlanta.

I was here once before. In a local hospital after the raid on Jacob�s motel room. Then I was debriefed at the FBI field office, which wasn�t even this field office but a tall, black glass monstrosity that looked like Corporate-R-Us. At least the new brick campus appears governmental. But none of it feels familiar. None of it triggers�.�.�. anything.

I�m still a mountain girl. Which makes the next part of our day�heading north to search hiking trails for human remains�all the more difficult to take. The woods should be a place of respite.

Now all I can think about is Jacob marching some poor girl up a trail to her own death.

D.D. WAS A NEW ENGLANDER to her core. The only time she�d previously spent in Georgia was flying through the Atlanta airport. Now, she followed the rental car�s GPS, heading north from the city into the mountains.

�Our first major town will be Dahlonega,� Keith rattled off from the back, staring at his phone. �It�s considered the gateway of the Appalachian Trail and�incidentally�in eighteen-twenty-eight, the site of the first major gold rush in the United States. The phrase, �There�s gold in them thar hills�? That�s originally from Dahlonega.�

�Okay,� D.D. said, as clearly someone needed to answer, and since leaving the forensic anthropologist�s office Flora had given up speaking.

�Dahlonega is known for its historic town square, surrounding vineyards, and luxury spas.� Keith looked up from his phone. �Any chance we�re staying in Dahlonega?�

D.D. laughed. �Welcome to real policing. We stay in economy inns, live on pizza, and are proud of it.�

�But I�m not really a cop�.�.�.�

�You may go wherever you please,� D.D. assured him. �But don�t expect us to call you with all the exciting case developments you�ll be missing.�

Keith sighed heavily.

�According to SSA Quincy,� D.D. continued, �the local sheriff��

�Smithers,� Keith interjected. �Took office twenty years ago. Active in D.A.R.E. and teaching educational classes in the school system. He�s also very proud of his Hunter�s Safety Certification program as well as firearms education for civilians.�

Computer nerd and a know-it-all.

�Sheriff Smithers volunteered his office as taskforce headquarters,� D.D. continued. �It�s in the center of the county, near Dahlonega, with some hotels nearby. He�s working on reserving a block of rooms in a local motel as we speak. I imagine we�ll learn more when we get there.�

�But ground zero is a good fifteen, twenty miles from Dahlonega,� Keith began, having no doubt traced it out on the map.

�Understood, but if you look up the little town in question, it�s barely a speck on the map. Apparently, it has a general store, some quaint B and Bs, local restaurants, and that�s it.�

�Niche, Georgia,� Keith promptly rattled off. �Located almost two hours north of Atlanta, it�s at three thousand feet and boasts cool mountain air, quaint storefronts, and access to the AT. With a population of three thousand, its primary industry is tourism, though there�s a growing retirement community based on quality of life, natural beauty, and small-town life.�

�Road access?� Flora finally spoke up. Her gaze was out the window, looking at the scenery, ostensibly, but probably still seeing Lilah Abenito�s reconstructed face. God knows D.D. was.

She hadn�t known what to think about Flora�s desire to �meet� the victim. In D.D.�s opinion, Flora shouldered way too much blame when it came to Jacob Ness�s reign of terror. And D.D. was never sure how much of Flora�s vigilante streak was truly due to a desire to feel safe, versus a need to serve penance.

�Dahlonega is at the end of a major highway, GA Four Hundred. What we�re on now,� Keith said. �After that, we�re traveling rural routes. Some of them quite steep and windy. For example, Route Sixty we�ll be taking to Niche.�

�Does any of this look familiar?� D.D. glanced over at Flora.

The woman shrugged. �All roads look alike to me. We�ve passed several truckers, so it�s possible Jacob followed this route. Mostly, however, he worked east�west, not north�south.�

�According to Ness�s trucking logs��

�You�ve read his trucking logs?� D.D. interrupted Keith.

�You haven�t?�

�Never mind.�

�Highways Twenty and Eighty-Five were more likely occurrences. And if he was hauling north�south, Highway Seventy-Five makes way more sense than Georgia Four Hundred.�

�Do you ever remember being in a smaller vehicle, say, a car or truck?� D.D. asked Flora.

�I don�t remember anything immediately following the abduction. One moment I was dancing on a beach, the next�.�.�. I was in a box in a dank basement. When he announced we had to go, he had his rig parked outside. Not with a trailer attached. Just the cab.�

�What do you recall about the outside of the house?� Keith leaned forward from the back seat.

Flora shook her head. �He blindfolded me so I couldn�t see much. Just narrow gaps above and below the fold. I had an impression of towering trees. And the air was cool against my cheeks. The mountains. I was definitely in the mountains. It reminded me of home.�

�Niche is known for hiking trails lined with wild mountain laurel. It can also have some snow in the winter. All in all, that�s not so dissimilar to the wilds of Maine.�

Flora didn�t say anything.

�When he was driving out, did you notice any town signs, road markers, anything?� Keith pressed.

Flora finally twisted around to look at him. �I was in a box. Even in his rig, he�d built a custom pine box just for me.�

�He had his rig,� D.D. spoke up, focusing the conversation. �That�s good to know. It�s been seven years since your rescue, but Jacob Ness was big news, especially around here. I�m sure many people still remember him, and might be reluctant to speak up when showed his photo. It seems to be human nature not to want to get involved. On the other hand, flashing around a photo of a big rig�that�s much more innocuous and might get us somewhere.�

Still sitting forward, with his shoulders nearly between the two front seats of the rental car, Keith nodded.

D.D. slowed as civilization appeared ahead. She made out an open square, lined with pretty trees, park benches, and squat redbrick buildings with crisp white trim. Very scenic, very quaint.

�Dahlonega,� Keith announced from between the seats.

No kidding, D.D. thought. She made a right-hand turn, braked for a pedestrian in the crosswalk, then further scrutinized their surroundings.

�We take the road to the left, which is north to Niche.� Keith again, while Flora continued her intense window-staring.

�Wrong. We stop. Eat lunch. There. Diner!� D.D. pulled into a parking space with renewed enthusiasm, while Flora finally roused herself.

�No! We have to get to Niche, meet up with the sheriff, start the search.� The girl sounded slightly wild.

�What time is it?� D.D. asked.

�Just after two,� Keith provided.

�How many more hours before sunset?�

Keith studied his phone. �Five hours, forty-seven minutes, give or take.�

�Grid set up? Volunteers logged in? Canine team delivered?�

Now both Keith and Flora stared at her.

�Today is prep,� she explained to them, one hand on the door handle. �Debriefing in Atlanta this morning, now setting up mobile HQ and getting organized in Niche. In other words, the action starts tomorrow. In the meantime, we spent half the night flying, slept only a handful of hours, and�speaking for myself�had only a banana and four donuts for breakfast. Feed me now, or I�ll kill you both.�

Flora and Keith climbed obediently out of the car.

�Besides,� D.D. said as she led them into the diner. �We have our own plans to make.�

THE MOTION CATCHES MY EYE. Furtive movements. Someone trying to do something unseen. I can�t help but glance over.

Immediately, the girl glares at me.

She has a small paring knife tucked against the skirt of her uniform. At her scowl, I quickly look away. At the opposite end of the kitchen, Cook bustles away, pulling trays of food out of the fridge to prep dinner. Soon I will begin my kitchen duties: fetch this, tend to that. Right now, I finish pulling scalding hot plates from the still-moving conveyor belt of the commercial-grade dishwasher. You must unload quickly, before the plates reach the end and crash to the floor. In the beginning, the steaming dishes would burn my fingers and I would slow from the pain. Then things would break, earning me even greater punishment. Now, after all these years, I don�t feel the heat.

The girl wanders over, trying too hard to look innocent. Cook glances up. I want to shake my head at the girl, tell her to stop, but that will only call more attention. Instead, I focus on my work, the row of shiny white plates, lined up on their edges, marching toward me.

�You saw nothing,� the girl hisses in my ear as she wanders by. She sounds cruel, but I understand. She is very beautiful. With smooth almond skin and thick black hair. This life, these people�.�.�. beautiful only makes things worse.

Cook is watching both of us. The help aren�t supposed to converse. Then again, it�s me. How much conversing can a Dumb Girl do?

I want to tell this girl to put the knife away. I want to describe to her the first time I managed to sneak a knife out of the kitchen. How the Bad Man found it and took it from me. I thought I would inflict some damage, or at least go down fighting. Instead, in the blink of an eye, the butter knife had gone from my hand to his. I never even saw him move. So much effort and risk on my part. Preparing myself mentally, determining how to sneak a knife out of the kitchen, starting to plot the next stage of my escape.

Then the Bad Man was standing in my doorway.

And a moment later�.�.�.

It was done. Just like that. I don�t know if I even opened my mouth to grunt a protest. One minute I thought I was so smart. The next�.�.�.

Sometimes, I think the Bad Man knows things before we do. Like he�s not human. This is why I need my name. So my mother�s love can help me, because surely nothing on this mortal earth can defeat a man who moves like smoke and punishes like an anvil.

That day, the Bad Man had pulled out his own weapon from the sheath of his boot. Not a butter knife at all, but a hunting knife: smooth on one side, serrated on the other.

I remember staring in mute horror as he took my hand and gently extended my arm toward him. Then, using his blade, he started to draw on the clean brown skin of my forearm. Blood welling up, forming fine red lines while I hissed and trembled and did everything in my power not to flinch. His knife carved sinuous patterns into my flesh. Mesmerizing. Beautiful, even.

We both stared. Bound by the winding forms and the knowledge that if I jerked away, that sharp ugly blade would gouge into my arm, sever my arteries, and destroy the first pretty thing about me.

Later, he said I should thank him for turning my arm into a work of art.

I wear long sleeves now. But at night, I still trace the ridged lines. And right or wrong, I can�t help but admire the pattern. I am a Dumb Girl with a shattered temple, scarred hairline, and distorted eye. There�s nothing attractive about me. Except for the intricate scrollwork on my right forearm, a road map of his power and my pain.

Now this beautiful girl with her big dark eyes�.�.�. He won�t make her pretty. He�ll carve away an ear. Take an eye. Draw a crude V down her cheek or create thick ridges in her neck. He�ll steal her loveliness from her. I�ve seen him do it, heard the girls scream, caught the evidence of his handiwork later, walking slowly, brokenly down the halls.

Cook lets me wash the knives unsupervised now. She knows I�m defeated. She knows there�s nothing to fear from a weak, brain-damaged thing like me.

But I can�t tell my story, deliver these warnings to the girl, standing here.

Instead, I risk a single look under my lashes. I try to beam out: �I know. I�m afraid, too. You�re not alone.�

And just for a moment, the beautiful girl falters.

She will die tonight. We both know it. The stolen knife is too little, too late. Not a last stand, but an admission that all is lost. Sometimes fear is like that: It leaves you with nothing but the desire for it to be done.

The girl is trembling now. My eyes have said too much. She crosses herself, and from across the room, Cook barks, �You two! Back to work.�

But the girl is shaking too hard.

I try to soften my eyes, to be the blank stare they all expect, instead of the dark knowing that floods through me too often these days. I wish I could ask her name. I would add it to the list in my head. A name is such a precious thing. Everyone should have at least that much. A single marker to carry, leave behind, be remembered by.

And maybe my gaze is more powerful than the rest of me, because suddenly she whispers, �Stacey. Stacey Kasmer. My family��

Cook slams both hands against the stainless-steel table. �Don�t make me come over there!�

��live in this tiny little town, you�ve never heard of it. But if you should see them�.�.�. get out�.�.�. and I don�t�.�.�.�

She can�t say the rest. We both know change is in the air. Bad things have always happened here. But now, with People Coming, it�s all happening faster. Too fast.

�Tell my parents I�m sorry,� she whispers furtively. Then bursts out loud, �Stupid Girl! Grab that plate before it falls!�

Belatedly, I grab the teetering dish, as powerfully built Cook, who likes to wield cast-iron pans, broom handles, and marble rolling pins, comes stalking over.

The knife is gone, tucked beneath the girl�s skirt. We�re not allowed pockets, so I have no idea where she�s placed it. I�d secured mine in the waistband of my underwear, which the Bad Man must�ve figured out, because after carving swirling patterns in my forearm, he took away my panties for the next six months.

Cook arrives. She grabs the girl�s shoulder, shoves her back. Then cuffs me hard. I�m not expecting it. I stumble against the sharp edge of the dishwasher, feel it gouge into my belly. Before I can recover, Cook delivers another stinging blow, then for good measure, slaps the other girl, as well.

�Back. To. Work.�

The beautiful girl drops into a curtsy. I wonder what she had been in another life. A dancer? Cheerleader? Or just a girl with ambitious dreams? Most arrive older than I was. I don�t even know how I got here.

But others�.�.�. Some, I think, come looking for jobs. But there are also girls who speak languages none of us understand. I don�t think they choose this place at all. They never stay long. They are the Ones Who Can�t Be Seen.

Though I try to see them. I try to see everything.

The girl�Stacey�turns away. Her footsteps aren�t completely steady. Hopefully Cook will think she�s merely cowed from the blow. She makes it three steps, four, five.

Then I see it. A drop of blood. Turning into a trail.

A clatter.

The knife. It�s fallen from her skirt. Bounced onto the floor.

Belatedly I glance at Cook. Maybe she didn�t see it. Maybe I can scoot over, cover it with my own foot�.�.�.

But Cook is staring right at the knife, the blood, the girl, who is no longer walking, but swaying slightly in place. Cook once again crosses her thick arms over her chest.

�Stupid girl,� she mutters.

I get it then, as with a little sigh, Stacey�s arms go up, her body goes down�.�.�. She collapses to the floor, lying there, dark eyes open, in the growing pool of her own blood. She didn�t bother to wait till later. Or till they found the knife, snatched it from her, did something worse. Because they know everything, anticipate our every thought, then shred us down to the bone.

But this�.�.�. Slicing open the artery in her own leg. Not even the Bad Man can stop this.

Stacey doesn�t make a sound. Instead, as I watch, the light in her eyes dims and dims.

A final breath, then she is gone. Frantically, I glance around. I want to see it. Her soul leaving her body. I want to watch it go up, up, up. I want to believe it sails high above us. Maybe she�s already halfway to heaven. Maybe she�ll find my mother, and my mother will fold this poor, pretty girl into her arms, and whisper that she�s safe.

Is that her soul? That smudge of purple in the corner of the room? Is a soul purple? Or maybe the color depends on the person, because when I see my mother, she is always silver to me. I honestly don�t know. I just want to believe. I need something, anything to cling to, as the pool of blood nears my feet.

�Clean up the mess,� Cook grumbles. She turns back to her cooking prep.

The episode is over. A girl is dead, but our servitude continues.

I turn off the laboring dishwasher. I finish stacking the sterilized plates.

Then I make my way carefully to the girl�s fallen form. Stepping around the spot of blood, this line, that pool.

I crouch down and gently close her eyes. Her dark sooty lashes rest against pale, pale cheeks.

The Bad Man will come, haul away the body, with a single toss over his massive shoulder. I will mop up the blood. Just another day in the life.

But for now, this single moment.

I purse my mouth. I wish again for the power taken from me so many years ago, that I could move my tongue and lips and form a single word.

Instead, inside my head, where I know all things, where I�m stronger, wiser, and braver than I�ll ever be in this world, I whisper, �Stacey.�

I hold on to her name. And vow once again to make them pay.

KIMBERLY HAD MARRIED AN OUTDOORSMAN. Mac was a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigations and was already teaching their two daughters to hunt, fish�wrestle with bears, for all she knew. Kimberly herself was a runner. She liked jogging the long winding paths around the commercial park where her office was located, or if she was feeling exotic, racing down rural roads.

She wasn�t a huge fan of mountains. The names in Georgia didn�t help. Blood Mountain. Slaughter Creek Trail. Not to mention that the last time she�d been in the area, pregnant, chasing a serial killer, Blood Mountain had more than lived up to its name. She and Mac never discussed it. In their line of work, there were always a few cases that stuck with you. Blood Mountain was Kimberly�s. On the bad nights, Mac would say, �That one again?� and she�d say, �Yes,� then they�d both let it be.

You accepted. You moved on, best you could, and on the few nights Kimberly suffered the nightmares, she lay awake afterward and instead of trying to shove the memories back in the box, she took them out, let the ghosts play awhile. She remembered the boy, the last look on his face, because no one else would, and he deserved that much.

Given that personal history, scenic Dahlonega made her shudder. She kept her hands on the wheel, driving directly to the sheriff�s department. It was situated along the left side of yet another historic town square. The requisite green space occupied the middle, populated with park benches and broadleaf trees waving delicately in the light wind. The sheriff�s office, clearly a newer addition, was a squat gray building adjacent to the courthouse. It looked more like a prison than a law enforcement agency, but maybe in these parts it served as both.

Kimberly opened the front door, was hit with a blast of air-conditioning, and forced herself to proceed.

Just because tomorrow morning she�d re-enter the Appalachian Trail in search of bodies for the second time in her career did not mean history was repeating itself.

An older woman wearing a pink sweater set smiled from the receptionist�s desk. She was surprisingly tall and broad shouldered, a solid physical presence that no doubt helped with unruly visitors. Her real height was hard to distinguish, given that she had ash-blond hair pulled in a bouffant bun that appeared immune to heat, humidity, and the forces of gravity. Kimberly stuck out her hand. The woman answered with a firm grip.

�Francine Bouchard. Call me Franny. Everyone does.�

�Thank you. I�m��

�Supervisory Special Agent Kimberly Quincy of the Atlanta FBI. Of course. The sheriff�s been expecting you.�

�Do you know everyone who walks through the door?�

�Honey, around these parts, it�s impossible not to. Water, tea, coffee?�

�Just the sheriff, please.�

�Speak of the devil,� Franny drawled, then nodded her head down the hall, where sure enough, Sheriff Smithers had just appeared.

A big burly guy, he looked every bit the Southern cop to Kimberly. He had a broad ruddy face, with creases in the corner of his eyes from a life spent outdoors, as well as an easy smile. In this neck of the woods, he probably wore many hats and worked long hours�whatever it took to get the job done. All good in Kimberly�s opinion, given they�d be working close in the days and weeks ahead.

�Survive the drive?� the sheriff asked now, walking down the hall to greet her.

�Always beautiful in the mountains,� she half lied.

�Water, coffee, tea? Franny can set you up.� He nodded to his receptionist, who standing was indeed almost as tall as the sheriff, yet still managed to look exactly right in her sweater set and delicate gold necklace. The art of the Southern woman, Kimberly thought, because God knows she�d never mastered it.

�Water,� Kimberly conceded this time. �Thank you, ma�am.�

Franny produced a bottle of water from the minifridge behind her. Another beaming smile, polite head nod, then Franny resumed her seat, attention already on the computer monitor in front of her, while Sheriff Smithers led Kimberly back to his office.

The sheriff didn�t occupy a huge space. The tight quarters offered glimpses of linoleum floor dominated by an oversized 1980s pressed-wood desk piled high with stacks of files. The sheriff gathered up the papers, looked around for a new spot to stash them. At last, he dropped them on the last clear spot on the floor.

�Sorry. Not much time for organizing lately,� he muttered. �Or for that matter, any place to put anything. We outgrew this space about twenty years ago. Sadly, the county doesn�t agree. We�re supposed to be a quaint tourist area. No crime in the mountains, right? Unfortunately, no one told the drug dealers that.�

Kimberly got it. Voters, especially in rural communities, liked to think bad things only happened in big cities. Whereas most drug dealers would tell you the very lack of population is what made small towns excellent for meth labs, growing farms, and import/export opportunities. Not to mention addicts lived everywhere and came from all walks of life.

But Kimberly and the sheriff weren�t paid to argue with their budgets. They were paid to get the job done, regardless.

Sheriff Smithers planted himself behind his massive desk, half obscured behind the debris. Kimberly took a seat across from him.

�Got us a dog team,� he announced. �Two shepherds from a buddy who does search and rescue. Experienced cadaver dogs, have flown all over the world, or so I�m told.�

�And they were available on such short notice?� Kimberly asked.

The sheriff shrugged. �Good news. No current tragedies or natural disasters to pull them away. Handler�s name is Dennis. He says his dogs need to go first. Too many humans running around pollutes the scent. Not that they can�t find it�he was firm on this point. But it�s more work and the dogs�ll tire faster. Given the size of the search area��

�Understood.�

�It�ll change our timeline for the human volunteers,� the sheriff continued. �I can�t even have them outlining the search grid, because again, that�ll contaminate the area.�

Kimberly nodded.

�So I figure me and one of my deputies will head up with Dennis at oh dark thirty tomorrow. Two hours later, the rest of you can follow.�

�I�d like to hike up with the dogs.�

Smithers shrugged. �You can, but bear in mind, the search crew needs a voice of experience. I got one good deputy. I don�t have two.�

In other words, the sheriff was suggesting they divide and conquer. He�d handle the canine efforts. She�d handle the human efforts. Dogs moved way faster�and deeper�into the woods than the humans could. Fair enough, Kimberly figured.

�You have a checklist operator?� Kimberly asked. Keeping track of all the searchers was half the battle. Kimberly hadn�t done such detailed fieldwork in a bit. But being the one who now read all the reports, there was nothing worse than a massive search area where half the grids went untended or un-annotated. Details mattered, and tomorrow would be an intense exercise in logistics.

�Franny, my receptionist.� Smithers jerked with his chin toward the front of the building. �She�s good. Grew up in these mountains, knows everyone�s business, and exactly how to put the overexcited, not to mention the just plain stupid, in their place.�

�She appears formidable,� Kimberly agreed. �She�s okay with having to manage her own neighbors? That can�t be easy.�

�It won�t be a problem. I�ve known Franny for nearly thirty years, starting when I was just a deputy. She worked as a waitress at my favorite diner. Got herself knocked up. Probably by some married tourist, but she never said. Back in those days, being a pregnant teen wasn�t easy, especially in these parts. But she kept her head high, no matter the gossip. Did her job. Managed nosy friends and judgy neighbors just fine. Unfortunately, her baby didn�t make it. Stillborn. Within a matter of weeks, Franny was back at work, pouring coffee, clearing tables. Next time I was in, she looked right at me. �Sir,� she said, �I reckon I�ve made enough mistakes for a lifetime. Now I�m ready to work hard, build a life. What do you suggest?� I told her to get her GED, then come find me. And she did.�

�Impressive,� Kimberly agreed.

The sheriff nodded, leaned back in his chair. �I was thinking we should start the searchers at the bottom of the trail tomorrow. Sure, the body was found a mile up, but nothing saying there aren�t bones to be found further down. Don�t want us to get tunnel-visioned.�

�The killer wouldn�t want to dump remains too close to civilization. But the raccoons probably aren�t so worried?�

�Exactly.�

�How many people?�

�Three dozen. Mostly from around the mountains. Some are experienced search and rescue, we get lost hikers often enough. Of course, you�ll have a few coming for the show.�

She knew what he meant: people drawn by the sensational nature of a body in the woods.

�But we got some solid hiking guides, local hunters. They know this area. Where humans and animals are prone to wandering.�

Sounded good to Kimberly. She rose to standing. �I�ll meet you at the trailhead, five thirty.�

Smithers nodded. �I read about your father,� he said abruptly.

�Everyone knows my father.�

�Big shoes to fill.�

�Then it�s good I have a solid head.�

�And the Boston detective and two civilians?�

�I�ve worked with them before. They�ll pull their weight.�

�Even the vigilante?� he asked dryly. �I might live in the sticks, but I got Google, you know.�

Kimberly had to laugh. �Flora�s intense. But she knows things no one else knows. And if this case does tie to Jacob Ness�.�.�.�

The sheriff nodded slowly. �The thought of him, operating in my backyard. Maybe even living here, because that�s what you think, right? That maybe he had some kind of cabin, safe house in these woods.�

�You�re a smart man, Sheriff Smithers.�

He considered her shrewdly. �As much as it turns my stomach to think of a man like Ness prowling my county, the alternative�.�.�.�

That it wasn�t a stranger at all, but a local who�d buried Lilah Abenito�s body. Someone who knew the area and had ties to the community. A neighbor, given an area this small. Maybe even a friend.

Kimberly didn�t offer him any words of comfort, because in that case, there would be none to say.

Instead, she extended her arm. A final handshake, and they were done.

I CAN�T SLEEP. I HARDLY do even when I�m home. It�s one of those things the docs tell you will pass. Night terrors, insomnia, an over-pumped adrenal system that keeps me constantly on edge. One day it will ease. I�ll sleep an hour more here, an hour more there, till eventually, voil�, I�m a real person again.

It hasn�t happened yet.

I pace my hotel room, roaming from cheap chair to funky curtains to minuscule kitchen banquette. I try sitting on the edge of the bed. Then standing next to the window. Lights on. Lights off. TV on. TV off. Up, down, and around again.

SSA Quincy had met us at the budget lodge, where we had to wait our turn behind the proverbial family of four. The father already appeared frazzled as he searched through his wallet for the right credit card, while the harried mom was frantically trying to herd two small children who had no intention of standing still. The older girl kept dashing behind the check-in counter, making the clerk yelp. I caught the boy, age five or six, eyeing my right boot as if he already knew about the butterfly blade.

I pegged him as a future serial killer, but then, I�ve never been good with kids.

When we finally stepped up to the counter, Kimberly flashed her FBI creds and the motel attendant regarded us even more suspiciously than the evil kids. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to reach for my butterfly blade.

Play well with the locals, Kimberly had told me. I swear that woman sees everything.

Over dinner, she�d reviewed process for the morning. Dogs would go first, then humans. We�d be assigned a search grid and a dozen little orange flags. Work our area, stay hydrated, check in frequently.

It sounded simple, the way she said it. Yet, I already understand there is nothing simple about the day ahead.

I want to be in the woods already, tapping some hollow tree and magically producing Lilah Abenito�s fingers, ribs, vertebrae. Or maybe a femur, with the hand-carved message Jacob Ness was here. I want answers, even as I understand there�s never going to be anything adequate enough to explain what happened to Lilah. To me. We exist in rarified company�two girls who one day met a real live monster. Except I survived.

Now I�m back in Georgia, waiting for something to feel familiar. To turn a corner of the road, or walk into a restaurant and experience a sense of d�j� vu. I feel I should know something. I need to know something. Or once again, Jacob wins.

I hear a noise from the room next to me. The sound of a door opening, then closing. Footsteps in the hall. Soft. Discreet. The steps of a person who doesn�t want to call attention.

I cross to my door immediately, on high alert. I have the chain fastened, as well as the dead bolt deployed, but compared to my system at home, this is nothing. Cheap locks for a cheap room.

I pull out my butterfly blade from the waistband at the small of my back. I�d had to check my luggage to bring it and the rest of my toys to Atlanta. D.D. had scowled at me. She�d known why I couldn�t carry on my tiny bag. You�ll be surrounded at all times by armed members of law enforcement, she�d muttered tightly. But we both knew I wasn�t going to budge on the subject. I�d checked my bag. And upon arrival, unpacked my knife, flipped it open, shut, open, shut, open, then folded it up neatly, like closing a fan, and slipped it in my pocket.

Now, I flick open the blade as twin shadows appear in the beam of light beneath my door. The shadows pause. Solidify.

Someone is standing outside my door.

Keith. Who, given tomorrow�s adventure, probably also can�t sleep. Who swore he knew everything about me, including my insomnia. Who claimed he cared, maybe enough to offer�.�.�. what? Conversation? Solace? Distraction in the middle of the night? Or maybe more, some kind of physical interlude to keep our minds off more serious matters?

I could open my door. Reach forward, unfasten the chain, release the bolt, swing open the door until there was nothing between us. He would enter my room.

And then?

This is what other girls did. Other people. Take comfort where they could find it. A few moments of oblivion to balance out their turbulent lives.

Was sex oblivion to me? I didn�t know anymore. Once I�d been an active, healthy teenager. I certainly hadn�t gone off to college a virgin. But those days, that girl�.�.�. She feels so long ago. Not even a memory of my life, but a film reel from someone else�s. Surely I never flirted shamelessly. Never coyly tossed back my hair. Never dug my fingers into a man�s shoulders and urged him closer, faster, harder.

My breathing accelerates. Maybe I�m not as immune as I think.

The twin shadows remain. The person in the hallway clearly working as hard on his courage as I am on mine.

I raise my hand. I place it against the hard plane of the cheap wooden door, moving slowly, careful not to make a sound. I close my eyes. And for a moment, I let myself imagine:

Keith�s hand, splayed on the other side. Keith�s palm connecting with mine. Our fingers touching.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Then I take my hand away, and walk back to the bed, where I lie on my side, and stare at the light limning the doorframe until the twin shadows finally shift, then fade away.

THINGS WENT A LITTLE DIFFERENTLY than expected,� Kimberly Quincy said into the phone.

It was nine P.M. She was finally back in her motel room after one of the longest days of her career. She�d spent the past few hours in conversation with her supervisor, plus the taskforce team. Now, she needed fifteen minutes of sanity before the next round of logistical planning. Through the phone, she could hear her girls chattering away in the background. Nine P.M. was bedtime. No doubt they were taking advantage of Mac�s distraction to launch one last misadventure.

The sounds of real life. Kimberly could never decide if such normalcy was the most beautiful or most disconcerting noise after a day such as this one.

�You find more bones?� Mac asked from their home in Atlanta.

�Bodies. We found more bodies.�

A pause. �Girls,� he said to their daughters. �Go pick out something to read. I�ll be back in a sec.�

�Last time you tried that, they beat each other with the books instead.�

�But it did wear them out,� Mac countered.

She heard a click. A door closing. Mac retreating from the girls� adjoining rooms in order to head to the master for a moment of privacy. She closed her eyes. Let herself picture it. Their modest ranch-style home with its open family room, overstuffed sofa, jumbled floor. One bedroom awash in purple (Eliza�s). A second room adorned in shades of blue (Macey�s). Both filled with an assortment of sports trophies, stuffed animals, and well-thumbed reads. Then there was her and Mac�s space, where the bed was never made and family photos lined most surfaces and the treadmill sat in the corner where it was genuinely used during the hot, humid days of summer but served as a substitute clothes hanger the rest of the year.

She kept meaning to paint an accent wall in the bedroom. And to organize the closet and tidy up the master bath. But the truth was, she never had that kind of time, and probably wasn�t even that kind of person. She and Mac lived for their family and their jobs. Which she liked to think made them perfect for each other.

�From the beginning,� Mac said.

�The cadaver dogs found three more bodies.�

�Three more?�

�At least. We dug down enough to unearth three skulls, but withdrew to wait for the forensic anthropologist, Dr. Jackson. Maybe there�s more underneath? I don�t know. Best we could see was a tangled mess of bones.� Kimberly�s hand shook slightly holding her cell phone. �A mass grave, Mac. When was the last time you heard of a serial killer burying three victims at once?�

Mac didn�t answer right away. She didn�t expect him to. She still didn�t know what to make of the day�s discovery and she�d had hours to ponder it.

�How old is the grave?�

�The remains appear fully skeletal. We�ll need to wait for Dr. Jackson and her team for additional details. I�m wondering about the shallow burial. Most things people want to keep secret, they bury deep. But all four of these bodies were barely interred. Meaning our perpetrator is someone who knows the area well and was confident the graves wouldn�t be discovered? Or didn�t have the time or strength to dig a full grave? Flora says Jacob Ness wasn�t the fittest guy around. I don�t know.�

�Are the new bodies also female?�

�We have to wait for Dr. Jackson for proper exhumation. She was adamant her team and only her team handle the grave site. At this stage, soil, bug exoskeletons, flora, and fauna, all of it will matter. We�re not the right people for the job.�

�But you�re betting female,� Mac guessed.

�The skulls appear small, which would be consistent with female. Also, I have to believe this grave is related to Lilah Abenito�s, and she was a teenage girl. I don�t know. Are we seeing what we want to see? Have I approached this case all wrong from the start? Honestly, I�ve never felt so stupid, and I�m supposed to be leading this taskforce.�

Kimberly sighed again. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she rubbed her temples, where she could feel a budding headache.

�You called for reinforcements?� Mac checked.

�Marshall agreed to activate ERT.� Marshall was her boss, and the Evidence Response Team was the FBI�s elite group of specialists who assisted with particularly involved evidence collection. Kimberly herself was a member. Sometimes ERTs assisted in jurisdictions that couldn�t afford to have evidence techs of their own, or lacked the FBI�s lineup of sophisticated toys. Other situations, such as plane crashes or mass casualty events, simply demanded greater resources. Kimberly�s Atlanta team had been called to work the Pentagon site after 9/11. One of her instructors had talked about raking the debris for days to recover a single gold wedding band. The look on the widow�s face, she said, when they were able to give at least that much of her husband back to her�.�.�.

Kimberly�s instructor had passed away five years later. Cancer. Most likely from exposure to hazardous chemicals at the site. FBI agents often talked about having a call to serve. Very few civilians understood just what that meant.

�You doing okay?� Mac asked softly now.

�I�m struggling,� Kimberly admitted. �With how to manage this mess�the amount of people to supervise, the pressure for immediate answers to horrific questions�.�.�.�

�You think the graves are Jacob Ness�s handiwork?�

�I think we�d be lucky if that was the answer. Old dumping grounds from a deceased predator.�

�Fits expectations while minimizing fear. And given you didn�t find any new remains, works with the timeline of a guy who�s now dead.�

�We know serials don�t magically quit,� Kimberly considered out loud. �And to the extent all the bodies we�ve currently found are fully skeletonized, I would guess we�ve made a fresh discovery of an old crime. That fits the timeline for Ness, while making for a compelling narrative: Ness started off kidnapping girls near or around his trucking route. He brought them back to the relative quiet of the mountains, then dumped the bodies. Until he built up the confidence and resources for longer term abduction scenarios, such as what he did with Flora.�

�What does Flora think of the new discovery?�

�She�s�.�.�. troubled. Could Ness have killed and buried four young women? Absolutely. But Jacob hiking up a mountain, wandering through the woods while carrying a corpse�.�.�. According to her, not in a million years. He was the laziest kidnapper who ever existed.�

�Could Jacob have driven up to a different trailhead, then hiked down to where you found the bodies?�

�That�s a good question. We haven�t had time to scope out the full network of trails up here. Everyone wants answers now, of course. If only it were so simple.�

�Yep.�

They both fell silent for a moment. Kimberly leaned her head against the wall and listened to the steady rhythm of her husband�s breathing, as familiar as her own. No more sounds of their daughters, meaning Eliza and Macey had either settled in for the night or, more likely, were engaged in some kind of criminal conspiracy. She should let Mac go. Let him return to his responsibilities while she tended to hers. But she wasn�t ready yet. She needed this. A moment of calm in the storm.

�Wasn�t Jacob Ness known for his binges?� Mac asked at last. �Drinking, drugs, that sort of thing?�

�Yes.�

�Could that be what the three girls represent? Homicidal rampage? Ted Bundy certainly had his infamous night where he attacked an entire sorority.�

�Bundy was frenzied that evening. He struck and moved on. That�s easier than transporting, then dumping three bodies in a single grave.�

�Which brings you back to wondering about an accomplice. Someone with local ties, who drew Jacob to the area. In that scenario, three girls isn�t so implausible.�

�Want to come to Niche, Georgia? The locals keep eyeing us with suspicion, and the mountains are dotted with skeletal remains, but other than that, what�s not to love?�

�Oh no, you got this. Besides, all cases get worse before they get better. It�s the nature of the beast.�

�True.� She shook out her shoulders, sat up straighter. Time to get to it.

�Call if you need to talk. Even in the middle of the night. I don�t mind.�

�The joy of our jobs.�

�The key to our marriage,� Mac corrected gently.

Kimberly smiled. �Love you.�

�Love you, too.�

�Mac, the girls have left you alone for a very long time�.�.�.�

�Pray for me,� he agreed.

Kimberly smiled again. She touched her lips with two fingers, as if she could send her husband a kiss across cellular towers. As if she could feel the brush of his lips in return.

Then, she went back to work.

D.D. DRAGGED FLORA AND KEITH to the county sheriff�s first thing in the morning. The building�s conference room would be serving as command central for the original taskforce. Given yesterday�s discovery of additional remains, a mobile command post had been set up at the base of the hiking trail to coordinate the bone experts and other forensic specialists who would be scouring the mountainside.

Kimberly and D.D. had spoken late last night. Given the explosion in size and scope of the investigation, Kimberly had requested that D.D. partner with Sheriff Smithers on local interviews, as Kimberly would need to supervise the exhumation of the newest grave. A big ask, and a nice show of trust from a federal agent for a city cop not even in her own jurisdiction. Which just went to prove how understaffed their taskforce was. In fact, D.D. suspected Kimberly knew D.D. intended to drill the locals one way or another. This way, the feebie probably figured she�d have some control over the situation.

Like others hadn�t tried and failed to manage D.D. before.

D.D.�s mood was downright cheerful walking into the squat municipal building. Shuffling behind her, Flora looked like she hadn�t slept a wink, Keith either. But what else was new?

Personally, D.D. loved this phase of a major investigation. Gearing up for battle. Here are the knowns; here are the unknowns. Now marshal the troops and get it done.

The sheriff wasn�t in the conference room. D.D. recognized two FBI agents from their original taskforce meeting. One was directing local officers to various stacks of paperwork, while attaching a giant map of hiking trails to the main wall, front and center. D.D. guessed blown-up maps of Niche and the surrounding towns would go up next. Plus the murder board, photos of each victim, what was known. Then a basic whiteboard for organizing group discussion.

The second FBI agent seemed to be the designated IT guy. The tables had been moved into a standard U-shaped configuration. Now he was distributing laptops at discrete intervals while referring back to his own computer, where he would then type furiously away. Most likely, the agent was establishing a secure network for all the taskforce computers, rather than utilizing the sheriff�s system. It was a better way of managing all the data and ensuring chain of custody of sensitive docs. Welcome to the new age of policing, where the issue wasn�t getting information but managing the deluge of data. From witness statements to hotel records to restaurant credit card receipts, they�d be drowning in docs by the end of the day. D.D. appreciated the FBI had better tricks for managing the madness, given their expertise in major cases.

D.D. waved hello to the overworked agents, earned curt nods in return as both remained on task. Then, given the level of chaos, she exited from the room�Flora and Keith still trailing behind�and headed down the hall.

If she were the sheriff, she�d be taking refuge in her own office, away from the bedlam. After a few tries, she found his office.

�Sheriff Smithers.�

The sheriff had indeed been leaning back in his chair, feet up, eyes closed. Now he bolted upright, feet dropping with a thud to the floor, his hat falling from his head.

�Uh, uh�.�.�.� He clearly recognized her, but was too befuddled to remember her name.

D.D. took pity on the exhausted man. �Sergeant D. D. Warren from Boston PD. Call me D.D. And you remember Flora Dane, Keith Edgar.�

The three of them could barely fit in the office, given the small size and piles of paperwork. The sheriff looked around belatedly, as if he should offer them a seat, but couldn�t figure out how.

He gave up with a deep sigh. �Ah hell.�

�It�s okay. There are more important things going on right now than housecleaning.�

�Got that right.�

�SSA Quincy asked me to meet with you this morning, coordinate the interview efforts.�

�Yes, ma�am. I spoke to her last night.� He looked past D.D. to Flora and Keith. Neither had said a word. Sleep deprivation? Shell shock from a sad case that had already taken a sadder turn? D.D. didn�t know, but she turned and eyed them expectantly.

Keith managed to extend his hand, mutter a greeting. Flora just stared at the sheriff. The flatness of her expression didn�t bode well. The woman had retreated deep inside herself. Maybe a protective measure. Maybe honing her homicidal impulses.

�With all due respect, ma�am��the sheriff eyed D.D.��those two are civilians.�

�Guilty as charged,� D.D. agreed.

�Can�t have civilians conducting official interviews.�

�Agreed. Not to mention, talking really isn�t Flora�s strength.� She arched a brow at the silent woman. She got nothing back. Definitely not good.

�Did Quincy review with you her initial goals?� D.D. turned back to the sheriff.

�Yes, ma�am. Identify town leaders, influencers��

�Busybodies,� D.D. offered helpfully.

�Business owners,� the sheriff continued dryly. �Get the lay of the land.�

�Are there neighbors who give them the willies, known town crazies?�

�I already pulled the names of everyone with a criminal record, ma�am. Got officers assigned to pay them a visit. �Course, not the easiest line of questioning�what were you doing fifteen years ago? Now, we can flash around photos of Jacob Ness, but who�s gonna admit to knowing a monster like that?�

�They probably won�t. But you can ask their neighbors if they ever saw anyone matching Jacob�s description visiting the area. I�d also ask about his rig. Identifying a vehicle feels safer than getting involved with a known rapist.�

The sheriff nodded.

�Is there a town leader? Minister, mayor, who might be a good guide to the local population?�

�There�s Mayor Howard. Um, Howard Counsel. He and his wife, Martha, own the historic B and B on Main Street. One of the grand old summer homes. As close to fancy as we get around here.�

�Wraparound porch, rockers everywhere?�

The sheriff nodded. �That�s the one.�

�We should definitely pay him a visit.�

�We?�

�You and me. If he�s the mayor, he�ll want a show of respect. Two uniformed officers asking him questions will only rile him up. Two leaders from the taskforce, including the county sheriff, stopping by for a friendly chat to update him on what�s going on in his town�.�.�.� D.D. paused.

The sheriff nodded, getting the gist of what she was saying.

�He�ll appreciate the attention,� she finished, �and of course we�ll ask him some questions while we�re at it.�

�Mayor Howard and his wife�.�.�. their families go way back in these parts. I don�t know how open they�ll be to outsiders, but they�ll want to see this matter quickly resolved. A sensational murder case, well, it�s unseemly. Not to mention bad for business. They aren�t going to want our taskforce lingering.�

�Perfect. Are they early risers?�

The sheriff shrugged.

�Doesn�t matter,� D.D. decided. �After the excitement of yesterday, I doubt anyone is sleeping anyway. Let�s go.�

The sheriff blinked. �Right now?�

�No time like the present.�

The sheriff reached down for his hat, still looking a bit frazzled. �I�d like to change my shirt,� he said.

D.D. realized for the first time that the sheriff did appear quite wrinkled. As if he�d slept in his uniform. Poor man. �We�ll step outside. I�ll give Flora and Keith their assignment. Then all of us can get cracking.�

�We have an assignment?� Keith asked.

�Absolutely.� She ushered them out the door into the hallway.

�What?� Keith asked, as she closed the office door behind them.

In answer, D.D. studied Flora. The woman remained distant. But maybe a task would rouse her out of her fugue state.

�Right now, we�re spinning in circles. Is this Jacob�s work or not Jacob�s work? Yes, he could murder four girls. But no, he probably couldn�t handle disposal of the bodies.�

Flora nodded, still appearing a million miles away.

D.D. sharpened her tone. �We need to know once and for all if Jacob was in this town. A final, definitive, yes he was part of this.�

�I told you, I was in a box. I never saw��

�You never saw, you never heard,� D.D. interjected curtly. �But what did you do? Come on, Flora, earn your keep. You�re not here for decoration.�

Flora�s nostrils flared. She eyed D.D. mutinously, but at least there was some fire in her eyes.

�I don�t get it,� Keith said.

D.D. kept her attention on Flora. �What did you do when you were held captive? What did you experience? Think, Flora. Nine months ago when you did the memory exercise, what did you use as triggers?�

The woman suddenly blinked. She straightened, engaged for the first time all morning. �I ate,� she said softly. �Jacob, when he returned, always brought food. Lots of takeout. Ribs, wings, burgers, pizza. The greasier the better.�

D.D. nodded approvingly. �I�ll be the first to say, this assignment pains me, if only because I wish I could do it myself. But we all have our crosses to bear. So I�ll be a good doobie and tackle the mayor, while you and Keith identify all the local restaurants that have been in business for the past ten years and then�.�.�. eat. Order every item on the menu if you have to. You want to keep dining around until you find something that, I don�t know, tastes like a match.�

Flora stared at her.

�It�s not enough to search for establishments that have been open ten years,� Keith spoke up briskly. �We need ones where the head cook has remained the same, as well, as chefs influence the style of food prepared.�

�Sure.�

�I can Google a list of restaurants for Niche plus surrounding towns, then prepare a spreadsheet listing length of operation, hiring date of head chef, opening date for owner/operator.�

�Great.�

�I�m not sure my palate is that refined,� Flora interjected. �Or my memory that good.�

�You�re not trying to identify the secret ingredient in the special sauce, Flora. You�re just searching for a sense of d�j� vu.�

Flora nodded slowly. Her flat affect was gone. Now she appeared�.�.�. younger, nervous. Scared that she would discover a dish that reminded her of Jacob? Or more terrified she wouldn�t, and the man, what he did to her, what he might have done to others, would forever remain a mystery to her?

Coming to Georgia had been a brave move on Flora�s part. D.D. respected it. She even felt for the woman. But she kept her expression firm and her expectations clear. Coddling had never worked when it came to Flora. An impossible challenge, on the other hand�.�.�.

�All right,� Flora said abruptly. �We�ll do it. Dine our way through town. How hard can it be?�

Keith squeezed her shoulder, which was answer enough.

Behind them, the door opened, the sheriff appearing in his fresh shirt.

�Touch base end of day,� D.D. instructed. She made a shooing gesture with her hands. Flora and Keith belatedly turned and headed down the hall.

�Where are they off to?� the sheriff asked.

�Two crazy kids in love? Who knows?�

KIMBERLY MET UP WITH HER ERT team shortly after five A.M. They gathered in the motel�s lobby before coffee had been brewed and cellophane-wrapped pastries tossed into the basket. They were a good team, experienced and detail oriented. Kimberly trusted each member with her life, and had done so the last time they�d retrieved bodies from a mountain in Georgia.

Supervisory Special Agent and Senior Team Leader Rachel Childs was their designated circus master. The five-foot-nothing redhead had grown up in Chicago and had a set to her jaw that discouraged dissent. By contrast, Harold Foster, a six-foot-one beanpole who towered above her, was their designated outdoorsman. He�d hiked the entire length of the Appalachian Trail before heading off to college and was eager to do it again. He was also well versed in flora, fauna, predatory wildlife, and poisonous snakes. Kimberly had a tendency to hike close to Harold�when she could keep up with him.

Harold and Rachel had brought two more agents with them.

Franklin Kent, whom Kimberly had never met but had a voice that reminded her of the bayou, was as well-equipped as Harold, so another with mountain experience.

Finally, Rachel introduced Maggie Sharp, who appeared to be lugging their survey tool for crime scene mapping. A walking IT department.

They all exchanged pleasantries. Kimberly explained the two graves and the role of Dr. Jackson, the forensic anthropologist who would be in charge of the exhumation. The ERT, meanwhile, would assist with establishing the grid, working the outer perimeter, and, yes, retrieving any additional scattered bones.

They split into two vehicles to drive to the trailhead. Kimberly and Harold went ahead to set up mobile command at the base of the hiking trail and meet up with Dr. Jackson. Which put team leader Rachel in charge of coffee and snacks�arguably the most important task.

As Kimberly and Harold reached their destination, Dr. Jackson pulled up in a white ME�s van, and Kimberly made the introductions. She�d only worked with the forensic anthropologist a couple of times, but Kimberly already appreciated her no-nonsense approach. This morning, the woman wore loose-fitting clothes and hiking boots. Kimberly noticed a pile of coveralls in the back of the van, which were quickly loaded into a pack. Then there were buckets, trowels, sifters, tarps.

Kimberly was beginning to wonder if they should consider a horse or a donkey to assist with transport when the rest of her team appeared and wordlessly started absorbing supplies into their own packs while attaching various buckets to various hooks all over their bodies.

Then they were off. Harold took the lead, Rachel not far behind. Kimberly had given both coordinates, so she wasn�t worried.

She took an easier pace, falling beside Dr. Jackson. The older woman was doing great, given she probably spent most of her life in a lab. But the mile-long trail was steep and it didn�t hurt to take a couple of breaks.

�When I told you to find me more bones,� Dr. Jackson grumbled, �I didn�t mean this.�

�Did you look at the pictures I sent you?�

�Of course.�

�We stopped digging once we saw the top of the skulls. I didn�t want to do more harm than good.�

�Finally, some words of common sense from a fed.�

�It does happen,� Kimberly assured her.

�You�re fishing. You want me to tell you things you know I can�t yet tell you.�

�I want to know the age of the grave site. Sooner versus later. Have we stumbled across something old, or something ongoing?�

�The skeletal condition is one vote for old. But I�ll have to get the remains back to my lab to tell you more.�

Kimberly nodded, accepting the verdict as they continued their ascent.

The first burial site had already been worked thoroughly a month ago. Given the need to recover more bones, however, Rachel assigned Harold and Franklin to continue examining the area in case they�d missed something. Harold was famous for covering miles of mountainside in a single step. Kimberly didn�t know what Franklin was famous for yet. The agent seemed to be focused, dedicated, and completely self-contained. A puppy and a panther. It would be an interesting day for both of them.

She led the rest of the team up to the site of the new mass grave. Two deputies had been assigned overnight watch. They rose gratefully to their feet as Kimberly and her crew emerged from the dense underbrush.

�Morning, ma�am.�

�Hot coffee?�

�Yes, ma�am!�

Kimberly had learned early in her career it was the little things that got the job done. Now, they all took a moment to unload their gear, unpack bags. They made sure to stay well clear of the grave to prevent cross-contamination, though Kimberly could tell everyone was anxious to get a look.

The deputies were dismissed back down the mountain to get some sleep. Eventually, two new ones would arrive. It never hurt to have an oversight crew, keeping their attention on any approaching threats�whether coyotes or gawkers�as the forensic team�s efforts would be focused on the dirt.

Rachel directed her team to get set up. Maggie unpacked the Total Station, an instrument first used by survey crews to create 3-D models of major roads and traffic patterns, then adapted to render 3-D images of complex crime scenes. As Kimberly had already related to Mac, the remains were not laid out in a neat and orderly fashion. Instead, best she could tell, the bodies had been tossed in together. Then, over time, as flesh and sinew gave way, the remains had collapsed in on one another.

Back in the lab, Dr. Jackson would carefully rebuild each skeleton, while digital images from the Total Station would be used to preserve information from the original scene.

Once they had their supplies sorted out and organized, Rachel consulted with Dr. Jackson on the plan of attack. In spite of what people sometimes assumed, the FBI�s Evidence Response Team�s main goal was to collect evidence, not to analyze it. None of them were forensic experts, though some, like Harold, had developed areas of interest over the years.

Dr. Jackson had donned coveralls over her hiking ensemble. She now passed out additional garments, and they all suited up, grimacing at adding an extra layer of clothing over their sweaty gear.

Birds chirped in the distance. There was a nice wind in the trees as Dr. Jackson stepped gingerly over the lines and made her way to the middle of the grid. Kimberly already knew what she would see: a slight depression in the earth, next to a mound of dirt. Lay people assumed the mound was the grave. Not true. The depression was the grave, the mound of dirt was the earth the killer had dug out of the ground, then left to the side after dumping in the bodies. Over time, decomp reduced the mass in the grave, causing the earth to settle, and creating a distinct pattern all crime scene techs learned to identify: one mound plus one depression equaled one unmarked grave.

Or in this case, one unmarked grave with three rounded skulls already peering out from the loose soil.

Dr. Jackson picked up the first trowel. They got to it.

I CAN�T EAT ANOTHER BITE. You do it.�

�Me? I don�t think that�s the point.�

�Please, I double-dog dare you to tell me these ribs taste any differently than the ones before them, or the ones before those.�

I glare at Keith, my eyes daggers of contempt, until he has no choice but to rise to the challenge.

�Double-dog dare. Well, if you�re that serious.� Keith gamely picks up a knife and fork, slices off a bite of barbecued meat.

�Who uses a knife and fork to eat ribs? Authentic experience. Come on!�

�You�re very cranky,� he informs me, but sets down the silverware, picks up the bone with his fingers.

�I have good reason to be cranky.�

�And yet, what does it change?�

I glare at him again. He shrugs a shoulder, then takes a delicate bite of pork and chews thoughtfully. �I would say these ribs have a tad more vinegar than the ones before. Or maybe it�s a hint of cloves.�

�You are making that up!�

�Yes. I am.�

Keith sets down the bone. I can�t help myself, I half sigh, half explode in exasperation, throwing myself against the back of the booth.

�I hate this.�

�I know.�

�I don�t remember. I was too busy being grateful for food, any kind of food. I was scarfing and inhaling and chewing like a goddamn animal. I didn�t notice sauce, or flavor or seasoning. I was fucking starving and I ate like a starving woman.�

�I�m sorry.�

�Oh shut up.�

Another shrug. I want to scream. Or tear out my hair or rip apart this booth. I want to run so far, so fast, that this awful food and those awful memories can never catch me and I�ll never have to think about Jacob again.

Keith had identified two restaurants in Niche that had the same owner-operators for the past ten years. A diner and a pub. So we�d started there, the owners trying to protest it was too early to be serving dinner, me staring them down until the entire menu suddenly became available. It was creepy how easy it was to select entrees. Oh, Jacob would love this, Jacob would like that. Like picking out food for an old friend, or long-lost lover. Which brought back other memories, the chili dog in St. Louis that exploded down his shirt after the first bite and I burst out laughing before I could catch myself. Then froze, thinking he�d smack me, except he started laughing, as well. He�d ordered two more and we�d eaten them greedily at the truck stop, talking about nothing in particular, enjoying our time in the sun.

Who enjoys a sunny afternoon with their own rapist?

And yet that was Jacob, too. He wasn�t a monster all of the time. Or maybe he realized that the moments of normalcy made his monstrousness all the more frightening.

D.D. had given us her rental car. After hitting the two establishments in Niche, we�d driven south to Dahlonega, which had many more restaurants. We�d been eating, I don�t know, forever. Ordering plate after plate while fellow diners stared. My stomach ached. My head hurt. I wanted to vomit, though whether from food or memories of Jacob�.�.�.

�They remodeled Columbine High School the summer after the shootings,� Keith offers up. He�s pushing the ribs around on the plate with his fork. �The administrators knew it was important to wipe out as many traces of violence as they could so the student body could move on. And they understood that meant not just patching bullet holes, but instituting a whole redesign, especially one that changed up the library, where so many were killed.�

I nod absently. Keith likes to talk. Sometimes I pay attention, sometimes I don�t.

�But the principal argued a new look wasn�t enough,� Keith continues. �They also needed to change the fire alarm tone, which had gone off for hours that day. Just the sound of those notes sent himself and the students back into a state of panic.� Keith paused. �They also removed Chinese food from the cafeteria menu.�

He looks at me. �That�s what the cafeteria had been preparing for lunch that day. Chinese food. No one could take the smell anymore. Again, it led to immediate panic attacks. Poor Chinese food. It probably was a lunch many used to enjoy.�

I stare at him.

�I understand you�re overwhelmed,� he says softly. �I know thinking about Jacob, remembering anything involving Jacob, has to be excruciating.�

I don�t say a word.

�But Sergeant Warren, what she said is true. We process information through all of our senses. We make associations through all our senses. From building design to the fire alarms to cafeteria food. You may not have seen much when you were first kidnapped. But you experienced a lot. You processed way more than you know. And with a little time and patience�.�.�.�

�I�ll magically know if I�ve been here before?�

�Or you�ll be able to confirm once and for all that you weren�t.�

�My memory isn�t that good. My senses are not that refined.�

�Or your safeguards are just that high.�

�I�m not trying to avoid this!�

�Flora, no one blames you for not wanting to take a trip down memory lane. Sergeant Warren is asking the impossible of you and she knows it.�

I�m horrified to realize my eyes have filled with tears. I�m going to cry. Goddammit, I refuse to be this weak.

�What if I told you it all tastes right? What if I said, every single thing we tried�.�.�. Yes, Jacob could�ve brought that to the basement. Every meal is exactly the kind of thing he would�ve liked. And I know that, because I lived with him that long, I got to know him that well.�

�Okay,� Keith says.

�Okay? There�s nothing okay about this!�

�You�re here. He isn�t. You won. He lost. Everything is okay about that.� Keith reaches across the table and takes my hand. �You�re here with me. And that�s very okay.�

I want to tell him he�s wrong. That I never feel like I won. That mostly I just endured, and I hate myself for that, too. For the days I didn�t fight. For all the times I fell upon Jacob�s offerings of food and greedily devoured them. Shame. I think of Jacob and to this day, I feel shame. It follows me everywhere I go, even sitting at a booth in a tavern staring at barbecued ribs.

�Let�s go,� Keith says.

�Where? Isn�t there another pub we�re supposed to hit?�

�You�re full, I�m full. We�re done.�

I stare at him curiously. �So now what?�

�We take a page out of Sergeant Warren�s book. We launch our own investigation.�

�What are we investigating?�

�ATVs.�

�What?�

�Forget Jacob for a moment. There�s no one in the world who can physically lug four bodies up a mountainside. I barely made it up that trail yesterday and I can run for miles.�

I nod slowly.

�Meaning there has to be another way, maybe even a whole different path we haven�t identified yet. Personally, I�m favoring a four-wheeler-accessible trail. Think about it; it�s not just getting a body or bodies to the site, but also shovel, pickax, other supplies. The area is too heavily wooded for a truck, which leaves us with an ATV.�

I nod again. While I�ve been lost in my dark thoughts, Keith has clearly been using his head, and his logic makes sense.

�Where to start?� I ask.

�I Googled a nearby ATV rental company. They must have trail maps, right? Not to mention local knowledge. Because it might be that the trail doesn�t exist anymore, which is why we didn�t see immediate signs of it. But maybe there was something people used fifteen years ago, that sort of thing.�

I don�t speak right away. Instead, I study this serious man sitting across from me with his Ted Bundy good looks and relentlessly curious mind. I realize I�m no longer angry, I�m no longer ashamed. I�m intrigued.

Keith is right. There has to be some other way to access the burial sites than just hiking. And who better than us to figure it out?

Slowly, I nod my agreement.

Hand in hand, we slide out of the booth and head for the door.

HOWARD AND MARTHA COUNSEL OWNED and operated the Mountain Laurel B&B. The pale lavender Victorian sat on the corner of Main Street, with a broad wraparound porch decorated with lush hanging baskets and half a dozen rocking chairs. On this beautiful September morning, the veranda looked perfect for sitting out front with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other.

Which made it interesting that the porch was completely empty. Though, it was only shortly after eight. Crime had a tendency to get people like D.D. out of bed early. She forgot sometimes how the rest of the world lived.

Sheriff Smithers mounted the front steps, grabbed the bronzed door handle, then gestured for D.D. to enter first. The front door opened to a grand entryway. Sweeping staircase in front, lovely pale green and yellow sunroom to the left. A tinkling bell had marked their arrival. Now a smartly dressed older woman in a dove-gray skirt and elegant pin-striped blouse appeared from a hall behind the staircase. Her heels clacked against the marble floor as she made her way briskly to the giant cherrywood desk that served for guest registration. When she spied the sheriff and D.D., her steps slowed.

�Sheriff Smithers.� The woman halted in front of them, blue eyes curious.

The sheriff was holding his hat before him. Now he extended one hand in greeting. �Mrs. Counsel. Good morning, ma�am. Sorry to disturb you so early. This is Sergeant D. D. Warren, a member of the taskforce investigating the remains found in the mountains. As you�ve no doubt heard��

�You found another body yesterday,� Mrs. Counsel answered for him. �Maybe more, if the rumors are to be believed.�

The sheriff didn�t confirm or deny. For now, they were trying to keep the news under wraps to keep the media from descending. How long that strategy would work was a good question. But all investigations hoped for a little luck.

�Is Howard around?� the sheriff asked. �We thought the mayor might appreciate an update.�

�Absolutely.� Mrs. Counsel extended a hand to D.D. �Please, call me Martha. I�ll fetch my husband. We can meet in the front room.� She gestured to the room on the left. The walls appeared to be papered in a pale green lattice pattern, while the floor was covered in a sage green carpet with butter yellow roses. An eclectic mix of old tables were positioned around the space; no doubt where the B&B guests enjoyed breakfast, afternoon tea, late-night brandy.

�Coffee, tea?� Martha asked now as she led them to a larger table in the corner.

The room was currently empty, which D.D. found interesting. For a tourist town, the inn seemed lacking in visitors.

�Do you have many guests?� she asked, as they arrived at the table and the sheriff pulled out a chair for her.

�We have four couples right now. But it�s the middle of the week. This time of year, the weekends are busier. It�s too late in the season for thru-hikers, and families are tied up with school. We will get a lot of couples, day hikers, and some families on the weekend, however. Let me get Howard. I�ll be right back. Coffee?� she asked again.

�I would love some,� D.D. said, while the sheriff nodded gratefully.

�You ever been on a taskforce this big?� D.D. asked Sheriff Smithers as Martha clacked out of the room.

�No, ma�am.�

�Go home tonight. Sleep in your own bed. This is going to be a marathon, not a sprint.�

A young Hispanic girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a pale blue maid�s uniform, the skirt cut modestly below her knees, sleeves reaching to her wrists. Her dark hair was pulled up tight in a bun, while on her shoulder she balanced a massive tray topped with a silver coffee service.

The girl crossed the room slowly. She moved with a slight limp, as if dragging her right leg behind her. As she drew nearer, D.D. could make out a shiny scar at the edge of the girl�s hairline and noticed the left half of the girl�s face drooped slightly, as if she�d suffered a stroke.

The girl stopped at the table beside theirs. She carefully lowered the tray, then without a word, set about pouring coffee from the silver pot into two delicately flowered china mugs.

�Good morning,� D.D. said.

The girl glanced up slightly. Her gaze fell on the sheriff�s uniform and her eyes widened. She didn�t say a word, just kept on pouring. She slid the first cup before D.D., the second before the sheriff. Then placed sugar and cream in the middle of the table.

�I see you�ve met our niece,� a new voice boomed into the room. A distinctive-looking older gentleman with a cream-colored linen suit and mint-green bow tie strode into the nook, Martha by his side. Mayor Howard, D.D. would presume.

Immediately, the serving girl took a step back, placed herself in position against the wall, and stared at the floor.

�She doesn�t talk,� Martha provided, her arm looped through the mayor�s. �She suffered a dreadful car accident when she was young. Killed her mother, left her mute and brain-damaged, poor thing.�

�Shouldn�t she be in school?� D.D. asked, still puzzling over such a young girl dressed as a maid.

�No point,� the mayor said dismissively. �She can�t read or write. The area of the brain that processes language is damaged beyond repair. The doctors were very blunt on the subject. There�s nothing to be done. But we�ve taken her in, of course. Family is family.�

And free help is hard to find, D.D. thought uncharitably. She looked over at the wall, but the girl remained expressionless. It was hard to tell if she�d registered the conversation, much less understood it.

The mayor pulled out a chair for his wife, placing her next to the sheriff. He rounded the table to take the seat next to D.D., where she noticed he could look the sheriff in the eye.

�I take it the rumors are true; you found another body yesterday,� the mayor drawled at last.

D.D. sipped her coffee, let the sheriff do the talking.

�Yes, sir. We found additional remains, not far from the original site.�

�Oh my goodness.� Martha covered her mouth with her hand, glanced at her husband with concern.

Mayor Howard sighed heavily. �Another girl? That�s terrible. Simply terrible.�

�How do you know it�s a girl?� D.D. asked.

�Isn�t it always?� He eyed her guilelessly.

D.D. couldn�t figure him out.

�Where are you from, dear?� he asked her now.

�Boston.�

�But you�re here, part of some taskforce, searching through my woods. Now how did that come to pass? A Boston detective on a Southern taskforce?�

�I have relevant experience,� D.D. said blithely. She was saved from further reply by the mayor�s wife.

�Was this new body�.�.�. also a skeleton?� She whispered the final word, as if it was something shocking and terrible. Maybe it was and D.D. had just been doing this too long.

�We�re still conducting our investigation, ma�am. The forensic anthropologist is on-site as we speak.�

�Oh dear. All this sad, sordid business. Right here. In our own backyard.� Martha eyed her husband in distress. �And just in time for fall hiking season. Oh dear, oh dear.�

�Have you learned anything more about the first girl?� the mayor asked Sheriff Smithers.

�Only that she�d been there for quite some time.�

�How long have you been mayor?� D.D. spoke up.

�The past ten years,� Howard replied evenly.

�And before that?�

�My daddy. The Counsels have a long history of service to this town.�

�Do you hire a lot of young girls?� D.D. glanced at their �niece,� who still stood unmoving next to the wall.

�Of course,� Martha huffed out. �Especially for the busy summer season. As you can tell, our town is small. During boom seasons, we must bring in outside workers. But all of our employees are legal, if that�s what you�re asking, and we have the paperwork to prove it.�

D.D. nodded thoughtfully. What the Counsels said made sense. On the one hand, Niche was a quaint small town where the full-time residents probably did know one another by name. On the other hand, for significant portions of the year, the workforce was transient and the area flooded with tourists. Getting a bead on all those people, going back fifteen years, would not be easy.

Which brought her to the locals, as good a starting point as any. She rose abruptly. �Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.�

�I�ll show you��

�No need. I�m sure your niece knows the way.� Before anyone could blink she had the girl by the elbow and was guiding her away from the wall and out of the room. The girl stumbled slightly and D.D. forced herself to slow down, walk calmly. Just another woman in search of a toilet.

She could feel the girl�s arms tremble beneath her fingers, but the girl didn�t�couldn�t?�say a word.

Out of curiosity, D.D. removed her hand once they�d left the room and waited to see what the girl would do. The girl didn�t make a run for it. Instead, she turned left, entered the hallway behind the staircase, then a moment later limped to a door marked Ladies.

D.D. studied the young maid. So the girl could understand things, she just couldn�t communicate. Which made D.D. think she wasn�t nearly as impaired as the Counsels claimed.

�Are you okay here?� D.D. asked softly.

The girl locked her gaze at a spot past D.D.�s shoulder. Didn�t make a sound.

�Can you speak?�

The girl�s lips pursed. For a moment, it appeared as if she were trying to whistle, make a noise. But nothing came out. She resumed staring at the wall.

�Can you type?� On impulse, D.D. dug out her cell, then pulled up a text message screen. She indicated to the tiny letters. �Pick one. Type what you want to say.�

The girl looked at the phone, then took it gingerly from D.D.�s hands, turning it over. She seemed genuinely curious. Eyeing the letters, the blinking cursor. Her fingers fluttered across the screen, almost in longing. Then she shook her head, appearing genuinely frustrated, and handed the phone back.

A full minute had passed. Much longer and Martha would appear to see what was keeping them.

�I think you know things,� D.D. tried again. �Much more than you let on.�

The girl inhaled slightly, which D.D. took to be a yes.

�When I go back, we have to ask the Counsels some questions. I�d like your answers, too.�

Brown eyes widened in alarm.

�No, no, there�s nothing to be afraid of. This is what we�re going to do. Stand where you usually do, arms by your sides. When I ask questions, show one finger for yes.� D.D. held up one finger. �Two for no. What is yes?�

Shakily, the girl raised a single finger.

�No?�

Two fingers. D.D. knew it. The girl was plenty smart. Her �family� was taking terrible advantage her.

�Do they hurt you?� D.D. asked gently.

The girl didn�t move.

�Are you scared?�

Nothing.

�It doesn�t have to be like this. Even if they�re your family and they�ve told you that you have no place else to go, that�s not true. I can help you find options.�

To be honest, though, D.D. wasn�t sure just what those options were. She didn�t have jurisdiction here, let alone understand the available resources for displaced kids. But the sight of such a young girl already forced into a life of servitude because of�what, a childhood injury? The cop in D.D. was offended�not to mention the mother in her.

Almost as if reading her mind, the girl slowly held up two fingers. Followed quickly by a faint shake of her head. There was something in the girl�s eyes. Not fear, D.D. thought. More like stubbornness.

The sound of heels clacking across the marble foyer. D.D. quickly pocketed her phone. She and the girl turned as a single unit and headed back down the hall where Martha was already waiting for them.

The woman eyed D.D. suspiciously. Then regarded the girl even more harshly. When neither said a word, she pivoted on one heel and led them back to the sunroom.

IEXPECTED A KID AT THE ATV rental company. Instead it�s an old guy in a green flannel shirt, worn jeans, and sturdy hiking boots. He glances up when Keith and I walk through the door, takes in Keith�s obviously upscale urban wardrobe, and appears to do some quick math. Probably doubling the rental price for the cute tourist couple.

I thought Keith would start with the subject of maps. Instead, he smiles, lays on the charm, and plays the part of na�ve out-of-towner with more money than common sense.

First question from owner-operator Bill Benson: Have we ever driven a four-wheeler before? We both shake our heads.

Okay, one ATV or two? Bill eyes me dubiously. He appears old school, as in women should be seen not heard, and definitely have no place operating any kind of motorized vehicle.

Keith wants to know about the ATVs first. Sizes, models, how comfortable for two. Hey, if we wanted to bring blankets, a picnic basket, does Bill have anything with storage, that sort of thing.

Bill takes us out back to peruse his inventory. A standard ATV can definitely hold two of us just fine. Or, given the scenarios both Keith and I are running through our minds, one driver plus one body strapped behind the driver. Three bodies seems a stretch to me, and I have no idea where you�d put a shovel, but then I see a compact trailer parked to the side, obviously meant to be attached to the rear of one of the ATVs. Probably intended for hauling leaves, lawn clippings, that sort of thing. But also perfect for dark deeds done at midnight. I can tell by the look on Keith�s face that he�s thinking the same.

Keith inspects each four-wheeler. He settles on one that looks exactly like all the others to me. And finally we get to the matter of where to ride.

Bill walks us back inside, where he unfolds a map of the surrounding area. There aren�t just ATV trails, there are hiking trails. Dozens, if not hundreds, looping all over the place. The myriad of dashed and solid lines reminds me of the subway map in Boston, except much more complicated.

�Now then,� Bill is saying, �these dashed lines are hiking only. Stay clear, not just because you don�t want to be running anyone over, but because most are too narrow. You could a hit a tree, really ruin your day.�

�The ATVs look pretty hardy to me,� Keith says. �What if we wanted to do a little off-trail exploration?�

�Oh, the machines are tough, all right. And this time of year, you don�t have to worry about mud. But you get off the trails and you start destroying plant life. People don�t take kindly to that. Besides, underbrush is dense in these parts. Bushes, mountain laurel, smaller trees. You can get stuck or lost plenty easy.�

�We�re actually staying over by Niche, but I didn�t notice any rental companies over there.�

�No, sir, we�re the only providers in the area.�

�So, if we wanted to rent the ATV for the day, explore closer to our hotel?�

Bill eyes Keith suspiciously. I stay quiet, studying the map and wishing it made more sense. I may have grown up in the woods, but I never used any kind of guide to roam my own backyard. I simply headed out, following deer paths, animal trails. I never knew where I was going, and yet I never felt lost. The more I roamed, the more the woods were my home.

By contrast, this overhead view of a mountain range, with solid lines for ATVs and dashed lines for hikers and curved lines for grade, seems like an overly complicated maze, designed not to show the way, but to get everyone hopelessly lost. I finally pinpoint Niche, then identify the dashed line indicating the trail we�d hiked up yesterday to the first body. How far up the dashed line we�d gone, how far off the trail the first body was, let alone the others, causes me a second round of confusion.

�What is this ATV trail?� I ask abruptly. I�d found a solid line that seems to be following some ridge above where we�d found the bodies. I study the map�s scale again, trying to understand distance from one point to another.

�That�s Laurel Lane. Some pretty views in the spring,� Bill offers. He looks at me, then Keith, then me again. There�s no way he hasn�t heard about the discovery of bodies in the woods yesterday. And given the location of the Laurel Lane trail in relation to the search efforts�.�.�.

�We�re part of the taskforce,� I give up. �We came in with the FBI yesterday to assist with the search.�

Beside me, Keith nods.

�You don�t look like FBI.�

�I�m a computer analyst,� Keith volunteers. �I have experience calculating search areas.�

Bill grunts, seeming to accept Keith�s job description. Then his gaze goes back to me.

�I�m a victim advocate,� I say.

�A victim advocate? For bones?�

�Everyone needs a voice.�

Bill arches a brow.

I lean forward, whisper quietly. �As I�m sure you�ve heard, we found another grave yesterday.�

Bill appears intrigued in spite of himself.

�You ever travel Laurel Lane? Roar along on your ATV, enjoying a sunny day? Ever imagine what was in those woods? How close you might�ve passed to those poor dead bodies, each and every time?�

Bill swallows thickly.

�Hiking with a corpse is tough,� Keith speaks matter-of-factly. �The taskforce has been discussing it, and most likely the killer used some mode of transportation to haul the bodies to the burial sites.�

�How�.�.�. how many girls?� Bill asks roughly. He drops his voice. �I heard a dozen.�

�Do you know this area?� I ask.

�Yes, ma�am. Like you said, been on that trail many a time.�

�Could you get a truck on that path?� Keith asks.

�Too narrow. And like I said, the underbrush is thick along there. Not to mention, some times of the year, all rutted up. Be a risky trip.�

�How busy is this trail?� Keith points to Laurel Lane.

Bill shrugs. �This time of year, weekends are our bread and butter. But weekdays are quieter. You never know, though. Daytime,� he ventures, �would be tricky for, um�.�.�. well, what you�re talking about.�

�The ATVs have headlights for nighttime rides,� Keith says.

�Not the best, though. After dark, most riders wear headlamps, or you can clip on additional lighting. If you were going off trail, you�d definitely want some assistance.�

Keith takes the map. His gaze is thoughtful, as if all the squiggly lines speak to him. Clearly, he doesn�t want to give away too much information regarding the location of the graves, and yet there�s plenty the map alone can�t tell us.

�It looks like Laurel Lane is part of a whole network. You can access it from a number of different trails. How do locals do it? Trailer in the ATVs to one of these parking areas, then take off?� Keith asks.

�You can,� Bill agrees. �But plenty of folks just head out their front door. There are dirt roads not on this map, which connect with the ATV circuit. Some locals even have their own personal paths they�ve bushwhacked, leading to the network. Four-wheelers are popular around here. Lots of people own �em, and they want to just take off, not be messing around with trailers.�

�You could trailer us in, though?� Keith asks.

�That�s generally what we do with groups. You pick the area, I take the ATVs, get you started. I can guide you, too, if you�d like.� Bill�s gravelly voice picks up. Talk of murder might make him uncomfortable, but clearly, the chance to be part of the action�.�.�.

�Basically, you�re saying this map doesn�t show everything?� Keith presses. �There are dirt roads, personal paths, lots of other things going on which only the locals know about?�

�We don�t like to give away all our secrets,� Bill deadpans.

Keith doesn�t seem to know how to ask what he wants to know next. I don�t either. We�d walked the woods around the first burial site for hours yesterday, looking for animal dens and scattered bones. We�d never seen anything close to a trail.

�If there was a path, say, over a decade ago,� Keith muses finally, �but maybe it hadn�t been used for a while, how would we find it?�

�You don�t.�

�We don�t?�

�The mountain takes back its own. The woods don�t want to be cleared or groomed. Hell, it takes four different ATV clubs to keep these marked trails accessible. Work is constant and ongoing. Ask any landowner. You want to keep your yard, you gotta keep your yard.�

�So an old trail�.�.�. would just return to the wild?�

�Yes, sir.�

In other words, Keith�s theory about an old, locals-only trail may be right. Or maybe even more personal than that�a trail once made by one person and known only by that person. Except this section of the Appalachian Trail was part of the Chattahoochee National Forest, not private property. So anyone who�d blazed a private path off the known byways would have to be someone with access. Maybe a park ranger, or local guide? It feels to me like the more we learn, the more the truth spins away.

�What do you think?� Keith asks me.

I understand the issue. We can�t keep asking questions without giving away too much. Were the graves accessible from the Laurel Lane trail on an ATV? There�s only one way to find out.

�I get to drive,� I say.

�Deal.� Keith pulls out his wallet. �We�d like to rent one ATV with transport to Niche. We�ll also need a map and helmets. Oh, and any kind of insurance you got. Maybe, make that double.�

AS KIMBERLY QUICKLY LEARNED, EXCAVATING a mass grave was like emptying a bathtub one scoop of water at a time, keeping the water level even as you slowly brought it down.

Dr. Jackson liked to talk while she worked. �Now, if this were an archeological site, we�d start at the edge and dig ourselves in. But when you work a burial, you need to protect the grave itself, including the walls of the original pit which may yield tool marks we�ll want for evidence later. So what we�re going to do is start right in the middle. We�ll scoop off shallow amounts of dirt into buckets. Buckets will then be poured through a coarse sieve, then a fine sieve. Hopefully that will yield some interesting tidbits�buttons, jewelry, bits of fabric. A shell casing would be nice. But we also want flora, fauna, seed pods. We don�t know what we don�t know, so at this stage, anything left in the sieve is considered evidence.�

Kimberly nodded obediently, organizing their small crew into the human chain. Dr. Jackson took the lead, patiently removing shallow slices of dirt. Kimberly came next, holding up the bucket to receive each scoopful. Full buckets were passed down for sifting. Empty buckets passed back for refill.

Maggie roamed around them. Setting up the Total Station in select spots. Shooting data before bringing the toy to the next site, different angle.

The work was tedious and hot. Before long Kimberly could feel the sweat beading along her brow. She had to take a break and tie a handkerchief around her hairline. Dripping bodily fluids into a crime scene would definitely be in poor form. She noticed the others having to stop to do the same.

This grave, like the first, was not especially deep. Nor did it turn out to be particularly wide. Within a matter of hours, Dr. Jackson had fully exposed a tangled riddle of bones. Without the skulls for reference, Kimberly wasn�t sure she would�ve known she was looking at three bodies. It might have been six, maybe a dozen.

It was�.�.�. heartrending. Three people reduced to a single cluster of bones.

Dr. Jackson called for a water break. The woman had a kerchief around her head and her neck, both heavily stained with sweat. When the forensic anthropologist straightened, Kimberly could hear the woman�s back crack, could see her wince.

�Definitely not in the lab anymore,� the doc said grimly, extracting herself carefully from the grave.

�Have you worked a mass grave before?� Kimberly asked as they headed to the edge of the woods, where the rest of their team had already gathered in the shade and were greedily sucking down liquid.

�Too many times. Rwanda. Central America. Many forensic anthropologists donate time working international cases. The countries where some of the worst genocides have taken place don�t have the resources to process their own sites. They rely on the international community to lend a hand.�

�I thought�.�.�. I thought it would be easier to make out each body,� Kimberly said. She noticed the others were eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversation.

Dr. Jackson shook her head. �Mass killers don�t like to work any harder than they have to. Some even make their victims dig their own graves. In this case, looks to me like one small ditch was carved into the earth. Which, given the amount of bushes and tree roots, couldn�t have been an easy task. Then, the bodies were dumped in. Over time, the skeletons collapsed into the jumbled pattern we�re seeing here.

�Now, there are a couple of factors we can already consider. We�ve removed most of the dirt from the grave, and there�s still no trace of clothing.�

�Like the first grave,� Kimberly said.

�Exactly. I�ve also noted the first pelvis. Definitely female. Based on a quick glance, I would guess they all are.� The forensic anthropologist sighed heavily.

Kimberly nodded, taking another swig of water and feeling those words like a weight in her chest. Four murdered girls. All dumped on one mountainside, and dead so long not even a memory of flesh remained. Good God, what had been going on around here?

�Can�t tell you time since death. That�ll take some quality time with my mass spec back in the lab. Clearly, we�re looking at older remains, but are these two sites five years apart, a few years apart, a few months apart�.�.�. that�s going to take some analysis.�

�Three bodies in one burial site is unusual for a serial predator.�

�Can�t say I�ve run across that before myself. We already got an interesting find in the first sieve, as well.�

Kimberly hadn�t worked the sifting process so she looked at the doctor.

�Appears to be a slender piece of plastic tubing,� Dr. Jackson explained. �The size and diameter reminds me of medical equipment, say a cannula used for an IV.�

�Seriously?�

�Again, this is premature. But we also found a dirt-covered strip of adhesive. Like the kind used to tape an IV to the back of a patient�s hand.�

�There are possible medical supplies in this grave? No clothes or signs of restraints but medical supplies?�

�Like I said, gotta get back to the lab.�

Kimberly stared at the doctor. She honestly didn�t know what to make of such findings. A mass grave had been strange enough. But a mass grave where one of the victims may have received medical treatment?

Kimberly heard a sound in the distance. A low splutter, turning into a throaty growl as it grew closer. Instantly, she and the rest of the team were on their feet.

Closer. Louder. Roaring. Clearly some kind of vehicle approaching where no vehicle should be.

Kimberly drew her sidearm.

An ATV came crashing through the bushes. Two riders, both wearing helmets, pitched forward as the vehicle careened sideways then lurched to a sudden stop. Kimberly lined up her Sig Sauer on the driver just as the person opened her visor and Kimberly found her gun pointed straight at Flora Dane�s forehead.

ARE YOU TELLING ME that didn�t bother you?� D.D. asked.

Sheriff Smithers had just pulled into Niche�s town office. Now he killed the engine, stared at her. �What?�

�That girl. The way the mayor and his wife treat her. She�s just a kid. She should be in school, not working as a maid.�

�In Georgia, school is mandatory from six to sixteen. Now, that girl looked old enough to be a teenager to me. Could be she already graduated from some special school, or that she�s homeschooled. You don�t know what you don�t know. And Mayor Howard and his wife�.�.�. they�ve done a lot for this community. You can�t just assume the worst.�

�I can, too,� D.D. muttered, as she popped open her door. She didn�t like Mayor Howard or his wife. Everything was a little too perfect. She was always suspicious of people whose houses seemed more like set pieces than real homes. And everything about that grand inn, from its wraparound porch outside to the silver coffee service inside�.�.�. it smacked of pretense. Look here, not there. Admire appearances, then move along before peering beneath.

�There must be a record of the girl,� D.D. said, joining the sheriff on the steps of the town office. �You realize we don�t even know her name?�

�I�ll make some inquiries,� the sheriff offered, �but I can tell you there�s no real dirt on the Counsels. Any legitimate misdeeds would�ve already crossed my desk. For that matter��the sheriff nodded his head toward the administrative building��Dorothea, the town clerk, knows everything about everyone. Better yet, she likes to show off she knows everything about everyone. You want to know more about the mayor and his wife, she�s the one to ask.�

D.D. perked up. �Meaning we can kill two birds with one stone.�

�We were due for a break sooner or later.�

TASKFORCES MUST BE FED. WHICH made Kimberly incredibly grateful to Franny, Sheriff Smithers�s receptionist, checklist operator, and all-round extremely tall den mother. By the time Kimberly and her crew had trudged back down the mountain, it was already nearly eight P.M. Kimberly took a much-needed shower, then headed straight to the Mosley County Sheriff�s Department for the evening debriefing, where she discovered her fellow investigators already camped out in the conference room enjoying what appeared to be an entire buffet of homemade casseroles.

�From the ladies of the First Congregational Church,� Franny said, appearing at Kimberly�s elbow. �They know how hard you people are working and wanted to show their appreciation. You must try the chocolate trifle. Patty makes it every year for the fall cook-off. It�s the best.�

Sure enough, across the room D.D. was standing over a giant glass bowl containing what appeared to be layers of chocolate pudding and whipped cream. The detective was licking a spoon, and wearing an expression that probably shouldn�t be viewed outside of a bedroom.

�Is there lasagna?� Kimberly asked. �I smell lasagna.� She�d been on her feet for fourteen hours and hiked up and down a mountain half a dozen times. If there was pasta in this room, she�d earned it.

�Third tray from the right. And don�t worry, we have more where that came from.�

Franny bustled off to shift more platters, distribute more plates. Kimberly decided this was already the best taskforce meeting she�d ever attended. Which was good, because they had a lot of ground to cover.

She ate. Shamelessly. Then went straight for the trifle, even though D.D. glared at her and made a sound suspiciously like a growl.

�Call dibs on the bowl,� the Boston detective said.

�Rock-paper-scissors.�

A fresh glare from D.D.

�Not gonna help you,� Kimberly informed her. �I have two daughters who practice that look on a daily basis. Besides, I spent the day exhuming skeletons. You?�

�Fine. I get the brownie platter.�

�Deal.�

�Why isn�t Flora eating?� Kimberly asked presently, leaning against the wall beside D.D., savoring the trifle. There were little chocolate chips. And toffee. Heath bar crunch maybe? �Or is that a symptom of PTSD?�

�She ate all day.�

�She ate all day?�

�We�ll get to it. Your day?�

�We�ll get to it.� After one more scoop of trifle, Kimberly decided.

�Where are your ERT people?� D.D. asked.

�They stayed at the hotel; they�re beat and have to be back at the site at oh dark thirty tomorrow morning. But I have the report on what we found.�

�Dr. Jackson?�

�Same deal. She�s jonesing for her lab, not a meeting where all she can say is �wait for my report.� We have at least one more day of field work, then the team and Dr. Jackson will return to Atlanta. In the meantime, we have discoveries to discuss.�

�I have a new lead,� D.D. said. �She�s underaged, can�t speak, read, or write, and apparently suffers brain damage from a childhood injury. But I have a feeling about her.�

Kimberly arched a brow.

�After the meeting,� D.D. murmured. The detective had her gaze on Sheriff Smithers, sitting across the room and apparently devouring taco salad. �This town, the locals�.�.�. I have some concerns.�

�You mean you�re not falling for Main Street�s quaint charms?�

�Not after learning what�s buried in the mountains.�

Kimberly couldn�t argue with that. She cleared her throat, indicating it was time to get started. And just like that, the room fell to order.

Kimberly took up position front and center. �All right. First off, a big round of applause to the ladies of the Congregational Church for this amazing dinner. A huge step up from a taskforce�s general diet of pizza, pizza, and pizza.�

Everyone clapped enthusiastically. Clearing platters, Franny paused, blushed, fidgeted with the delicate gold cross she wore around her neck.

�Now then, we have several efforts to catch up on. I�ll go first with the report from the second burial site.�

Kimberly waited a heartbeat. Investigators hastily shoved aside plates, booted up laptops and tablets.

�The second grave revealed three more sets of skeletal remains. Dr. Jackson was able to confirm all three are female. At least two are teenagers and one prepubescent.�

�How young?� D.D. spoke up, her tone expressionless.

�Nine or ten.�

Silence.

�No clothing was recovered from the grave,� Kimberly continued evenly. �Though we had a few unexpected finds, including a short piece of plastic tubing, a strip of adhesive tape, and a pair of latex gloves.�

Keith�s hand fired into the air, and Kimberly nodded for him to speak.

�You�re going to test the gloves for prints? And the inside? As well as touch DNA?�

Look who�d once more spent some quality time with Google, Kimberly thought. �All evidence will be subject to a complete forensic exam. For immediate consideration, Dr. Jackson is theorizing that one of the bodies may have had IV tubing taped to the back of her hand at the time of burial.�

�But that would mean the person had received medical attention,� Flora said slowly.

�It�s possible.�

�Jacob wasn�t averse to needles, but medical assistance? I was lucky if he tossed a couple of aspirin my way.�

�The presence of an IV seems outside of Jacob Ness�s purview,� Kimberly agreed. �Still, evidence is evidence. The tape may yield DNA, something to help identify victim or perpetrator. In the meantime, Dr. Jackson will conduct a full analysis on each set of remains. She knows we need answers soon.�

�Does the doc think the second burial site is from the same time frame as the first?� Sheriff Smithers asked.

�In her own words, that�s not an unreasonable conclusion, but will require additional testing.�

�The first skeleton,� Sheriff Smithers continued now, �Lilah Abenito.�

Kimberly nodded.

�She wasn�t from around here. She went missing from Alabama. Meaning these other girls, they might be from elsewhere, too. Makes sense, if you think about it. Four local girls going missing all at the same time would call attention. But if they�re from different places�.�.�.�

�We�re going to need to pull missing persons records for teenage girls, nationwide, going back fifteen years, maybe even twenty.�

�That�s gonna be a lot of names.�

�We have some work ahead of us, no doubt.�

�COD?� D.D. spoke up.

�Nothing obvious. Again, Dr. Jackson hopes to learn more back at the lab.�

�Asphyxiation,� Keith murmured.

�Highly possible. We did get one break. This newest grave yielded several seed pods that were most likely interred with the bodies. Based on a preliminary analysis��Thank you, Harold, thought Kimberly��we assume the bodies were buried early spring. So that at least gives us a start on a more exact timeline.�

�Except we don�t know which year,� Keith spoke up.

�We�re starting fifteen years ago, working around that. Now tell us about your efforts today,� Kimberly addressed Keith and Flora.

�I ate,� Flora said.

�So I heard.�

The entire taskforce regarded Flora curiously. The woman cleared her throat, sat up straighter. She appeared defensive, but maybe that�s the best a survivor could do, surrounded by a room of professional law enforcement types.

�Jacob liked food. Lots of food.� Flora looked around the room, at the empty aluminum casserole pans. It was hard for Kimberly not to feel guilty. �Sergeant Warren recommended I try out some of the local establishments, see if any of the food tasted familiar. But, um, I just don�t know. It was too long ago. I don�t remember enough.� The woman sat back abruptly. Kimberly had a feeling there was more to it than that. She waited, but Flora didn�t speak again.

�You and Keith did make one major discovery for the day.� Kimberly nodded at Keith to do the honors.

�We worked on the logistical issue of getting four bodies up a mountainside, while also having to consider carrying an assortment of tools for digging a grave,� Keith rattled off. �It seemed to us, having already hiked up and down to the grave site a couple of times��

Around the room, people nodded.

��that wasn�t the most feasible way of accessing the area. And certainly not something one of our suspects, Jacob Ness, would even attempt.�

More nodding.

�Upon further investigation, an ATV seemed the most likely mode of transportation. So we approached a local dealer, established there is at least one trail running just above the grave sites that would yield easier access, and then, well, we rented a four-wheeler. Sure enough, we arrived at the second burial site pretty quickly.�

�You nearly ran over the second burial site,� Kimberly corrected.

Neither Keith nor Flora said a word.

�Which did prove your theory,� she grudgingly allowed. �And I appreciate your thinking. Hiking up bodies, tools, and now if we consider one of the victims may have been sick and/or incapacitated enough to require an IV�.�.�. an ATV does make more sense as a mode of transportation.�

�We also learned many of the locals own ATVs and even groom their own private trails,� Keith said. He looked at Sheriff Smithers. �So it may be our perpetrator didn�t even come from the main road, but accessed the byway from a path on their own property.�

�Four-wheeling is popular around these parts,� the sheriff considered. �I can have one of my deputies check it.�

�Which brings us to your day,� Kimberly transitioned, turning focus to the sheriff and D.D.

�We interviewed local leaders and the town clerk,� the sheriff reported. �Reached out to local hotels on generating whatever reports they could on guests going back fifteen years. Timeline is an issue. The biggest property in Niche, the Mountain Laurel B and B, which is run by the mayor and his wife�they got a new computer system ten years ago, so they can�t even tell you who was around before then.�

�Shrimp,� Kimberly murmured, remembering the sheriff�s discreet oath from their first meeting.

�Exactly. Um�.�.�.� The sheriff cleared his throat. �We got one name to chase, Walt Davies. Apparently an antisocial type. Lives alone in the woods and prefers it that way. Possibly brews his own moonshine and/or grows his own dope. Which will add to the tensions if a bunch of uniforms suddenly show up on his property.�

�Moonshine and weed?� Flora spoke up.

The sheriff nodded. Flora sat back, eyes narrowed in thought. The sheriff cleared his throat, continued on: �I�ll assign a couple of my boys to pay him a visit tomorrow. Local deputies, which hopefully will appear less threatening than, say, the feds. Either way, sounds like we should approach with caution.�

�You want to call in reinforcements? SWAT?� Kimberly asked evenly.

�Nah. I�m afraid showing up with the cavalry will start a war. I think we should try out some local charm first. Proceed from there. We got a list of other properties from the town clerk that fit our parameters as possible cabins Ness could�ve holed up in eight years ago. We should assign a couple pairs of investigators to check each location in person. Don�t know if you want to be part of that?� The sheriff looked at Flora.

�I wasn�t outside, so looking at exteriors, I won�t be any help. But the basement�.�.�. I might be able to recognize the basement. Especially the brown carpet. I spent a lot of time studying that carpet.�

�How many properties?� Kimberly asked.

�Eighteen.�

She nodded. �Okay, send out pairs first. If there are some that are particularly promising�say, set back enough from neighbors and have a basement with brown carpet�Flora can review the finalists.�

�I think we have to look harder at the locals,� D.D. spoke up.

Kimberly gestured for the detective to continue.

�When we spoke to the town clerk, Dorothea, she mentioned business around here is seasonal. Spring and summer is super busy with hikers�meaning sure, someone like Jacob or another predator could appear or disappear without anyone taking note. Now, you�re saying you believe at least one of the graves is from the spring. Combining that with the ATV info��D.D. nodded toward Keith and Flora��I think that smacks of local knowledge. Who would know where to bury the bodies when the trails are crawling with thru hikers? How to access that area with maximum privacy? And have access to an ATV that doesn�t draw any notice?�

�You don�t think it�s Jacob?� Flora spoke up quietly.

D.D. shrugged. �I haven�t ruled him out. But four bodies, three in one site�.�.�. This is different. This isn�t lone-predator activity�at least not any kind of lone predator I�ve ever heard about.�

Keith nodded vigorously.

�I think we�re back to our first theory,� D.D. continued. �Murder as a team sport.�

�Why the IV?� Kimberly pushed.

�I have no idea.�

�Where�s the closest hospital?� Kimberly asked the sheriff.

�There�s a couple,� Sheriff Smithers offered. �Nothing too close, though.�

�I wouldn�t go straight to hospitals,� D.D. volunteered. �I�d start with people with medical backgrounds. Nurses, EMTs, a retired doctor, even a vet. An IV isn�t that difficult, right?� She turned to the sheriff. �Is that something Dorothea could help us with, being the town busybody and all?�

Sheriff Smithers nodded. �I could ask her.�

�Where do you get an IV?� Keith asked.

�Medical supply company,� said Kimberly. �Online retailer. I asked Dr. Jackson. Tubing, cannula, medical tape, those items are easy to come by.�

�Especially around here,� the sheriff added. �In the mountains we always have some survivalist types, and they keep a fair amount of medical supplies on hand. You know, for the coming plague and all.�

More nodding from around the room.

�All right,� Kimberly said. �This is the plan. Tomorrow, teams of two visit our list of properties. Sheriff, you�re in charge of those efforts.�

He nodded.

�Sergeant Warren��

�I�ll continue interviewing locals,� D.D. immediately spoke up. She gave Kimberly a measured look, and belatedly Kimberly got it. The girl�whomever it was D.D. had met today, she planned on going back. Kimberly didn�t get it, but she trusted D.D.�s instincts.

�Okay. We need to start running the lists of hotel guests, such as they are.�

As expected, her fellow agents nodded. Crunching massive amounts of data was any FBI agent�s bread and butter, and exactly who Kimberly would want to do the job.

�And, um�.�.�.� She turned to Keith and Flora, then realized she really didn�t know what they should be doing. �Eat more?� she suggested.

�No, thank you,� Flora said.

�I think we should walk around,� Keith said. �Visit stores, other establishments. Team sport, right?� Keith glanced at D.D. �Let�s see if anyone recognizes Flora. Or if her appearance�.�.�.�

�Spooks anyone?� D.D. filled in, with a pointed look at Keith.

�Exactly.�

Kimberly shrugged. They were civilians, so she could hardly give them official tasks. �Scare away,� she ordered.

Then hoped the words didn�t come back to haunt them.

HE�S BACK.

I don�t need to see him to know the Bad Man has arrived. The house tells me. It holds its breath, hunkering down in the growing dark, already fearing the worst.

I sit on the mat in my tiny room, knees tucked against my chest, arms wrapped tight around my legs. I stare at the door, wearing my old summertime uniform that leaves my scarred forearm completely exposed.

The most beautiful thing about me, he had said, as he�d cut the intricate pattern into my skin.

I wonder if tonight I�m the one he�ll come for. Because when the Bad Man visits, someone must pay the price.

I think of the blond police lady who came by this morning. She talked to me. She wanted to know if I was safe. She even held out her bright, shiny cell phone, as if to help. I know phones. I see other people use them. Even young children, their fingers flying across the surface, picking and arranging boxes of squiggly lines that hold meaning to everyone but me.

I don�t understand the shapes. Small kids do. But not me.

Footsteps. Heavy thuds from down the cold, stone-tiled hall. Moving fast, with purpose.

I pull my legs in tighter.

The blond lady said I didn�t have to stay. But she doesn�t understand and I don�t have enough fingers to tell her everything. She and the kind-eyed sheriff are looking for some man who apparently has already come and gone. I vaguely recognized his mean look, or maybe I�ve just seen too many men like him. With expressions that promise pain.

The man in the photo they showed is a bad man. But he is not the Bad Man.

I don�t know how to tell the pretty blond police lady that, any more than I know how to move my lips and work my throat to share the full horror of this place or list the other girls who are long gone but still need me to deliver their names back to their families.

I have a duty. Like my mother. Run, she tried to warn me. I ignored her. But still, she tried. She was strong and brave. She stood up to the Bad Man. Performed some small act of rebellion that brought him to our home that final night. I�ve spent years wondering about it. It used to make me angry�why couldn�t she have done nothing, just continued with our little lives in our little house?

But now, with my own time winding down, realizing more and more that I will never leave this place, I understand her need to make some kind of stand. To feel, for one moment, like someone who mattered. Because the Bad Man loves to make us less. To dance his blade across our skin until we scream. Then he smiles, and admires his handiwork. And leaves even me whimpering, as I clutch at my ravaged arm.

My mother had a patchwork quilt of lines across her back. As a child, I would trace them with my finger. She never said a word. Now, of course, I wonder.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The footsteps, much closer now.

The house holds its breath.

He�s here. Standing on the other side of my door. His hand closing on the knob. One twist. The door will open. One step. He will loom before me, blade by his side, smile on his face.

Just like that, it will be my turn.

I should offer him dinner, I think wildly. Fix him a plate. Will he remember my mother? Recall that night? Or are we all alike to him? Just girls, disposable in the end?

I have to bear the pain, I remind myself. I will close my eyes, fist my hands, scream if I must. And then�.�.�. it�ll be done. I�ll be gone. And my soul�will it be the color purple like Stacey�s, or silver like my mother�s? It will rise up, bring me to my mami and we�ll be a pack of two, again. Mamita and chiquita. Because I belong to her, and she belongs to me, and not even the Bad Man can keep us apart forever. I have to believe that.

I stare at the door.

Bear the pain.

Bear the pain.

Bear the�.�.�.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps. Starting up again.

The man, moving on, away from my door, farther down the hall.

I stop rocking. Hold perfectly still. If not me, then who?

I think of my mother again.

I know what I have to do next.

D.D. RETIRED TO HER HOTEL room to spend the rest of the evening researching brain injuries and speech impairment. She felt she�d barely fallen asleep when her phone rang.

�Wake up,� Kimberly announced.

�Huh?�

�Sheriff just called me. We got another body.�

�What?�

�The mayor�s wife. You interviewed her yesterday morning, right?�

�What time is it?�

�Just after four.�

�In the morning?�

�Meet you in the lobby in fifteen. There�s no way Martha Counsel�s death isn�t related to our investigation. Grab coffee. Get hopping. We have a long day ahead.�

NOT BEING MUCH OF A sleeper, I spend most of the night pacing. Shortly after four, I hear a commotion in the hall and come out of my room in time to catch D.D. exiting hers. She provides me a brief update of the situation at the mayor�s place, then she and Kimberly disappear out the motel doors to do their policing business, leaving me behind.

It still takes me another hour to find my courage.

I wish I could explain it, even to myself, but I can�t.

Take on a known rapist? Check.

Walk down a dark alley where a suspected predator snatches his prey? Check.

Race into a burning building to confront a killer, save a pregnant woman, track an arsonist? Check, check, check.

Knock on the door of the handsome man staying in the room next to mine�.�.�.�?

I pace the deserted lobby. Roam the tiny dining area, which at this time of morning doesn�t offer lights, coffee, or even Pop-Tarts. Finally, back down the hallway I go, telling myself I�m brave, I�m strong, I�m a survivor.

I�m shaking by the time I reach Keith�s door. I get my hand up to knock. I think of my friend Sarah, who�s gone back to college and now has a boyfriend. I think of the way her face lights up when she talks about her life. From surviving to thriving.

She did it. I can do it.

I�m still standing there, frozen with my fist midair when the door swings open. Keith appears, fully dressed and not looking surprised to see me.

�Kimberly and D.D. left,� he says.

I belatedly pull down my hand. �There�s been a death. Mayor�s wife. Hanging.�

�Suicide or murder?�

�That�s what they�re trying to figure out.�

Keith frowns at me. �What does that mean for us today?�

I take a deep breath. Will he think I�m crazy? Then again, Keith has been remarkably adaptable so far.

�I want to rent an ATV again,� I tell him. �I want to visit the guy they were talking about last night�the loner, Walt Davies.�

�The guy who shoots cops on sight?�

�We�re not cops.�

Keith arches a brow. �We�re trespassers. A guy who shoots cops probably shoots trespassers, too.�

�Then we�re trespassers who will need to talk very, very fast.�

Keith doesn�t say no. He considers me for a moment instead. �Why?�

�I don�t know. I need to do something. And this�.�.�.� I frown, I don�t know how to put it into words. Ever since I heard Walt Davies�s name last night, it�s been stuck in my brain. Because I heard it before? Or because I have a thing for crazy loners?

I say at last, �Yesterday, D.D. had us trying out local food looking for matches. But Jacob had other appetites.�

�Drugs and alcohol,� Keith fills in.

�Exactly. If this Walt Davies guy is the local supplier of moonshine and dope, there�s a good chance Jacob would�ve sought him out. Especially given Walt�s reputation as the town outsider. All the better in Jacob�s world.�

�Makes sense. But the sheriff said he was going to send two deputies to talk to the guy. So again, why us?�

I give him a look. �That was before this morning�s suspicious death. I bet any officer who�s slept more than two hours is now assigned to that scene. So why not us? We can�t help out at the inn, but as civilians, we might be the right choice for talking to the local paranoid schizophrenic.�

�And just like that, I�m worried again.�

�In or out?�

We both know the answer. Keith is Keith. He will follow me anywhere, even down to Georgia and up a hiking trail to a grave.

�The ATV rental won�t be open for another few hours,� he says at last.

�Then we�ll go to the diner.�

�Our last meal?�

�That�s the spirit.�

He smiles. Quickly, so I don�t have time to think about it, I stretch up and kiss his cheek. He turns his head just enough to meet my lips with his. I don�t pull back. We stand there, lips to lips, in suspended animation.

Slowly I draw back. His blue eyes are darker now, harder to read.

�I�ll get my jacket,� he murmurs.

AFTER SPEAKING WITH MAYOR HOWARD about his wife�s alleged illegal kidney transplant, Kimberly paid a visit to the master bathroom, where�sure enough�she found a row of prescription bottles bearing Martha Counsel�s name. A quick internet search revealed most of the pills to be anti-rejection meds, to be taken for the �life of the working transplant organ.�

Kimberly returned to the room where the woman had hanged herself. D.D. was still there, supervising the ME�s removal of the body. As with all hangings, the ME had left the noose in place. Analysis of the knot would be an important part of the final report, helping to determine if the woman�s death was a suicide or a murder.

Right now, Kimberly had a suspicious death, which technically fell under the sheriff�s jurisdiction, not that of the federal taskforce. She doubted, however, that Sheriff Smithers would balk at outside assistance with the case, especially as Martha Counsel�s death had to be related to the bodies they�d recovered. It was impossible to think otherwise.

D.D. introduced the medical examiner, Dr. Dale Cabot, then his scrawny assistant, Arnold Cabot. Apparently, the coroner�s office was a family business.

�What can you tell me?� Kimberly asked, flashing her credentials.

�I can tell you a cup of coffee every morning is perfectly good for you,� Dr. Cabot replied drolly, working with his son to slowly lower Martha Counsel onto the waiting gurney. �And I can�t wait to have one this morning myself.�

She deserved that, asking for an opinion before the body was even on the stretcher. Even so, Kimberly held up a hand. �Hang on a moment.�

She stopped beside the gurney. Martha�s embroidered silk bathrobe remained open in front, but the kid, Cabot junior, had respectfully smoothed down her long white nightgown. No good way to do this.

�We�re told this woman received a kidney transplant,� Kimberly said. �Given the circumstances, I need to check.�

Dr. Cabot stepped back, gesturing for her to do what she had to do. His son, on the other hand, stared at her wide-eyed.

Kimberly never liked this part. It felt intrusive, donning a pair of gloves then slowly raising up the hem of a dead woman�s nightgown to better inspect the body. Mentally, she made her apologies as she drew Martha�s nightgown above her thighs, exposing plain white underwear with discreet lace trim, then finally Martha�s bare torso. There on the left-hand side: a significant surgical scar, still puckered and dark pink after all these years.

�Is that scar consistent with a kidney transplant?� Kimberly asked.

�Appears so. I can tell you more once I open her up.�

Kimberly nodded, held out her cell phone with the photo she had shot of the prescription bottles. �And these drugs?�

The ME took her phone, played with the photo till he could make out all the labels. �These are all standard anti-rejection meds, consistent with someone who received an organ transplant.�

He handed back the phone.

�Did you know a Dr. Gregory Hatch?� D.D. asked, coming to stand beside them.

�Dr. Hatch? He passed away years ago.�

�Would he have been qualified to perform a kidney transplant?�

�As a general surgeon, yes, but UNOS�the United Network for Organ Sharing�could tell you more. They should have a record of everyone.�

�Assuming the organ came through UNOS,� D.D. said levelly.

Dr. Cabot stared at them. Then he looked back at the body, the red bathrobe sash knotted around Martha�s neck. �I don�t know why someone would go to such lengths to live once,� he said slowly, �only to give up now.�

�Guilt?� Kimberly offered.

�The Dr. Hatch I knew�.�.�. I wouldn�t rush to conclusions. Especially with the man not even alive to defend himself.�

�Who might still have access to his medical records?� Kimberly asked.

�Dr. Hatch was a private practice physician. Upon his death, patients would have been notified and given the opportunity to transfer their records to the new doctor of their choice.�

Kimberly exchanged a glance with D.D. Would a doctor even keep records of an illegal surgery? And yet, Martha had still required ongoing care, including the meds.

�Who would be in charge of transferring the files?� D.D. spoke up.

�Dr. Hatch�s assistant. Sorry. I can picture her, but I can�t seem to remember her name.�

�Amy Frankel,� his son offered immediately.

Kimberly and D.D. looked at him.

�Blond, beautiful,� said the boy. �What�s not to remember?�

Fair enough, Kimberly thought. D.D. was already jotting down the name. Kimberly went back to her photo of Martha Counsel�s meds. There, on the lower left-hand label, she could see the name of the prescribing doctor.

�Dr. Dean Hathaway,� she read off. �Do you know him?�

�No. But given the critical nature of maintaining the transplanted kidney�s health, it�s highly possible Mrs. Counsel was seeing a nephrologist out of Atlanta.�

Kimberly nodded and moved on to the red silk sash still tied around Martha�s neck.

She could just make out bruising above the fabric, from where it had ridden up on the neck from the force of the hanging. Kimberly had seen cases where someone had manually strangled a victim, then tried to cover it up by staging a hanging. In those cases, however, the distinct bruise pattern of fingers squeezing the victim�s throat always gave the murderer away.

At the moment, she didn�t see anything like that here. Of course, more would be visible once the sash was removed.

If this death looked and sounded like a suicide, why was she so uncomfortable?

She moved away from the gurney, thanked the ME for his time, and indicated that he and his son could go.

�I don�t like it,� D.D. said the moment they disappeared down the hall.

�We�re trained to be paranoid,� said Kimberly. �Doesn�t mean they�re really out to get us.�

�Ah, but my new friend dropped this.� D.D. held out a scrap of paper.

Kimberly looked at the hastily crayoned drawing of a hulking black figure with glowing red eyes. �Is that�.�.�. what? Some kind of boogeyman?�

�I think it�s a monster.�

�The girl, the mayor�s mute niece, gave you a picture of a monster?�

�She dropped it on the floor when he wasn�t looking. She can�t talk, but she�s trying to tell us something.�

�The boogeyman did it?�

�Or his friend, the devil.�

Kimberly considered the matter. She didn�t understand the drawing and, given the girl�s young age and reported brain injury, wasn�t even sure if she qualified as a credible witness. On the other hand, it�s not like they had any better leads. �All right, let�s talk to her.�

Kimberly turned toward the door. D.D. grabbed her arm. �Wait. She�s underaged. We have to have the mayor�s permission for an interview.�

�We�ll ask for it. Denying us access will look suspicious. You know how it is; put on the spot, plenty of guilty parties consent to things they shouldn�t.�

�I don�t want to call attention to her. I don�t think we know everything that�s going on here.�

�No kidding.�

�The picture projects fear. We may not understand it, but we have to respect it.�

God, Kimberly was tired. She rubbed her temples, wished she was once more on the phone, talking to her husband, catching up with her girls. Deep breath. This was her job and she loved it. Most of the time. �All right. So our best approach�.�.�. We�ll question her without singling her out.�

�Game plan?�

�We�ll inform Mayor Howard that we need to interview everyone who was in the building last night. Guests, staff, everyone. I�ll ask Sheriff Smithers to handle the guests, while you and I take the staff.�

D.D. nodded. �I don�t know that Mayor Howard will consent to us talking to his niece separately. My guess is he�ll say she can�t speak so he needs to be present to communicate on her behalf.�

�We�ll gather the staff and talk to them as a group. That will appear less threatening and make it harder for Mayor Howard to refuse without calling undue attention. His niece isn�t alone and the rest of the staff must be able to communicate with her in some fashion�otherwise, how else could they have worked together all these years? I�ll ask questions. You watch her fingers for your special coding system and we�ll see what we get.�

�I like it.�

�Of course. I�m brilliant. Which is why we get along so well.�

�And how we�re going to nail the son of a bitch who�s leaving a trail of dead women all over this town,� D.D. agreed.

Mayor Howard wasn�t thrilled with their assertion they needed to interview everyone present in the inn last night. He tried to argue his guests� right for privacy, his and his staff�s need to mourn. The sheriff, however, stood firmly with them�and, denied local support, the mayor had no choice.

Sheriff Smithers sent an officer to rouse the four couples who�d stayed the night. Kimberly announced she and D.D. would handle questioning the staff, who were apparently huddled in the kitchen, awaiting news. In the meantime, she needed the mayor to identify which computer or personal tablet his wife might have used to write her suicide note.

The request sent another long shudder rippling through the mayor�s bent frame. He bowed his head, appeared once again to fight for breath. The man seemed genuinely distraught. As if this were the worst night of his life. As if he still couldn�t believe his wife was dead.

�She�s gone,� he said abruptly. �Martha, my wife, my partner, my best friend. Thirty years�.�.�. There�s no hope for me now.� His tone was so hollow, it sent a shiver down Kimberly�s spine.

She kneeled beside him at the table. �I�m sorry for your loss.�

�I loved her.�

�I understand.�

�I did what she wanted.�

�I know.�

�I just wanted her to be healthy. Then she was. And God help me, I didn�t ask any questions. I never considered the cost. If not from me, then how did she get the kidney in the end?�

�Mayor Howard, I need you to go with Sheriff Smithers now. He�s going to help you find your wife�s computer. It�s important. Helping him will enable us to wrap up our investigation. I know this is hard. Just another hour or two, and we�ll be on our way. Who is in charge of your staff?�

�My wife�� The mayor caught himself. �Cook. She�s in the kitchen now. Prepping breakfast, I�m sure.�

Kimberly rose to standing. �Sheriff,� she prodded, indicating it was time for him to lead the mayor away.

Smithers got it. He put his hand on the mayor�s shoulder, both men looking equally grim. Kimberly understood. Sheriff Smithers was a county sheriff, not the town sheriff, but these were still his people. He had obviously known the mayor and Martha Counsel personally. These kinds of cases, where the trouble struck close to home, were never easy.

Mayor Howard climbed shakily to his feet, then followed the sheriff out of the front breakfast room.

Beside Kimberly, D.D. nodded slightly, acknowledging a job well done.

And yet, how to explain the unease rippling through Kimberly�s gut? They had an admission of guilt�a woman who�d killed herself because she was sorry for the kidney she had most likely stolen from one of their victims in the woods. They had the presence of medical supplies found in the mass grave�the IV port�which further supported this theory.

They had four victims, maybe all of whom had been used the same way: unwilling donors for illegal surgeries performed by a doctor dead eight years past. Illegal surgery explained the bodies, explained their timelines. Probably even explained the mass grave�three operations performed at once. Which made the victims what, medical waste?

Human nature never failed to disappoint. If there was a worst-case scenario out there, some person someplace had done it.

But the coroner�s words haunted her: Why would a woman who desired to live enough to resort to an illegal surgery decide to end it all, suddenly, just like that?

�Ready?� D.D. asked.

�Ready enough.�

D.D. indicated the swinging door connecting the kitchen. �No time like the present.� She shoved her way through, Kimberly at her heels.

�Hey, Cook. We have some questions for you.�

DEAD.

The word that Walt Davies shouted hangs in the air. I glance at Keith, who looks as confused as I feel.

�How�d you get here?� Davies asks now. He no longer has the pump-action shotgun pointed at our chests, but is swinging it around in a manner that�s hardly any safer.

�Our ATV�.�.�.�

�Clipped your way through the barbed wire, then. Been meaning to add more cameras. Damn land. Got too fucking much of it. But my great-granddaddy would come back from the grave if I sold an inch.� Walt jerks his head to the side. I think he might actually be talking to his great-granddaddy. Whatever risks Keith and I thought we were taking, the reality seems far worse.

�Who sent ya?� Walt demands now.

Again, I peer at Keith. I�m not sure how to answer. We came on our own? Does that comfort a loner or seal our doom? Maybe we should say the police are right behind us.

I feel a rising bubble of�.�.�. something. Hysteria? I don�t get hysterical. I�m Flora Dane, with universal handcuff keys tucked in the knot of my hair and a butterfly blade in the top of my boot and homemade pepper spray in my pants pocket. Time to end this�

�Sir,� Keith says. �Do you recognize her?�

Walt�s rheumy blue eyes fly to my face. �You�re dead,� he whispers.

�No, sir,� Keith speaks up before I have a chance. �But she needs your help. Immediately. We�re in danger. They�re coming. Please. Help us.�

Appealing to the paranoid? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and Them and They are such powerful enemies, of course we must be very good friends?

�Quick,� Walt says. �Follow me.�

He strides toward the log cabin and just like that we�ve gone from being his latest victims to his newest charges.

�How did you know?� I murmur to Keith as we jog behind a shotgun-wielding lunatic.

�Took my best guess.�

�If he has lampshades made of human skin inside there, I�m going for him.�

�I�ll be right behind you.�

�Are we on a date?� I ask Keith, as Walt clatters up to the front door, grabs the barely attached screen door, and throws it open.

�I hope so,� Keith tells me. �Because let�s face it. This is one helluva story to tell our future children.�

COOK TURNED OUT TO BE a burly woman wearing a grease splattered apron and hairnet. She had rounded up the other two workers, Mayor Howard�s niece, wearing her light-blue maid�s uniform, and another young woman with exotic features and gorgeous brown hair. The second woman also wore a maid�s uniform and kept her gaze fixed on a spot slightly above D.D.�s shoulder.

�This here is H�l�ne,� the cook said, pointing at the dark-skinned beauty. D.D. would peg the maid�s age somewhere between eighteen and twenty-three. Not as young as the niece, but still�.�.�.

�This is Girl.� The cook pointed to the mayor�s niece.

�Girl?� D.D. interrupted. �You call her Girl?�

�She don�t mind.� The cook stared D.D. right in the eye. She had her thick arms crossed over her chest. A show of aggression. She also remained standing, while having the younger helpers sit. A show of power. She was in charge and she wanted everyone in the room to know it.

Beside D.D., Kimberly cleared her throat, a subtle hint for D.D. to move on. Why start with open warfare when you could build up to it?

D.D. pulled out her small notepad. �I�m going to need your full legal names and photo IDs.�

�Why?� Cook asked.

�Because I said so.�

�I got breakfast to prep.�

�Don�t worry, once the guests hear the news, they won�t be hungry.�

The cook glared at D.D. The two younger girls sat in silence on the wooden bench. D.D. didn�t like it. In her experience, employees talked. Especially the younger generation who barely recognized authority figures and had plenty to say about anyone who thought they were above them.

This�.�.�. this was creepy.

Kimberly moved away from D.D.�s side. She drifted along the edge of the massive stainless-steel prep table, which was covered in flour and a pale mound of dough. The FBI agent conducted a brief inspection of the heavy door for the walk-in fridge, followed by a cursory exam of the commercial-grade dishwasher, complete with a stainless-steel hood and plastic conveyor belt for marching lines of dirty plates quickly and efficiently through boiling-hot spray.

She was drawing attention away, making it difficult for the cook and her younger charges to know where to focus.

�Legal name,� D.D. spoke up sternly. She bore her gaze into the cook. As the boss woman did, so the others would follow.

�I like Cook. Been Cook for thirty years and four marriages, God rest their miserable souls.�

Four marriages, D.D. thought. Four men had endured this delightful attitude?

�Well, Cook, I hear they�re always looking for help in county lockup. Though I don�t think you get to start out running the kitchen. You�ll have to work up to the position. You may find the auditioning process�.�.�. different�.�.�. than what you�re used to.�

The cook glared at her.

�I have all day. Do you?�

�Mary!� she said at last. �My legal name is Mary Theresa Josephina Smith.�

�Seriously?�

�Shut up!�

The older maid, H�l�ne, shifted slightly, the first sign of life from the woman. Repressing a smile at her boss�s expense or flinching from fear of future reprisal? Too hard to tell.

�Photo ID?� D.D. demanded.

�In my room. I�ll fetch it later.�

D.D. turned to Mayor Howard�s niece. �Your name?�

�She can�t talk,� Cook said.

�Does she have photo ID?� D.D. hated addressing her questions back to the cook. It felt disrespectful, especially as she was convinced the girl understood everything just fine.

The cook shrugged. �No driver�s license, since she can�t drive. But there�s probably a birth certificate. Mrs. Counsel�.�.�.� For the first time, the cook wavered. If D.D. hadn�t believed the woman was carved of granite, she would�ve thought the cook was upset. �Mrs. Counsel kept track of those sort of things. She took care of everyone.�

D.D. wasn�t sure what to make of that. Genuine care? Or control? Because employees who didn�t have access to their own ID raised red flags in the law enforcement world.

�She has my papers,� H�l�ne spoke up suddenly. Her voice was hoarse, as if she didn�t use it much. D.D. realized Mayor Howard�s niece had turned slightly, the side of her hand lightly touching H�l�ne�s. Lending strength? A show of unity? D.D. quickly returned her attention to H�l�ne�s face, before she gave them away.

�Do you know where she keeps them?� D.D. asked.

�No. My full name is H�l�ne Tellier,� the woman delivered with an exotic lilt that spoke of faraway lands and hot, sandy beaches.

�Why did Mrs. Counsel have your papers?� Kimberly spoke up. She had moved all the way behind them, forcing the three interview subjects to twist awkwardly. The cook glowered, clearly not liking such tricks in her own kitchen.

�Our rooms�.�.�.� H�l�ne didn�t seem to know what to say. She glanced timidly at the cook. �Our rooms are simple. We don�t have any place to store�.�.�. valuables.�

�Your rooms aren�t safe?� D.D. pressed.

H�l�ne shook her head quickly, then gave up and stared at her feet. Another small movement: the niece covering the trembling maid�s hand with her own.

�All right.� D.D. squatted down until she was eye level with the silent niece. �I�m not calling you Girl. Do you have a name? Maybe we can find it in Mrs. Counsel�s papers.�

The girl shrugged, as if D.D.�s guess was as good as anyone�s.

�Do you remember your family?� D.D. asked softly. �Your mother, your father?�

Another small shrug. D.D. glanced to where the girl�s hands rested on the bench. But the girl didn�t offer any fingers in coded reply. She just looked sad and hopeless. A child resigned to her fate.

�Bonita,� D.D. said softly. �It�s the Spanish word for pretty. What do you think? I�ll call you Bonita.�

Another harrumph from the cook.

The girl kept her gaze on D.D. She reached up and lightly touched her own face, brushing her hand across the ridged scar furrowing into her hairline, then her drooping left eyelid, sagging lip.

D.D. didn�t need a code to understand what the girl was trying to say. She captured the girl�s hand between her own.

�Bonita,� she said firmly, then held the girl�s gaze until she finally nodded.

D.D. straightened to standing. �I will need to see the records Mrs. Counsel had for all of you. This is a murder investigation. All details matter.�

�Murder investigation?� The cook�s arms fell to her sides in clear shock. �But the mayor��

�What did you hear last night?� Kimberly, ambushing beautifully from behind.

�We didn�t, of course��

�The mayor and his wife fight?�

�No, never. Two most loving��

�Did you know about the kidney transplant? Tell us about Mrs. Counsel�s kidney transplant.� Kimberly, her voice stern.

�What? I mean, of course. The operation was a long time ago. Afterwards, I worked with Mrs. Counsel to prepare a renal friendly diet. No pesticides, no red meats, or added salt and sugar,� the cook rattled off, seeming to check off each item on her fingers. �High in fiber, lots of beans and leafy green vegetables. I�m a real cook, you know. Got a degree from a culinary institute and everything. I could work at some fancy restaurant if I wanted to. But I like it here. And the mayor, Mrs. Counsel, they take care of their own.�

�So you heard nothing last night?� D.D., forcing the cook to turn back around to address her. �No sounds of disturbance, perhaps an altercation?�

�Absolutely not.�

D.D. caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. The girl�Bonita�finally shifting her hand to reveal one finger. Which meant yes. As in yes, the cook had heard something and was lying? Or as in yes, Bonita hadn�t heard anything either?

For this system to work, D.D. realized, she had to do a better job with the questions.

�Did you notice a change in Mrs. Counsel�s behavior over the past few weeks?� she addressed the cook.

�No,� the woman said.

Yes, Bonita signed.

�Were you awake last night?�

�Nope,� the cook declared.

Yes, Bonita signed.

�What time did you go to bed?� D.D. zeroed in on the woman.

�Nine P.M. I have early mornings, prepping breakfast for the guests.�

Bonita hesitated. Maybe she didn�t know what time the cook went to bed.

�What time did you get up?� D.D. continued smoothly.

�When I heard the sirens. Four A.M.? Something like that?�

�And when did you hear the disturbance before that?�

�Two A.M.�� The cook caught herself. Too late she saw D.D.�s trap. �I�m a light sleeper,� the woman corrected quickly. �Maybe something woke me around two. But I didn�t hear nothin� more. I peed, went back to bed.�

�You sound like you were close to Mrs. Counsel. That you cared about her.�

�She and her husband are good people. Ask anyone.�

Nothing from Bonita.

�Did you suspect she was a suicide risk?� D.D. asked.

�Never.�

�When did you last speak to her?�

��Round eight. She came to the kitchen to discuss the morning menu.�

�Did she seem off?�

�No.�

�Preoccupied?�

�No.�

�What�s for breakfast?� Kimberly spoke up from behind.

The cook growled, clearly tiring of this game.

�Biscuits with sausage gravy. The mayor�s favorite.�

�Who made that decision?�

�Mrs. Counsel.�

�Who wasn�t preoccupied or distracted?�

�I said she wasn�t!�

�Though she killed herself just hours later.�

�She wouldn�t do such a thing�� Again, the cook seemed to realize the trap. �I mean, I never saw any signs.�

�What do you think happened?� D.D. asked curiously.

Her change in tone seemed to catch the cook off guard. �What do you mean? I heard she was found hanging. There was a note. Suicide is suicide. What else could�ve happened?�

�What else indeed,� Kimberly commented from behind.

�Do you believe Mrs. Counsel committed suicide?� D.D. repeated. �Just hours after talking to you and ordering breakfast.�

�Sure,� the cook snapped.

No, Bonita signed. While H�l�ne made an agitated sound in her throat. The cook glared at both maids. They immediately turned their attention to the floor.

�Who else was here last night?� said Kimberly, now by the walk-in fridge.

�Eight guests. Mayor Howard. The girls and me.�

�Where does the help sleep?� Kimberly again.

�We have rooms in the basement. Nice rooms.� The cook shot H�l�ne a look.

�Do you each have your own room?�

�Yeah, they�re good rooms.�

�And in the summer? Clearly this place requires more than two maids during high season?�

�This house was built in the day and age of live-in servants. There�s plenty of space.�

�I want to see your rooms,� D.D. said.

�Ask the mayor. It�s his house.�

�How long have you worked here, H�l�ne?� Kimberly spoke up.

The maid didn�t seem to know how to answer. D.D. squatted back down. �It�s okay. If you have any concerns about your security, you may walk out with us right now. I will personally guarantee your safety.� She looked at Bonita as she said this.

�Now see here, I don�t like what you�re implying��

�H�l�ne.�

�I started in January,� the woman whispered.

�Do you have your own room?�

�Yes.�

�Bathroom?�

�We share. Four girls to a bath. It is better�.�.�. better than what I had back home.�

�What did you think of Mrs. Counsel?�

�She took care of us.�

�Did you talk to her last night?�

�I cleared the dinner dishes for her and the mayor.�

�Did she speak to you?�

�No.�

�How did she and the mayor seem?�

Awkward shrug. �It is my job to clear the dishes.�

Was it D.D.�s imagination, or did the cook�s posture just relax?

�After clearing the dishes, what did you do?�

�I went to bed.�

�Did you hear anything?�

�Just�.�.�. sirens. After four. I came upstairs. The mayor. He was very upset. He was�.�.�. he was crying.�

D.D. nodded slowly. So the mayor was genuinely distraught over the loss of his wife.

D.D. switched her attention to Bonita. �Did you see Mrs. Counsel last night?�

�She can�t talk!� the cook exploded.

�She can indicate yes or no.�

�She�s stupid��

�You will shut up or I will remove you from this room!� Kimberly clipped out sharply.

The cook thinned her lips mutinously, but fell silent.

�Bonita, did you see Mrs. Counsel last night?�

A faint nod.

�After dinner?�

Head shake.

�She took them dinner,� H�l�ne volunteered. �She serves, I clear.�

Another nod.

�Did you hear anything in the middle of the night?�

Bonita hesitated. She shook her head no, but at her side, her hand stirred. One finger, meaning yes. H�l�ne jolted slightly, as if realizing for the first time something might be going on. The older maid quickly glanced away.

�Did you hear any sounds of arguing?�

Another head shake. Finger nod.

�Violence?� D.D. asked intently.

Head no. Finger yes.

D.D. blinked her eyes, trying to figure out how to ask her next question. �Do you believe Mrs. Counsel hanged herself?�

�Oh for God�s sake!� the cook exploded.

Kimberly strode forward, placed a restraining hand on the woman�s shoulder. �One more word�.�.�.�

D.D. kept her eyes on Bonita. The girl looked at the cook. She made a helpless sort of shrug. Playing a role D.D. was starting to recognize. They thought she was stupid and she let them. While down at her side�.�.�.

Two fingers for no.

Bonita had heard something in the middle of the night. There had been an argument, some kind of altercation. Mrs. Counsel hadn�t hanged herself.

�All right.� D.D. rose smoothly to standing.

She addressed the cook. �Thank you for your time. That will be all for now. Good luck with breakfast.�

Kimberly didn�t say a word, simply followed D.D. back out through the kitchen doors.

�What did you learn?� Kimberly asked the moment they were clear of the room.

�Mrs. Counsel didn�t commit suicide and we gotta get both of those girls out of here, right now.�

WALT DAVIES IS JACOB�S FATHER. My mind feels shattered by the information. And yet it makes perfect sense. The way the two men move, how they carry themselves. Their shared paranoia but also their natural technical aptitude. Walt has built an entire state-of-the-art microgreens operation in an abandoned barn, while Jacob spent years custom fitting houses and long-haul rigs to hide kidnapped girls.

They are both clever; they are both crazy.

I�m aware of Keith watching me, waiting for my next move, while across the barn Walt continues to fuss over a tray of tiny sprouts. Is he afraid of me, of what I�ll do next?

Is he telling the truth when he says that he tried to come back for me? That he believed what his son was doing was wrong and he wanted to rescue me?

This is a man who says the trees scream and the woods are alive with ghosts.

Then again, maybe they are.

I know what must happen next. The whole reason we came to Georgia. Because the only way forward is back. My only end, where it all started eight years before.

�Do you know where he held me?� I ask Walt.

He nods, still stroking pea shoots.

�Was it on this property?�

�Nah. I didn�t know he was even in the area. Till one night, at Stickneys Pub, he found me.�

�I want to go there,� I say.

He knows I don�t mean the tavern. �You won�t like it,� he says softly.

�Take me anyway.�

BONITA, THE BLOND WOMANHAS named me. I try it on in my head. I wait to hear my mother�s voice whisper it to me. I do not feel beautiful with my scarred head and sagging face and dragging foot. Can a Stupid Girl really be Bonita?

I am humbled the blond woman gave me such a gift. As well as scared.

I am Stupid Girl. I can�t work my lips or tongue to tell the detective what she needs to know. I�m too weak to stand up to Cook, who will make H�l�ne and me pay for talking to the police.

I am nothing. Bonita, Girl�they are both the same. Broken. Though in my differentness, I do know some things others don�t. That the house has memory, feels pain. That colors are not just crayons, but moods and powerful expressions of their own.

That my mother is standing beside me, right now. I feel her presence as strongly as the scent of biscuits wafting from the oven. My mother is here, a sliver of silver gliding in and out of the light. She appears when I need her the most. When the worst is about to happen.

I hold my breath, rolling out more biscuit dough, then cutting it into rounds for the waiting cookie sheet. Like Cook, I pretend I don�t hear the argument raging on the other side of the kitchen door.

MAYOR HOWARD WAS CLEARLY AGITATED. �You can�t go down there! I am the homeowner. I deny you permission. For God�s sake, my wife is dead. I�m the victim here!�

He tried to rise from his seat. Sheriff Smithers used his massive hand to force the man back down.

�Interfere in our investigation again, and I will arrest you,� Kimberly informed the red-faced mayor. She turned to Sheriff Smithers. �You got him?�

�He�s not going anywhere.�

�Good.�

Kimberly didn�t know where the silent maid was taking D.D., but the look of determination on the young girl�s face had been enough to tell her it wasn�t good. D.D. could handle it, though. Meaning they had another issue that required immediate tending. Martha Counsel�s office.

Kimberly wanted first crack at all the woman�s correspondence, business diaries, and official documents. Especially any related to their �niece� and their other workers.

Here was a fact: Where there was one crime, there were generally dozens more.

Basically, if Martha Counsel was the kind of woman willing to accept an illegal organ, and her husband was the kind of guy willing to turn a blind eye to such a major scam, what else were they involved with?

Kimberly was hoping to find answers in the woman�s office, as apparently Martha Counsel had been the brains of the operation�or at least the head administrator.

First surprise when she entered the space: Someone had been there first. The left-hand drawer of the cherrywood desk had been yanked open and files spilled across the top and down onto the floor. Further inspection revealed the lock had been forced.

Kimberly scowled, snapped on gloves, and kneeled down to survey the damage.

Mayor Howard had been accompanied by Sheriff Smithers at all times, and the sheriff hadn�t mentioned this, meaning it had most likely happened after they were done checking the office�s desktop computer. From that moment on, the mayor had been sequestered in the nook. Which left the cook in the kitchen? It was possible she�d snuck down the hall. Or the maids, Bonita and H�l�ne. Given Bonita seemed to have a task only D.D. could handle, Kimberly felt it was safe to rule her out.

Unless, of course, there was someone else in the house.

Kimberly got that prickly feeling in the back of her neck. Sure, they�d been treating Martha Counsel�s hanging as a suspicious death. But they hadn�t gotten too serious about considering the inn�s guests as a threat.

Kimberly rose to standing and hurried back to the front room. Keeping her gaze on Mayor Howard, who sat in distressed silence, she pulled aside Sheriff Smithers.

�Where are we with interviewing the guests?�

�Four couples. I sent a deputy up to fetch them. They were getting dressed, given the early morning hour, then coming on down.�

�How long ago?�

�I don�t know.� He glanced at his watch. �Been thirty minutes or so.�

�No one needs thirty minutes to get dressed. Have your deputy escort them down, right now. Verify everyone�s photo ID, take all vitals. The office has been burglarized. Something more is going on here. Or someone else is in this hotel.�

Sheriff Smithers thinned his lips, nodded curtly. He activated the radio clipped to his shoulder, murmured some instructions low enough for the mayor to remain oblivious, then resumed his oversight of the dining room.

Kimberly hightailed it back to the office. Now she noticed a painted door ajar just beyond the office. It produced a draft of cold air. Stairs to the basement, she realized. That�s what Mayor Howard had been talking about. He didn�t want them going �down there.� More power to Bonita and D.D., then. Kimberly hoped the girl was giving D.D. the grand tour�deadly family secret here, evil doings there. That would be perfect.

In the meantime, Kimberly had the office.

Each of the files strewn across the floor bore a name of an employee. The paperwork inside seemed standard: copies of W-2s, photo IDs. Martha Counsel had said her paperwork was in order�and at first blush, she hadn�t been lying.

But then Kimberly noticed what wasn�t present. H�l�ne�s file. Anything identifiable with their niece. Furthermore, there was an empty folder. Stacey Kasmer was inked across the top. But Kimberly couldn�t find any trace of a photo ID or other paperwork.

Next, she booted up the desktop. Password protected. Meaning she�d have to return to the mayor for info, which she didn�t feel like doing right now, or wait for Keith, who could probably learn more from the machine in ten minutes than she could in ten hours. She wondered what he and Flora were doing for the day. Hopefully keeping out of trouble.

She turned around, noticing one of the volumes was slightly askew on the bookshelf. Kimberly ran her fingers carefully up and down the spines of the old history books. She tugged one. Sure enough, the rest came out to reveal a squat black wall safe tucked behind.

Roughly the size of a hotel safe, the rectangular unit probably didn�t contain large treasures. But important passports, documents, a detailed confession of the kidney operation fifteen years ago�Kimberly could only hope.

But how to get the combination?

She rocked back on her heels, considering. Dates of birth were always possible, but also predictable. In her experience�.�.�. She inspected the inside perimeter of the shelf, seeking for a taped slip of paper. When that revealed nothing, she crawled under the desk, clicked on her pocket flashlight, and repeated the same careful scrutiny of the underside of the desk. Still no dice.

Everyone wrote down combinations as everyone feared forgetting. Furthermore, they kept them close because no one wanted to slog halfway across a house when they did forget. Meaning there had to be the combination somewhere. She just had to think like Martha Counsel.

Kimberly took a seat in the desk chair. Black executive leather. Too big for her slender form, but nice. An instant appearance of corporate power. She pulled the chair up to the desk, took in the view. Computer monitor front and center. Keyboard mounted beneath. Mouse pad to the right. Three beautifully framed photos to the right. The mayor and Martha�s wedding photo. Then a faded, vintage print, maybe Martha Counsel�s mother.

The final photo was a woman with a brilliant smile and shiny black hair. Kimberly didn�t recognize her at all.

But all in all, a tidy space. Everything in its place.

Kimberly swiveled the chair till her back was now to the desk and she was directly facing the safe. The code would be within reaching distance. She was certain of it. Martha was a woman who clearly didn�t like clutter and was much too efficient to want to spend time digging around to find a forgotten string of numbers. Elegant yet personal. Subtle but easy access.

Then Kimberly got it. The first crumbling novel, a dated history of the area. Kimberly grabbed it off the floor and sure enough, discovered three numbers, written in pencil lightly across the inside top cover.

Kimberly spun the dial. Right. Left. Right.

Click.

She opened the door.

KEITH AND I ARE EXHAUSTED by the time we return to the motel. I�m not even sure what time it is anymore. Six P.M.? Seven? We should probably shower and prepare for some kind of team meeting. I don�t want to shower. I don�t want to move. I want to sink down on the bed and stare at the ceiling till my vision blurs and reality falls away.

After our visit to Jacob�s shack, Walt brought us back to his property. He fed us. Wood-fired fresh fish, topped with lemon slices and microgreens. It was better than anything I�ve eaten in a restaurant. So we sat on the front porch beside the washer and dryer and ate a meal any five-star chef would�ve been proud of.

Keith ate two plates. Given that I was suffering an out-of-body experience at the time, I stuck to one.

�You don�t like it?� Walt asked me anxiously.

�I don�t eat much.�

�You should eat. A girl needs her strength.�

Which of course, completely killed my appetite. Keith got Walt to talk. About his precious microgreens. About all the time he now spent in fancy Atlanta restaurants and the trade secrets he�d picked up along the way. About his plans for expansion, his paranoia about rivals.

He still wasn�t aware of Jacob being in Niche fifteen years ago�or any time prior to Jacob showing up in the bar and introducing himself. Then again, Walt didn�t get out much himself. Townspeople didn�t like him and the feeling was mutual.

What was Jacob driving the time Walt had seen him?

Walt had to think about it. A pickup, he thought. Nothing special. Good enough for getting around on dirt roads.

Did Jacob own the truck? Had he rented or borrowed it?

Walt had just stared at Keith. Now why the hell would he ask questions like that?

License plates, Keith insisted. Were they Georgia, or out of state?

He thought Georgia. And oh yeah, definitely local.

This is enough to rouse me out of reverie. �How do you know Jacob�s vehicle was local?�

�Town sticker on the windshield. You know. For the dump.�

So Jacob had been driving a locally owned truck. Maybe something he stole? Or borrowed from a friend? Keith looks at me. I can tell already what he�s thinking: We should get a photo of Walt�s vehicle, including plates. I nod faintly. Keith excuses himself, disappearing quickly off the porch and on mission.

Keith really is good at this stuff.

Walt insists on cleaning up after the meal. I roam the tiny cabin, searching for photos, personal mementos, anything that might tell me something. Mostly, I sneeze at the thick piles of dust and feel increasingly claustrophobic in the dark, musty space.

If Jacob had ever lived here as a little boy, I can find no trace of it. Any remnants of Walt�s family are long gone and all that remains of family photos are the faint outlines where they�d once been hung on the walls.

Keith returns. Clearly, it�s time for us to be on our way. What do you say to the father of the man who kidnapped you? The father who swore he came back to save you, only to discover he was too late? The father who greeted you at gunpoint, before giving you a tour of your greatest nightmare, then feeding you a perfectly lovely meal?

I go with a simple handshake. My mind isn�t working anymore. I�ve gone down some rabbit hole where nothing feels real.

Keith, once again, has held it together. He thanks Walt for his time, the tour, the meal. Wishes him the best with his microgreens�why not? Mentions we�d probably visit again soon. Might bring an associate or two�such as the police.

Walt nods nervously, wiping his hands again and again on the legs of his jeans. He agrees to all.

We regard each other for a long moment. I can tell he has no more apologies in him, and I know I have no more forgiveness in me, so I guess that makes us even.

�Thank you for the fish,� I manage.

Then I follow Keith out the door and let him drive us back to the hotel.

NO LASAGNA OR CHOCOLATE TRIFLE from the church ladies tonight. Instead, the sheriff�s conference room featured trays of deli sandwiches, a couple of neglected salads, and a table full of assorted beverages, most heavy on the caffeine. Franny bustled about, clearing empty plates onto a giant serving platter she effortlessly hefted from table to table, while smiling so brightly she looked like a cross between June Cleaver and a mental patient. Around the U-shaped tables, investigators booted up computers while shoveling food into their mouths.

Kimberly took a moment to gauge the overall mood. Tired but wired, she decided. She walked through the door, Flora and Keith in tow. She went with a turkey sub, a pile of green salad, and a Diet Coke. Then she took the open chair next to Sheriff Smithers. Of all of them, he looked the worse for wear. Kimberly and her crew had no ties to this area, whereas for the sheriff this was all personal.

He gave her a nod, chewed absently.

�Howard Counsel settled?� Kimberly murmured.

�Got him in a holding cell, deputy on watch.�

�I�m sorry,� she offered.

The sheriff looked at her. �Bad things happening around here. Bad things. Feels like I don�t know this place anymore.�

�We�ll figure it out.�

�Phone�s starting to ring off the hook. People want reassurances that their community is safe and the problem solved. Hell, I�m more confused than I was yesterday, though of course I can�t tell them that.�

�Lying is part of policing,� Kimberly assured him.

�Except, I want to know my county is safe, as well. Only a matter of time before the press arrives. I can�t believe we�ve been lucky this long.�

�With the ME returning to Atlanta with three more bodies, our time is probably running out,� Kimberly agreed.

The sheriff closed his eyes. �You really think Martha Counsel hanged herself?�

�No.�

�Someone else did it. Not her husband. I don�t believe that for a moment. Meaning there�s another threat out there. One we haven�t identified yet.�

Kimberly eyed the man with genuine sympathy. She understood his stress and strain. Their current situation had just gone from one body to five, from a cold case to a fresh murder. Nothing about this was good, especially for the local cop.

On impulse she reached over and squeezed the sheriff�s meaty hand. �We�re on this.�

He didn�t appear convinced, but at least he squeezed back.

Fresh activity in the doorway. Kimberly�s fellow ERT agents arriving, dirt still smeared across their clothes. With Dr. Jackson en route to Atlanta with the recovered skeletons, the team would provide the update on the burial sites.

Kimberly waved at Harold, his lanky frame looming above his teammates. As always, their leader, Rachel, headed the charge. She nodded at Kimberly in greeting, her sunburned face streaked with sweat and grime. Franklin and Maggie filed in after their compatriots, and they all made a beeline for food and water. Harold, after a moment of hesitation, helped himself to three different subs. The man might be built like a beanpole, but he could eat like a sumo wrestler.

Flora and Keith had already taken seats, Flora with a bottle of water, Keith with pasta salad. Kimberly let the Evidence Response Team take up positions, then it was time to start. She rose, moving to the front of the room.

�It�s been a big day. Looks to me like many of you have findings to report. I�m going to start with our early morning callout to a suspicious death at the Mountain Laurel B and B.� Briefly, she recapped the discovery of Martha Counsel�s body, the accompanying suicide note, and Mayor Howard�s revelation that his wife had had an illegal kidney transplant approximately fifteen years ago. She noticed Franny stopped fussing at the food table and stood silently, the sorrow tangible on her face. Like the sheriff, she�d probably personally known the Counsels. Nothing in this community would be the same again.

Rachel raised her hand. �Hang on. We recovered medical supplies connected to one of the bodies in the mass grave. Are you saying that victim might have been the source of the illegal kidney?�

�We don�t know yet. The doctor who performed the operation passed away eight years ago. We�re working on tracking down his former receptionist now to gain access to his old files. But knowing a member of this town underwent an illegal medical procedure right about the same time four bodies were buried in the woods hardly seems like coincidence.�

�Meaning there could be other locals who visited this same doctor,� Rachel said evenly.

Kimberly nodded. �Absolutely.�

More hands shot up, but she held up her own.

�Hang on,� she said. �We learned other news at the Mountain Laurel, as well. It would appear at least some of the staff isn�t legal. And given that most are young women, it�s highly possible our four victims in the woods have a connection to the bed and breakfast. Unfortunately, because they weren�t all documented, I�m not sure how we can go back fifteen years and search for their identities. But at the very least, we know there�s some kind of human trafficking going on at the Mountain Laurel, whether it�s for low cost help or, worse, organ donor candidates.�

The revelation rippled through the room.

�Mayor Howard has been taken into custody for now and is on suicide watch. We also have a�.�.�.� She hesitated. She didn�t want to give away much about D.D.�s new charge, Bonita. The girl was alone, voiceless, vulnerable. �We have a source,� Kimberly said at last, �who has led us to believe there is another player in this operation. An unknown male, can�t tell you anything more than that at the moment. It�s highly possible he�s the one who killed Martha Counsel, so whoever he is, he clearly has a stake in things. We believe the cook may also be complicit, and she has disappeared. Sheriff Smithers has issued a BOLO with her description. Also missing, another maid, H�l�ne Tellier. We have reason to believe her life is in jeopardy. Maybe even the cook, or the UNSUB, kidnapped her.�

Around the room, eyes widened. Hearing it all spoken out loud, even Kimberly was startled by just how much had happened in the past twelve hours.

One of her fellow FBI agents raised his hand. �We have news that might be relevant.�

�Go on.�

�We�ve been running background on all the names of hotel guests we�ve been able to gather for the past sixteen years, looking for registered sex offenders, individuals with criminal histories, et cetera.�

Kimberly nodded.

�A good ten to fifteen percent of the names registered at local hotels�they don�t exist. The names appear to be aliases. Nor can we find corresponding credit card charges to go with these reservations, which suggests the individuals paid cash. Cross-referencing the names with restaurant credit card receipts, also nothing. We have dozens of room reservations at multiple lodging establishments that appear to belong to ghosts.�

Sheriff Smithers stirred.

�Ten to fifteen percent, you say?� he spoke up.

The agent nodded. �We�re talking dozens of people a year, going back a decade.�

�There�s always some people who prefer to pay cash. But that number seems mighty high. All lone individuals? Male, female?� the sheriff asked.

�No discernible pattern. Some reservations are for couples, some for males, females. Some names imply ethnicity, though who knows?�

�Time of year?� Kimberly pushed.

�Follows the seasonal trend. Most of the names are from the summer, when Niche is busiest. Then weekends in the fall, that sort of thing.�

�So our �ghost� tourists are arriving with everyone else. Blending in.�

�Correct.�

�Across multiple lodging establishments?�

�Also correct.� The agent hesitated. �Though it�s worth noting we didn�t get any names from the Mountain Laurel inn. They claimed their computer system didn�t go back far enough. I�m wondering now�.�.�.�

�If you did have access to those records, just how many more �ghosts� that would add to the list,� Kimberly finished for him.

The agent nodded.

�What would draw dozens of people to one small town each year, all operating under fake names?� Kimberly asked slowly. She looked at the sheriff, but it was Keith who spoke up.

�Human trafficking, drug distribution, illegal organ transplants or other medical procedures,� he rattled off. �Maybe even a pornography ring, though most of those perps prefer to stay at home with their computers. A sex ring, on the other hand, that would do it.�

Kimberly stared at the computer analyst. �Thanks,� she said finally.

�In all of those scenarios��Keith leaned forward, clearly warming to his topic��the constant is that Niche is serving as the hub. The participants come here, using fake names, then go home again. Given the amount of tourists passing through, they have the perfect cover, right? A stranger spending the weekend hardly stands out. While the location of Niche�tucked up in northern Georgia, where you have drive time to four bordering states as well as easy access to Atlanta and a major airport�makes it ideal. Finally, the small size and limited economy makes it easier for coercion. Pay off your neighbors, threaten them into silence, either works. Frankly, I�m surprised more quaint mountain towns aren�t used for illegal enterprises.�

Keith sat back. Sheriff Smithers rubbed his face. The poor man looked like he was about to keel over, while in the back of the room, tall, built-like-a-brick Franny appeared positively faint. She was clutching the delicate gold cross she wore around her neck and shaking her head slowly, as if to ward off words that couldn�t possibly be true.

�Jacob Ness was here,� Flora spoke up, her voice perfectly toneless. �We met his father today, Walt Davies, and he took us to the abandoned shack where Jacob first held me eight years ago.�

�Walt Davies?� Sheriff Smithers roused himself in disbelief. �He�s Ness�s father?�

�He grows microgreens,� Flora said.

Keith covered her hand with his own.

Kimberly stared at the whiteboard beside her. For the first time, she realized she hadn�t written anything down. Because it was that kind of debriefing. So much information, so little that made any sense.

�Okay, let�s take this point by point. Jacob Ness does have ties to Niche.� Kimberly uncapped the dry-erase marker and wrote Jacob�s name across the top of a column. Then she added Ghost Guests as a column head. Then Mountain Laurel B&B, where she drew multiple lines down for Martha Counsel, Mayor Howard, Male UNSUB, and Cook.

Flora was staring at the table. She didn�t just look ragged, Kimberly realized. She appeared shell-shocked. The adrenaline of her momentous discovery had faded, and now the woman was crashing.

Keith did the honors. �Yes and no. Walt is Ness�s father, but he claims Jacob and his mother disappeared forty years ago. Walt didn�t even know if they were still alive. Then, one night, Jacob shows up in a local tavern and introduces himself to Walt. That was right after Flora�s abduction�so, around eight years ago.�

Kimberly nodded, and added a timeline to the board.

�According to Walt, if Jacob had been in town before then, Walt didn�t know about it.�

�Walt�s a recluse,� the sheriff said.

Kimberly got his point. �Meaning Jacob could�ve been in town before without Walt�s knowledge.�

�Jacob took Walt to where he was holding Flora,� Keith said. �An abandoned cabin in the woods. That�s why no one�s been able to find it before. It�s not a registered property at all.�

Kimberly added abandoned cabin beneath Jacob�s name. She�d never even considered such a thing. But given Keith�s point that Niche was perfectly situated as a distribution point, well, abandoned cabins in the woods would also make excellent meeting sites for handoffs.

�Did Walt know what Ness was driving?�

�An old truck. It had a dump sticker, so a local vehicle.�

Kimberly frowned. Jotted away. �Borrowed or owned?�

�Unknown. Walt claims he objected to what Jacob was doing. He even came back to rescue Flora. But Flora and Ness were already gone.�

Sheriff Smithers spoke up. �You believe him?�

Keith was slower to reply. �I think so. But Walt�.�.�. he�s definitely a character.�

�Did he know anything else about Jacob? Where he�d been for the past forty years, what he�d done?� Kimberly asked.

�Walt claimed they didn�t get into the details. He was too taken aback at seeing his son after all these years to ask many questions.�

�But he was sure Jacob was his son?�

�A man knows his own blood,� Keith said solemnly.

Kimberly glanced at Flora. The woman�s face was completely expressionless, though at least Kimberly now understood why.

�Walt took you to the cabin where Flora had been held.�

Keith nodded.

Kimberly didn�t really need to ask the next question to know the answer. Flora�s face said it all. �And it really was the right place?�

�Shit brown carpet and all,� Flora murmured. She spun her water bottle in her hands.

�Okay.� Kimberly returned to the whiteboard. Though once again, she wasn�t sure what exactly to document. They had a serial predator who�d been in Niche at least eight years ago. Not the same timeline as the four remains they�d discovered, but who was to say Jacob hadn�t been coming and going for years before deciding to personally pay a call to dear old Dad? He�d been born here. He knew Niche, Georgia. They had their first definitive link. Except�.�.�. where did that leave them?

�When we had Ness�s computer last year,� Keith spoke up, �it was clear he was chatting with others on the dark web. A loner in real life, but an online socializer.�

Kimberly waited.

�Maybe one of those contacts was here. Or, given Ness�s interest in porn, there is some kind of clandestine sex ring in this area. Jacob would pay a visit for that.�

�We�re not choosing between a criminal enterprise theory versus a lone predator theory, we�re saying maybe the lone predator was part of the criminal enterprise?�

�Exactly.� Keith beamed.

Kimberly had to hand it to the computer analyst. It wasn�t a bad theory, especially knowing that Jacob had been networking with other predators.

�But I didn�t see anyone else,� Flora whispered. She sighed, seemed to make the effort to pull herself together. �If Jacob had joined a�.�.�. sex ring�.�.�. why didn�t others come to the basement? Why was it always just him?�

Keith shrugged. �Just because Ness was willing to play well with others for some kind of perceived personal gain doesn�t mean he stopped being himself. Or that he was willing to share his own toys.�

�I�m a toy?� Flora asked.

�You�re the woman who destroyed him,� Keith said softly. �You�re the woman he went to his grave sorry he�d kidnapped.�

Something passed between the two of them. Kimberly found herself looking away. Most of the room seemed to share the impulse.

Kimberly found herself studying the sheriff, then Franny again at the back of the room. Both appeared stunned. The scenarios Keith was describing couldn�t possibly be happening in their backyard. She wondered if they would ever get over the shock.

Especially the sheriff. It was his job to know better. And now Kimberly found herself thinking thoughts she didn�t like. All criminal enterprises required protection. The first logical person to buy off�the county sheriff.

But studying Sheriff Smithers, his haggard features, she didn�t want to believe such a thing, even as she knew it was her job to remain suspicious.

This damn case. Everything was going to get worse before it got better.

Kimberly took a deep breath, waited a second, then cleared her throat, calling attention back to her.

�Before we get too far along with unsubstantiated theories,� she counseled, �let�s talk burial sites. What does the ERT have to report?�

Team leader Rachel did the honors. �We finished excavation of the mass grave today. No new discoveries in terms of medical debris, clothing, anything useful, but Dr. Jackson now has all of the skeletal remains for analysis. We were also able to study the walls of the crude grave. It would appear a tool similar to a pickax was used to hack into the ground, digging a shallow trench. Franklin and Howard also continued the search for missing bones from the first grave. They found dozens of small bones. Some of which, according to Dr. Jackson, might actually belong to a rabbit.� Rachel skewered both of her teammates with a glance.

�I am not a forensic anthropologist,� Harold said archly. He turned to Franklin. �Are you a forensic anthropologist?�

�No, sir.�

�There you have it.� Harold sat back, content with his argument.

Rachel rolled her eyes. �Originally, our plan was to return to Atlanta tomorrow. However, one of the reasons for our, um, current appearance, is that on one of Harold�s side trips, he made a discovery. Harold.�

�I can�t be sure,� the lanky fed said cautiously. �It was end of day, we were headed down, and the lighting wasn�t good. We need to return tomorrow for further examination. Depressions can happen naturally in the woods, of course.�

In the front of the room, Kimberly froze. She already knew what Harold was going to say next. And she was just tired and overwhelmed enough to wish he wouldn�t. But of course, there was nothing she could do about it as Harold straightened slightly, then announced: �It�s possible�probable, actually�that I just found yet another grave.�

D.D. WATCHED AS HER NEW charge carefully checked out the motel room. Bonita, still dressed in her maid�s uniform, appeared exhausted but also curious as she hobbled around the space, running her hand across the queen-sized mattress, opening the closet door, playing with the faucets in the bathroom. D.D. had a feeling the cheap brown lodging was nothing compared to the grand guest rooms at the Mountain Laurel B&B. Then again, Bonita had never been allowed to stay in those rooms. She�d slept in a closet in the basement.

Finally, the girl stopped playing with the lamp, inspecting the alarm clock. She sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at D.D. expectantly. She had a tilt to her chin. Defiance, D.D. thought. Or sheer determination not to give in to the terror and fatigue that had to be washing over her.

�Okay,� D.D. said out loud. �I guess I get to do the talking for both of us.�

Bonita nodded.

�First order of business. I think we should get you something to wear other than a maid�s uniform.�

Bonita looked down at her pale blue dress, plucked at her skirt.

�It�s late for shopping, and I have no idea where to go anyway. If you don�t mind looking like a detective, I have an extra BPD T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants you can use.�

Bonita simply gazed at her.

�Speaking for both of us, I�m going to say, �That�s an excellent plan, D.D.� Now if only I had real luggage and not just my go bag.�

D.D. rose out of the chair in the corner of Bonita�s room, which was really Keith�s old room, and crossed through the adjoining door to Flora�s former space. Had Keith and Flora left the connecting door open when they�d stayed in neighboring rooms? Somehow, D.D. doubted it. Keith certainly wouldn�t have minded. But Flora? Only time would tell.

D.D. hefted her black travel case onto the bed. She rummaged through till she found a navy-blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants. When she turned, Bonita was standing right beside her.

�Clean clothes. They�ll be a bit big, but better than nothing. Do you want to take a shower, clean up first?�

Bonita didn�t immediately indicate a reply. She took the clothes from D.D., studying them much the way she had studied the room. Whatever was going on in the girl�s head, D.D. had no idea.

Bonita looked up again. Her dark eyes were so huge in her face. Sad, D.D. thought. Or maybe more like resigned. She had gone from the devil she knew to a complete unknown.

�You�re safe,� D.D. said softly. �I promise you.�

The girl turned and walked back into her room. A moment later, D.D. heard the sound of a shower running.

She let out a breath she didn�t know she�d been holding and collapsed on the edge of the bed. Okay, shower and clothes. Food sounded like the next logical step. She could order pizza. Who didn�t like pizza? Then bedtime, most likely. Both she and Bonita were running on fumes. And in the morning?

Good God, she had no idea what she was doing.

She unearthed her phone and dialed home. Alex picked up on the second ring.

�How�s it going?� He sounded cheerful, even happy. In the background came barking. Kiko, playing with Jack. The sounds of family. For a moment, a pang of homesickness swept over D.D. She clutched the phone tighter, and was startled to discover tears in her eyes.

�Hey,� she said at last. Her voice came out rough. Her husband wasn�t fooled for a moment.

�That good, huh?�

�We now have a current murder to go with four cold cases. And some mystery man on the run, and a vanished evil cook, not to mention a possibly endangered young woman, and oh yeah, I have a new project. A teenage girl. She can�t speak or read or write. But I think she knows things that are very important. I think, right now, she needs someone she can trust.�

Pause, as Alex absorbed the news. �How can I help?� he asked at last.

�Do you know anyone at the Academy, or from your own days on the job, who might be an expert in interviewing nonverbal minors?�

�Honestly, I�m not sure that category exists. But what if we break it apart? What about an expert in a nonverbal child, or an expert in interviewing children?�

�I think the nonverbal part is the biggest hurdle,� D.D. said. She took a deep breath, released it. This was good. Alex had always been the calm to her storm.

�What about an expert in autism? Aren�t many autistic children nonverbal?�

�She�s not autistic. She suffered some kind of traumatic brain injury when she was young. It left her without communication skills, plus she has a few other physical issues.�

�But nonverbal is nonverbal, right? The cause doesn�t matter. It�s how to bridge the gap.�

�Fair enough.�

�Hang on. I�m Googling.�

D.D. could Google. But it felt nice to sit here and let Alex do it. She heard a crash in the background, then Alex muttering, �Slow down,� to their son. Based on the ensuing noise, no decrease in activity actually happened, which made it just like usual. God she was homesick. When had she, a proud workaholic, become such a sap? But yes, she�d give anything to be with her husband and son right now.

�Picture boards,� Alex announced abruptly. D.D. pulled herself together, hastily wiping at her eyes. �Or really, apps on iPhones and tablets with pictures grouped by category. Skimming quickly, it sounds like some people who can�t recognize or speak words can still identify pictures. So, just because your girl can�t say �apple� doesn�t mean she can�t point at a picture of an apple.�

�Pictures,� D.D. murmured. She closed her eyes, feeling like an idiot. �Of course. She gave me a drawing of the demon. She can communicate with pictures. How do I get one of these apps?�

�You can order them, but the site I�m on wants you to log in as a speech pathologist or something like that. You know what, start with your smartphone. The emojis on the text screen.�

�Which are already grouped by emotion, object, food, animal. Interesting.�

�Then load up on paper and markers. I know you can�t draw.�

D.D. nodded. She didn�t have an artistic bone in her body.

�But maybe she can,� Alex finished.

�That makes sense. At least it will get us started.� She tilted her head, considering. �How do you conduct a forensic interview of a minor utilizing only pictures? First, you have to establish competence. Give me an example of a truth. Give me an example of a lie. Then there�s the matter of not leading the child, meaning I can�t ask yes-or-no questions. Again, how do you do that when pictures are the only form of communication?�

�I�m afraid I can�t help you with that, love. Now you are going to need an expert. But remember, there�re many ways to use witness testimony. Maybe, given the limitations, conducting an interview that meets the highest legal bar of court testimony is impossible. But she�s hardly the first witness who, for whatever reason, can�t. A judge might still be willing to accept yes-or-no answers from a nonverbal witness as adequate grounds for, say, a search warrant. Something of that nature.�

�Which might lead us to evidence we can use in court.� Okay. D.D. was starting to get a plan together in her mind. �How�s the home front?� she asked wistfully, just as another crash sounded in the background.

�Pretty much the same as always,� Alex observed.

�Sorry I�m away for so long.�

�You kidding? Quality time with the wild child? I�ll have you know Jack and I have perfected our burps and moved on to farts. Be glad you�re away.�

�Well, when you put it that way.�

�Sounds like you�re onto something major,� Alex said more quietly.

�I think so. Certainly much more than a single cold case involving a single predator.�

�You have a current murder, you said?�

�Last night.�

�In other words, your investigation is starting to spook someone.�

�I think more than someone. I think someones.� D.D. looked around the room the motel owner hadn�t wanted them to be staying in anymore. For a reason she couldn�t explain, the hair prickled at the back of her neck. �Whatever�s going on here, I think it�s been going on a long time, maybe even longer than fifteen years. And it�s not Jacob Ness. Or at least, not just Jacob Ness. It involves this entire community in one way or another. Town this small, even those who claim they don�t know, know something.�

�They just haven�t wanted to see,� Alex finished for her. �Except now there�s a squad of outsiders, poking the bees� nest.�

�Exactly.�

�Be careful,� he warned.

�Always.�

�Come home safe.�

�Always.�

�Love you.�

They said their goodbyes. D.D. ended the call. But she still found herself studying the shadows in the corner of the room and shivering.

KEITH AND I DON�T TALK on the way back to the motel.

Kimberly is behind the steering wheel. Night has fallen thick and dark, but staring out the window, I swear I see the outline of towering trees. The woods scream at night, Walt had said. I wonder if he knows more than he realizes. Or if he�s playing us completely with his crazed loner act and barn full of greens. Jacob had always been scarily clever; there�s no reason to think his father is any different.

Kimberly parks, and we walk inside the motel. Sitting at the front desk, the owner eyes us sullenly but doesn�t try to kick us out again. Which means Keith and I do have a room for the night. The same room, now, thanks to D.D.

Kimberly nods at us in departure, arriving at her door first. Her expression is distracted, her thoughts clearly a million miles away. Trying to find the missing maid, trying to make sense of two, possibly three graves�and oh yes, some dark, dangerous UNSUB, as the FBI liked to say, on the loose around town.

Maybe the motel owner wasn�t bowing to local pressure when he tried to evict us. Maybe he was simply trying to keep us safe.

Keith arrives at the door first. He unlocks it. We both step inside. Before the taskforce meeting, we�d just had time to pack up our stuff and throw it in this room. No sign of the promised cot, which doesn�t surprise either of us. Now we are confronted by a single queen-sized bed with two bags sitting on top. Keith�s is the silvery hard-case spinner that looks like it belongs on the space shuttle. Mine is a simple black duffel bag that�s clearly seen better days.

We are nothing alike. Keith has his upscale, sixties-retro-meets-cutting-edge-modern town house. I live in a third-floor walk-up high on old-world charm, short on space, and covered in bolt locks. He always dresses like he stepped out of a men�s clothing catalogue. I look like something a homeless person threw up.

Keith crosses to the bed. He lifts off both bags, sets them neatly on the floor.

�You must be exhausted,� he says.

I gaze at him. He�s steady. He�s solid. I don�t know that I can live in his world, but he has proven that he can hold his own in mine. Is that enough for a relationship? Do I even want a relationship?

�I�ll take the floor,� he says.

I don�t answer.

�Not a problem. You need your sleep the most.�

I don�t answer.

He clasps and unclasps his hands. I realize for the first time that he�s nervous.

�Sometimes,� I hear myself whisper, �I feel my entire life is about Jacob.�

Keith stills. �No. You were a person before him��

�I don�t remember that girl.�

�You�re a survivor after him.�

�I am what he made me.�

�No, Flora. That�s the point. He tried to break you. Who you are now, you made yourself. You didn�t give up. That�s all you. Not one single bit of that is him.�

�Will you kiss me?� I whisper.

�Okay.� But he doesn�t move and neither do I.

�I don�t know what I will do. How I�ll respond.�

�You haven�t�.�.�. since your return?�

�No. Others do. Others get over it. I�.�.�. I can�t even stand my mother�s hugs.�

He nods, clearly thinking. He is always thinking. Do I love or hate that about him? I can�t decide.

He takes a step forward. Then another. A final stride and he�s right in front of me. Close, but not touching. I can feel the heat of him. Smell the soap of his quick shower before the meeting. I can see the faint lines bracketing his rich blue eyes, anticipate the silky feel of his hair.

He�s staring at me like I�m the only thing he�s ever wanted. No one has ever looked at me like that. As if I matter that much. As if I am that worthy.

He�s not going to kiss me, I realize. He�s waiting for me to kiss him. Another act of thoughtfulness, I suppose. Let me set the pace. Put me in control.

I place both hands on his thin blue shirt. It feels cool to the touch and forms perfectly to his long, sculpted torso. This space-age fabric probably cost more than my monthly rent, I think, but then I�m happy he bought it, because it feels good beneath my fingertips, as if I�m already touching bare skin.

He inhales sharply, but doesn�t move. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Exquisite waiting.

Has anyone ever waited for me before?

I have to stretch up on my toes to bridge the gap between us. I move my hands from his chest, to his shoulders, to the back of his neck. Then I bring his lips down to mine.

His fingers find my waist as our lips brush, brush again. Slowly, carefully, I explore his mouth. I taste him, feel him, let the sensations wash over me. And when no dark, ugly shadows rear in the back of my mind, I go deeper, hungrier, until I feel something ignite inside me. A spark long dead.

Maybe that girl I used to be, the one with the bright smile and cute little dresses and flirtatious glances, wasn�t so far gone after all. Because suddenly I�m pushing Keith back, till his legs hit the bed and he collapses onto the mattress. What am I doing? What is it I want?

To not think, I realize. To escape from my head, to have one moment when I�m not Flora Dane, victim-survivor-vigilante.

I don�t want to be.

I want to feel.

I pull off my gray sweatshirt. I remove my faded T-shirt. I start working the button of my cargo pants, then realize I must pause, kick off my boots.

Keith doesn�t move off the bed. He remains half reclined, watching me hungrily.

I stare him in the eye. Boots off. Outer clothes. My boring panties, workout bra. There is nothing sexy about my underwear. But the way Keith is watching me, right now, I can almost believe I�m intoxicating.

Do I look good naked? I have no idea. Once I stood in front of a mirror, admiring my summer tan, my taut stomach. Now I�m probably pale and bony, covered with fresh bruises and old scars. A past-her-prime prizefighter, who�s gone too many rounds in the ring. I should cover myself, turn off the light, something.

But I don�t move. I stand there, totally exposed, and let him see me. Let him see all of me.

He rises slowly off the bed. Ready to flee? Already changing his mind now that he�s seen the damaged goods?

His fingers find the hem of his shirt. He pulls it up over his head, then tosses it on the floor. Next, he removes his shoes, socks, pants. He does wear Calvin Kleins. I knew it. Then those are gone, too, and it�s just him and me, both completely naked, separate, waiting.

He�s beautiful. All rippling muscles, long, lean limbs. His skin is smooth, his chest paler than his arms after the past few days in the hot Georgia sun. He has a smattering of dark hair across his chest, leading to a thin line running down his stomach to where�.�.�.

To where he definitely finds me as appealing as I find him.

I have a moment. Other pictures rise before my eyes. Other memories. An odious man, fat, smelly, vile. Grabbing my hair. Do this, do that. Myself, gagging, repulsed, revolted.

I shiver slightly. Close my eyes. Will the memories away.

When I open them again, Keith is still standing there, buck naked, watching, waiting.

And just like that, I�m over it. I will not be weak. I will not be a victim. I will not live in the past.

I�m alive. I�m whole. And this man�.�.�. my fingers itch to drift across his bare skin. To feel the heat of him. I want to kiss his neck, drag my leg up his own. I want his hands on my body, clutching tight. I want his blue eyes black with hunger, his body wild with need.

I want to know I have that kind of power. I want to feel again.

I am Flora. He is Keith.

And I want both of us to burn.

I step forward. Lift one hand. Push him back onto the bed again. He falls willingly and I climb on top of him, my legs straddling his hips. I feel heat. So much of it. An inferno, already threatening to consume us. And damn he�s gorgeous. A perfectly sculpted male. Mine, I think, all mine. Then I find his lips and his hands grip my waist frantically, and the spark combusts.

We�re young. We�re healthy. We�re wild.

We roll and tussle, fighting in our fever to connect. I feel him, everywhere. My hips move on their own and for the first time in so long, I want one thing and one thing only.

I want this man.

His lips on my lips, throat, breasts. We roll again, then I�m on top. He accepts and gives. I take, take, take. My head arching back.

And for one moment, I am myself again. Confident, beautiful, sexy. I am the girl who should�ve met Keith years ago, and is so grateful to have found him now. Then he moves his hips. I gasp. He moves more, and all thoughts fly away.

I grip his shoulders and feel us both explode.

MY MAMI IS COOKING AT the stove. I watch her raise lids, stir pots. I listen to her hum happily. I am not here. Even in my dream, I know that. She is not here either. But I�m so grateful to see her, I don�t care.

My mamita.

As if she heard, she turns and smiles at me. �Chiquita,� she whispers, and the love in her eyes fills my chest with such bittersweet pain, I think it might burst.

Her face is softer. Her cheeks no longer gaunt, the shadows gone from beneath her eyes. She is radiant in her white blouse and red peasant skirt, topped by her favorite apron. I see bits of crumbled cheese smudged near her pocket.

Then I look down and realize I am sitting at the kitchen table, a block of queso blanco in my hand.

A shadow drifts across the kitchen. I know then what will happen next.

�No,� I try to tell her.

�It�s all right, my love.�

The shadow, growing darker�.�.�.

�She calls me Bonita. Did you name me Bonita?� My voice is urgent, frantic. Any moment the door will explode open. Any second, the Bad Man will appear again.

�You have always been bonita to me. Muy bonita.�

�Don�t leave me.�

�I�m still with you. I�m always with you. But you know that, chiquita. For everything that is lost, something is gained. Your words are gone, but you have other gifts in their place.�

She smiles. Wipes her hands on her apron. Before I can get up. Before I can fly across the room and wrap my arms around her waist.

The door slams open.

The Bad Man appears.

Now we are outside, my mother kneeling on the red earth. She does not cower or beg. There is no pleading this time as the Bad Man looms before her. Her voice is simple and composed as she tells me, �Run.�

But once again, I can�t do it.

�Chiquita. It�s okay. For everything that�s lost, something is gained.�

The Bad Man levels his weapon.

Now, I�m the one who begs. �Let her go. Take me. I�ll be your servant forever. Just take me.�

�She must pay,� the Bad Man snarls.

My mother merely smiles at him. She appears serene as she says, �I do not repent. I would do it all again. They deserved the chance I gave them. And you will never get them back. I am but one. They are many. So do what you must. We both know, in the end, I won.�

A howl, like the coyotes in the distance, except worse.

�Chiquita, run.�

�No!�

�Remember, for everything that is lost, something is gained.�

The Bad Man�s finger squeezing the trigger. My mamita, staring right at him, daring him to take her life.

�I love you,� I cry out frantically.

�I know, my chiquita. I know.�

Then the trigger is pulled. The bullet explodes. I�m too far away to protect her. I can only watch as the bullet rips through my mamita�s pale white throat.

Except suddenly she is no longer my mamita.

It is the blond lady detective, pitching forward into the red, red earth. It is H�l�ne, it is Stacey, it is girl after girl after girl.

And the Bad Man is not snarling anymore; he is laughing darkly.

�It will be your turn next,� he tells me. �There�s no one to save you anymore.�

�I will save myself,� I tell him.

Which only makes him laugh harder.

�I am Bonita and I have my mother�s love and my sisters� pain and we will burn you to the ground!� I try to sound fierce.

He doubles over with mirth. �You know what outruns even fire, Stupid Girl?� he says as he straightens.

I shake my head.

�A bullet.�

Then he reloads the gun and very calmly aims it at my head.

�Chiquita, run,� my mother whispers in my ear. And I feel her again, wrapped around me like a warm embrace. Chiquita and mamita, our pack of two. She is mine and I am hers, always.

Which makes it all the more agonizing when the bullet slams into my temple and tears me away from her again.

KIMBERLY PROWLED THE MOTEL RESTLESSLY. While the ME and his assistants had arrived to whisk the body away, she�d grilled the lodging owner relentlessly.

Were there cameras?

Yes, but they captured activity only at the front door, not at the edge of the parking lot.

Had he heard anything, registered any kind of disturbance?

Absolutely not!

But the man had been sweating profusely. Their UNSUB�s tactic to intimidate the locals was clearly working.

She went at the man for another ten minutes, then gave up. He was too terrified to speak.

The maid�s death tore at her. She�d talked to the woman just yesterday. Had agreed when D.D. said they needed to get both Bonita and H�l�ne out of the inn. Yet somehow, while Kimberly and Sheriff Smithers and D.D. were all still in the establishment, H�l�ne had been taken. Whisked away right under their noses.

Goddammit.

This case had started out as an exercise to bring closure in a fifteen-year-old missing persons case. Now? They had bodies dropping everywhere, and Kimberly couldn�t shake the feeling it was all her fault.

The motel�s glass doors opened. D.D. entered, her expression a mirror for Kimberly�s own. Behind her came Bonita, her face pale but otherwise composed. The girl had known H�l�ne, but she didn�t appear grief-stricken, just grim.

Next came Flora, Keith, Sheriff Smithers. That was enough for Kimberly.

�Meeting. D.D.�s room. We need a new plan of attack.�

They all filed wordlessly down the hall, leaving the rattled motel operator in their wake.

D.D. held open the door to the double room. No one spoke till she closed it and bolted it behind her. Even then, Flora crossed to the window, peered out intently, then shuttered the curtains.

Siege mentality, Kimberly thought. Yet wasn�t that exactly what they were in?

�We can�t keep reacting to whatever the hell is going on in this town,� Kimberly began.

�Damn straight,� Smithers said.

The sheriff wasn�t looking good natured anymore. Or exhausted or overwhelmed. Or for that matter, guilty or shifty. He appeared pissed off, which was good. In Kimberly�s experience, angry cops got things done. It was one of the reasons she respected D.D. so much.

�Keith has an idea,� Flora spoke up.

Kimberly stared at the computer analyst. He flushed slightly, then straightened his spine and launched into a lecture on criminal enterprises, the dark web, and the key roles of the local cabal they had not yet identified but given the required skill set, they might have a shot at locating.

No one spoke right away. Kimberly was thinking hard, as were D.D. and the sheriff. Flora kept peering through a slight crack in the curtains, as if their UNSUB might magically appear on the other side of the window. Or was lying in wait for them there.

Only Bonita appeared composed. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Flora. No, Kimberly realized a moment later�gazing at the silver handle of the butterfly blade peeking out of Flora�s boot.

Kimberly turned to the sheriff. �I�ll buy Keith�s analysis. The FBI�s bread and butter is organized crime, and Keith�s right�they function along the same lines as any large business enterprise. Given that, let�s start with our so-called mastermind. Always best to cut off the head of the snake. Who are key influencers and leaders around here?�

The sheriff rocked back on his heels, considering. �Mayor Howard,� he supplied at last. �But to look at him yesterday�.�.�. man�s genuinely distraught. Plus, he�s got no motive to order the murder of his own wife, especially given her own level of involvement.�

�Did you check on him this morning?� D.D. asked.

�Nah, came straight here when I heard the news. But I visited his cell around eleven last night.�

�How�d he look?�

�Like a broken man.�

�I don�t think he�s our mastermind,� Kimberly said. D.D. and the sheriff nodded their agreement. The mayor�s emotional response yesterday had been too genuine.

�What about our UNSUB? Our mystery killer?� Kimberly turned to D.D. �You said Bonita drew a picture.�

The girl looked up at the sound of her name, then went back to her study of Flora�s boot.

D.D. crossed into the second room, returning momentarily with three drawings in one hand, and a lone drawing in the other. She held out the first three, kept the fourth.

The rest of them gathered around to study.

�I�ll be damned,� the sheriff said first. �If that ain�t a picture of pure evil, I don�t know what is.�

Kimberly had to agree. In terms of specific features, the coloring didn�t help them. In terms of sending a shiver down her spine, however�.�.�.

�I never thought to draw Jacob,� Flora murmured softly. �But if I did, it would be something like that.�

Kimberly moved to the second picture. Blue into red. It took a moment to get it. D.D. was right: Bonita was a gifted impressionist.

�That�s another maid,� D.D. supplied. �She died right before Martha Counsel. Bonita saw it, but said the demon didn�t do it.�

�The cook?� Kimberly glanced up at Bonita.

The girl shook her head.

�Do you know this woman�s name?�

Nod.

Kimberly thought about the files she�d discovered in Martha Counsel�s office. One had a name, but was empty. �Stacey?� She attempted to remember. �Stacey�.�.�.� She couldn�t quite get the last name.

Two quick nods.

Kimberly pursed her lips, then sighed.

A sharp clap. They all glanced up. Bonita clapped again.

�What is it?� D.D. asked.

The girl was frowning, moving her hands. She clearly had something she wanted to communicate, but didn�t know how to do it. Finally, she pointed at Flora�s boot. The butterfly blade. She wanted the knife.

�Are you sure?� Flora asked her.

Curt nod.

Flora appeared skeptical, but she pulled out the folded up blade and handed it over. Bonita took a moment to examine it. She shifted it from hand to hand, clearly feeling the weight, then traced the intricate dragon design etched across the surface.

�She�s very tactile,� D.D. volunteered.

Apparently, D.D. was doing a good job of bonding with her new charge. Now, Bonita tried to pry open the closed sides with her fingernails. She was frowning hard, one corner of her mouth pinched.

�Give it back. You�re going to hurt yourself.� Bonita reluctantly relinquished her new toy back to Flora. With a flick of her wrist, Flora transformed the instrument from a closed fan to a deadly knife. Bonita�s eyes widened in appreciation. She took the blade back, closing her fingers around the handle gingerly.

�The blade is sharp, do not cut yourself,� Flora ordered.

The girl glanced at her, then looked up again to make sure everyone was watching. Slowly, she placed the knife just above her thigh. Then, with a short, violent jerk, she pantomimed slicing open her leg.

�Someone cut open the woman�s femoral artery,� D.D. said.

Nod. Bonita held out her hand again. This time for the drawing. Kimberly handed it over, still confused.

Bonita�s fingers danced gently over the form she�d colored in blue. Then she tapped the image once, and gazed at them expectantly.

�She cut open her own leg,� Kimberly filled in softly. �She killed herself, that�s what you�re trying to say.�

Bonita nodded sadly.

�To escape them,� Flora said, because she of all people would know.

More nodding.

�Do you know what happened to the body?� D.D. asked.

Nod.

�Is she in the woods?� D.D. gestured to the remaining drawing, which Kimberly now realized was a mountainside filled with subtle slashes of black lines.

Shrug.

D.D. turned to Kimberly. �Those black lines, they all represent other deceased victims.�

�But�.�.�.� Kimberly couldn�t speak. There were dozens of them. The sheriff and the others crowded close, inspecting the image, as well.

�Holy mother of God,� Sheriff Smithers exhaled. �How�.�.�. for how long�.�.�. Holy mother of God.�

�Bonita, could you lead us to where you last saw Stacey�s body?� D.D. was asking.

Another nod.

Kimberly was starting to feel overwhelmed. Harold believed he�d discovered another old grave, plus they now had this new grave. She was going to have to call Atlanta, demand half the office report for duty immediately. Not to mention her supervisor would be in the next vehicle headed up.

�Plan,� Kimberly directed out loud, to herself as much as anyone. �We will find Stacey�s remains. We will process H�l�ne�s body, we will send the ERT to start exhuming Harold�s possible find. But all of that is reacting. We�re chasing past damage, when what we need to do is get ahead. If we don�t have any ideas for the so-called mastermind, and no leads on our current killer, where to focus next?�

�Marketing,� Keith spoke up immediately. �Group like this has to be operating on the dark web. Meaning they got a computer nerd somewhere.�

Kimberly contemplated it. �Except, of all the business positions, as you call it, that one doesn�t have to be local. Their internet support could live anywhere and still manage shop.�

�True,� Keith acknowledged. �But Bill Benson�who runs the ATV rental�he mentioned a town clerk, Dorothea, who now runs the town�s website and social media platform.�

�That�s right.� The sheriff nodded. �She�s been doing that�.�.�. long time now.�

�Ten years,� Keith volunteered.

The sheriff stared at him. �If you say so.�

�It�s quite possible that whole thing is a front. Remember the ghost tourists the agent was talking about last night? Those may be customers of the cabal, brought here by that website, which has a back door to the dark web, where the real transactions are taking place.�

�I�ll pick up Dorothea,� the sheriff said immediately.

�No!� Keith exploded, then seemed to realize he�d come on too strong when the sheriff puffed up in size. �I�m sorry. But the worst thing you can do is let a site manager know you�re onto them. Plenty of computers have a kill switch�a single code that the administrator enters twice, and everything is automatically erased. We need to find the portal for the dark web, access the business enterprises site, and download all the information we can before alerting anyone to our game.�

Sheriff Smithers still didn�t appear happy. �How do you do that?�

�The mayor and his wife had a couple of computers at their inn, right?�

�Two desktops, a couple of tablets, and a laptop,� Kimberly rattled off.

�Okay. The Counsels are part of this organization. We�re sure of that. Which means they must be accessing the group�s portal from at least one of their computers.�

�I could get Su Chen to come up,� Kimberly began.

�You don�t have time. Let me at them. You know I can do it.�

Keith stared at her, unwavering. He could do it. Kimberly had personally watched him in action last year when he�d worked over the copied hard drive from Jacob Ness�s old laptop. But he was still a civilian.

�I can do this,� Keith repeated. Then, not waiting for her reply, he turned to Sheriff Smithers. �The quickest way to access the group�s dark web site will be with the Counsels� username and password. I can hack it, but that will take time. Or�.�.�.�

�You want me to go back to Mayor Howard. Get him to cough it up.�

�Tell him if he wants revenge for his wife, this is his way to do it.�

The sheriff nodded slowly.

�While you�re at it, you could just ask him for the name of their leader,� D.D. spoke up dryly.

Sheriff Smithers gave her a look. �Man�s terrified. Asking him to provide a name is a big ask. Provide some computer mumble jumble, maybe not so much.�

Keith was nodding.

So apparently Kimberly�s opinion wasn�t needed after all.

�I want to speak to Walt Davies,� Flora announced.

�Good God, is this a complete mutiny?�

�Think of it. All his trips bringing microgreens to Atlanta. Maybe what he�s bringing back is girls.�

�And you think he�s magically going to confess this?� Kimberly quizzed.

�I think I have the best chance of spotting a lie, and pushing for the truth.�

�Because you knew his son?�

�Something like that. He�s also�.�.�. I don�t think his crazy act is completely an act. I think Walt is paranoid and prone to voices in his head. Too many cops show up, he�ll go to ground, locking himself in his barn and never coming out. But if I go�.�.�. He wants to talk to me. I�m the only connection to his son he has left.�

Kimberly considered the matter. �You can�t go alone. And not just because it�s dangerous, but because if he does confess something useful, you need corroboration. Given that Keith is going to attack the computer and Sheriff Smithers needs to return to county lockup to pressure Howard Counsel�.�.�. I�ll go with you.�

�Do not dress as a fed! Walt will shoot you on sight.�

�Thank you, I�m not a total idiot.� Kimberly turned to D.D. �Maybe you can work with Bonita on more details. The whereabouts of Stacey�s body, other girls. Sheriff Smithers has deputies guarding the Mountain Laurel.�

The sheriff nodded.

�If it�s not too much��Kimberly gazed at Bonita��would you be willing to return to the inn? Help Detective Warren understand what you witnessed while you were staying there.�

The girl studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded.

D.D. held up the final drawing, the one she still had in her hand. �Bonita, did you do this today?�

Nod.

�Who is this?�

D.D. extended her arm for all of them to see. Red, was Kimberly�s first impression. Followed immediately by a pang of grief so real, so powerful, she nearly lost her breath. A blur of white against a dusty red ground. A halo of black around a fallen form, leading to a pool of darker red.

Another fatality. But not a fellow maid. Someone else. Someone Bonita had clearly loved.

Then, Kimberly had no doubt. She could tell D.D. understood, as well. No mother could look at that picture and not know.

�This is your mom, isn�t it?� Kimberly asked softly.

Single, sorrowful nod.

Flora studied the picture with fresh interest, her features darkening into an expression Kimberly knew well.

�Did the demon do this?� D.D. asked.

Nod. A slight pause, then Bonita lifted her hand, fingered the scar burrowing into her hairline.

�He did that, too?� D.D. was clearly surprised.

Another nod.

�It�s a gunshot wound,� Flora provided. �Look at the path. The bullet missed its mark, grazed her left temple instead.�

Causing lifelong damage.

D.D. squatted down till she was eye level with the girl. �How old were you?�

Shrug.

�Were you a baby?� Kimberly asked. Shake. �What about, were you this tall?� She placed her hand above the floor, around toddler height. Another shake. �This tall?� She moved up a foot.

Bonita contemplated the spacing for a bit. Single nod, as if that seemed about right.

D.D. and Kimberly exchanged a glance. So, older than a toddler, younger than preadolescent. Maybe five? Seven?

�And you�ve been with the Counsels ever since?�

Yes.

�I�m sorry,� Kimberly said. Because someone owed this girl an apology. Life had failed her early, and no one in the system had ever figured it out. First she�d watched her mother die, then she�d been shot, and then she�d gotten to spend the rest of her years as a servant.

Kimberly glanced over at Sheriff Smithers, who appeared angry beyond words. She didn�t need him to speak to know how he felt. All of this, in his own backyard.

�Don�t kill Howard before you get the password out of him,� she warned him.

�I�ll work on my restraint,� the sheriff promised roughly.

Kimberly inhaled deeply, took in their assorted group. Flora had her knife back, was tucking it into her boot.

�We all have our tasks.�

Nodding.

�It goes without saying, our missing killer is armed and dangerous, we have no idea who in this town we can trust, and clearly this criminal organization doesn�t plan on going down without a fight.�

More nods.

�Watch your backs. Be on alert. We�ve racked up at least three new bodies in as many days.� Kimberly took another deep breath. �Let�s make sure the next one isn�t one of us.�

D.D. DROVE BONITA AND KEITH back to the Mountain Laurel B&B. Kimberly had found an FBI hat in her bag, which they�d squashed as low as possible on Bonita�s head to obscure her face. It wasn�t much of a disguise, but it was something.

Of them all, Keith was the most relaxed. But then, from what D.D. could tell, the computer analyst regarded most of this as a grand adventure. Though he was also humming this morning. If she didn�t know any better, she�d suspect�.�.�.

Sitting behind the wheel, D.D.�s eyes widened. She decided it was time for her to stop thinking about other people�s personal lives and focus on work.

Approaching the main road where the beautiful Victorian graced the corner, D.D. slowed. She could see one deputy out front, next to the yellow crime scene tape that blocked off the patio steps leading to the wraparound porch. D.D. pursed her lips, considering. She didn�t like approaching from the front. Too exposed, especially given the local climate.

I HAD SEX LAST NIGHT.

It brings a surreal quality to my morning. After so many years of believing I would never be that woman, never have that experience again�.�.�.

Do I look different?

Am I different?

I�m grateful to partner with Kimberly today. D.D. would study me. She�d know. Kimberly and I don�t have that kind of relationship.

Keith kissed me lightly before departure. Then stood with his forehead pressed against my own, a quiet moment that said even more. No awkward morning after for us. Instead, we�d gone from bedroom to crime scene. I�m not sure how many couples do that, but with Keith, it doesn�t feel extraordinary at all. Just another day in the life.

Now, I try to pull myself together. Maybe I had a sublime night. Maybe I�m even more excited for this evening. But some things haven�t changed. The pile of dead bodies. A town where nothing is as it seems. And now a morning call on a man who probably isn�t right in the head and will be greeting us with a shotgun.

We�d switched vehicles with D.D., giving her the official fed car while we commandeered the rental. Kimberly had taken to heart what I said�Walt isn�t the type of guy who�d take kindly to police on his property. Kimberly had ditched her credentials as well as her sidearm. I don�t believe for a moment, however, that she�s weaponless. I�m guessing ankle holster. Fits well with my knife.

Just two armed, paranoid women paying a visit to an even more paranoid man. What could possibly go wrong?

Walt�s gate at the edge of his property is locked up tight. Kimberly pulls over to the side and we both get out. Given Walt�s propensity for cameras, I already have an easy expression pasted on my face. Kimberly appears faintly bored, wearing a tight-fitting black tee with jeans. She appears wiry and athletic. In a fight, I wouldn�t bet against her.

I walk up to the gate, pick out the camera mounted on the post. I stand right before it, wave, then wait.

A minute passes. Then another. The gate doesn�t magically open, but it�s not that kind of mechanical beast. Walt�s property is an odd mix of new security technology with old buildings and fence lines. He�s going to have to walk down and unfasten the padlock himself. The question is, will he?

Kimberly yawns, stretches. Again, playing the role of my disinterested friend.

We never hear Walt coming, but in an instant he appears on the other side of the metal gate. Both Kimberly and I startle.

For the first time, I see a flicker of unease in Kimberly�s expression. Especially once she takes in Walt�s pump-action shotgun.

�You�re back,� he says.

�I have a few more questions.�

�Got a new friend.�

�This is Kimberly.�

�ATF, FBI, Statie?� He stares at Kimberly. �You ain�t no civilian, that�s for sure.�

Kimberly regards him coolly. �FBI,� she says at last. �But this morning, I�m here for Flora.�

Walt, however, is no dumb bunny. �I�ve seen you before.�

I remember just as Walt connects the dots.

�You were on the TV. You led the raid that killed my boy.�

Kimberly doesn�t say a word.

�You rid the world of a beast,� Walt tells her flatly. Then he works his key in the padlock, and lets us in.

We follow Walt through the woods to his cabin, with its cluttered front porch and age-darkened exterior. He keeps the shotgun loose at his side. I can�t help but stare at it suspiciously. Did Keith and I survive this man once, just so I could deliver up both myself and the federal agent who�d been involved in Jacob�s death the next day?

Walt has a lot of reasons to use that shotgun. Though Kimberly and I are hardly defenseless, his property, his gun, his motives, give him the clear advantage. I straighten my shoulders, force myself to pay attention, focus on every line of his body. If there�s anything I�ve learned over the years, it�s that all predators telegraph their intent right before they attack.

Walking beside me, Kimberly is doing her best to mentally note all the various outbuildings, while appearing to look at nothing at all. Neither Walt nor I are fooled. We are a curious little trio of mutual suspicion. Plus, we all share Jacob. And I guess, if Walt is truly to be believed, we all had our reasons for wanting Jacob dead.

Walt takes up position in a hard wooden chair on his front porch. It seems to be his vantage point of choice�where he can sit and survey his kingdom. This forces Kimberly and me to perch on the broken-down love seat wedged across from him, with our backs to the yard. Kimberly is definitely uncomfortable. I didn�t like it yesterday, and I don�t like it now.

Most serial predators are eventually caught due to their own arrogance. The more misdeeds they survive, the more careless they grow. I wonder if the same is true for vigilantes.

�Do you know Howard and Martha Counsel of the Mountain Laurel inn?� I ask Walt.

He shrugs. �Mayor Howard? Everyone knows him.�

�Martha was found hanged yesterday. And today, one of the maids from the B and B was left hanging outside our motel. She hadn�t just been murdered. Someone worked her over with a knife beforehand.�

Walt�s expression doesn�t change. Neither do his hands move from the shotgun resting on his lap. �These woods are a scary place,� he says at last.

I lean forward, stare at him intently. �The trees might scream at night, Walt. But trees don�t murder young women. Men do. Men like Jacob.�

�Jacob�s dead.�

�But this town isn�t settled. These mountains, the forest, the community. There are bodies and bones everywhere. You�re not living in the wild, Walt. You�re living on a graveyard.�

Walt gazes off. I can�t tell what he�s thinking. Or maybe what he�s hearing�the wind howling, girls screaming? Clever and crazy. An old man who by his own admission fried his brain with drugs and alcohol years ago. Still, I think he knows more than he�s telling. But I�m also willing to believe even he�s not sure what�s real anymore.

Isolation can play tricks on the mind. Something Walt and I both understand well.

�Talk to me,� I murmur. �You and me, Walt. Talk, and I will listen.�

Beside me, Kimberly doesn�t move. If she approves or disapproves of my approach, I have no idea. But she�s still letting me take the lead, and I appreciate the show of confidence.

�Counsels are high and mighty,� Walt says at last.

�You met them?�

�Town this small? Can hardly avoid knowing each other.�

�The Counsels are the ones who told us to look you up. They said you were crazy, maybe even violent. They blamed you for the bodies in the woods.�

Walt shrugs. �People blame me for a lotta things. Makes it easier on them.�

Kimberly spoke up for the first time. �Do you think Mayor Howard is the violent type? Could he have killed his own wife?�

�Nah. Howard�s just a talker. Doesn�t have the stomach for real action.�

�Someone is killing people around here.�

Again, Walt doesn�t speak right away.

�You deliver your microgreens to Atlanta yourself, Walt?� I ask innocently.

For the first time his hand twitches on the barrel of his shotgun. �Most times.�

�Ever bring anything back?�

�Like what?�

�You tell me.�

�I don�t do bad things anymore. Told you that yesterday. Woods set me straight.�

My turn to shrug. �Lots of people swear to reform. To give up violence, rage, the need to just�.�.�. tap off some of that darkness inside. It�s hard to do. I know, Walt, I know.�

�My boy was evil.�

I don�t speak.

�When he came back, showed up in that tavern�.�.�. I didn�t believe for a moment he came back to see his old man. No good reason, not after all these years.�

�Maybe he wanted to check out his hometown.�

�Boy was five when he left. You remember much when you were five?�

I shake my head. Then, a moment later, I think I understand. �I always assumed he brought me here because he felt comfortable. Knew the area. But you�re saying he couldn�t have known these mountains, this town. He was too young when he left.�

Walt nodded.

�So how did he know about the abandoned cabin? How did he know to bring me here?�

Another shrug. But I understand now Walt isn�t being obtuse. He doesn�t know the answers to these questions, and he�s wondered about it himself. What truly brought Jacob back to Niche, Georgia? Because in Walt�s own estimation, it couldn�t have been homesickness, or a sudden desire to connect with dear old Dad.

Kimberly�s turn. �Jacob wouldn�t be the type to hang out with the Counsels. At least I can�t picture it.�

�Nah.�

�So who would he hang out with? Who would bring him here, Walt?�

�I don�t always drive to Atlanta,� Walt says abruptly.

Kimberly and I both wait.

�Late spring to early fall, temperatures can be very hot. My old van, the AC doesn�t work so well. I worried about my plants wilting before I got there.�

I nod encouragingly.

�One night, I�m sitting in the tavern��

�You spend a lot of time in bars for a guy who claims he doesn�t drink.�

�Man�s gotta eat. So I�m sitting there. And a fellow comes over. We get to chatting. He tells me he has a delivery business. Runs flowers, fresh fish, whatever, in his refrigerated truck up from Atlanta to local inns and restaurants. Man was bragging about his rig.�

�Okay.�

�We chat a little more, and it comes to me. Hot months, he could take my greens down, bring his fish and flowers back up. Good for me, good for him. We shake, and that�s it. Done deal for the past several years.�

�You trusted this man, some stranger, with your microgreens?� I already don�t believe him.

�That�s the thing. I shouldn�t have. No good reason to. But this guy, he had a way of speaking. Later, I got to thinking. Seems to me, he already knew. About my greens. My business. He knew everything before I ever sat down. Wasn�t some kind of coincidence. More like a setup.�

�But you continued the arrangement?�

�No reason not to. Man picks up, delivers, without missing a date. I might be half-cracked, but I ain�t stupid. And business is business.�

�Who�s the man, Walt?� Kimberly now, her voice a tad impatient.

�Clayton. Grew up around here. Not sure where he calls home now. One of those guys, comes and goes as he pleases.�

�Is Clayton a first or last name?�

�Didn�t bother to ask.�

�How do you pay him?�

�Cash.� Walt stares at her. �Like I�m trusting my money to some bank.�

�What does Clayton look like?�

�Big guy. Dark hair, brown eyes. Not that young, not that old. Hell, we don�t exchange pleasantries.�

There�s something he�s still not telling us. �Come on, Walt.�

After a moment�s hesitation: �He carries a knife. Big ol� thing with an ugly-ass serrated blade. But he doesn�t keep it tucked away. He wants everyone to see it. He wants you to know.�

�Know what?�

�He�s one of us. Like Jacob. Like I used to be. A mean son of a bitch who makes no apologies. That knife, it�s not just for show. And all those runs to Atlanta with his fancy refrigerated truck�.�.�. Lots of things you can carry in a rig like that.�

�Where do we find Clayton?� Kimberly asks.

�Around. Like I said, he doesn�t exactly have an address. But sooner or later, he shows up again.�

�How do you get in touch with him when you have a delivery?�

�I don�t. He comes by. Every two weeks. Can�t fault the man for reliability.�

�When is the next pickup?�

�Five days.�

�We don�t have five days, Walt,� I say honestly. �I�m not even sure we have five hours.�

�Name of the tavern where you first met him?� Kimberly presses.

That faint hesitation again. Then a sigh. Long, uneven. It reminds me a bit of a death rattle, but maybe I�m just letting the conversation spook me.

�There�s something I should show you,� Walt says. He stands up, shotgun held before him. Belatedly, Kimberly and I rise to our feet. �You know I talk about the woods. You know what I believe. About the dark. The trees. That all that moaning and shrieking ain�t just the wind ripping through the forest.�

I nod.

�People think I�m crazy, talking like that. I know. I�ve heard them. For years now.� Walt stares at me. �I didn�t save you.�

It�s not a question, so I don�t answer.

�Never saved anyone really. Just inflicted my share of violence, then fathered a boy who did even worse. That�s my legacy. Death and microgreens.�

I still don�t say anything.

�I know why the woods scream at night,� he murmurs. �And if you don�t mind going for a little hike, I can prove it.�

D.D. LET BONITA BE THEIR guide upon leaving the office. She expected the girl to head straight for the basement stairs, but instead she veered into the foyer, then crossed the pretty breakfast room into the kitchen. Bonita halted in front of the long, stainless steel commercial dishwasher. She pantomimed picking something up, then once again slashed at her leg.

�This is where Stacey got the knife, killed herself,� D.D. filled in.

Brisk nod.

Bonita moved to the far right, opened up a door to a utility closet, pointed at a mop sitting in a bucket.

Keith�s turn. �Someone used the mop to clean up.�

Bonita tapped her chest.

�You had to clean it up?� D.D. felt ill at the thought.

Another brisk nod, then Bonita was shambling out of the kitchen. This time, they headed for the cellar. D.D. and Keith adjusted their pace to match Bonita�s, as she worked her way slowly down the narrow staircase to the cool, dark space below.

At the bottom, D.D. found the light switch, though once again the old sconces did little to illuminate the space.

Bonita hobbled forward and they followed. This time, the girl went directly for the heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall. The intricately carved double doors remained open from yesterday, the same chemical scent from the upstairs office emitting from this stone-forged space. D.D. wouldn�t be surprised if the forensic techs had spent the night dousing the room�s floor in luminol to reveal blood patterns. Kimberly would get the official report. D.D. already bet the findings included things gory and macabre.

In this room, Bonita moved less certainly. She shifted from hobble to shuffle, her shoulders up, her chin ducked low. She had assumed a defensive position, as if the shadows might attack at any moment. She moved to one of the stone walls and pressed her hand against it. Grounding herself? Something more?

Keith found the light switch in this room. It lit up a dangling overhead light, a wooden wheel suspended by dark metal chains and topped with flickering candelabras. Again, it did little to fight off the dark.

�What is this?� Keith breathed quietly.

�I don�t know. I�m guessing a meeting space.�

�You mean worldwide headquarters of Evil Enterprise?�

�Certainly looks it.�

Bonita hobbled to the massive stone fireplace. She peered inside, ran her hand along the collection of heavy, wrought iron pokers, then wandered closer to the huge oak table, appearing pensive. Finally, she pointed at a spot on the stone floor between the table and the far wall.

She gazed up at D.D. expectantly.

�Is that the last place you saw Stacey�s body?�

Nod.

�Do you know what happened to it after that?� Because why would you bring a body to the basement?

Shrug.

D.D.�s turn to inspect the fireplace. �Did they try to burn it?� she wondered out loud. A normal fire would never get the job done. A crematorium had to burn at over a thousand degrees to reduce bone to ash. Even a large hearth such as this one, she�d be staring at a pile of blackened bones, let alone still catch the scent of cooked flesh. Work too many burn scenes in a row, and detectives had a tendency to give up barbecue.

D.D. glanced back up at Bonita.

The girl shrugged again. Apparently, this was as much as she knew. D.D. crossed to the spot on the floor. Farthest point from the double doors, let alone the trek Bonita�s demon man would have had to make from the kitchen, across the very exposed foyer, down the stairs, and through an incredibly large cellar, while carrying a body. It didn�t make sense. Criminals were lazy by nature. Why not just cart the maid�s body out the back door under the cover of night? Bringing a body here entailed so much extra effort�and risk.

D.D. didn�t like it.

Keith was walking around the room, running his hands from one wall to another and frowning intently. Geeks, D.D. thought, just as her cell phone rang.

She held up her phone, surprised she had reception in the basement. She didn�t recognize the number, but the area code matched Kimberly�s.

�Excuse me for a sec,� D.D. said, then moved from the stone room into the hall. �Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren.�

�Sergeant Warren? This is Special Agent Rachel Childs. I�m leading the ERT.�

�I remember.�

�I�ve been trying to reach SSA Quincy, but she�s not answering her cell.�

�Okay.� Maybe Kimberly didn�t feel comfortable answering her phone in front of Walt? Though for a taskforce leader to not take a call�.�.�.

�We have news to report,� Childs said. �Since I can�t reach Kimberly, I felt it was best to inform you.�

�I heard you guys had discovered another possible grave?�

�We�ve found five more graves.�

The team leader�s tone was curt. Even after seeing Bonita�s drawing, even knowing there had to be more bodies in the woods, D.D. felt shocked.

�Given the number,� Childs continued now, �I need to contact HQ for reinforcements. We�re going to need multiple teams, perhaps even multiple forensic anthropologists, to work a scene of this size.�

�There may be dozens of graves,� D.D. managed to say.

A moment of silence. �Then I�m going to recommend bringing in search dogs again.�

It wasn�t really D.D.�s call, being an out-of-state cop, but she still said, �I would agree.�

�These remains, they appear more recent than the first ones we found. We�re not experts, but based on some flora, fauna, something��Childs�s voice was dry��Harold is thinking the past five years.�

�I have a feeling we�re going to find remains from all sorts of time periods.�

That pause again. But D.D. didn�t clarify. She was keeping Bonita�s role to herself. The girl was in enough danger. The fewer who knew about her, even among the taskforce, the better.

�I texted SSA Quincy and left a message,� Childs said now.

�But you still haven�t heard anything back? Not even a text?�

�Negative.�

�I�ll reach out.�

�I appreciate it. I�ll be in touch later this afternoon. We�re going to cordon off and secure what we�ve found thus far, while Harold and Franklin continue to search.�

More graves, thought D.D. More bodies. �Sounds good.�

�I�ll be in touch. If you do hear from Quincy��

�I�ll be sure to let you know.� D.D. hung up the phone. She moved back into the meeting room. �Keith, when you and Flora were at Walt�s yesterday, did you have cell phone coverage?�

�Oh yeah. Wi-Fi, too. His security system depends on it.�

D.D. nodded absently. �Mind texting Flora for me?�

�Why?�

�Just�.�.�. touch base. I�ll do the same with Kimberly.�

Keith wasn�t fooled. But he followed D.D.�s gaze to Bonita, who was standing near the table, arms wrapped tight around her waist. �Okay.�

He pulled out his phone, tapped away. D.D. sent her own message. She had a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. But whether that was the effect of this dungeon-like space or a legitimate investigative instinct, she couldn�t be sure.

Keith had put away his phone and was inspecting the walls again.

�What are you looking for?� D.D. asked finally.

�I�m not sure. But this space, it isn�t right.�

�What do you mean?�

�Old homes generally have cellars with earthen floors, and with pillars of piled rock in the middle to help support the home above. This basement, with its narrow hall, tiny room, and now this�.�.�. This is quite elaborate.�

�Maybe the Counsels did this after the fact, so they would have extra space for their staff. I mean, at some point they clearly added plumbing and electricity.�

�To the small rooms, sure. But this space.� He moved near the fireplace. �This wall is clearly part of the original foundation.� He ran his fingers along the jagged lines of giant chunks of stone, piled tight. Clearly an engineering feat back in the day when they�d had no heavy equipment. �If only these stones could talk.�

D.D. arched a brow. �From computer analyst to stone whisperer?�

�Nah, just a nerd who read about the history of this town while we were driving up.�

�Dahlonega started the gold rush. �There�s gold in them thar hills.� That�s what you told us.�

Keith nodded. �Guess what else is in these hills?�

�Well, gold mines.� D.D. paused, said more slowly, �Tunnels. These hills would be full of tunnels, where various miners searched for gold.�

�And after the gold rush, guess what else this area became known for?�

�I haven�t a clue.�

�A major hub along the Underground Railroad. Wealthy abolitionists took in escaping slaves. Where they could secret them away in their cellars, then spirit them along a vast network of underground tunnels.�

D.D. got it. �You think there�s a tunnel down here. This room, it�s a meeting point for a reason.�

�If the same people were always appearing at this inn for some clandestine meeting, people might notice. And we probably would�ve heard about it. Local gossip and such. But what if they didn�t have to ever enter the inn? What if there was another way?�

D.D. looked around. What Keith was saying made some sense. �Your wall, the fireplace wall, is original,� she noted slowly. She turned to the left. �That wall, also clearly old stone.� Behind her were the double doors, framed into drywall. Which made sense. A cellar was generally open, whereas the Counsels had clearly enclosed this space after the fact. Which left her with the wall behind the oak table, where Bonita stood.

That wall wasn�t old, dark stone. It was drywall, covered in some historically patterned wallpaper of deep crimson with tiny gold diamonds. The dark color absorbed the light, made the wall that much harder to see. As if the wallpaper wasn�t just decoration, but camouflage.

Keith was back at the fireplace, running his fingers along the upper ledge of stone. A lever, D.D. realized. He was looking for some hidden latch that would reveal the secret doorway. Which didn�t feel so far-fetched after all. And certainly would explain bringing a dead body down here.

She took up a position on the other side of the fireplace, just as they both heard footsteps thunder overhead.

D.D. froze. Keith, too.

Heavy wooden doors, D.D. thought. They could barricade them with chairs. Then keep looking for the escape tunnel while waiting for a hulking demon to break in from the other side?

Why the hell hadn�t Kimberly texted back yet? Or Flora?

D.D. experienced that hollow, edgy feeling again.

She needed to take action. Identify the threat, then neutralize it.

Except all she had was the sound of heavy footsteps and a room ringed in black.

�Detective Warren?� a voice suddenly called out from down the cellar corridor.

The sheriff�s voice. D.D. nearly sagged in relief. Of course, he was coming over to help.

�Yoo hoo?� Franny�s voice, echoing her boss�s.

D.D. cleared her throat. �We�re down here, in the basement!� she called out.

Keith had finally relaxed, returning his attention to the fireplace�s intricate stonework.

The sheriff finally appeared in the doorway. His eyes were wide. �Never been down here before. Never would�ve even known such a room like this exists.�

�Welcome to headquarters for Diabolical-R-Us,� Keith said.

Franny had followed the sheriff into the room. The older woman was wearing a pale blue sweater set, which she now clutched at her chest. �I don�t�.�.�. I�m not sure�.�.�.�

She caught sight of Bonita, in her oversized sweats and FBI cap. �You have a child down here? That�s terrible!�

Franny gave D.D. a clear look of disapproval.

�We�re about to go up,� D.D. said defensively, even as she prepared to go on the attack. �So what exactly happened at the jail this morning?�

Franny promptly flushed. �I don�t rightly know. Mr. Benson came in, claiming some taskforce officer had taken advantage of his business.�

�Who�s Mr. Benson? What�s his business?�

�Bill Benson. He runs the ATV rental operation.�

�Wait a minute.� Keith drew up short. �Flora and I talked to Bill Benson twice. We rented ATVs from him, but we paid, fair and square. I still have the receipts!�

Franny spread her hands. �I tried asking him what he meant, but he just grew angrier and angrier. Next thing I knew, he was shouting at me.�

Keith frowned. �Really? He didn�t strike me as the shouting type.�

�Can�t say that he�s done that before,� Franny agreed. �Can�t say that I�d like for him to do that again. But he grew so agitated�.�.�. I had to call for help. I didn�t know what else to do.�

�You called for the deputy who was watching Howard�s cell,� D.D. filled in.

�Deputy Chad was the only one in the building. It was still pretty early, you understand, and everyone�s been working such long hours�.�.�.�

D.D. got it. The cabal had needed to take out Howard, and once again they�d moved strategically. Appointed this Bill Benson, who�d probably learned about at least some of their investigative efforts from Keith and Flora, to head to the police department first thing in the morning. He�d provided the distraction, while a second person had slid by to encourage Howard to do the deed. Or, for all they knew, person number two had already been in the station. Hell, maybe even worked at the county sheriff�s department, which employed dozens of civilians as well as officers. At this point, anything was possible.

D.D. found herself eyeing the sheriff again. On the one hand, the corrupt local sheriff seemed too obvious. On the other hand, clich�s always started with a kernel of truth. Sheriff Smithers put on a good show as the local father figure, genuinely concerned for his community. But he was also one of the few people who knew they needed a password from Mayor Howard. No one else in the sheriff�s department, not to mention the town, had been in on that discussion. Just D.D., Kimberly, Flora, Keith, and Bonita. D.D. trusted her team implicitly. Which left her with�.�.�.

�I�m sorry,� D.D. said at last, given that Franny was clearly distressed and the silence growing strained.

The older woman nodded stiffly. �I apologized to Sheriff Smithers. I�ll add my apologies to you, too. This is my mistake and mine alone. We haven�t ever had such a�.�.�. situation before. I�m afraid I saw Mr. Benson as my neighbor, never even crossed my mind he might be a threat. Shame on me for that. But what�s done is done. I�m here, and I want to help. What can I do?�

D.D. looked over at Keith, who was working the fireplace.

�What are you looking for?� Sheriff Smithers asked, clearly noting Keith�s effort.

�A secret tunnel.�

�A secret tunnel?�

�He�s not lying,� D.D. assured the sheriff.

�And I�m not wrong either,� Keith stated triumphantly. �Look at this.� His fingers closed around the edge of one of the stones. He tugged. It moved. And at the far end of the room, just beyond the huge oak table, the crimson-covered wall slowly rumbled to life, a panel emerging, then sliding right.

Bonita jumped back, hobbling quickly to D.D.�s side.

D.D. couldn�t blame the girl. A draft of cold air blew into the room, striking her across the face. It carried the scent of dirt and pine, but also something fainter, more troubling.

The smell of death.

The secret doorway rumbled all the way open, and they stared into the abyss.

KIMBERLY FELT UNEASY. AFTER WALT�S pronouncement that he could prove the trees really did scream at night, Walt had walked across his sprawling property and disappeared into an outbuilding.

�Does he always carry the shotgun?� Kimberly asked Flora the second he was gone.

�Yes.�

�I have a backup twenty-two. You have what, your bright shiny knife?�

�It�s a good knife.�

�One butterfly blade plus one small caliber handgun hardly equals adequate protection against buckspray.�

�Then let�s not get shot.�

�Do you believe him?� Kimberly asked seriously. �That he really did try to save you? That he�s not as evil as Jacob Ness and now he�s magically going to compensate for an entire life of reprobation by leading us to the bad guys?�

�I don�t know. It sounds funny to say this, but�.�.�. Jacob had some good in him. He liked to play games. He brought me DVDs of my favorite TV shows. He could be nice. On occasion. Maybe his father has some good in him, too.�

Kimberly was not convinced, but then she heard the sound of a four-stroke engine firing to life. A moment later, Walt reappeared, driving a mud-splattered red ATV with monster tires. He parked the beast in front of the porch, then headed back, ostensibly for another. Their modes of transportation, Kimberly deduced. Flora and Keith had said the locals preferred the network of forest trails to county roads. Better access�and better cover.

As in, Walt could lead them just about anywhere, and who would know?

Kimberly dug her phone out of her pocket to text D.D. No bars, dammit. Funny, because she could�ve sworn she�d had coverage earlier.

Walt roared around the corner on a second ATV, this one even filthier than the first. He gazed at them expectantly. Kimberly took that as a hint to follow Flora to the first four-wheeler. Flora was already climbing on, wrapping her fingers around the handlebars.

�You know what you�re doing?�

�Easy peasy. Only hit four or five trees yesterday. Hang on tight.�

With a lurch, they were off. A short pause as Walt dealt with the gate guarding his property, unlocking, opening, closing up, relocking. Waiting, Kimberly thought she saw a flash of light in the woods. A glint of metal? But then it was gone and Walt was pulling away in a spray of gravel.

Kimberly had a prickly feeling at the back of her neck. As if the trees did have eyes, and were anxious to keep their secrets.

Walt veered off the road onto a narrow, rutted trail Kimberly wouldn�t have known existed. Flora had no problem following him; maybe this was what they�d done yesterday.

Right, left, right, left. Sharp turn, sharper turn. Then the whine of the engines as they chugged up, up, up and Kimberly had to clutch Flora for balance.

Abruptly they tore into a grassy clearing. Walt killed his engine. Flora did the same.

The old man climbed off his ATV, picked up his ubiquitous shotgun.

�Now, we walk.�

Flora and Kimberly once more fell in line. And once more, Kimberly could feel unease snaking down her spine.

THE HOUSE IS AGITATED.

The others don�t feel it. They stare at the secret panel sliding open to reveal a sudden, gaping wound in the cellar. They are shocked and amazed.

The house is scared.

I place my hand on the wall closest to me. I try to tell the building it�s okay. I know bad things have happened here. It�s not the mansion�s fault, any more than it is mine. We�re both victims.

The house is ashamed.

Once more I try to soothe, but the house doesn�t believe me. �Go,� it shifts, groans. �Go, go, go.�

The house shudders deep on its foundation. An ominous cracking sound emits from its old timber joints�this, the others hear.

�Sudden temperature change,� Keith says. �Just causing the beams to contract.�

Smart people are often stupid, I think. But then I worry my lower lip. The building must be very upset. I�ve never heard it do that before.

�Someone should go in.� Keith again. His voice isn�t scared, more like uncertain.

D.D. takes an automatic step around the huge table between us and the tunnel. Then she pauses, glancing at me. I don�t need words to understand what she�s thinking. She can�t walk into that tunnel. She has a responsibility to me; she must keep me safe.

�Go,� the house moans again, and I can feel a small shudder rumble beneath my fingertips.

The sheriff moves forward. �I�ll do it.� He unclips a flashlight from his duty belt, snaps on the beam.

�I�ll go, too,� Keith speaks up. His decision doesn�t surprise me. I would draw him in shades of orange and green and yellow, with a faint shadow of black. He could have more dark around him, but his curiosity won�t allow it.

He has his phone out, fiddling with it.

�Any word from Flora?� D.D. asks sharply.

He shakes his head. They don�t say anything out loud, but I can tell they�re worried.

The older woman glances at me in concern. Mrs. Counsel wouldn�t approve of the woman�s shockingly large build, but would like her pretty blue sweater. As for me, I�m not a fan of strangers. I need to stay with D.D. It�s very important to stay with D.D. I know it, even if I don�t know why I know it. �Maybe we should go upstairs, dear,� the woman says soothingly. �Let them do what they need to do. Wouldn�t you like a glass of lemonade?�

I shake my head, while the house shudders unhappily.

The sheriff steps around the oak table, approaching the secret doorway. The beam of his flashlight punches through the pitch-black gloom, illuminating the tunnel of darkness that waits beyond. Keith joins him, his phone glowing more weakly than the sheriff�s high-powered flashlight. The opening is broad enough for them to stand shoulder to shoulder. Tall enough for them to remain upright.

And yet, even with two beams of light�.�.�.

Nothing but deep shadows ahead, as they take the first step, then another. I reach for D.D.�s hand, but she�s already left my side, rounding the table to where she can better monitor the sheriff and Keith�s progress.

�Tunnel�s not bad.� The sheriff�s voice echoes from somewhere ahead. �Reinforced with wood timbers. Recently used, too. Some of these beams aren�t that old.�

�A secret entrance to a secret club,� D.D. murmurs.

Near the fireplace, the sheriff�s department lady twists the gold cross she wears around her neck. She doesn�t like the tunnel any more than D.D.

I run my fingers down the wall next to me. A gentle touch, meant to soothe.

I�m waiting, I realize. The house is waiting, too.

Then the sheriff�s voice again, more distant. �We found the cook,� his voice booms grimly.

�Do you need help?� D.D. has to cup her hands around her mouth to amplify her question.

�Nothing to be done now. Tunnel goes on for a ways. We�re gonna follow, see if we can discover the end.�

�I�ll call for backup.�

D.D. reaches into her back pocket for her phone.

The older woman moves. Reaches down. Lifts up. Suddenly she has a fire poker gripped in her man-sized hands.

D.D. remains focused on her phone, tapping away.

I open my mouth, but of course, no sound comes out.

The big woman closes the gap between them.

D.D. hits another button on her phone.

The big woman raises the poker over her head.

Too late, I realize her colors aren�t blue and gray. Instead, she swirls with voids of black, screams of red. She is sadness, pain, rage.

She and the demon, they have the same colors.

I try to scream. Silent. Horrified. At the last second, my brain fires to life. I stop wasting effort on my useless throat, rap on the wall instead. Three knocks. Hard, urgent.

D.D. glances up. Just as the fireplace poker whistles down.

D.D. throws up her forearm, tries to twist away. A sickening crack as metal meets bone, then her right arm falls limply to her side.

The poker rises back up, the grandmother woman not looking anything like a grandmother anymore.

I move. I throw myself against the edge of the huge oak table, ramming it straight into D.D. and the woman, because there�s no way to hit one and not the other.

D.D. gets knocked forward, straight into the tunnel, while the hulking sheriff�s lady tumbles sideways, poker clanging to the floor as she tries to catch herself.

Then I feel it. Something cold and dark gathering behind me.

The house tried to warn me. Go, it had moaned. Go, go, go.

But of course, I didn�t listen to it any more than I listened to my mother so many years before.

And now�.�.�.

I turn. He stands in the middle of the wood-framed doorway. He holds his favorite serrated blade in front of him.

He grins.

And I know exactly what�s going to happen next.

I�M DREAMING OF JACOB. I know it�s a dream, because he�s smiling at me.

�So you met my old man, huh? Tough ol� coot. Guess the apple didn�t fall far from that twisted tree. Microgreens, huh? Never woulda thunkit.�

We�re sitting outside the cabin where he held me. In the meadow, on a red and white checked tablecloth. Before us is a fast-food buffet. Fried chicken, hamburgers, pizza, waffles. Jacob isn�t eating, though. He looks younger, more relaxed, with his favorite ketchup-stained T-shirt barely covering his flabby gut.

�Home sweet home,� he says, gesturing to the dilapidated cabin behind us. �Miss it?�

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Then I realize I�m not sitting on the picnic blanket. I�m back in the box, daylight filtering through the crudely bored air holes, taunting me.

�Now, now, I told you what would happen if you disobeyed. You got away once, Flora. You shoulda stayed away.�

No, I�m not in the box. Because I can see him, which would be impossible. But all around me is dark, with just specks of light. I try to lift my hand to the lid, then discover I can�t move my fingers. My arms. My legs. I�m trapped. Weighed down, a terrible pressure crushing my chest.

I�m in a grave. A shallow grave with just my face exposed, watching Jacob from the edge of the picnic blanket.

�You always thought you�d die here,� this new, happy Jacob tells me. �I used to hear you whimpering to yourself in the box. �Gonna die, gonna die, gonna die,�� he mocks. �You never were a strong one.�

I try to wiggle my toes, lift a single finger, turn my head. Nothing. I feel a whimper building in my throat, just as he said. Then, I feel moisture on my face. A single tear tracking down my cheek.

Jacob moves till he�s leaning right over me.

�Never shoulda come back.�

I can�t move.

�But you missed me, didn�t you, Flora? You had to see, you had to know. Because the more you learn, the closer to me you become. And now you�re gonna die in my backyard. Just the way I planned it.�

He grins at me.

I hate him. All over again, even as he leans down and gently wipes the tear from my cheek.

�I loved you,� he whispers. �And you�ll always be mine, cuz deep down in your heart, you know you love me, too.�

Then Jacob is gone and Kimberly looms above me. �Wake up! Wake the fuck up!�

She slaps me across the face.

I wake up.

ONE MOMENT, D.D. SWAM IN a sea of black, disoriented. The next, her eyes snapped open, just in time to see a fire poker smashing down toward her skull for the second time. Instinctively she tried to raise her right arm, but the responding lance of pain took her breath away. She rolled to the side, just as the poker crashed against the stone floor next to her shoulder.

A fierce voice above her: �Die, dammit. Just die!�

Franny, the sheriff�s receptionist, loomed above her. The delicate gold cross still dangled around her neck, but the rest of her was barely recognizable. Her carefully styled ash-blond hair had unraveled into a mad scientist�s cap. Her pale blue sweater set was covered in dirt and soot, and a line of black smudge marred her hip where it appeared something had hit her. Some things remained the same, however. Her broad shoulders, surprisingly tall build, impressive upper body strength.

Fire poker, lifting back up.

Move, Sergeant, move.

Flat on her back, half in the tunnel, half out, and with a right arm that still throbbed angrily, D.D. was out of options. Continue worming frantically into the dark tunnel might give her cover, buy her some time, but�.�.�.

Bonita.

What had happened to Bonita? She needed to protect Bonita. With a quick twist, D.D. jerked her torso through the passage door, into the stone chamber. Her arm said no, but the rest of her demanded yes, and she rolled beneath the giant oak table, hissing in pain.

Scream of outrage as Franny realized she�d just lost her target.

Don�t think. Don�t feel. Move.

D.D. popped up the other side. Her right arm was clearly injured. She could twist her wrist, wiggle her fingers, so maybe not broken, but currently useless for drawing her weapon. She knew something, however, that Franny didn�t: D.D. had suffered a major injury to her left arm years ago. And as part of her recovery, she�d taught herself to shoot one-handed, versus the required two-handed grip. She�d started with her uninjured right arm; then, out of sheer paranoia, when her left arm had recovered, she�d perfected left-handed shooting as well, so she�d never be at a disadvantage again.

The older woman glared at her now, her grip still tight on her makeshift weapon, but the vast table blocking her from her target. Franny narrowed her gaze shrewdly, obviously, just like D.D. moving on to plan B.

Kimberly had mentioned some things about the woman. She was tougher than she looked, a born survivor who�d had to rebuild her life after losing her newborn child, and highly skilled at overcoming obstacles. Which explained how determined the massive woman looked right now, staring at D.D. across the table, fire poker at the ready.

Shit.

Quickly, D.D. glanced around the room. No sign of Bonita. Hopefully the girl had headed upstairs and tucked herself someplace safe. Now, D.D. made a show of clutching her right arm, wobbling unsteadily on her feet. In a showdown of brawn, no way D.D. was coming out on top. Not against an opponent this large and aggressive. Which left her with�.�.�. stalling. Buying time for Bonita to escape, for reinforcements to arrive, for D.D.�s field of vision to clear enough so she could successfully get off a shot.

�Why?� she asked. It didn�t require any acting to make her voice rough with pain.

�None of you should be here. We had everything under control!�

�Importing young girls for hired help? Organ donors? Sex slaves?�

�We offer only the best product to the best customers,� Franny answered matter-of-factly. �No shipments of sickly immigrants for us. We take orders, and personally acquire what would best suit our clients� needs.�

D.D. could read between those lines. Most human-trafficking operations involved importing container loads of girls who were then shuttled out to �massage parlors� and the like. Mass product for mass distribution.

Tucked this far north in the mountains, dozens of foreign girls would stand out. But specific individuals, brought in as housemaids till the right fit could be made�.�.�. D.D. felt ill.

�But why? After everything you�ve been through�.�.�. the loss of your own child�.�.�. why kidnap someone else�s?�

�I didn�t lose him.�

D.D. stared at the woman. Franny smiled�it was not a nice expression on the woman�s face.

�I knew I had to give the baby up once he was born. Back in those days, it was the only option for an unmarried woman like me. Especially in a small town like this. Bunch of close-minded, judgmental asses. Looking down their noses at me because what, I was only a waitress, and a young, stupid, pregnant one at that. I heard their whispers. I took it. I told myself what must be done. But then, I held my baby in my arms. And I�.�.�. I couldn�t do it.�

�You kept your baby�.�.�. but told everyone he�d died?�

�I�ve always been smarter than people assumed.�

�You can�t hide an infant,� D.D. said.

�You can if the father is willing to take him.�

�Wait, who�s the father?�

Franny still had her poker raised in a batter�s stance, but with the enormous table lodged between her and D.D., they were currently at a stalemate. The older woman�s gaze, however, kept darting past D.D.�s shoulder. Expecting company? Bonita�s demon man? D.D. was killing time, looking for the right opportunity. Was it possible Franny was doing the same?

D.D. shifted slowly to the right, closer to the fireplace, where she�d have at least a partial line of sight on the gaping wooden doors.

�Who raised your son, Franny?� D.D. asked quietly, though she thought she might have an idea. Franny knew all about the taskforce team�s activities these past few days, being part of the meetings. But there was one other person who�d had a front row seat. Keith and Flora had included him, with neither of them being the wiser.

�Doesn�t matter,� Franny replied stiffly.

So D.D. said it for her: �Bill Benson, the owner of the ATV shop. He kept talking with Keith and Flora. And today, you said he was the one who came into the station and raised the fuss to distract the on-duty deputy. You two were in on it together. You told him when to arrive, when there would be only one deputy around. And while Deputy Chad dealt with Bill, you were the one who paid the visit to Mayor Howard. Good God, you�re behind all this. But why?�

�I love him. I�ve loved him most of my life,� Franny said simply. �And he loves me, too.�

�Then you should�ve gotten married. Raised your son together. Instead�.�.�.� D.D. gestured with her good hand in the empty air. �You built an entire life out of lies.�

�It�s complicated.�

�Seriously?�

Franny frowned at D.D. Her gaze returned to the open doorway behind D.D.�s shoulder. No doubt about it, the woman was waiting for someone. Shit, D.D. thought again. Because even if she could shoot with her left arm, she could still only aim in one direction at a time.

�Bill�s married. His wife, however, isn�t well. Schizophrenia. Sad really. Most days Bill keeps her locked in her room.�

�Because that�s kinder than having her hospitalized?�

�Have you seen those places? Terrible. Just terrible.�

D.D. took another step to the right. Something was up. Franny�s willingness to talk, buy time of her own. D.D. could feel the impending threat. She just couldn�t see it. �So your married lover with a mentally ill wife raised your son. And you what, visited as a family friend, monitored your own kid growing up?�

�Aunt Franny,� she provided. �But my son figured it out, being such a smart boy. Not to mention he doesn�t look anything like that frail, haunted woman in the house. One day he wanted the truth. Bill and I gave it to him. Of course he was grateful to realize I was his mother, not the crazy woman locked in the rear bedroom.�

�I wouldn�t be so sure there was only one crazy woman in that house.�

�You don�t know anything,� Franny replied flatly.

�I know your son�s a monster,� D.D. countered. �Bonita drew him as pure evil. That�s the son you denied, gave away, then tried to reclaim. And now you excuse his behavior even as it grows worse? He killed those girls, didn�t he? Then Bill disposed of the bodies.�

�Martha needed a kidney. Bill and I were talking about it one night when Clayton was home. He said he could help.�

�He kidnapped girls to be human organ donors!�

�He ran a domestic services business in New Mexico. Lots of hired girls. It wasn�t too hard to see if one of them had the right blood type.�

�He was a pimp!� D.D. shouted. �And twenty to one, Bonita�s mother was one of his first victims.�

�He saved Martha�s life!�

�Except it didn�t stop there. He had a thing for girls. He liked to acquire them, he liked to torture them. Living in a small town, that might stand out. But if he imported them, shared them with others�.�.�. Dear God, your son turned his violent obsession into a business, and you helped him!�

�This community needs him! Our town was dying. Businesses failing, good people on the verge of losing their homes. Clayton is smart. He saw the opportunity. He started supplying a cheaper workforce, which people certainly appreciated. Then there was a guest here, a guest there, who wanted extra services. Martha and Howard�well, they couldn�t very well say no, could they? And with the increase in offerings came more and more people arriving into the community, willing to spend money.�

�Such as Jacob Ness?�

�It was my idea to have Dorothea build the website, with its portal to the dark web, where even more important business could be done.

�Once word got out, well�.�.�. The past ten years have been a boon for this community. Everyone has benefited. Everyone!�

�How many bodies are we going to find in the woods, Franny? How many!�

�We were doing just fine��

�With Bill digging graves and you managing things in the sheriff�s department so no one ever connected the dots on all the girls who appeared and disappeared? You�re going to jail, Franny. And your son, as well as Bill, Dorothea, and every single person in this town if that�s what it takes. You�re all going down.�

The woman snorted. �Now who�s crazy? The sheriff and that young man aren�t coming back. Those tunnels go on forever. You need a guide. Not to mention, Bill is already closing in from the other side. I shut this secret door, and no one will be the wiser.�

�I will. And you�re in no position to stop me.�

Franny smiled. Again, it wasn�t a nice look on her face. �Clayton will take care of you. Right after he�s done with the girl.�

�Your son is here?�

�Way ahead of you.�

�That�s why Bonita ran.�

�She doesn�t stand a chance.�

�Franny,� D.D. said coolly. �You severely injured my right arm. It means you attacked a police officer. It means I can respond with deadly force.�

�With the table between us, I�m hardly a threat to you now.�

�And where are the witnesses to testify to that?�

The woman paused. She still held the poker, but for the first time appeared uncertain. Her gaze once more flicked to the open doorway. Looking for her son, waiting for her son. Which was why she�d been willing to talk as much as D.D.

But D.D. couldn�t afford to stall any longer. Not with this Clayton monster chasing Bonita.

D.D. raised her sidearm with her left hand. All those years of practice�.�.�. She had nothing to doubt. Nothing to fear.

Her left finger on the trigger. Slight squeeze. She fired.

The bullet smacked Franny�s right shoulder. The poker clattered to the floor as the woman staggered back, clutching at her injury, surprise written all over her face.

�I would have aimed for your heart,� D.D. informed her, �if I thought you had one.�

The older woman collapsed to the floor, still staring at D.D. in shock.

�You won�t immediately die from that wound. Then again, without prompt medical treatment, plenty of things could go wrong. I suggest you start atoning for your sins sooner versus later.�

D.D. took a second to check out her right arm again, rotating it slowly, flexing her fingers. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but didn�t seem to be broken. Bone bruise maybe. Hardly mattered. She could handle the pain. She would do whatever necessary to keep her promise to Bonita. Now, she leaned over the table till she could look Franny in the eye. Already the woman�s brow was beaded with sweat, her body starting to tremble as shock set in.

�Hey, Franny,� D.D. said in her nicest voice. �I�m going to go find your son. And then, I�m going to kill him.�

THE BAD MAN STANDSIN front of me in the stone room.

No, he�s sitting at my mother�s table, shoveling her home-cooked food into his mouth. He leers at me from between the elaborately carved twin doors, twisting his favorite blade.

No, he looms in the desert, firing a bullet through my mother�s throat.

He is now. He is then.

He is here.

And I�m just me: no gun, no knife, no magical powers. I can�t scream. I can�t run. I can only stand in place as he approaches.

The Bad Man and the older woman go together. And now, that woman stands over D.D., poker ready for a fresh strike. D.D. is on the ground next to the tunnel opening, not moving.

I need to do something. Protect my friend. Escape the Bad Man. Make him pay.

So much anger and frustration well up inside me. Always, it�s been him. He killed my mother. Robbed me of my voice. Enslaved me into a life of servitude where I was forced to watch him destroy other girls.

There�s no good in this man. Just layers of evil.

�Clayton, hurry up!� the grandma woman urges. �I don�t think she�s dead.�

So maybe D.D. will be all right. If I can find a way to get the Bad Man away.

He smiles again. He knows I�m a cripple, but it doesn�t inspire compassion in him. Just contempt.

I try to cower back, but my hip makes contact with the wall. I�m trapped, no means of retreat. So I try something else. He thinks I�m helpless�and I let him.

I take a small step sideways onto uneven stone. Grunt as I pretend to twist my ankle. Fall crouched to the floor.

One, two, three, four�.�.�.

He strides forward, sure of himself, as he whirls his hunting knife.

Five.

He reaches me. I rear up awkwardly, and lash out as hard as I can with my good leg. I hit the side of his knee. He roars in surprise, and staggers slightly, pulling the woman�s attention away from D.D. Good.

I kick him again, nailing him in the balls. He screams, clutches himself, and drops.

�Clayton!� the grandma woman screams in clear distress.

I head for the doorway.

At the last second, he slashes out with his blade, slicing open my exposed ankle. In sheer rage, I turn on him again. I kick his head, watch it bounce against the hard floor. I do it again, spraying blood from my ankle. My blood onto the stone. My mother�s into the red earth. We have both bled too much for this man.

�Stop it!� the grandma woman shrieks, but she is stuck behind the table. She can�t get to me, and seems to have momentarily forgotten D.D.

I don�t want to leave the blond detective, but if I go, the Bad Man will follow. I want to believe D.D. can figure out how to handle the giant woman. Whereas the Bad Man�.�.�. No one has ever fought him and won.

Wake up, wake up, wake up, I think in my mind to D.D. Then simply: Survive.

Because I don�t think I have it in me to bear another loss. Then again, I don�t think I have it in me to still be alive by day�s end.

I struggle out of the room, limping badly down the hall. I�ve had years to learn how to hobble with speed. I�m not giving up now.

Behind me I hear cursing, then crashing. The Bad Man staggering to his feet.

He will come for me.

I can�t scream. I can�t run.

I limp as fast as I can into the dark.

CROUCHED BEHIND THE ROCK, KIMBERLY held her breath in the dark tunnel and focused on the sound of approaching footsteps. Flora remained propped up awkwardly beside her, in no condition to run or fight. This was it, then. One pistol versus one rifle.

As her FBI instructors liked to say, this is why we train.

The shadows beside the boulder started to shift, take shape. They formed into the faint silhouette of a man. Come on, she thought, two more steps. She had only one chance to get this right.

He stopped and Kimberly nearly groaned.

Flora dug in the dirt beside her, obviously searching for another stone to throw. Except.

The shadow pivoted sharply. He�d figured out their little game. One quick step sideways, the rifle leveled in front of him.

Pop, pop, pop.

Kimberly didn�t hesitate. Three to center mass. The man dropped. The rifle dropped. Then Kimberly darted forward, kicking the rifle clear, before collapsing herself, shaking uncontrollably from adrenaline and belated terror.

�That was a little close,� Flora said, just as more footsteps sounded in the dark behind them. Not walking this time. Running.

�Shit.� No time to find new cover. Kimberly fumbled around in the dirt, grabbing the rifle their first opponent had tried to use against them. Flora once more held up her blade.

A light burst into view. Then a second.

Kimberly was just settling her finger on the trigger, when a voice called out:

�Sheriff! Drop your weapon.�

A light hit her between the eyes. The second beam found Flora with her feral grin and bloody forehead.

�Are you okay?� Keith called out of the dark�and forget Flora, Kimberly could�ve kissed him.

IAM SILENT. I AM SLOW.I am weak.

What I need to be is smart.

As I hear the Bad Man�s roar behind me, I think, I will turn, I will take a stand. I�ll summon my mother�s love and my slaughtered sisters� anguish, and we�ll incinerate him with our rage.

I recognize now, as I lurch down the hall, that these fantasies are only that�the vivid dreams of a girl too weak to fight back.

He�s coming. He�ll grab me by the shoulder, twist me about. And in one second of searing pain, it�ll be done. I�ll be with my mamita. Surely that won�t be so bad. Our pack of two, together again.

Footsteps, pounding closer.

The hallway is too long. I won�t make it.

I could veer off into one of the many rooms, but then what? They�re small and barren. I�ll be nothing but a mouse, trapped in a corner. I need to get upstairs. The kitchen. It has knives and rolling pins and all sorts of weapons for a little thing like me.

The footsteps grow louder. Yet the hall goes on and on.

I send out my best plea to the house. I know it�s sad and unhappy. I know it never wanted to be used this way. �Help me now,� I beg of it. �I see you, I hear you. Please, please, help me.�

And just like that, the hall lights flicker, then wink off, casting the entire hall into gloom.

A fresh roar of frustration. The Bad Man lurches to a stop somewhere in the dark, disoriented by the sudden pall.

Whereas me�.�.�. I�ve been roaming these halls under the cover of night for years. I�m the mouse, scurrying along, keeping out of sight. I don�t need light to see. I know every inch of the hall by the feel of the stones against my feet.

Faster now. As much as a gimpy girl can do.

The Bad Man surges forward again. Slower, with an occasional thump and curse as he hits a wall, a doorjamb. His legs are longer than mine. Even slowed, he�ll eat up the distance between us in no time.

The stairs. I sense them before I make out the first riser. In my mind, I�m whimpering with relief. In real life, I�m just as silent as always.

Creeping now. Up, up, up. The door, just there, I can nearly reach.

�Stop, police!� I hear a new voice boom behind me. D.D. is alive!

I twist just in time to see a beam of light slice across the hall. D.D. has a flashlight tucked between her ribs and her injured right arm.

Meaning D.D. is holding her gun in her left hand. None too steadily.

The Bad Man turns. The beam of light catches the side of his face. He is grinning as he beholds an injured cop, swaying on her feet, daring to defy him.

The Bad Man charges the detective.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

D.D.�s gun. But the Bad Man doesn�t seem to care. He smashes D.D. to the ground as if she were nothing more than a paper doll.

I see the knife flash up.

Then, I can�t look anymore.

WHAT THE�� KIMBERLY ARRIVED AT the stone chamber first, the sheriff on her heels. Somewhere behind them, Keith and Flora still labored through the tunnels.

It took Kimberly a moment to absorb the scene. The secret doorway was now partially blocked by the giant oak table. And propped up against the doorframe was Franny, her pale blue sweater covered in blood. She was gripping her right shoulder. Then she saw the sheriff and promptly moaned.

�Sheriff, Sheriff, please help. That Yankee detective went crazy. She shot me.�

Kimberly ignored the woman, picking up the fire poker that lay at Franny�s side. She made out blood and a blond hair.

She turned to Sheriff Smithers, pointing to the single hair in the room�s dim light. His expression was equally grim.

�Franny,� said the sheriff sternly. �What did you do?�

�Why, nothing at all. I was just standing down here, waiting for your return, and the detective, I swear she went a mite wild��

�Bill Benson�s dead.�

�I shot him myself,� Kimberly volunteered.

Franny paled. Her lower lip quivered.

The sheriff shook his head. �You did this, Franny. You and Bill. Why?�

The woman looked up. �I�m just a mom, Sheriff, doing whatever it takes to protect my son.�

�Told you so,� Kimberly informed the sheriff.

Just as bang, bang, bang. Gunshots. From the hallway.

�You got her,� Kimberly ordered the sheriff. Then she was sprinting out of the room, .22 in hand.

D.D. HAD BEEN STANDING. SHE remembered that much. She�d been upright, holding her firearm at her left side, with her bruised right arm tight against her torso.

The hallway was dark, but she could hear plenty. A scuffling sound she bet was Bonita, hobbling ahead. Followed by harder, angrier footsteps stalking in her wake.

Then her flashlight had found its target. A huge shadowy figure that looked as wide as a cement truck and as tall as a grizzly bear. A demon�Bonita had been exactly right. Something less man, more beast. D.D. had widened her stance, issued her first warning. Then the monster had turned and charged her.

She�d fired her weapon. A good officer reacts on instinct. But she had no memory of aiming before she was slammed against the hard stone floor, the air leaving her body in a giant whoosh, as the flashlight rolled free, and her firearm�.�.�. Was she holding it, not holding it?

No time to think before a large serrated blade flashed down toward her chest. She twisted enough to take the first strike in her shoulder, the blade skittering across her bone. Then the knife jerked up, spraying blood, her blood, before preparing for a fresh descent. D.D. brought up her left hand to beat at him, fingers digging for his eyeballs, the soft part of his throat. He was straddling her body, pinning her in place. She couldn�t move, couldn�t breathe.

The knife flashed down.

A gun fired. Not D.D.�s but from somewhere behind her. Sheetrock exploded on the wall. The second round sprayed stone chips in her face.

Abruptly, the demon man sprang to his feet. Except he had both hands wrapped around D.D.�s shirt, dragging her up with him as if she were no more than a doll, her feet dangling inches off the floor. He held her directly in front him. A human shield.

�I will kill her first,� the beast whispered in her ear. She knew he meant Bonita. �The way I should have killed her, in the desert years ago. Her mother thought she could get away, as well. But they never do. I always win in the end.�

�This isn�t over yet,� D.D. gritted out. Pain radiated from every line of her body. Her arm, her head, her back, her bloody shoulder.

�You�re right, because when I�m done with her, I�m going to find you again. And your friend, as well.� He jerked his head to whomever stood behind her�Kimberly, Flora, someone who cared.

D.D. tried to open her mouth. She wanted to yell, �Shoot him,� even if it meant the damn bullet had to travel through her body first. Just shoot the beast and put him down like the mad dog he was.

Except then she was flying through the air. The brute had tossed her down the hall, where she slammed into her rescuer and both tumbled to the floor.

�Are you all right?� Kimberly asked breathlessly, trying to untangle from D.D.�s splayed form.

�Thank you for breaking my fall.�

�Jesus, D.D., you�re covered in blood.�

�Knife wound. Shoulder. Mostly bone.�

�What?�

�Shut up. He�s going after Bonita. She�s upstairs, I think. Move!�

�I�ve got him.�

�Not if I get there first.� D.D. heaved herself up, swayed once, then snatched her sidearm off the floor.

Oh yeah, she hurt. But she was pissed off even more. That demon son of a bitch�.�.�.

Now, she really was going to kill him.

IN THE TUNNEL, FLORA REGISTERED the sound of gunshots. She paused, gritting her teeth through the sea of nausea. �That doesn�t sound good.�

�Maybe that means Kimberly and the sheriff have already caught him.�

More shots. One two.

�Then what�s that sound, the monster getting away?�

Keith didn�t have an answer.

�We need a plan,� Flora said.

�You need a doctor.�

�Plenty of time to rest when I�m dead. What happens if we go right up here?�

�We roam around in the dark forever until years from now someone finds our skeletons?�

�That�s the spirit. Got your compass app?�

Heavy sigh. �You�re going to be the death of me.�

�It�s okay. No one wants to live forever.�

�I love you, Flora Dane.�

�I love you too, geek boy. Let�s get going.�

THE BAD MAN PAUSES INSIDE the doorway. I retreat slowly, putting as much of the prep table between us as I can. The space is now filling with steam as I�d hoped, the dishwasher chugging through its cycle, empty dish rack rolling through boiling hot spray before arriving at the end, then wrapping down and around to do it all over again.

He eyes the dishwasher, then me.

�Hoping to escape in a cloud of smoke?�

He smiles again. I can�t answer back and he knows it.

�Do you miss it? Being able to talk? Tell people things? Including what I did to your stupid mama so many years ago?�

I don�t move, just watch as he steps farther into the room. I�ve had years to study him, view him in action. I know he�s as powerful as he looks. I know he can take down fleeing girls in a single leap. I know he smiles so broadly when he uses that knife, there can be flecks of blood in his teeth.

�Your mother was a whore. She ever tell you that?�

Three steps into the room. At the edge of the prep table now. Soon, my back will be pressed against the giant range. I�m trying to think, through my own pounding heartbeat, if there�s some way I can use that.

�Maid service, my ass. She could never make enough money to support you cleaning sheets. Dancing between them, however�.�.�. She did it for you. So her daughter could have something more than rice and beans for dinner.�

I decide the range is a bad idea. If he leaps now and pins me against it, he�ll use those gas burners on me.

I need to get to the dishwasher. But for me to slide left, he must move right. I�ll have to move closer to him before I can drop back.

No time like the present.

I lift the soaking mop head. It�s heavy and my arms shudder with the strain.

He laughs. �Gonna fend me off with a mop?�

I snap it in the air before him. Bleach sprays out. Maybe my mother lends a guiding hand, because some droplets nail him in the eyes. He yelps, jumping back, and I slide quickly into the steam of the dishwasher while I have the chance.

�You little shit! I�m not just going to kill you, I�m going to take my time with it. Cops are dead, you know. Neither put up a fight. Now your mom, she was interesting. Bitch had started intercepting girls on the way to my office, waving them off. Sometimes she even gave them money to board another bus, get out of there. She thought she could save them from her fate.

�I couldn�t let that continue, of course. The defiance. The disruption of my inventory. In my line of work, freshness of goods matters.�

He wipes at his eyes with his free hand. They appear red and swollen, but he doesn�t seem bothered. A man who has inflicted so much pain, maybe he likes it himself. Maybe, after all these years, he doesn�t feel it anymore.

The room starts to stir. He can�t sense it, but I can. His words, his voice, his presence�he�s making them angry. Reminding them of how easily he destroyed them.

The mist swirls around the dishwasher, seeking substance. I feel a silvery presence at my shoulder. My mamita. She is sad. Because he told me the truth? It wasn�t anything I hadn�t figured out these past years. This man, his line of work, the days we had meat on the table.

She is my mamita. I am her chiquita. I don�t care about the rest. The Bad Man is evil. And the rest of us suffered for it.

As if listening, the room grows heavy. The house has opinions, too. Not that the Bad Man understands. Like so many, he ignores what he can�t comprehend.

�Shooting you was one of the best things I ever did,� he gloats now. �Gave me an excuse to bail on that godforsaken desert and come home once and for all. I needed the local doc to patch you up. There�s good money in young girls, you know. But unfortunately, the bullet did too much damage to your face, lowered the value. Once he diagnosed you as mute, however, I convinced Martha to take you in. What could be better than a servant who can never talk back? I moved my operation to the mountains and business exploded, especially after I found some other �specialty� suppliers who were only too happy to help. We�ve had a great run for over a decade now. If that damn hiker had never gone off trail�.�.�.�

I tilt my head, listening despite myself. I don�t know this story. The whole of it. I only know the bits and pieces myself and the others have lived. My curiosity allows him to close the gap between us without me realizing it.

His flash of smile in the steamy air is the only warning I get.

He pounces. Instinctively, I swing up the mop. I can�t see where I hit. Enough to earn a startled oomph, then he�s on the move again.

I jab the air with the mop. I twirl it to spray more bleach. I target his groin, knees, any point of weakness, while the dishwasher�s steam builds thickly, and the house groans its distress, and I feel my mother�s spirit suddenly snap around me, as if she would hold me tight.

He grabs the wooden handle. I try to tug back. He jerks the mop toward him. I have no choice but to release my only weapon, or be tossed against him.

He steps through the steam, and there�s no mistaking the triumph in his face. He brings up his bloody blade, waving it almost lazily. A click, somewhere to the side. It sounds familiar, but I can�t place it.

Whap.

Something nails him from behind. I can�t see what in the mist. But he jumps to the left, glancing quickly behind him.

Whap.

The mop handle whacks him in the shoulder, moved by hands that aren�t my own.

�What the fuck?� he growls at me. �What are you doing?�

I can�t answer, of course. I can�t tell him that his rage and wickedness trapped them here. They died hating him. They died screaming and begging for mercy. Until their souls were doomed to haunt him, or maybe his presence haunts them. I�ve never been sure. But he has harmed and killed and hated. And now, he is joined with them, all of his victims, and they�ve waited a long time for this moment.

Across the kitchen the gas range flares on. All six burners raging hot. A low shadow darts through the mist, shockingly close.

The Bad Man leaps back from the stove, closer to the dishwasher.

I understand what I must do next.

I feel power. I feel peace. I�m not a towering inferno of rage or vengeance.

I am a daughter, a sister, a friend.

I�m a girl who doesn�t want anyone to suffer anymore.

Cabinets shake. Pots rattle. Glass suddenly sweeps off a distant shelf and shatters to the ground. The mist seems to come alive. Shadows, crouching black forms, here, there, everywhere.

The Bad Man backs up again, deeper into the boiling mist. He�s forgotten about his knife. He doesn�t know how to fight what he can�t see. But he feels the threat now. I can see it in the growing rage and horror on his face.

He thought he could destroy us. He thought he could snuff out our lives as carelessly and callously as he wanted. He thought he could get away with anything, because who was to stop a man as wicked as him?

He thought wrong.

My mother strokes my cheek. Soothing. Encouraging.

The shadow darting by again. An oomph as something lashes out against the Bad Man�s legs. He howls in frustration.

Then, it�s all very simple.

I step toward the Bad Man. I pick up the mop at his feet.

The backs of his legs are pressed against the churning conveyor belt, as he stabs the mist with his knife, slashes at the thick steam.

�Now.� I hear the voice as clear as day.

And I follow its command, lifting the heavy mop all the way up, till the head is level with his chest.

HER NAME IS FLORA DANE. Once, she knew a bad man, too. He kidnapped her and hurt her and tried to break her. But she held strong. She survived him. She rebuilt her life. She found people to love, people who love her.

She is not surviving anymore, she explains to me. She is thriving.

And she is going to teach me how to do it, too.

During the day, a new lady comes to visit me. Her name is JoAnn Kelly and she knows the magic of speech. She works with lips and tongues and how to make them do what you want. She is teaching me noises. Puh, puh, puh. Hah, hah, hah.

I haven�t heard myself in so long, the first noise shocks me. The second makes me cry.

Later, when D.D. comes to check on me at lunch, she cries, too.

My new friends are busy.

I can�t tell them where the other girls are, but there is another woman, Dorothea, who works in the town offices and runs some kind of website; she talks enough for everyone. D.D. tells me Franny, the Bad Man�s mother, refuses all conversations. Her man is dead. Her son, too. She doesn�t care about the police, our town, what she did. She sits in silence.

But Flora�s boyfriend, Keith, can make computers do whatever he wants. With some information from Dorothea, he finds everything D.D. and the others want. Now, the FBI agent Kimberly is gone every day, overseeing the dozens of law enforcement experts pouring through our mountains, unearthing sad piles of bones, and helping them find their way home.

I�m called Bonita now. I like this name. I don�t think it�s the one from my mother, but it is the one from my new life with my new family, so I will keep it.

Eventually, D.D. says I can come to a big city called Boston. There is a place there that specializes in injuries like mine. My new therapist tells me they can help me make some progress. Maybe not speech, but I will learn to communicate with pictures and some words and maybe things like sign language. It turns out there are many kinds of talking in the world. I will find a way in the end.

D.D. says I can live with her and her husband, Alex. Her son, Jack, already wants to meet me. He has a dog named Kiko who eats shoes and runs like the wind. I want to meet Alex and Jack and Kiko, even if it means leaving this tiny place that has been both my prison and my home for so long.

Flora tells me it�s okay to be scared. She says I must talk about it and not hold it inside. Fear is natural, but I should always remember that I am strong. All survivors are strong, and no one can take that from us.

People have vanished.

Not girls this time. Townsfolk, business owners. Here, then�when the FBI goes to raid their homes�gone.

Dorothea�s computer includes names, D.D. explains to me one day. Many are local. Some are from around the world.

She and Kimberly are not concerned about the ones who�ve fled. D.D. tells me they will catch them all in the end. The ripples from this case�bodies in the woods, names in the computer�it will take years to unravel.

But that�s the FBI�s job. I don�t have to do anything. They have Franny and Dorothea and other guilty parties and piles of evidence to help them out.

It�s my job to be a girl now. Not a stupid girl. Just�.�.�. a teenager. One who will go to school, and study speech and maybe make new friends, like Alex and Jack and Kiko.

I�ve never been a child before. I don�t know if it�s hard or not, but I would like to try.

I cry at night. I have bad dreams. I wake up, maybe trying to scream, but of course there is no sound.

Flora tells me she does the same, and she�s been rescued for seven years. She assures me it gets easier. I will learn about me, and what I need to get to the other side.

I have never been me before either.

Flora loves Keith. They never say anything, but we all know. They blush when the other walks into the room. I like how they smile radiantly. It brings a lightness to my chest.

I think I understand what Flora is trying to teach me. It won�t be all better right away. But someday, it will be all better.

We have been staying at our same motel. After the Last Stand at the Mountain Laurel and the string of arrests, the motel manager has been very nice to us. He swears he never wanted us to leave, but had received a threatening note. It turns out many people knew Clayton, and most were scared of him.

D.D. must return to Boston soon. She misses her family and needs them. I can�t go just yet. There is paperwork that must be in order. I don�t know how you put paperwork in order, but Kimberly assures me it can be done. In the meantime, Flora and Keith will stay with me.

Flora is arranging the burial of a man named Walt Davies. I didn�t know him. I don�t really know most locals, just the guests that stayed at the hotel. Apparently, Walt was the father of Flora�s bad man. But she says Walt was good in the end and tried to help her, help me.

She is sad when she talks about him, but then her mood shifts and becomes sharp. I can�t decide on colors for Flora. Sometimes, I think she�s all different shades on different days.

Maybe because she is still learning to be herself. She says if she can do it, anyone can.

I talk to Flora and Keith with pictures. Which is to say, I don�t talk much. I listen a lot. I like to listen to people who are actually speaking to me. Who look me in the eye and care about my reaction. We�re all getting good at charades; plus I get to draw. As much as I like, as often as I like.

The speech lady tells me my pictures are very good. She has a friend who displays artwork. She would like to introduce me to her.

I want to find my mother.

The Bad Man killed her. I know that. I was able to draw that for my friends. But I don�t know what happened after that. I have a special picture in my photo boards. The therapist lady helped me make it. It�s like one of the emojis I have learned about, except I designed this one with my mother�s eyes and my mother�s hair.

I touch it first thing in the morning and last thing before I go to bed. And I feel her, silvery and warm in the air around me.

I show her picture often to Flora and D.D. I make my questioning face. We are all getting good at this.

D.D. figured out first what I wanted. She says they haven�t been able to find any records. Of my birth, or my mother. But they have been retracing the Bad Man�s life. They know he ran a business in New Mexico. There are legal records. Now they are working on the illegal stuff. He is dead, and witnesses will come forward. She tells me they will have information soon.

The FBI out there have already started hunting. Sooner or later, they will find a stretch of desert, dotted with bones just like in the mountains. My mother will be one of them. They will carefully lift her from the red dirt and bring her home to me. Her name is Flora Dane. She is a survivor and my mentor.

Her name is D. D. Warren. She is a detective and my protector.

Her name is Kimberly Quincy. She is an FBI agent and the person who will bring all my lost sisters justice.

My name is Bonita. I am pretty. I am strong.

I am my mother�s daughter. Always.