My rational brain gave one final protest. This was impossible. It was the middle of the day. It was a state highway. There would be cars, there would be people, there would be witnesses.

Which sounded all well and good and logical. Except where the heck was everybody?

The masked figure had closed a quarter of the distance. They weren’t running. They must have realized they didn’t need to run. I was just standing there. Staring. Like a moron.

I considered my options: lock myself in the Jeep, or run. The Jeep wasn’t a bad bet unless they had a gun. But they probably did have a gun. So, I ran.

The ground sloped down from the shoulder of the road, falling sharply into a wooded ravine. I pushed through a line of ferns, slipped on wet leaf litter, and almost went rolling the rest of the way down. Somehow, I recovered and caught my balance. A shout made me glance back. The masked figure was running toward me now. Behind them, another vehicle had finally appeared—a dark SUV barreling along the state highway. Too little, too late, I thought, and I hurried as best I could down the hill.

If you’ve never run down a wet, slippery hill before while a masked figure chases you, let me tell you: it’s not as easy (or as fun) as it sounds. Every step threatened to send my feet sliding out from under me. The soil gave way abruptly, which meant I’d skitter down a few inches until my heel caught something solid again. The understory wasn’t thick, but there were enough brushes, brambles, and yes, more ferns, that after a dozen yards, I was covered in scratches. I tried to be smart; I tried to zigzag, in case the masked figure was taking aim. I tried to take a path that would lead me between the trunks of the massive spruce and pine. But all of that was secondary to my main goal, which was to stay upright. And staying upright meant that, no matter how fast my heart was hammering, my progress was painfully slow.

Distantly, fresh shouts broke out above me. Then a gunshot broke the forest’s stillness. Dirt and decomposing leaves sprayed up a few feet to my right. I dove to the left, landed on my shoulder, and began to roll. I turned the roll into a scramble and ended up behind the bole of an enormous ponderosa pine. My brain told me to keep moving, but I felt frozen—that shot had come so close.

Up on the shoulder of the road, someone was shouting again—and you wouldn’t hear any of those words in church. Farther off, an engine growled, and then the sound faded. Someone was moving through the brush higher up the ravine—leaves rustling, branches snapping.

And then Deputy Bobby’s voice called, “Dash?”

I fought to control my breath. I sagged. The cold, damp leaves were like ice against my face, and they felt wonderful. Somehow, after a moment, I managed to sit up and call back, “Here!”

Chapter 12

Deputy Bobby helped me back up to the road. He sat me in his Pilot, told me not to get out of the car, and then jogged off—to get service, of course.

By the time he came back, I was only shaking a little. I slid out of the Pilot to meet Deputy Bobby. He cocked me a look like he didn’t exactly approve of this display of initiative, but all he said was, “Some deputies are on their way. Get back in the car, please; I think you’re in shock.”

“I’m fine.” I managed to smile as I added, “Thanks.”

And honestly, I was fine. More or less. Like I said, the shaking had all but stopped. The cool air felt good—the earthiness of the moss hanging from the branches overhead, the dustiness of the broken stone underfoot, the sweet, dark pitchiness of the trees. My eyes were still playing tricks—adrenaline, and the deep shadows of the forest—and I tried adjusting my glasses. Deputy Bobby must have taken pity on me because after a few rounds of me taking off my glasses and squinting and putting them on again and squinting some more, he took the glasses from me and settled them on my face.

“Thanks,” I said again, and that was when my voice decided to get wobbly. “God, thank you, Bobby. How did you—I mean, you saved my life.”

“Luck. Good timing.” He tucked some of my hair behind one arm of my glasses, and then he seemed to realize what he’d done and dropped his hand to his side. “You sounded serious when you said you needed to talk, and when I called you back, you didn’t answer. I thought I should get back to the house.”

The way he said the house sent something thrumming through me. I wasn’t eager to look too closely at that particular feeling, so I said, “Dead zone.”

He gave me a lopsided smile.

“Right,” I said, and for some reason, I had to struggle not to cry. Somehow I managed to say, “You knew that.”

“Dash, why don’t you sit down?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine. I promise, I’m fine.” A breeze lifted, branches stirred, and the trees groaned like old men. I thought I could feel a touch of the ocean on my hot cheeks. “I know I shouldn’t have gone alone; please don’t be mad.”

And then I told him everything.

To his credit, Deputy Bobby didn’t get mad. At least, he didn’t shout. He didn’t kick anything. He didn’t get into the Pilot and drive away. Instead, he nodded. He breathed slowly and deeply. His hands opened and closed against his thighs.

It was so much worse.

“What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I thought I’d just look around.”

“Bull pucky.”

Okay, that wasn’t quite what he said.

Since I didn’t want to spend too much time on that particular topic, I said, “But he’s right, don’t you think? I mean, Nate’s a creep and a thief, and I’m still totally willing to believe he killed Gerry. But it was so easy to get into that safe. Whoever killed him had almost a full day when they could have gotten into his house and removed their blackmail file. And what Gerry said about Ali—”

“Ali’s gone.”

“What? What do you mean she’s gone?”

“She disappeared, Dash. She ran away. She’s been couch-surfing with friends—I guess I don’t know if they were friends, but they were all part of that reclamation movement. And now she’s gone.”

“That’s suspicious, right? That’s got to mean something.”

Deputy Bobby made a noise that could have meant anything.

“The sheriff has to admit it was murder now, doesn’t she? I mean, the footsteps that were erased at the cliff, those blackmail files, the fact that Ali disappeared?”

“Dash—”

“I know the medical examiner has to determine the manner of death, but there’s no way the sheriff is going to let this be written off as an accident, right?”

“I don’t know. It’s none of my business. And it’s not any of yours, either.”

He said it roughly—almost harshly. And the words were so unlike the Deputy Bobby I knew that it took me a minute to make sense of them, to step back and look at him, to see him, then, more closely. The red eyes. The way he folded his arms. The challenge in his face.

“Where were you?” I asked.

He shifted his weight, and the broken asphalt on the shoulder crunched under his feet.

“You said you were driving back to Hemlock House because I called. Where’d you go?”

Deputy Bobby looked past me, and when he spoke, his voice was thin and brittle, like ice about to break. “West and I talked this morning.”

Even though I’d suspected it from the way he was acting, it still, somehow, felt like a surprise. “Oh God. Is that good? What happened? Are you okay?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“You’re—” I didn’t know how to phrase what I wanted to say, so I asked, “Want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I apologized. West accepted my apology.” He adjusted his arms across his chest. He was still looking out into the trees, the moss, the ferns shaped like swords. “We’re good now.”

“You’re good now.”