And then she remembered Dillon. Please pick up, she thought desperately as she put the call through.

He answered on the first ring. “Why yes, I could use another triple scoop—oh, you deliver now? Excellent!”

“What’s a way I can look up a property address if I only know the owner’s name?” she said briskly.

Dillon, at once all business, said, “If it’s the person’s primary residence it should come up on⁠—”

“It’s not,” she interrupted. “It’s a vacation home.”

“Are you in front of a computer?”

“Yes.”

“Type this in.” He gave her the web address for the county recorder and guided her through the search function for recorded documents. Genevieve entered the principal’s name, hit enter, and waited impatiently as the results loaded.

“Anything yet?” Dillon asked.

“Still loading. This is taking for—wait, it’s up.” She started scrolling through the list of public documents, fascinated. There were property liens, several judgments, a divorce decree...

“You’re looking for a deed of trust,” Dillon said helpfully.

And there it was. “Got it, thanks!” She hung up and clicked on the document, scanning it for the address, which she then typed into the search bar. She scribbled down the directions to get there.

Genevieve dressed quickly, grabbing the old pair of jeans she used when she helped her father in the garden. She tugged the jeans over her hips and snapped them in place, then yanked an old T-shirt over her head and followed that with a light sweater. She dug around in her closet for her hiking boots and then stuffed a jacket and a pair of gloves into a duffel bag. The camera was already in her car.

On her way out, Genevieve ducked into the kitchen to stock up on some snacks, even though her stomach was in knots. She slipped a handful of granola bars and a bag of chips into her bag and filled up her water bottle.

“Where you headed?” her dad asked from the living room.

“I thought I’d go for a hike,” she called back. It wasn’t entirely untrue.

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

She checked the time—just past noon. It would take about an hour to get there, but that was a lot faster than waiting for someone to actually believe her. And Genevieve had to move fast because she knew one thing now with increasing certainty.

Miss Love was still alive.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN PURSUIT OF A KILLER

Genevieve yanked on the parking brake outside the Summers’s house and hurried out of her car. She was halfway up the flagstone path when a joyful shower of barks split the air and Butterscotch popped up behind the living room window, her huge paws splayed on the glass and her golden ears flopping with every bark.

As Genevieve walked through the door, Butterscotch bounded toward her, still barking happily. “Okay, girl, okay! I’m happy to see you too,” Genevieve said, laughing. She grabbed the golden retriever by her scruff and shook it playfully. “Where’s Brandon, huh? You all alone here?”

Brandon’s father came around the corner, smiling. Mr. Summers looked exactly like his son—broad, doughy, and a little shaggy, with the same shade of russet-colored hair. Genevieve rarely saw him at home because he was always at the bookstore, but Hidden Treasures was one of the downtown shops that stayed closed on Sundays.

“Brandon got roped into accompanying his mother and Charlotte on a shopping excursion at the mall.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, and then winked at her. “Sadly, I was unable to join them; I have an estate sale to attend to. Apparently, the deceased was quite the book collector. Oh,” he added, waving toward the coffee table. “Brandon wasn’t too awake when they left; it appears he forgot to take his phone.”

Genevieve was disappointed. She was desperate to tell Brandon what she knew, or at least theorized. At the same time, she couldn’t deny that she was slightly relieved, knowing that he would probably have tried to talk her out of going.

“Would you like some coffee?” Mr. Summers asked politely, and Genevieve smiled.

“No thanks,” she said. “I’m on my way up north for an impromptu hike. Just thought I’d swing by and see if Brandon wanted to join me.”

“Brandon? Hiking?” Mr. Summers burst into laughter, and Genevieve had to grin.

“Yeah, he probably would have shot me down, but it never hurts to try. Hiking’s always better with a friend.”

Butterscotch barked again, and they both looked at her.

“Well, if it’s company you’re looking for,” Mr. Summers said, “why don’t you take Butterscotch? She’d love to go with you, wouldn’t you, girl?” His voice had risen an octave, and Genevieve watched in amusement as he stooped over to pet the dog, then promptly began to sneeze.

Butterscotch circled Genevieve’s feet, her long tail swishing fiercely back and forth, and Genevieve felt a sudden rush of relief at the thought of the dog’s company. “That’s a great idea, Mr. Summers,” she said warmly. “Will you tell Brandon I stopped by and ask him to call me when he gets a chance?”

“Of course.” Mr. Summers stepped into the foyer and retrieved a leash and a box of dog biscuits from the entryway closet. He handed these to Genevieve. “Be careful,” he said, and although she knew it was just something automatic to say, she saw in her mind a flash of Ms. Pierce’s body and felt a chill go down her spine. Doubt crept up but she immediately shoved it away. No one was going to listen to her. She needed proof.

Butterscotch proved to be great company. For much of the drive north, she sat placidly beside Genevieve in the passenger seat, sticking her snout by the crack of the window to sniff the cold mountain air, and springing back and forth from the back seat to the front in an abundance of blissful energy. Watching her, Genevieve realized something—the dog’s energy was a perfect match to her own. She chatted happily to her furry traveling companion for most of the drive and stroked her beautiful golden fur.

The already sparse Sunday traffic thinned as they closed the distance to Mountain Ridge, and all but disappeared as they passed it. The roads narrowed and began winding through thick stands of evergreens, their normally vibrant colors dulled by the dryness that Genevieve’s father had commented on only hours before.

As he’d spoken of the cabins that had burned down, a few key memories had surfaced. One was when she’d been sitting in Economics class the first day Principal Mattison had subbed. She remembered how James, the teacher’s assistant across the hall, had come in to collect the attendance sheet and commented to Principal Mattison about the fishing up north.

Up north, at the cabins.

It was like a light bulb had gone on. Principal Mattison had a perfect hiding place up here in the woods, perfect for keeping someone all to himself. Someone he didn’t want to be found.

And then another memory had surfaced, one in which Genevieve discovered the truth. Just as Aunt Mellie had said she would. There had been a clue from that night when she’d found Ms. Pierce—a great, big, shiny clue just sitting in her subconscious, waiting for her to remember. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized it before. Then again, she’d been in shock… yet it was the shock of seeing a dead body hanging in the closet that had permanently cemented the moment so clearly in her mind. Whenever that moment came back to her, always unbidden, it was focused like a camera, zoomed in on the horrible image of Ms. Pierce, an image that Genevieve reflexively shut down.

But this morning, at the table with her father, when the image of that day popped into her head, she had zoomed out, pulled back, and there was the clue. It wasn’t something that was there, but something that wasn’t there. On the small table beside the closet, where later there would be a note, there was no note. Genevieve was sure of it. Instead, there was Ms. Pierce’s cat, curled in a ball, and when Genevieve had cried out, the cat had leaped off of the table. Had there been a note, it would have either dropped to the floor or Genevieve would have noticed it on the table.

Only after Principal Mattison took down the body did the note appear. Genevieve remembered how he’d raced for the bathroom and, in shock, she’d sat on the bed and surveyed the room in an effort to avoid looking at the body on the floor. She’d carefully studied each framed cat picture on the wall, and then her gaze had inevitably moved back toward the closet. It was then that she’d seen the folded note on the table.

Genevieve remembered what Principal Mattison had said to her at the door—that he was there to leave a note—and she snorted. He hadn’t exactly been lying. She remembered how he’d tried so hard to keep her from going back inside the apartment after she’d heard the cat mewling. How his forehead had beaded with sweat, and she’d thought he was just concerned about trespassing. She remembered how he’d cut off the teacher’s assistant when he’d mentioned the cabin. How he’d grown paler in the last week and how his hair seemed to be thinning, how he’d admitted to her that he’d been seeing Miss Love, and the defensive way he’d spoken of her calling off the relationship. She remembered Mrs. Dixon’s description of the shadowy figure who visited Ms. Pierce on the night she was murdered. And she remembered Detective Moran saying, “It always comes down to a woman.”

Principal Mattison had planted the suicide note, had tried to frame poor Ms. Pierce for her own death and for a murder she didn’t commit. And Miss Love—Genevieve’s heart gave a painful lurch. She thought about the bag in the closet, all of that blood...

She downshifted as they approached a sharp turn, and drummed her fingers anxiously on the gearshift. Beside her, Butterscotch woofed. “I’m okay,” Genevieve said distractedly. “We just need to get there before it’s too late.” She cleared the turn and floored the gas pedal; the camera bag tumbled to the floor. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Butterscotch hooked her paws over the seat, leaned down, gently took the strap in her mouth, and pulled the camera back up.

“Good girl!” Genevieve exclaimed. “Aren’t you clever?” Butterscotch thumped her tail on the seat and woofed again. “No one will listen to me,” Genevieve said. “The police won’t even listen, wouldn’t let me talk. And maybe that’s for the best. It sounds so far-fetched, but I know I’m right. I know I am.” She patted the camera. “I just need proof.”

Genevieve found the turnoff to the cabin and pulled off the main road, then reset her odometer. She needed to be very careful; she was on her way to the home of a killer, but in no way was she prepared to confront a killer. She and Butterscotch must remain unheard and unseen.