“Tested for a bunch of things? Like poison?”

  “Apparently some of his symptoms lined up with poisoning, but when they tested him, nothing came up. They ended up filling out his death certificate as natural causes, but I've never really believed that. Healthy men don't just die like that,” he says.

  “Do you think Cole could have murdered your father?”

  “He acted a little shady in the days after the death. Cleaned out his shed. Piled his truck high with stuff to throw away but didn't bring it to the convenience center. Drove out of town with it and came back late that night without anything. My father's favorite cup went missing the day before he got sick. We didn't think a whole lot of it at the time. We were worried about other things. But once we did notice, it was all we could think about. He drank out of that cup every single day of his life. Then it just up and disappeared right as he's getting sent into his deathbed? Seems like too much of a coincidence to me.” He shrugs again. “But LaRoche Senior didn't put any man-hours into it. He said it was just a cup, nothing that mattered. My father probably left it behind somewhere, or it got broken. We were putting too much thought and emphasis on it. He slammed that case shut just as fast as he possibly could.”

  Everything happening around me since I got here swirls around in fractured thoughts and ideas in my head. They're trying to fall into place. One stands out to me.

  “Jake, does Chief LaRoche have a dog?” I ask.

  He looks for me strangely as he reaches for one of the truffles piled on the coffee table. I'm still holding the one I chose, the foil half-twisted out of place. My fingers go back to it like they need something to do to aid my mind in processing the thoughts.

  “A dog?” he asks. “Yeah. He has a big hound dog. Used to be a tracker for the force but has retired. Sometimes he takes her up through the woods for walks. Why?”

  I shake my head and pop the chocolate into my mouth. My teeth have just cracked through the shiny shell when the lights in the cabin flicker.

  “Oh, no,” I sigh.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Jake soothes me. “It's just a flicker. The weather has been hard on the wires the last few days. Just give it a second.” An instant later, the cabin descends into pitch blackness. “See, what did I tell you? It just needed a second.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, this is perfect. Nothing like the power going out in the freezing cold weather.”

  “It happens all the time out here. That's why most people around town have a generator. Rain, wind, snow, ice, heat wave. Power goes out, and those things automatically kick on. Anything can happen, and they just go right on with their football games and cooking chili.”

  “Speaking from personal experience?” I ask.

  “I might have delayed jumping on the generator bandwagon for a while and ended up huddling around a half-ass fire eating partially cooked chili.”

  “Sounds like fun times.”

  “Good memories. The thing to remember is sometimes these old places have the power kick off just because. The power isn't actually out; the circuit just gets tripped for one reason or another. Give me a second, and I'll just flip the breaker,” he says.

  Using the glow of his phone screen for light, Jake makes his way toward the back of the cabin. He's gone for a couple of minutes, and the lights suddenly burst back on. Relief washes over me, and he gives me a smile as he comes back into the room.

  “See? I told you it was nothing to be worried about,” he tells me.

  “Thank you. I was really not looking forward to the possibility of spending the night in the dark and cold,” I say.

  “Don't worry,” Jake says. “I wouldn't have let you be out here all by yourself.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He leans toward me across the couch, and I shift forward enough to meet his lips. His forehead rests against mine when the kiss breaks, and he lets out a long breath.

  “Thank you for being here for me through all this. I know you came here to get some rest and relaxation and got swept up into this insanity,” he murmurs.

  “I don't mind,” I tell him.

  “That's hard to believe. On the other hand, most people would have gotten out of town as fast as they could after finding a dead guy on their porch the first night they came. But you didn't. Maybe I'm underestimating you.”

  There's flirtation in his voice, but for some reason, the words send a chill down my spine.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  He kisses me again and leans back against the couch. “Is it weird that I'm almost relieved?”

  “Relieved about what?”

  “Cole. He stayed under the radar all these years, kept out of suspicion, and just lived his life. But he couldn't stay away. He just had to torment my father a little bit more. I'm sure he thought he would get away with it. No one has put any thought into my father's death in so many years. Cole thought he could add one more humiliation, one more horror, to my father's death, and no one would ever think of him. But now he's going to finally have to answer for what he did. And I feel… relieved. It was horrible to see that, and I hate him for doing it, but maybe I'll finally get some closure.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Then

  Where are you from?

  It's one of the first questions people tend to ask each other. When they're in that wispy, tenuous period of trying to make connections that might solidify a link between them, people go back to the most basic elements of each other. Finding out origins provides structure and context. That one detail can give a glimpse into a person's culture and life experiences. It helps make the other person real.

  She never had a real answer to that question. Not that there was ever a time when she didn't have a home. There was always somewhere she went back to. Always somewhere to tuck in at night and to write down on forms. That was supposed to be home. But she never knew what to say when someone asked her where she was from because she couldn't remember.

  For as long as she knew, they were moving. Sometimes she knew it was coming. Her parents would tell her a few weeks ahead. She would have the chance to wonder where they were going and if there was anything she was going to miss. There rarely was. Unless it was the palm trees in the wind and the concrete burning her feet. Then she knew she would ache for it and hope there would be a time when they'd come back.

  Other times she had no warning at all. In an instant, life simply changed, and she had no choice but to go along with it. She woke up in the morning in one place and went to bed in another. Sometimes only to wake in a third.

  She had no idea where it started.

  In a way, it didn't really matter. She couldn't really get to know people. There was always something she wasn't allowed to say or something she was supposed to know. On the way to the next stop, the next home, she'd find out the new details of her life. After a while, they all started to blend. That's when she stopped talking to people. She didn't want to say the wrong thing or give the wrong details. She didn't know who was asking or why. It was easier to be quiet.

  The only thing that stayed consistent in her life was her martial arts training. No matter where they were, she didn't go more than a few days without training.

  She was training that day. If she hadn't been, she would have been home. She was in the gym rather than there with her mother. It often crossed her mind that things could have turned out so differently. Just one choice, one move along a different path, and she could have been lying there right beside her mother, and it would have been her father to first walk through the blood.

  That was the day moving turned to running. Danger defined her life. Even when she didn't know it. Even when she thought everything was exactly as it should be. She was always running. She kept running even after her mother's murder. That day everything in her changed. She didn't care about the art that she thought would pull her out of the chaotic world she knew and give her a life of her own. Her focus changed to only one thing. Understanding who killed her mother and why.

  That was the day her feet found her father's footsteps. She didn't follow them exactly. Her feet wouldn't fit in them anyway, but she followed their shadows. She gave herself to learning everything she could about the danger that haunted her life and why she was always running.

  She kept running until the day there were no more steps to follow.

  That's when the question changed. It was no longer where are you from...

  It was where did you go?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Now

  At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. I only know that because I wake up with my head buried in Jake's chest and cold air making me shiver. If it wasn't for the lamp still glowing in the corner, I might think the power went out again. As it is, it's just the ancient heater. Climbing off the still-sleeping Jake, I grab the quilt I left draped over the chair and wrap it around myself. He wakes up as I'm standing over the old furnace, glaring down into the grates with absolutely no idea what to do. The Bureau has trained me for many things, but the 'F' most certainly does not stand for 'furnace'. I don't even know what's under the grates.

  “Everything okay?” Jake asks.

  I glance over my shoulder and see him leaned over the back of the couch, looking at me. Sleepy eyes and tousled hair make him look younger than he is. The anger and hurt are gone from his face, but it won't be long until they're back. As long as there are questions left about his father, those feelings aren't going to go away. And even after those questions are answered, the pain will linger. The anger will never really go away. Jake might be able to tuck it away. He could compartmentalize it, so he's only forced to experience it when the walls break down. But it's part of him.

  “Well, it seems like getting me through that last Arctic blast was the heater's swan song. It's not working,” I tell him.

  “Do you want me to take a look at it?” he asks.

  “No, you don't have to do that. I can get in touch with the owner. I'm sure he'll send somebody over here to take care of it.”

  Or she. Not really knowing who I'm renting this cabin from might make getting the furnace fixed a bit of a challenge. But I don't want to let on.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I don't think you need me treating you like my handyman,” I nod.

  The icy air might make me rethink that. I pull the quilt closer around me and glare down into the furnace again. This would be the perfect moment for me to develop some sort of psychokinetic power. I only cling to that possibility for a few seconds before I turn back to Jake.

  “Not your handyman,” he says. “Just your man who happens to be handy.”

  It's cheesy to the point of being cringe-worthy, but damn if it isn't effective. He climbs over the back of the couch and slips his hands under the sides of the quilt so he can wrap his arms around my waist. His mouth finds mine, and the pressure of his body guides me back toward the wall. His kiss is deep and intense for a few seconds before he steps back. He brushes his lips over mine one more gentle time, and he brushes my hair away from my cheek. Something about the gesture makes me feel off balance like I haven't caught up from the first kiss.

  “I'll let you know if he doesn't send somebody,” I say.

  Jake smiles. “Good. As much as I would rather stay here and keep you warm, I should probably go and make sure the bar is still standing, and Burke hasn't decided to take over permanently. Thank you again for being so amazing today. I don't know how I would have gotten through it without you.”

  “Of course,” I tell him.

  “Make sure they get this heater fixed fast. I don't like the idea of you being out here all alone in the cold for too long. If it's not up and working soon, you should come stay at my place.”

  He pulls the quilt closer around me, his hands running along the fabric.

  “I'll let you know as soon as I'm back in the warmth.”

  I want to ask him to call me if he hears any more from the police, but don't want to fracture the calm that has come over him. It's temporary, but he deserves to have it for as long as it will stay.

  I wait a few minutes after Jake leaves to grab my phone. The cold makes my fingers ache as I try to dial, but I finally get the number in. It rings a few times before I even wonder what time it is. It might be too late to catch anyone at the office.

  “Hello?”

  That's was a ridiculous thought. It's never too late to catch anyone at the office. They live and breathe work, especially when they have major cases to juggle.

  “Eric, it's me.”

  “Emma? Is everything okay? What's wrong?”

  “Well, that's just encouraging as all hell. Have you been talking to Bellamy?” I ask.

  “Sorry. I'm sure everything is absolutely perfect,” he quips.

  “I wouldn't quite jump that far. But I'll start with the fact that my eyes are going to freeze over because the furnace in my cabin decided now was the perfect time to lay down its life. Unfortunately, I don't know who Creagan got this place from, so I can't call and get it fixed.”

  “So, why aren't you calling Creagan?” he asks.

  “Because I'd rather talk to you,” I offer.

  “I'd be flattered by that if it wasn't just a flagrant use of our friendship to avoid you having to talk to him because you know he's going to grill you about the case,” Eric points out.

  “That's not true,” I argue. “It's a flagrant use of our friendship to avoid me having to talk to him because I'm afraid he'll call me Brittany again, and I just frankly don't have it in me to deal with his shit right now. I'll pretend to think he's funny some other time. Right now, I have bigger things to think about than the potential of my ass splintering into little ice chips if I sit down too hard.”

  “We can't have that,” he says. “Hold on. Let me see if I can find anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  The phone clicks onto hold, and I shuffle my way back into the living room, sweeping the end of the quilt away from my feet with one hand while holding my phone with the other. Sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, I reach down into the alcove beneath the coffee table and pull out the stack of research I shoved there. It's jumbled up from my hasty clearing of the table, so I get to work trying to organize it again. I'm halfway through reconstructing them as I had them when the line clicks again.

  “So, it turns out the house isn't really owned by anybody,” Eric says.

  “What?” I ask. “What do you mean it's not owned by anybody? Creagan had to have rented it from somebody. Besides, it has electricity, and water, and it's furnished. Obviously, no one has lived here consistently for a while, but it's not like it's been sitting abandoned for decades. ”

  “The town owns it. It was abandoned a while back, but you can imagine there's not a whole lot of real estate opportunity there. When someone is interested in visiting, especially when there are bodies piling up and the reputation of the town isn't exactly thriving, they offer up what they can.”

  “And of the options they gave him, this is what he went with. I wonder what that says about his image of me. Wait, so what does that mean for my furnace? If I have to keep staying here, I'm not going to make it without heat,” I say.

  “He said to find a repairman and charge it to your expenses.”

  “Perfect,” I sigh.

  “How is everything going?” he asks.

  “Do you mean, have I figured out why all the people are disappearing and getting killed around here? No.” I let out a sigh and rake my fingers back through my hair. I find the picture of the woman by the train tracks again and stare down at it. My skin tingles. “But I might be getting close. Eric, can you do something for me?”

  “Do I have to talk to Creagan again? Because I think I might have used up all my leverage with that conversation.”

  “No. He's not necessary, but I do need you to do something for me,” I say.

  “What's that?”

  “Do trains have cameras on them? Like cargo trains. Do they have cameras on the front to see what's happening on the tracks?” I ask.

  “Most of them do. By now I'd say probably all of them do unless a company is using really outdated machinery. Why? What do you need?” Eric asks.

  “If I send you a map of train tracks and a range of dates, can you figure out what trains were running during that time and get me the feeds off the cameras?”

  “I'm sure I could. Does this have to do with the bodies?”

  “It might.”

  “I thought the train company already examined all the trains and couldn't find one that might have hit either of them,” he says.

  “They did. That's not what I want to know. Can you get me the video?”

  “I'll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. I'll email you the information,” I tell him. “Oh… Eric? Keep this between us. I don't know what it might mean yet, and I don't want to get anybody sniffing around if it doesn't pan out.”

  Two hours later, I'm sitting, listening to what sounds like the furnace repairman arbitrarily bashing whatever is inside a furnace when an email finally appears from Eric. Curling defensively into the corner of the couch so the repairman can't catch a glimpse of what's on my screen, I nestle my earbuds in my ears and open the first attached video.

  There's no audio, and the image is choppy and slightly grainy. It's the type of video that comes from a surveillance video most people never intend on watching. A few second’s time-lapse makes it look more like a series of pictures flashing by in rapid succession than a smooth video. The video covers several hours, three days before the body of the woman was found by the train tracks. I watch it carefully for markers to identify the specific area of the tracks I'm interested in seeing. Taking notes of what I see during that part of the tracks, I stop the video and move on to the next one.