By the fourth video, I'm able to skip ahead through much of the feed just to the small portion that shows what I need to see. This video is slightly different than the others. Recording the journey of a different train than the others, this one shows a camera position just off from where it should be. As if it's been knocked off center or was mounted incorrectly. The camera doesn't give a full view of the tracks. The screen shows a portion of the train itself and half the tracks along with the gravel bank on the side opposite the woods.

  Something catches my eye in the corner of the screen, and I stop the video. I go back several seconds and watch again. Four times through later, I'm convinced I know what I'm seeing. I watch one more time for good measure, my stomach sinking.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “I'm working as fast as I can.”

  My eyes snap up to the repairman, and I shake my head, popping the buds I forgot I was wearing out of my ears.

  “Not you. I'm sorry. You're doing fine. Um. Do you by chance, know how much longer it's going to be?” I ask.

  He peers down at the furnace he appears to have gutted. “Give me another hour. Maybe an hour and a half.”

  I don't want to sit around waiting for him, but I'm also not going to leave him alone in my cabin. Wrapping the quilt around me again, I pull my computer onto my lap to settle in for the wait. My attention goes back to the man who died on my porch and the note clutched in his hand. Without giving him details why, I already asked Eric to run a check on the name Ron Murdock and see if anything came up, even though I was pretty sure it wouldn't. He wasn't swinging by for a friendly visit. I doubt he gave his real name at the hotel. In tiny places like the towns dotted around here, it isn’t unusual for a hotel to not bother to check identification if someone pays cash. Even if they do, I've tossed enough faked credentials into the shredder to know it isn't hard to convince someone of anything if you pay attention to the details.

  It's the details I want to know now. No one outside of the team knew I was coming here. The thing is, he didn't just find out I was here. To arrive so soon after me, he had to anticipate me coming. Just for fun, I ran a check on the name along with my own, but nothing came up. Another search with my father's name and a third with my mother's had equally dead ends. I wasn't going to get anywhere with searches like this. I needed more. But for now, there was nothing I could do but sit and wait.

  In the dark.

  “What just happened?” I call out.

  “Sorry about that. Nothing to worry about. Just tripped the circuit a bit. I'll fix it.” The repairman's footsteps disappear into the back of the cabin, and a few moments later, the lights pop back on. He comes back and crouches down near the furnace. “That box is a finicky thing. I've been tinkering on this house since way back, and it has always given me trouble. Tucked way the hell back there and all.”

  “Who lived here?” I ask.

  “What's that?”

  “You said you've been working on this house for a long time. When I rented it, they told me it was abandoned,” I explain.

  “Well, abandoned is a bit of a harsh word. The lady who lived here died, and no one claimed the property,” he tells me.

  “She didn't have any family?” I ask.

  He runs his hand over his face and looks into the distance for a second.

  “Seems to me she had a daughter. Never met her, but Wendy sometimes talked about her girl and a granddaughter who lived somewhere. She didn't get to see them.”

  “And they never came for the house or any of her things? Did the police get in touch with her after Wendy died?” I ask.

  “Not my business. All I know is the house got taken over by the town, most of it cleaned out, and now it's rented out to folks wanting to visit Feathered Nest. Not that there are too many of those. Last gentleman came to stay didn't even stay for the full time he had booked. Just took his stuff and left. Door unlocked, lights on. Some people have no manners.”

  “Someone else stayed here recently?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yep. Round about six months ago, I'd say,” he muses.

  “No one mentioned it to me.”

  “Now, why would they?” There's a touch of suspicion in his voice, and I try to come up with something to cover it, but the sound of the furnace roaring to life brings a smile to his face. “Would you listen to that? She still has some life in her, after all. It might take a little bit of time to get this place warmed up again but should be nice and toasty before you tuck in for the night.”

  “Thank you so much. Let me know what I owe you, and I'll write you a check.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I've never seen someone pack tools so slowly. The repairman meticulously wipes down each implement with a threadbare red rag before settling them into his bag. I get the distinct feeling he's stalling, trying to take up as much time as he can. I'm not sure if that's because he's trying to spend more time with me, or if he thinks something else in the cabin is about to go wrong. Either way, I'm not interested in the company. I hurry him along his way, and as soon as he heads outside with my check peeking out of his pocket, I rush to change into another layer of warm clothes and put on my boots.

  I'm walking back toward the living room when the sound of the door opening makes my heart jump in my throat. The furnace muffles the sound slightly, but I can still hear the footsteps enter the house and stop. Very aware that my phone is in there on the table and even if I had it, the police likely wouldn't be much help anyway, I brace myself and walk out into the living room.

  “Jake!” His name bursts out of me when I see him standing in the middle of the living room, holding his phone like he's getting ready to dial. “What are you doing?”

  “I was getting ready to call you,” he says.

  “I mean, what are you doing here?” I ask.

  He stuffs his phone into his pocket and points behind him. “You drove my car from Cole's house. You don't have your car. I thought I'd come bring you to it.”

  I let out a breath. “Oh. Thank you. Yeah, I didn't even think about that. I was actually just getting ready to leave.”

  “Leave? Where are you going?” he asks.

  My plan was to go back into the woods to test my new theory, but I can't tell him that. I'll have to shuffle my plans.

  “I need to go up to the police station,” I tell him.

  “The police station?”

  “It's about the man,” I say quickly. “I forgot to ask LaRoche something the last time they brought me in.”

  “I'll give you a ride up to your car. Ready to go?”

  “Sure.” I grab the satchel I filled before getting dressed and sling it over my shoulder. “Let's go.”

  We get into his car, and I peer back at the cabin as he pulls away from it.

  “Something wrong?” Jake asks.

  “Did you meet the guy who rented the cabin a few months ago?” I ask.

  He glances over at me with a confused expression.

  “What guy?”

  “The man who came to repair the furnace said there was a guy who rented the place about six months ago but didn't stay the whole time.”

  Jake presses his lips together in thought, then shakes his head.

  “No. I didn't even realize anyone else had stayed here in years. He must not have been very social while he was here.”

  “I wonder what he needed repaired,” I muse.

  “Don't know, but old Clancy must not have done a very good job if the guy left early.”

  “Maybe.”

  We get to the main street of town, and Jake pulls up behind my car. He walks me to the driver's side and leans into the door as I settle into the seat.

  “Let me know if you find out anything,” he says. “I don't like not knowing you're there when nobody knows what happened to that guy.”

  “I will.”

  He gives me a peck on the cheek and closes the door. Almost immediately, my phone rings. I put it on speaker and pull away from the curb.

  “Why is Eric getting all the updates from you? Why don't I get to know anything?” Bellamy demands.

  “Because he works for the FBI and can find things out for me,” I tell her.

  “I know stuff. I’m a consultant! I can consult for you,” she argues.

  “Can you help me access security camera footage and do a background check?” I ask.

  “...No.”

  “And there we go.”

  “But I still want to know what's going on with you. I can help you… think,” she says.

  “You're right. Maybe I'm too deep in this and am missing something you might see.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  I drive to the police station as I fill her in on Jake's father, the train footage, and the path through the woods, then what I'd learned so far about the man from the porch. I'm still talking as I sit at the front of the station, watching the doors to see if any of the officers leave.

  “Holy shit,” she says once I finish.

  “Yeah, that's pretty much the place I'm in right now, too.”

  “Is Eric going to tell the rest of the team about any of this?” she asks.

  “No. I don't want to get Creagan involved. Not yet, anyway. It might not be anything, and I don't want to blow the entire investigation by acting too soon. There's not enough to go on yet.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “I will. Look, I've got to go,” I tell her, starting to climb out of the car.

  “Okay. Call me later.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  I feel a twinge of guilt at not being totally honest with her about the man on the porch, but I push it away. She's already worried enough. Besides, without knowing who he is or how he ended up on the porch, I don't know what kind of danger I could put Bellamy in by telling her. I learned a long time ago that information could be deadly. I can't put her at risk.

  The receptionist looks up at me as I end the lobby and let the door swing closed behind me.

  “Can I help you, Ms. Monroe?” she asks.

  “I just need to talk with Chief LaRoche,” I tell her.

  My eyes automatically swing over to the door, waiting for his usual appearance right after I summon him. But this time, the door stays closed.

  “He isn't in the office right now. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No. Is Nicolas available?”

  “Officer Greene is in the back. I'll see if he can take a minute to speak with you.”

  “I'm sure he can. Thank you,” I say.

  I slip past her and through the door into the back before she has a chance to stop me. Nicolas comes through a door as I'm heading down the hallway at a fast enough clip to avoid Esther. I do not put it past her to snatch me by the back of the coat if she can catch up.

  “Ms. Monroe? What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I'm sorry, Officer Greene. I didn't think she would just come back,” Esther says.

  “I have a few questions I need to ask you,” I say.

  “I believe asking questions is my job,” he frowns.

  “Actually, it's Chief LaRoche's job, but he's not here, so I'm going to have to settle for you. Besides, I'm not trying to do your job. I just want to settle my own curiosity,” I say.

  And do my job.

  He stares at me for a few seconds like he's trying to decide what to do, then nods.

  “What is it you want to know?” he asks, gesturing into the room he just left.

  I follow him into what turns out to be a small conference room and sit in one of the gray chairs at a round table.

  “The woman whose body was found by the train tracks. What can you tell me about her?” I ask.

  Nicolas's eyes narrow.

  “Why do you want to know that?” he asks.

  “Like I said, curiosity. You have to know the disappearances and murders are big news. And since I got wrapped up in it all the night I got here, I'm interested in finding out more,” I tell him.

  “We already told you that man's shooting was a random event. It didn't have anything to do with the other case,” he says.

  “Are you absolutely certain about that?” I try to needle him, to get him to reveal any bit of information I can use. Shooting? That’s new. “It seems to me you don't even know who that man really is, much less why he was here. So how can you totally discount his being the responsibility of the same killer?”

  “The other victims all have ties to the area. Cristela Jordan came from the next town over and was well-known in town. She was up at Jake's bar most weekends. Ron Murdock is a stranger. They have nothing to do with each other.” He leans across the table toward me. “Look, Ms. Monroe. I can understand your interest. But I assure you, there's nothing for you to worry about. The shooting was an unfortunate accident. It doesn't have anything to do with the other cases. As for those, the investigation is ongoing, and we can't discuss it. Just know we are zeroing in on the truth.”

  His voice sounds slimy and insincere. It's the way officers talk when they don't want to admit to someone who has already confronted them that they haven't gotten any further. But something he said stands out to me.

  “An unfortunate accident?” I ask.

  “What else could it be?” he asks, but not before a flicker of undecipherable emotion crosses his eyes. “Cold weather means easy shots around here. But hunters don't want to admit they're out when the deer aren't in season.”

  “So, you think a hunter accidentally shot him?” I ask.

  “It's the only explanation that makes sense.” He nods and stands, starting toward the door. “Now that you've gotten your answer, I need to be getting back to work.”

  I don't point out that he didn't actually answer my question.

  “Sure. Um. Where is the chief?” I ask casually.

  “He got called away from the office.”

  I nod and smile. “I guess that's part of the job.”

  As I follow him out of the conference room, I notice a large board on the wall. It's covered with pictures of the missing people and the crime scenes. I have most of them, but I pause to look at it. A few images look like they were taken in the days after the official crime scene photos. My eyes scan over the pictures and the notes scribbled on them. A timeline in black marker at the bottom of the board stands out to me. I glance up and see that Nicolas is leaned out of the door, talking to someone down the hall. Snapping a picture of the timeline as fast as I can, I shove my phone back into my pocket. The next second, he looks in at me.

  “That's part of the investigation, Ms. Monroe. I'm going to have to ask you to move along now,” he says.

  I flash him a smile. “No problem. Thanks for your help.”

  Esther peers at me over her glasses as I scurry past her out of the station.

  My next stop is the hotel a few towns over, where Murdock checked in. The woman behind the desk could be a younger version of Esther and is looking at me with about as much trust.

  “The footage was turned over to police,” she tells me.

  “I know. But it was saved on the cloud, wasn't it? You could just access it from the computer.”

  “Are you with the police?”

  “I am definitely not with the police,” I tell her.

  “Then what's your fascination with the camera footage?”

  “Ma'am, he died on my porch. I'd like to know what he looked like before that.”

  I probably could have used more tact, but this is the place I'm in. It seems to work. The woman's face goes pale, and her eyes widen. She scurries into the office, and I'm fairly certain she's going to come back with the manager to chase me out. At least if they call the police, I have a good chance of just being brought right back to the station. I can even see if LaRoche is back. I hear voices across the lobby and look up, ducking out of the way behind the wall beside the desk just in time.

  No need to get myself arrested to see LaRoche again. He's right here at the hotel with a very blonde, very young woman teetering on ill-fitting heels and his every word. I stay out of sight while I watch them cross from the elevator to a side door tucked in an alcove. He looks different, not in his uniform, but it is definitely the chief. Pulling her up against him, he leans down for a long kiss. It ends suddenly, and LaRoche reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone and putting it to his ear. His face darkens, and he mutters something I can't hear, but I also can't imagine is pleasant.

  “Ma'am?”

  I peek around the wall to see the woman has come back to the desk. Glancing over at LaRoche, I see him say something to the girl and slam through the door out into the parking lot. The woman behind the desk gives me a curious look as I slide back into place in front of her. There's no manager at her side, but she is holding a tiny white computer.

  “I thought I saw someone I know,” I offer with a smile. “But I'm not sure. Do you have any guests from Feathered Nest here today?”

  She shakes her head. “Not in the last few weeks. Most recent check-in is a lady says she's from New Jersey.”

  “Says?” I ask. “You don't check identification?”

  The woman shakes her head. “Not usually. No need when people pay cash. It's not like I'm running a five-star resort here. Just a place for people to lay their heads.”

  Or something.

  I glance back toward the door. The blonde I'm guessing at least pretends to hail from New Jersey is gone. Turning back to the clerk, I gesture at the computer.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. I'm still not sure if I should show it to you.”

  “Did the police tell you not to?” I ask.

  “Well… no,” she frowns.

  “Then, what's the harm? I just want a quick look.”

  She turns the screen toward me and clicks the mouse pad to start the video clip. I lean against the counter and watch the same woman moving around behind the desk. The angle of the camera shows her back and the top of her head, giving the perfect vantage point for the front door. After a few seconds of her dusting, sifting papers around, and watering a plant that has since been moved to the other side of the desk, the door opens. The man walks in, and my breath catches in my throat. He's wearing the same clothes he was in when he landed on my porch. Glancing at the bottom of the screen, I note the time stamp.