“But the injuries on her body,” Bellamy points out. “Wouldn't they have realized they were from a train and not a person?”

  “I believe she was tortured. There were injuries on her body consistent with knife wounds and blunt force that happened prior to death. That tells me the police noticed those injuries and just went with their first assumption. It happens more often than people would like to think,” I tell her. “If I'm right, that means she might have survived and gotten to help. Her getting hit by that train might be the only reason the killer’s still out there.”

  “Why do you say that like you know more than what you're telling me?” she asks.

  “Someone might have shot at me today,” I tell her.

  “What?” she snaps.

  I pull the phone away from my face, cringing at the high pitch of her voice, then tell her about the shooting at the hotel.

  “It seems like someone feels like I'm getting too close. And I'm pretty sure I know exactly who that is,” I say.

  “Then you need to call the police,” Bellamy insists.

  My hurried steps have brought me onto the path that weaves through the train tracks, and I'm only a few feet from the tree with the dog collar.

  “I can't,” I tell her.

  “What do you mean you can't?” she asks. “If you know who killed those people, you have to tell them. That's the whole reason you were put on this job.”

  I get to the tree and touch my fingertips to the dig in the bark where the chain used to be. My heart sinks. Crouching down, I dig through the cold, wet leaves hoping the metal just gave way, and the collar would still be there. But it's not. I let out a sigh.

  “I can't tell the police because the man responsible for the murders is the police chief,” I say.

  “Shit.”

  “And he knows I'm on to him. He was at the hotel right before the shooting and showed up seconds after it happened, acting like he didn't know anything. And he came back for the dog collar in the woods. He knows and doesn't want me to be able to piece it together.”

  “You don't have to piece it together. You already have enough. Call Creagan and get them there,” Bellamy insists.

  I shake my head, pushing the leaves back into place, so it looks like they weren't disturbed. I don't want LaRoche coming back through here and notice I've come this way and realized the collar is missing.

  “I can't call them yet.”

  “Emma, look where you are. It is pitch black, and you’re tromping through the frozen woods on the heels of a murderer. I know you want to prove yourself and make up for the last time, but this isn't the way to do it. Putting your life on the line to make a point isn't worth it. The FBI can come in with a team that will end this, and you'll get to walk out of it alive.”

  “That's just the thing,” I reply. “My life is on the line, right now, already. I don't have enough to call Creagan. A hunch and some evidence won't get them very far. I need something far more concrete to convince them to come all the way out here and further the investigation. If they raise up a fuss now, it will tip LaRoche off, and if they can't nail him, more people will die. Possibly including me. I can't risk that. I have to have a solid case to hand them, and then I'll let them take it.”

  “You will?” she begs.

  “Yes. As soon as I can give them all the evidence they need to arrest LaRoche and investigate the disappearance and murders, I'll happily pass it along and step back to watch Eric and Company tie it up in a nice little bow,” I promise.

  “I don't know if I'm convinced.”

  A twig snaps in the distance. That's one of those sounds you think you know enough that it won't startle you. It seems familiar and mundane, a simple cracking sound that could mean something as simple as an animal passing through or a coating of ice breaking through a weak twig. It's not until you hear it in the silent black distance, and the awareness of a presence settles onto your skin like a fine mist that you know how chilling that sound can really be.

  “Bellamy,” I lower my voice, “I need you to not talk.”

  “That's just because you know I'm right. You don't want to listen to me, and you don't want to hear it, but you know I'm right,” she says.

  I shake my head and put my finger across my lips to quiet her.

  “Someone else is here,” I whisper. “Stay with me. Don’t say a word. I'm going to turn off my screen.”

  Pressing the button on the side of my phone, I make the screen go black. Turning my flashlight off sends me into total darkness, but that's what I need. If LaRoche is out there, I don't want to make it any easier for him to find me. There's no need to send up tracking beams through the dark woods. Keeping Bellamy on the line is my security. She can't see me anymore, but she can hear everything that's happening. I trust her to listen to the sound of my breath and the speed of my footsteps. I can't say anything to her. I can't tell her where I am or what's happening. But I can hold the phone close so she can hear me breathe. I can make sure if something goes wrong, I won't be one of the missing. Not for long. She will know where I was and all my suspicions.

  I can't move too quickly. Running will make me lose control of the sound my feet make on the dry leaves and sticks that litter the ground. I can’t afford that. I need to stay aware of what's around me. I need to be able to hear what might be coming toward me and sense movement in the dark skeletons of the trees. Through the phone, I can hear Bellamy trying to keep her breath steady.

  The next stick snaps closer to me, and something rustles in the leaves. I don't let myself look. Every second is another second I could be closer to the safety of the cabin, and that has to be my focus. With nothing but the glow of the moon and the meager starlight filtering through the tree branches, I follow the memory of my steps to make my way back through the woods, hoping I don’t accidentally run into the lake. The cold is intense now, biting at my exposed skin and sinking through my skin and into my bones.

  I feel eyes on my back. It's an unmistakable feeling I thought I knew before going into the Bureau but learned so much more acutely in the field. It's a feeling I can only believe is a throwback to our ancestors when being watched meant a predator was nearby. It's what I feel now. I'm being hunted.

  In the distance, I see a faint glow. It's like one of the stars overhead but shimmering through the trees. As I move closer, it gets bigger, and the air rushes out of my lungs when I realize it's the light on the side of the cabin. Now I can run.

  Turning the screen back on my phone, I use the light to guide me through the thick undergrowth until I reach the porch.

  “Bellamy?” I say loudly when I get to the front of the cabin. “I'm back.”

  As I unlock the front door to the cabin, something moves out of the corner of my eye. I look to the side just in time to see a shadow sink back toward the darkness of the woods.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Are you okay? Emma, tell me you're okay.”

  I have to give it to her; at least Bellamy made it until I was inside the cabin, and the door was locked behind me to panic.

  “I'm fine. I'm back inside my cabin now,” I tell her.

  “Was it him? Was he following you?” she asks.

  “I don't know for sure. I didn't see him. But it definitely sounded like somebody was out there with me.”

  “You need to stay inside at night until this is all over with,” she says. “You're all alone out there.”

  “I wasn't alone. I had you,” I reply.

  She scoffs.

  “I'm several hundred miles away from you. What is it you expect me to do? All the good I would be for is pinpointing the moment you were killed. That's not helpful.”

  “It depends on how you look at it,” I say.

  “Well, how I look at it is I'd much rather my best friend get back here alive. That means proving this LaRoche guy kidnapped and killed those people, siccing the FBI on him, and getting the hell out of there before you end up another notch on his belt.”

  “I don't think he actually adds notches to his belt for every person he kills,” I muse. “That wouldn't make for a very subtle approach.”

  I'm trying to calm her down, to make her feel better. It doesn't work.

  “I'm serious, Emma. You agreed to go undercover to investigate and do what the local police force weren’t doing. Not to hunt this guy down yourself. You need to get your job done and come home.”

  “As soon as I know I have enough, I'll call the team in. Until then, I promise I'll be as careful as I can.”

  “I guess that's the best I'm going to get,” she sighs. “Just make sure you really are careful.”

  I get off the phone and head to the bathroom to take a shower. The feeling the scrutinizing eyes watching me hasn't completely left my skin, and I make sure the shade is pulled down tightly over the window above before undressing. I'm not used to feeling vulnerable in a space that supposed to belong to me, even temporarily. I'm the type to shower with the door open because it means one less obstacle between getting out and getting on with my day. But I've also never been in quite this position. I've always had the comfort of knowing the rest of my team is close by. Even when I'm the only one in the building, or it seems to others watching that I'm alone, I know I'm not. There are always agents close enough to get to me within a matter of seconds. Not tonight. After six months out of the field, I'm truly by myself, and for the first time in my adult life, I lock the bathroom door before taking my shower.

  The thought of being watched in the woods and the locked door makes me angry as I stand under the stream of water so hot it stings my skin. I hate the thought of anyone having that power over me. He shouldn't have the power to make me afraid.

  I step out of the shower and unlock the door. When I'm done, I get into my pajamas. Not wanting to leave the warm steam of the bathroom and enter the cold cabin with wet hair, I blast it with my hairdryer. Finally, as close to warm as I think I'm going to get until I'm totally dry, I head into the living room and curl up on the couch.

  I stay there for most of the night, going through the pictures and all the notes I've taken. I need to piece this together. I take out the picture of Cristela Jordan, thinking again about just how similar she looks to the blonde woman draped over Chief LaRoche at the hotel. It could be a coincidence. Or it could be a pattern.

  When I can't keep my eyes open anymore, I bury myself in a pile of blankets on the bed and fall into an almost instant sleep. My father always used to tell me that dreams are our brain’s way of entertaining ourselves during the long hours of sleep. While our bodies go about the work of repairing themselves and preparing for the next day, all our thoughts and impulses come together to create little stories to tell us.

  That's not what these dreams are. This isn't entertainment or even a sequential story. I dream in flashes of thought, memory, and sensation. It's real enough to taste the damp earth of the woods on the back of my tongue when I take a deep breath and feel the cold claw with stinging precision along my skin.

  The same things repeat in my mind over and over again. I see Cristela's face in the slightly blurry image published in newspapers. An instant later, it melts away into the battered, mangled remnants left at the side of the train track. From there, my mind wanders over to Andrea Layne. They look so similar. Not in any way that's unique or special. In fact, their similarity is in their normalcy. Both tall and thin. Both well-endowed beneath tight clothing. Both old enough to have started the experience of life. Both young enough for it to hurt a little more to think about their deaths.

  I snap awake as the image of red-tipped fingers stroking along LaRoche's skin turn to droplets of blood. I know what I have to do.

  I get dressed as quickly as I can and grab a bagel to bring with me on the way. The morning air is crisp and chilly, but I don’t mind. I get into my car and drive off.

  Three cars parked at different strategic points in the lot make the hotel look almost busy in comparison to the way it was when I visited yesterday. There are no signs of the shooting. Not that there would be. There were only two shots, and they didn't hit anything. That's something I never quite get over. After my years in the Bureau and knowing what my father experienced during his own service, crime is rarely a truly shocking thing to me. It's just a part of my everyday life. I have learned over time to live alongside it.

  Some agents are able to completely push thoughts of the horrific people they encounter out of their minds. It's like they have strong metal safes inside their head and when it's time to go home after work, they're able to just stuff everything inside and close the door. That's not me. Every case I've worked, every person I've encountered has affected me in some way. Not that it's broken me down or made me question that I chose the right career path. More so, it just makes me look at people and things a little differently. That's why I am always a little surprised when I visit a crime scene again and realize it has gone right back to what it was before that moment in time.

  It's the opposite of crime scenes left bloody or strewn with lingering remnants of police investigations. Instead of the shock of seeing the pieces of the horror left behind, there is the eerie feeling of seeing no reminder at all. There should be something. Crime makes an impact. It leaves a scar on the atmosphere of the place where it happened. People should be able to feel it. When there's nothing, it's like life has layered on top of that scar, glossing it over.

  But there's only one reason I'm back at this hotel, and it has nothing to do with the two bullets that came flying at me. Cristela is still on my mind, and I need to answer a question burning in my thoughts.

  Rather than going right through the doors into the lobby, I walk past and glance to the side through the glass. If Mirna is in her place behind the counter, I don't want to just walk inside. She's not there, but I quickly remember the security camera directed at the door. If I just walk inside, it will record me, and I don't want that to happen. Continuing around the side of the hotel, I walk past the door that must be connected to the alcove where I saw Andrea and LaRoche. I go around the corner to the back and through an empty parking lot. This many spaces seems extremely optimistic for a hotel this far away from everything.

  A middle-aged man in a housekeeping uniform leans against the brick back wall smoking a cigarette and staring out into the distance. He's wearing short sleeves, but the temperature doesn't seem to bother him. I go back around the corner to prevent him from seeing me and listen. A few moments later, I hear a chastising voice, and when I peek back around the corner, the man is gone. Making my way quickly along the back wall, I look for the door I hope is at the end of the long hallway to the side of the counter. It's there, but it's locked, a card reader positioned at the side to allow guests to let themselves in.

  I could go back around to the front of the hotel, but I can't risk Mirna seeing me and wondering why I'm here. Instead, I take my chances. If anyone is nearby, my knock will probably startle the hell out of them. With any luck, the man guilted back inside from his smoke break is still nearby.

  I tap lightly on the glass. The door opens, and he peers out at me. I force a smile that I hope looks apologetic and believable.

  “Hi, I'm so sorry, I must have left my key in my room, and my sister isn't answering her phone,” I say.

  He looks at me for a few scrutinizing seconds, and I rub my hands together. As if he's first noticing the cold, he nods and steps back, holding the door for me.

  “Come into the heat,” he instructs.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I scoot past him and take the few steps to dip into the stairwell. Peering out of the pane of glass set into the center of the door, I wait for him to go back into the room standing open, then slip out. I don't hesitate but rush past the room toward the lobby. Just before going around the corner, I drop down to my knees so I can crawl behind the counter out of sight of the camera.

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter to myself.

  Mirna still isn't behind the counter, but I doubt I have much time. She won't leave the lobby unattended all day. Pulling up onto the balls of my feet in front of the drawers, I tug on the one where I saw Mirna get the registration book. Unlike the door, the drawer isn't secured. The metal screeches slightly as it grinds together. I cringe and open the drawer the rest of the way so I can reach inside. My fingers touch the edge of the book just as I hear Mirna's voice in the office.

  I grab out the book, close the drawer, and scramble my way back into the hallway. Holding the book under my arm, I run to the end of the hall and into the stairwell. Once behind the door, I start flipping the pages, scanning the registration cards to find the right range of dates. Before I get a chance to find exactly what I need, a door opens above me, and footsteps head down the stairs.

  Of course, now is the time for one of Mirna's handful of guests to decide to be health-conscious and use the stairs rather than hopping in the elevator.

  I meant to come here and snap a few pictures the way I did yesterday, leaving the book behind so no one would be the wiser. Instead, I find myself tucking the entire thing under my arm and running for the door at the end of the hall. Maybe Creagan was right. Maybe I have lost my touch. Maybe everything going on with my father and with Greg took something out of me.

  I make it out unseen. Tossing the book onto the passenger seat, I drive out of the parking lot and head back down the road.

  My curiosity lures me into the parking lot of a tiny hamburger stand at the side of the road, and I yank the book over into my lap. Flipping through the pages again as my eyes scan over the registration cards, my hand suddenly stops, and a smile comes to my lips.

  Creagan was wrong. I haven't lost anything.