She would get her mother. Her mother would know what to do to make him feel better. She almost got to her feet before she remembered. She couldn't get her mother. Her mother wasn't there anymore and was never going to be again. She wasn't a little child, but she felt like one. There was no other way to feel. She walked down the steps and sat on the floor to cry next to her father.

  She didn't know she fell asleep until she woke up the next morning in a bed she didn't recognize. This wasn't home. This wasn't where she slept just the night before. Sunlight streaming through the window told her it wasn't really morning anymore, and the smell of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup said she missed breakfast but was getting her favorite lunch. She hated getting out of bed and not knowing where to walk. This wasn't the first time it happened to her, and deep inside, she knew it wasn't going to be the last. There was no permanence. There was nothing she could hold onto long enough for it to really feel like hers.

  Even the sunlight changed. From place to place, wherever they went, the sun wasn't the same. Sometimes it was hot and strong, stinging on her skin and warming the ground beneath her feet. Sometimes it was weak and milky, seeming to barely even get all the way down to the ground before fading out. And sometimes it was a trick, looking bright and vibrant, but giving no warmth when she walked outside.

  All she had was her family. And now she knew that changed, too.

  Chapter Three

  Now

  “No, I don't know him. No, I don't know who he is and have never seen him before. Yes, I'm sure.”

  I have answered the exact same questions over and over and over and over again. Not that it's a surprise. I've been the one to ask this question so many times before. But I've never stopped to think of just how obnoxious it could be to have someone staring me right in the face and demanding me tell them information I couldn’t possibly give them because I don't know it. I've been standing in the doorway to the rental cabin for over an hour now, watching what amounts to a police department in this tiny little town shift around the front porch and try to make sense out of the body still lying on the wood. The heat from inside keeps the back half of me at least partially warm, but the chill outside keeps getting sharper, and I'm quickly losing patience.

  But at least I'm getting the opportunity to see these men at work. This department is why I was sent to Feathered Nest in the first place. They aren't handling the investigation into the disappearances and murders as they should be and refusing to accept help from any of the agencies and departments in surrounding areas.

  “I'm gonna have to ask you to come down to the station with us and answer a few more questions,” one of the officers tells me.

  He never introduced himself, so I have nothing to call him. His coat covers up his nametag and badge, so for all I know, I'm letting the local chimney sweep investigate the body on my porch. I reach into the cabin to grab my bag and close the door behind me. It feels strange just walking away with the body still there. The paper with my name on it is inside, hidden out of view, and I have no intention of telling the police about it until and unless the right time comes up.

  I follow the officer to his car and climb inside with him. We make our way through the town, and I take the opportunity to look around and try to get a little more familiar with it. Everything seems fairly quiet, like the entire place has already gone to bed, except for one stretch of the main street. Cars fill most of the space for at least a block, and lights pour out onto the sidewalk. I lean forward and point through the driver’s side window at it.

  “What's that?” I ask.

  The officer looks at me like he's shocked I would dare speak to him, then remembers I'm not actually a suspect, and he didn't arrest me. He swallows and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

  “That’s Teddy's. Some people around here call it a bar. Some call it a tavern. It’s a place to go get a bite to eat and a drink at the end of the day. See friends. Maybe even do a little bit of dancing,” he tells me. “It’s owned by a guy named Jake Logan. You'll always see him up there. He doesn't trust even a day to go by without overseeing the bar himself for most of the time. Pretty good man, all considering.”

  “All considering?” I ask.

  The officer laughs. “Just something folks say. Doesn't just about everybody have an 'all considering' in their past?”

  “I guess they do,” I muse.

  A few moments later, we turn into the small parking lot of the police station. He goes along to the side of the building and parks next to one other police car. I get out, and he walks me around to the front of the building so we can go in the main door. An elderly woman looks up from the desk when we walk in.

  “Evening, Esther,” the officer nods.

  “Nicolas, if you're bringing this lady in, use the side door. You know how the chief doesn't like you to bring them through the lobby,” she says.

  “I'm not bringing her in,” the officer, whose name is apparently Nicolas, replies. “Not exactly. She's here to have an interview with the chief.”

  “Well, go on back. He's in his office.”

  I follow the officer through a door behind the desk and along a hallway. He gets to a closed door and raps on it twice before turning the knob and glancing inside.

  “Chief, I have her here.”

  “Come on in,” a gruff voice says.

  Nicolas pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps out of the way so I can go into the office. A large man sits at a desk sipping from a can of soda. He shoves his hand into a bag of potato chips but pulls it out empty and stares at it unhappily. I walk up to the desk, and he stands, brushing off his hands and extending one to me.

  “Chief LaRoche,” he says.

  I take his hand and shake it. He gives the kind of unnecessarily firm handshake men tend to give when they want to exert some sort of dominance. I don't hesitate to give it right back. If there's one thing this man isn't going to do, it's intimidate me. He has no idea I'm here to save his ass, but that doesn't give him an excuse to act like he hung his fucking belt buckle in the sky and called it the moon.

  “Emma… Monroe.”

  I struggle over the name slightly. It's still strange to have my last name different but keep my first name. Sometimes I don't understand Creagan's decisions. A lot of times, I don't understand Creagan's decisions. But he's who determines if I stay in the Bureau or not, so I'll keep following along with them.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Monroe. Why don't you go ahead and have a seat?” He gestures to the chair across the desk from him. I settle in, and he folds his fingers together, placing them on the desk and staring at me for a few silent seconds. “Why don't you tell me what's going on?”

  I suddenly have a feeling like I've come in to talk about a sore throat.

  “I'm not sure what you're asking me,” I tell him.

  “My officers tell me there was an incident out at the house you’re renting,” he says.

  “I guess you could call it an incident. I didn't see what actually happened, so I don't know how exactly to describe it.”

  “You didn't see anything? Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing at all. Not until I opened my door and saw the man fall on the porch.”

  “How long have you been in town?” he asks.

  “I got here less than half an hour before his body showed up on my porch,” I tell the chief.

  “Is that so? And what are you doing in Feathered Nest?”

  Now's the time to start weaving my story, to lay the foundation of who I am and why I'm here so I can better slip into the atmosphere and learn more about it. With a little town like this, it shouldn't come as a surprise for people to be a little suspicious of a new person showing up. Places like this are well-established. Everyone who lives here built their lives with the resources and opportunities created on the backs of their mothers and fathers, and their mothers and fathers before them, and before them. Things stay close here, and new faces are always few and far between.

  “I'm looking to start a new life,” I tell him. “I just got out of a bad situation and need to take some time for myself and decide what I'm going to do next. I have a cousin who lives not too far from here, and she's told me stories of driving through your sweet town, and it sounded exactly like what I'm looking for. Somewhere peaceful and quiet, where I'll have the time to think and where I can feel safe.”

  With the exception of the serial killer running around, I think to myself.

  LaRoche seems to contemplate what I said, then something like a smile bends his lips. The expression doesn't quite get into his watery green eyes. I don't like the feeling he's giving off. It's like the shimmer on top of a pool of oil. Tenuous and morphing. Like every time I look at him, there's something slightly different about the way he's looking back at me or the thoughts going through his mind.

  “Well, it doesn't seem like you're off to a great start, does it?” he asks with an uncomfortable, inappropriate laugh.

  “Am I just about done here?” I ask. “It's been a long trip, and as you can imagine, tonight has been stressful. I'd like to get some sleep.”

  “I have just a few more questions for you,” he says. “You say you don't know the man on the porch.”

  It's not a question, but I shake my head anyway.

  “I don't. Like I said, I just got into town a few minutes before he knocked on my door. I have no idea who he is.”

  “He knocked on your door? I thought you said he was dead when you opened it.” LaRoche says it like he thinks he's caught me up in some sort of lie.

  I narrow my eyes at him slightly.

  “I was inside my cabin checking in with a friend who wanted to make sure I arrived alright. Someone knocked on the door. Since the owner of the cabin wasn't there when I got there, and I didn't meet anyone in town, I figured it was probably them there to welcome me and give me information about the place. I opened the door, and the man fell forward onto the porch.”

  “Dead?” LaRoche asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  “And how did you know that?” he asks.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  “He had no pulse,” I say.

  “How did you know to check his pulse?”

  “In the cupcake baking seminar I attended last summer, a sweet old lady had a heart attack while making caramel filling. She just laid there for the next twenty minutes because no one knew what to do with her. Finally, someone thought to check her pulse and called 9-1-1 when she didn't have one. The paramedics came for her, and that very night the organizers of the seminar stopped all cupcake baking to teach everyone how to properly check a pulse,” I answer, straight-faced.

  LaRoche stares at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm being genuine. When I don't say anything else, he looks down at the paper on his desk.

  “And when you realized he was dead, did you notice anything else about him?”

  “He appeared to be bleeding,” I say.

  “Did you see who did it?” he asks.

  I look at him strangely.

  “I didn't say anyone did anything to him.”

  “Well, if he was bleeding, don't you assume someone did something?” he asks.

  “Not necessarily. The cabin is out in the woods. He could just have easily been attacked by an animal. Or been in an accident.”

  “And you didn't come to any conclusions?”

  “No.”

  He stares at me for a few long seconds, then stands again, offering me another handshake.

  “I appreciate your time. I'll let you know if there's anything else I need from you. Welcome to Feathered Nest. Nicolas?” The door to the office opens, and the younger officer looks in. “Bring Ms. Monroe here somewhere to wait.”

  “To wait?” I ask. “For what?”

  “Until the body has been properly processed and removed from the porch, you can't return to the cabin. I'm sure you understand that. The officer will bring you somewhere comfortable to wait, and I'll let you know when you can return.”

  I'm frustrated as we head out of the station and get back in the officer's car.

  “Bring me to Teddy's,” I tell him.

  “There's a diner that might be a calmer place,” he suggests.

  “That's fine, I'd rather go to Teddy's.”

  I have no interest in sitting around a quiet, empty diner for whoever knows how long it's going to be until they let me go back to the cabin. At least at the bar I have the chance of learning something about the town and the people in it.

  And have a drink. Could definitely use one of those.

  Chapter Four

  Stepping into the dimly lit interior tells me everything I need to know about why people in town would call this place a tavern. It has the feeling of a place a traveler would like to stop and rest. Whether there are actually places to sleep here or not, it's a comfortable place to find yourself when you need a break from the rest of the world.

  Until everyone else there notices you. Dozens of eyes turn to look at me from around the room. The crowd in the bar is far from huge, but their scrutinizing eyes make it seem like I’m out on a stadium stage. I stop just inside the door and look back at them. Unsure of exactly what to do next. A man sitting at a nearby table stands up and comes towards me with a swagger in his walk. I can't tell if the swagger is purposeful or alcohol induced. Possibly a little of both.

  “Well,” he says, hiking up his pants and sucking his front teeth. “Aren't you a pretty one. You must be new around here.”

  “And you must not be,” I retort.

  “Why don't you let me show you around?” he asks, trying to sling an arm around my shoulders.

  I duck out of the way, shaking my head.

  “No thank you. It seems to me you need just about all the guidance you have to get back to your table over there.”

  Some of the other men scattered throughout the bar let out whoops and hollers of delight. The man in front of me goes red in the face. He looks like he's going to say something else, which I'm sure won't be nearly as friendly. A younger man comes up behind him and smacks him hard on the back.

  “That sounds like a good idea, and I'm sure Randy here appreciates the suggestion. Don't you, Randy?” the younger man says jovially.

  The older man blinks at him a few times like the words are having a hard time getting all the way into his head, then he nods.

  “Sure, Jake. I was just trying to welcome her to town.”

  “I know, friendly as you are. But why don't you go on back to your table and I'll take it from here. The missus will probably be sending along your usual ride soon, so I would think you want to make sure you finish up that beer.”

  Randy looks embarrassed and downtrodden as he maneuvers his way back over to his table and plops down into the seat, pulling his beer over to him and nursing it. I look over at the younger man and smile.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Not a problem. I wouldn't want Randy giving you the wrong idea about our town.”

  He starts walking over to the dark wood bar up against the wall at the side of the room. I fall into step behind him. He walks behind the bar, and I slide onto one of the stools still available at the very corner.

  “And what would the wrong idea about your town be?” I ask.

  “That all the men around here are like Randy, who won't even give you two seconds to breathe when you walk into a room,” he shrugs.

  “Then I am glad I don’t have that idea,” I chuckle. “So, Jake. Does that make you Jake Logan, the owner of this place?”

  He looks at me in surprise. “My reputation precedes me. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.”

  “Don’t worry. The police officer I rode over with told me.”

  He laughs. “Police officer, huh? Maybe your reputation should be the one we’re worried about. Quite a way to make a first impression in town.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well, why don’t I get you a drink, and you can tell me about it. Then I’ll decide for myself what kind of rumors I’m going to spread about you among all the townsfolk.”

  “Make it a good beer, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  He takes a glass from the rows lined up on the counter and fills it at one of the taps. The thick, dark brew fills the glass and ends in a perfect head. He slides the glass toward me, and I smile.

  “I’m impressed,” I tell him. “Looks like you might have poured a beer once or twice in your life.”

  “Once or twice,” he echoes with a grin. “I think I was pouring beer before I poured my own milk at breakfast.”

  I take a sip and lick the foam from my lips. “Is that legal?”

  “It is when it’s the police you’re pouring for,” he shrugs.

  I nod. “Funny how laws are flexible like that.”

  Jake tilts his head toward the glass. “You like it?”

  “It’s really good. So, why is it you’ve been skipping nursery school to pull beer?”

  “Well, this was my father’s bar before it was mine. And his father’s before it was his.”

  “Was he Teddy?” I ask, taking another sip.

  “Nope. Teddy was the man my grandfather won it off of in a game of poker,” Jake tells me.

  I laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  Jake shrugs. “Feathered Nest has all kinds of stories.”

  “So, you’ve been here your whole life?” I ask.

  “Oh, no. You’re not going down that path anymore. You can’t avoid it all night. I want to hear about your brush with the law.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a brush with the law. Just an incident involving the law.”

  “Go ahead,” he nods.

  I wait for him to laugh and wave off the story, but when he doesn’t, I let out a sigh.

  “Alright. So, I just got into town. Literally. I was at the place I’m renting for less than half an hour when someone knocked on the door. I assumed it was just the owner of the house because no one had left me information or stayed to meet me or anything. So, I opened the door, and it was definitely not the owner of the house.”