It makes me wonder why she was dropped on the tracks to be ground up by a train, but the man was relieved of several of his limbs and then what was left was deposited by the tracks. One in Virginia; one in North Carolina. The line that separated the two states wasn't extremely obvious, but that made me even more curious if whoever did this realized what they were doing by disposing of the bodies where they did. The only thing that linked the two bodies to the rest of the disappearances was that all ten victims were from Feathered Nest or the next town over. It seems strange for ten people to go missing in small-town Virginia, only for one to be found brutally murdered a few yards over the state line.

  But that's what brought in the Bureau. Whoever did this, made a serious mistake with those few feet. They brought me here.

  “I just don't want to think too much of it,” I say into the phone later that night, after I finish examining the site and return to the cabin.

  “Why not?” Bellamy asks. “He sounds just about perfect.”

  I pull open the top drawer of the dresser and take out a pair of thick, fluffy socks.

  “He's not perfect. He's good looking and has an amazing smile. He's sweet and attentive. He's funny. He wants to take care of the people around him…”

  “You're not really making your case here, Emma.”

  “He's a great guy, but it doesn't feel right.”

  I go to shut the drawer, but something stops it. I jiggle the handle of the drawer and try to force it back, but it won't move.

  “What's going on?” she asks, obviously hearing me fight with the drawer.

  “There's something stuck in the drawer. I can't get it to close.” I reach into the drawer and to the very back so I can feel along it. My fingers hit something, and I pull it out. “Got it.”

  “What was it?” she asks.

  “A thimble,” I tell her, looking it over carefully before setting it on top of the dresser.

  “That place is full of all kinds of surprises, isn't it?” she asks.

  “I guess you could say that,” I tell her.

  “Which is exactly why you need to be more open about Jake.”

  “I'm not sure I see the connection between a thimble and Jake,” I say.

  “Not the thimble,” she insists. “The surprise. Maybe he showed up in your life to help you through everything. He's a bright spot for you when you really need it. Now's the time for you to realize there are more hearts out there, more men. If there's anyone in this world who deserves to just stop thinking and start enjoying a connection with someone else, it's you.”

  I hear someone knocking on the front door and head into the living room.

  “Someone's at the door,” I tell her. I peer through the window and can't believe what I'm seeing. “Bellamy, I'm going to have to call you back. Jake is at my door with takeout.”

  “Then open it!”

  “This isn’t me, Bellamy. I don’t fall for people like this,” I say.

  “No, it isn’t you! It’s Emma Monroe! This could be exactly what you need. You’re undercover, right? Let that version enjoy being in control for a little while.”

  Chapter Seven

  I am trying to shower off the foggy effects of another night with no more than two hours of sleep as I work on the case, but the sound of my phone ringing incessantly drives me out from under the water. After hearing about the near-hanging, and another woman going missing a few towns over that isn’t confirmed but might be linked to these cases, Bellamy and Eric have reached epic proportions of worry in the last few days.

  But I'm not going to let it stop me. I'm going to figure this out. I can feel it. There are just a few pieces missing, and once I find them, this will all be over. But in order to do that, these two need to leave me alone and let me breathe for ten minutes.

  Getting out of the shower, I snatch my towel off the hook on the back of the door and wrap it around me. My last call was from Bellamy, so I expect it's Eric's turn now. But when I grab the phone off the counter, it's neither of their names on the screen. Unless I've been standing in the shower for several hours, it's still before dawn, so I'm shocked by the call. Holding my towel in place with one hand, I push the button to connect.

  “Jake?”

  “I've been calling you for the last twenty minutes,” he starts, almost accusingly.

  “I was in the shower. But it's also not even daylight yet. What's going on?” I ask.

  Knowing I'm not going to be able to make it back into the shower, I release my towel and reach in to turn off the water. Within seconds the temperature in the bathroom drops. My wet skin intensifies the cold, which at least helps to wake me up.

  “I need you,” he says.

  That's a sentence a lot of women long to hear murmured to them in the dark of night. But not in that tone.

  “Jake, what is going on?” I ask again.

  “Something horrible happened. Can you meet me at the bar? Please, Emma.”

  Emotion cracks in his voice. He sounds like he's right on the edge, and my training to diffuse tense situations kicks in.

  “Alright, Jake. I just got out of the shower, so it will take me a few minutes to get ready. But I'll be there as soon as I can. Is there anything I can bring you?” I ask in a slow, calming voice.

  “No. Just you. Please, hurry.”

  The call disconnects, and a chill runs through me. Forgoing the stretch pants and sweatshirt I initially brought with me into the bathroom, I rush out of the dissipating steam and into the bedroom. I dress in layers to ward off the biting cold of the early morning air and blast my hair with a blow dryer before rushing out of the cabin.

  The drive into town feels longer than it should. The curving driveway and twisting road unfurls in front of me but never seems to get any shorter. Jake's voice was frightening, and my mind is jumbled with different scenarios of what could be happening. Halfway there, icy snowflakes drift down and land on the windshield.

  When I finally get onto the main street, I notice Jake standing outside of the bar. He’s leaning against his car with his arms folded tightly over his chest, staring down at his scuffed boots like he's lost to the rest of the world. I pull up in front of his car, and when I'm within a few steps of him, he looks up. As soon as he realizes it's me, Jake rushes toward me, gathering me tightly in his arms and burying his head in my neck. I'm startled but wrap my arms around him and run my hand over strands of long, glossy hair chilled by standing outside in the ice.

  “My father's grave,” he whispers, struggling to get the words out. “They destroyed my father's grave.”

  “What? Who?”

  I take his shoulders and guide him back away from me so I can look into his face. Bloodshot eyes flash back and forth like they can't find anything to rest on. His hands still clench around me. He seems afraid to let go. Snowflakes cling to the tips of his eyelashes and brush his cheeks like they did the first time we stood in the snow. He was gorgeous then. Now he looks drawn and about to crack.

  “I don't know. The police just called me. They got a report and went to the cemetery. I want to go see what happened. Will you come with me?” he asks.

  “Come with you? To the cemetery?”

  “Yes. The police are there, and I want to know what's going on.”

  “Maybe that isn't the best idea,” I tell him. “They're investigating.”

  “Which is exactly why I should be there. That's my father, Emma. I'm the only one to speak for him. I want to make sure they're respecting him. I need you there with me,” he pleads.

  It feels strange, uncomfortable in its disruptive intimacy, but there's so much desperation in his voice I nod.

  “Of course. I'll go.”

  “Thank you.”

  He takes my hand and rushes me around to the passenger door. His hands wrap so tightly around the wheel as he drives that his knuckles turn white. The tendons along the sides of his neck are taut, pressing against his skin so hard they look like they might snap. I want to say something, but don't know what. I'm still not entirely sure what's going on, and I don't want to push Jake any further.

  After a few minutes, we leave the main part of town and head into the outskirts. A massive black iron gate looms ahead. With pointed tips and closely arranged bars, the gate is a cemetery cliché I wasn't expecting. Feathered Nest is so small I was expecting a tiny graveyard behind the church or even a family plot tucked in a field somewhere. Instead, the cemetery looks like it contains the final resting places of every citizen who has ever lived within the town.

  Set on a gently sloping hill, hundreds of stones, from ancient crumbling monoliths to humble flat markers, fill the grass. But it's hard to focus on any of them with the red and blue lights flashing from the police car parked at the edge of the road.

  Jake doesn't even bother to pull up behind the car. He stops his car haphazardly with the nose pointed toward the cemetery gate and the back still hanging in the road before throwing off his seatbelt and tumbling out onto the frozen grass.

  As I move to follow him, something tugs on the cuff of my pants. I reach down and feel a piece of metal sticking out from the bottom of the seat that had snagged the fabric. As I release it, my hand hits something under the seat, and an umbrella rolls out. The snow is falling harder, so I grab the umbrella before climbing out of the car to follow Jake.

  He's already through the gate and stumbling through the stones. I try to rush to catch up with him, but the ice-glazed grass is slick beneath my feet, and I struggle to stay upright. As I make my way through the grave markers, I notice the yard doesn't seem arranged like others, in sections designated by time. Instead, the graves are interspersed, so the eras of the town mingle with each other. Stones of people from a century ago are right against those only there for a matter of months.

  It's why I find Jake leaned against a Celtic cross-shaped stone weathered smooth and sinking into the dirt. His hand grips the side of the stone, but his knees look like they're going to buckle under him. Ahead of him, three men move slowly around the tattered ground. Clods of dirt and torn-up grass scatter the plots around the gaping grave. The stone that stood at the head of the grave lies in three pieces.

  Everything in me wants to walk up to the officers meandering around and ask what's happening. But I have to remember they don't know me as a federal agent. They've already made it clear they don't want anyone interfering with the happenings in their town, and I don't think they'd respond kindly to me sticking myself into this. I have to force myself to stand back and glean what I can from the distance.

  I slide my hand along Jake's back. “I'm so sorry.”

  “Who would do something like this?” he asks. “Why would they do this to my father?”

  I shake my head. “It might just be stupid kids. Teenagers like to pull stupid pranks and destroy things because they think it makes them seem cool, or some stupid shit like that. For some reason, they really like to target graves, but…”

  “They took his body.”

  The words send a chill down my spine.

  “What?”

  “His body, Emma. It's gone. My father isn't in his grave. Whoever desecrated it took his body.”

  Somehow his voice sounds stronger like his shock has reached an intensity that forced his brain to shut down. I've seen it happen many times before. Jake's here. But he's not processing it anymore. I open the umbrella and tuck it into his hand before walking over to the nearest officer. I don't care what they think anymore.

  “This is a crime scene,” the thin man says. He turns to me. I remember his name is Nicolas. “You can't be here.”

  “What happened here?” I ask, ignoring his warning.

  “That's what we're trying to figure out, Ms. Monroe. Now, if you'll step aside.”

  I do, but not in the direction he wants. Instead, I move closer to the dug-up grave.

  “I'm here for Jake. If you haven't noticed, no one is talking to him. Don't you think he has the right to know who did this to his father's grave?”

  I hazard a glance down. Frozen grass and clumps of dirt lay on the splintered casket. Moisture from years below ground has discolored the satin lining and made it pull away from the corners of the lid. But in some places, there are still signs of where the body crushed down into the casket and left its permanent impression.

  “Like I said, we are trying to figure that out right now. Until we know something, there's nothing for us to tell him. But this really shouldn't surprise him.”

  Nicolas turns away, but I step up to him and grab his shoulder to stop him.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “You can't touch me like that,” he frowns.

  “Yes, I can. You're a police officer, not the pope. As long as I don't assault you, I can touch you. What was that crack supposed to mean?”

  “Ask your boyfriend. The two of you need to get out of here. We'll get in touch with Jake if we need to.”

  He turns away, and I walk back to Jake.

  “Come on. Let's get you home. You look like you need a shower and something to eat,” I say.

  “No. I'm not leaving until they know who did this and where my father is,” he says back through gritted teeth.

  “Jake, we need to go. This is an investigation now, and we're just going to be in the way.”

  “I'm not in the way. My father needs me.”

  “They are doing everything they can. You're not going to be any good if you don't take care of yourself. Let me take you home. I'll make you some food and tuck you into bed. You'll feel better after you get some sleep.”

  Jake looks up at me like he's going to argue, but in an instant, the ferocity drains out of his eyes, and he nods. Just before we head out of the cemetery, I have a thought.

  Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I quickly snap a few pictures of the grave. Two of the officers catch me and start to say something, but I steer Jake around, and we head back to his car. The keys are still in the ignition, and I climb behind the wheel to drive him back to his house.

  Chapter Eight

  I'm most of the way through my second cup of coffee, and the shower is still running down the hallway. Jake didn't say anything to me when we got to the house. He got out of the car and walked inside like he almost forgot I was there. The only sign of acknowledgement that I was still with him was the door standing open. By the time I got inside and locked it behind me, he was already in the bathroom, and I could hear the water. I take the last swallow of my coffee as I stare through the kitchen window at the snippets of the horizon visible through the trees. The vibrant colors of the sun coming up illuminate those spaces, creating patchwork against the sky.

  It reminds me of the quilt my grandmother kept draped over the back of her couch when I was a little girl. It's a distant memory. Like I told Jake, I didn't get much time to spend with my grandparents when I was younger. But even with my memories of my grandmother few and far between, that quilt stands out in my mind. She called it a crazy quilt. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized that was actually the name of the pattern. Or lack of pattern. It basically just meant she kept a bag stuffed full of all the scraps and remnants of fabric from every sewing project she did. Sometimes when a dress or shirt of hers got worn out or stained, she'd cut that up and add it to the bag, too. When it was full enough, she took all those scraps and pieced them together in whatever order they came out of the bag when she reached inside. Those turned into her crazy quilts.

  By the time I figured that out, she was gone, and I never got to ask her what happened to all the other quilts magically born from that scrap-stuffed bag. I only ever remember seeing that one. Most of the scraps must have come from the same project or recycled garment. Bright shades of orange and yellow interspersed with a few pale blues and white all stitched together and backed in plain black.

  Thinking about the quilt makes me feel chilly. My outer layer of clothing got damp in the snow, so it's tumbling around in the dryer to warm back up. This leaves me in only the leggings and tight shirt I had on beneath. I sit my mug down, shuffling over to the closet door in the middle of the hallway. Inside I find a stack of blankets and take one out to wrap around my shoulders. Down the hallway, I hear something along with the sound of the water. I think its Jake's voice. He definitely strikes me as the type to sing in the shower in good circumstances. But these aren't good circumstances. And the voice doesn't sound like it's singing. It's more muttering, mumbling just beneath the sound of the stream coming down from the showerhead.

  I take a few steps closer to the bathroom to try to see if I can understand what he's saying, then turn sharply away. He's going through a hard enough time right now without me being nosy. If that is him in the shower talking to himself, I can't really blame him. If there's anything I know, it's having to try to wrap my brain around something that seems so nonsensical, and at the same time, so horrible.

  Back in the kitchen, I refill my mug and carry it with me into the living room so I can curl up on the couch. The warm recesses of the blanket take away the chill on my skin quickly, but I can't shake the feeling from what Nicolas said in the cemetery. No one in town seems to have any ill will toward Jake. In fact, he's adored. There hasn't been a single day I've spent with him when he hasn't had a dozen or more people want to stop and talk to him. It's hard to reconcile that with the horrifying desecration of his father's grave. And the way they could have talked about it as if it was somehow expected, or even justified.

  A thick book with a dark green leather cover catches my eye where it's sitting on the bottom shelf of a small bookcase. Picking it up, I take it with me back to the couch and open it across my folded legs. It's a picture album, one of the old-fashioned style ones, with each picture tucked carefully into little black paper corners. Much of the open space on each page is filled with delicate gray ink. Captions and notes in ornate, tightly spaced handwriting. It makes me think of mosquitoes spread out across the paper.