“My family.”

  I'm several pages into the album when Jake comes into the room. I'm so absorbed in the pictures I didn't hear the shower stop. He smiles faintly at me when I look up. The shower seems to have taken the tension out of his muscles, but there's still a dense swirl of emotions behind his eyes.

  And he’s only wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. No shirt at all and the morning light reflects off the muscles in his body.

  “I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. I just noticed it and was curious,” I say.

  Jake shakes his head. “It's fine. Photo albums are to be looked at, right? If people don't look at them and share the memories, maybe they don't exist at all.”

  It's a strange sentiment, but I think I understand what he's trying to say.

  “Let me bring you something to eat. I'll be right back.”

  He leans forward and kisses me softly as I stand. There's sadness in the kiss, and a bitter sense of searching, like he's trying desperately to find some sort of answer in me. Our eyes meet for a fleeting second, and I walk away into the kitchen. The sheet of biscuits I put into the oven has just finished, and I quickly cook some eggs. Piling them onto the biscuit with a slice of cheese, I fill a glass with orange juice and bring it to him.

  Jake is sitting on the couch, staring down at a page of the photo album. His fingers run around the edge of a picture, and I feel awkward approaching him like I'm intruding on an extremely private moment. I hover uncomfortably, the plate extended toward him, for a few seconds before he notices me. A faint smile crosses his face.

  “Thank you.” He takes the plate from my hand and looks down at the cushion beside him in invitation. When I sit, he gestures at the picture. “That's my grandmother. She loved that dress.”

  The simple pale purple and blue floral print is a quintessential grandmother pattern. It's the kind of dress that makes me think of the smell of cookies and long hugs. The close-up image only shows a sliver of wood beneath her feet and nothing else about her surroundings.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “That's her house. I remember when this picture was taken. It was Easter. She always made a huge lunch, and we spent the afternoon hunting for eggs around her yard. She didn't want any of us siblings or cousins to not get enough eggs or for one of the older ones to find all of them before the little ones could, so she used a different color egg for each of us. We could only keep our color, and we weren't allowed to open any of them until everyone had found all of them, so we helped each other.”

  I try to decipher the caption, but the handwriting is too wispy, and I can't catch it before he turns the page and shows me a snap of a young girl. It's washed out with a flare of bright sunlight, but I can make out pale blonde hair. She squints and leans toward the head of a large dog she has in what could either be a hug or a headlock.

  “Is this your sister?” I ask.

  Jake nods as he takes a bite of the sandwich I brought him. “That's Mocha. She was obsessed with that dog.”

  “He doesn't look so happy about it,” I point out.

  “He didn't particularly like anyone. But he was best with her. My father found him as a puppy out in the woods, and I think he was just used to being on his own. He didn't really want anyone to mess with him and didn't necessarily want to be domesticated. One day he just ran off. I never saw him again.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Jake shrugs. “Better to have your good memories than someone around who doesn't want to make any more of them.”

  He closes the album and holds it on his lap as he finishes the biscuit. Early morning sunlight filters through the curtains, and there's an odd sense of anticipation sparking in the air around us. We're waiting for something to happen, but I'm not sure what. When he finishes eating, Jake leans back and rests his head on the couch. His eyes flutter closed, and I take his hand.

  “Come on. Let's get you into bed for a little while. I know you haven't gotten enough sleep,” I say.

  He shakes his head but doesn't lift it. “I'll wait right here. They might call me.”

  “You'll be so much more comfortable in your bed, and you'll get better sleep. It's not going to make a difference if you're in there or in here if the police call.”

  He finally relents and lets me guide him into the bedroom. I pull back the blankets, and he climbs under them, letting out a breath as his head sinks into the pillow. Tugging the blankets up over his shoulder, I lean down and kiss his forehead. As I turn to walk away, he reaches out and grabs onto my wrist.

  “Stay,” he whispers. I look into his eyes and see more of the searching. “Please. I don't want to be alone right now.”

  I nod. I was probably just going to go back to the cabin and go to sleep anyway. If it will comfort him, I might as well stay here.

  The sheets are cold when I slip into them, and I tuck up close to Jake to find some of his warmth. He already seems more relaxed. The clean smell of him starts to soothe me. I wish I knew something to say to him. I can't even imagine what he's going through right now. Part of me can understand, but not fully. When my father disappeared, it was a shock and left me dangling. I'm still dangling. But I still have the hope of him being alive. I know what it's like to lose a parent, and I can't imagine what it would feel like to have someone disrespect my mother's grave and take her body away. It would feel like so much of an intrusion, a violation.

  I try to will myself to fall asleep, but the situation hangs heavily over me, and I can't make my eyes close. I'm not sure how much time has passed when Jake rolls over and looks at me. He lets out a soft groan and runs his fingers through my hair.

  “What's wrong?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  He cocks his head at me, and I let out a sigh.

  “There's just something bothering me, but I don't want to talk about it. You don't need anything else on you.”

  “What's going on? Tell me,” he says.

  “When we were in the cemetery, and I went to talk to the officers, Nicolas said something to me,” I admit.

  “What did he say?” Jake asks suspiciously, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at me.

  I feel strange with him hovering over me, and I force myself to push away memories I haven't been able to shake, memories that make me suspicious any time someone comes too close.

  “He said… about your father’s grave… that you shouldn't be surprised.”

  Jake's expression falls, and he turns around to lie on his back again, staring up at the ceiling. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything to you.”

  “No. I'm glad you did. Truth is, he's not the only person in this town to think that. There's some bad blood here. Grudges some of the old-timers haven't been able to let go of. There are families in this town who blame my father for things that happened a long time ago, things he didn't have anything to do with. It looks like with everything else that's going on; they want to bring it up again. I don't understand why they won't just leave well enough alone. It's hard enough that he's dead. They don't have to torture his ghost, too.”

  Chapter Nine

  “That's it?” Bellamy asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  I open the trunk at the foot of the bed and pull out one of the folded quilts. They smelled damp and musty when I first came, but I washed them all during my first week so I could use them if I needed them. The temperature has dropped significantly, and I can never seem to get warm enough. I sit down on the couch and sling the blanket around my shoulders.

  “He tells you there's bad blood against his father in town, and you don't ask him about it? The man’s grave was desecrated, and his bones dug up. Don't you think that's worth poking into a bit?”

  “What is it that I should have asked him? Like you just said, his father's grave was desecrated. He wasn't exactly in the best place. I didn't think that was a great opportunity for me to start prying into obviously sensitive things about his past,” I explain. “It just strikes me as so strange. Everything Jake has told me about his family has been idyllic. Almost perfect. He tells me these stories about things they did together and how much he looked up to his father. Now I find out there was enough bad feeling in town for people to not be surprised somebody dug him out of his grave? Doesn't that seem a little extreme to you?”

  “I mean, it's not something I would do. I've had my fair share of disagreements with people, but it's never crossed my mind to dig them up out of the ground,” she notes.

  “Me, neither. It's just so creepy. Somebody is keeping secrets in this town, and unless I start figuring out who and what, I have a feeling this is all just going to get worse.”

  “Do you think this could have anything to do with the other disappearances?” Bellamy asks.

  I take a long sip of coffee. “I really don't think so. It wouldn't make any sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, to start with, everybody else was alive when they disappeared. Jake's father very distinctly wasn't. It's like the town is starting to unravel. People are remembering feuds and trying to settle old scores. I'm afraid it's just going to get worse.”

  “Where's Jake now?

  “He went to the bar. I thought he should stay home and try to get some rest, but he's too worked up. He says being at the bar makes him feel more secure and in control. I guess I can understand that. Working is his normal. He needs that right now.”

  “That's definitely the way it was with you when Greg...”

  Her voice drifts off, but that doesn't cover up the rest of the sentence.

  “Disappeared?” I ask. “It's alright. You can say it. That's what happened. And, you're right. I did the exact same thing. When I found out he was gone, I buried myself in work and did everything I could to not even come up for air. It made it easier to deal with when I didn't have the time or space in my brain to think about what was really going on. I'm sure that's what Jake is feeling right now. He just wants to go about his daily life and try not to dwell. There's really nothing he can do until the police figure out what happened.”

  “What about you? What are you going to do? Do you have any other leads to follow?”

  “That would imply I had any, to begin with.” I let out a breath and sift through the pictures spread out across the table again. “I'm starting to feel like this is the real reason Creagan picked me to do this job. It's not that he had any faith in me or even that he wanted me to lay the foundation before he sent in the rest of the team. He sent me here because he knows this case is impossible.”

  “It's not impossible. Not for you,” Bellamy reassures me. “You're going to figure this out. Just do what you always do.”

  “Freak out and try to beat up a suspect in a moving bait vehicle?” I ask with a laugh.

  “That was one time. I mean, what you've done since you first started working for the Bureau. Go back to the beginning. See how far you've come, then go from there. I'm sure you've found out a lot more than you think.”

  I pick up a picture that's been at the bottom of the stack and stare at it for a few seconds. “You know, Bell, sometimes you really know what you're talking about.”

  “What did you figure out?” she asks.

  “Nothing. But I have a place to start,” I tell her, standing from the couch and shucking off the blanket.

  “Good. Be careful.”

  “I will. Call you later.”

  I end the call and head into the bedroom to add a layer of clothes on top of what I'm wearing, then stuff my feet into my boots. I send a quick text to Jake, letting him know I might be out of range so he doesn't worry if he can't reach me and promise to drop by the bar later that evening. Using the information jotted on the back of the picture, I pull up a map on my phone, throw on my coat and gloves, and head out.

  It's just as cold as it was when I got back from Jake's earlier, but I hope tromping through the woods will warm me up. I could drive. That would be the most time-effective option. But to do that would mean going on the same road I’ve followed countless times during the investigation. Instead, I'm going to walk along the edge of the woods and dip back through the corner of town to the train tracks. Maybe I'll notice something I haven't seen or thought of before.

  The drive from the train station took forty-five minutes, but that was because of the strange way the road turned and curved, making the train go well past the town before dropping me off. Using the overhead view of the area on my phone, I trace the most direct way to the spot where the first of the two bodies was found. It takes me a few minutes to get to where my self-designed path begins, and I carefully begin to pick my way through the thickly overgrown woods.

  I'm thankful for my thick pants and layers as I delve into the trees. Branches and thorns scrape and cling to my clothes, and I pull my hood tighter to prevent my hair from getting snagged. I've been walking for about fifteen minutes when the trees in front of me thin slightly, and I notice a change in their pattern to one side. I climb through a covering of bushes and vines, finding myself on what looks like an old path. It's neglected and overgrown, but the thick carpeting of pine needles and leaves creates a path several feet wide between the trees.

  My instincts keep my feet on it, and I watch my surroundings carefully as I step forward. I strain my neck this way and that, trying to see where the path leads in the opposite direction. I'm tempted to head back in that way, but I decide to turn around and keep going toward the train tracks.

  It isn't too much longer that my instincts are proven right. I step out of the trees and onto the gravel barrier before the tracks. I take out my phone and snap a few pictures of the area, including the spot where I emerged from the trees. It isn't a clear mouth to the path. Instead, the trail itself closed in and became less distinct for a few hundred yards, then opened out through an arch between narrow trees. It would be easy to miss for anyone not looking for it or not very familiar with the area.

  I'm only a few feet away from the pink marker I found the first time I visited the tracks. Looking to the other side, I note where I parked my car that afternoon. I didn't even notice this path that day. I walked right past it, stood only feet from it, and had no idea it was here. Making my way back to that spot, I look over to the marker.

  Out of the corner of my eye, the woods look even and unbroken. Even as I walk up to the marker, I barely notice anything different about the trees. The only reason I can perceive the opening of the path as much as I do is because I know it's there. If I was coming on it for the first time, absorbed in the gruesome sight of a mangled body in front of me, there's no way I would know it was there.

  I think back to the notes from the local police’s examination of the crime scene. There was nothing about the path or anything related to it. Of course, not having access to the full investigation notes because of their refusal to cooperate with the Bureau means I don't know everything they found out or are looking into. But I would think if they knew about the path that led into the outskirts of town, they would still have this area marked and under scrutiny.

  Unless they already tossed it out as being meaningless. I only found it by chance, and it doesn't seem to be used with any sort of regularity. It wasn't even visible on the map I used to find my way from the cabin. Dipping back through the narrow entrance, I find the path again and follow it back in the direction I came. A chill settles down the length of my spine with each step further down the path, like eyes watching me. I stop suddenly and listen for the sound of anything moving in the trees. The ice on the ground and tightly tangled branches and twigs would make it next to impossible to navigate the area without making some sound. But it's eerily quiet around me.

  A sound behind me makes me turn sharply. My own breath creates a white gust in the air, and for a moment, I can't see. The vibrant splash of red in front of me is out of place, but the flutter of the cardinal's wings make it settle into its surroundings. It doesn't move from where it's sitting on the ground, and I walk up to it cautiously. Another frantic flutter of its wings combines with a shrill cry. It's hurt.

  Taking off my gloves, I crouch down and carefully scoop the small bird into my palm. As I lift it, I see its foot stuck in something embedded in the leaves. The dirty, rusted buckle comes up slightly when I release the foot, then settles back to the ground. I touch the bird's foot, and it continues to struggle against me holding it but doesn't seem seriously hurt. When I place it back down, the vibrant crimson bird immediately hops away, then flutters into the air. I watch it for a few seconds before turning back to the buckle on the ground.

  I brush the leaves away and finally get a look at what caught the bird. The buckle must have been in just the right position for it to slip its foot under the edge while looking for food. I move enough leaves to reveal the buckle is attached to something. A piece of thick brown leather looks almost like a tiny belt, but as I move it further, I realize it's a dog collar attached to a metal chain. Tugging it up, I find the end of the chain. It's wrapped around a nearby tree.

  A chill creeps along my spine again, and I bury the chain back where I found it. It's still only mid-afternoon, but the wind is picking up and the temperature getting sharper. I feel ice in the air, just waiting to fall. This is going to be one of those years I spend longing for palm trees and the blistering heat of water park concrete on my feet right up until I can go outside without even thinking about a jacket.

  My feet move faster along the path until I reach the spot where I first stepped onto it. I start further down it but stop when I realize it’s curving away from the direction of the cabin. Just as I expected, the service on my phone is spotty at best out here, so I decide to turn back. Now is not the time for me to get lost out in the woods. Not that there's really ever a time for that to be a good idea. But I'd rather it happens when I'm better prepared.