I climb off the path and head back through the woods how I came. My hands are numb, and my feet feel heavy in my boots when I make it back to the cabin. Thoughts of a huge bowl of soup and a cup of tea beckon me, but that promise disappears the instant I get to the porch.

  Letting out a heavy sigh, I take the small white notecard out from where it's sticking out of the doorframe.

  “I need to speak with you. Please come to the station when you get this.”

  There's no signature on the note, but there's also no question about who wrote it. The only person in town who would both want to speak with me and would have enough of an ego not to give his name or offer even a hint of respect to my schedule.

  Chief LaRoche.

  Chapter Ten

  Conceivably speaking, I could just pretend I didn't get the note. Just having the corner of the note stuck in between the door and the frame is a tenuous connection at best. It very easily could have gotten swept up by the wind and fluttered off into the woods. I could release it into the wild and let it return to its tree ancestors while I hibernate for the rest of the day.

  Or I could acknowledge my sleep deprivation is getting to me and will only get worse when the Chief comes storming to the cabin when I don't respond to his beckoning. As much as I hate the thought of following orders when the man snaps his fingers at me, I hate even more the thought of him banging on the door and dragging me out of the cocoon I have every intention of hiding in if I spend more than five minutes inside.

  I groan and let myself into the cabin only long enough to shuck my outer layer of clothes and grab my keys. What the hell does he want with me? It's an unfortunate reality that there are several different options for what the police chief might want to drag me in to talk about. I'm used to juggling a variety of tangled webs being my reality, but this man throws me off balance. He doesn't know who I am or why I'm in his town, and I feel like I'm at a disadvantage because I have no idea what he wants to talk about. Being undercover is about staying a step ahead, and I can't do that when I don't even know what I'm walking into. But I have my suspicions.

  I walk up to the reception desk when I get to the police station and wait for Esther to look up at me.

  “Hi. I'm here to see Chief…”

  “Come back to my office,” LaRoche calls from the doorway to the back of the station.

  “And there he is. Chipper as ever. Thank you, Esther.”

  I follow Chief LaRoche down the hall to his office and drop down into the hard, wooden chair at his desk.

  “Where were you?” he asks, coming around the desk to sit in his own thickly cushioned chair.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  He leans back, and his eyes rove up and down me. I might feel offended if I thought there was anything behind the look other than disdain. And maybe a healthy dose of suspicion. The longer I look at him, the more the suspicion and offense both creep up the back of my neck.

  “I don't think it's that challenging a question, Ms. Monroe. I went to the cabin where you are staying, and you weren't there. Where were you?”

  There's a lilt to the way he says the name, and I narrow my eyes slightly. He seems unsure, the suspicion shifting from what I did to who I am. My body tenses. Could he have found out why I'm here? It's not like Creagan's choice for name and backstory are all that creative. Not that it matters much. It's not illegal to be FBI in public. But the way he says it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  “I don't think that's any of your business,” I state flatly.

  “It is my business when I'm trying to protect the people of my town from what could be a serial killer.”

  “That was a very compelling assertion. Throw in a ten-gallon hat and I might even believe it. But here's the thing. Didn't you in not so flattering terms tell me I'm not one of the people of your town? Just someone passing through?” I ask.

  He leans back further in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach as he stares at me. The smirk on his face makes me dislike him even more.

  “You're right. Which makes me want the answer to my question even more. I don't much like a stranger lurking around and not being honest about what she's been up to.”

  “I don't have to tell you anything,” I say.

  He draws in a breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring. When he lets it out, he gives a single nod.

  “I've been looking into the dead man on your porch,” he says.

  “You dragged me down here to grill me about something I've already told you I know nothing about?”

  “I didn't drag you…”

  “He wasn't there the last time I checked,” I snap, cutting him off before he can spiral into a self-important speech. “Unless you put him back, I don't think it really has anything more to do with me than it did the last time we spoke.”

  I hope my voice is convincing. He can't know about the note hidden in the drawer of the nightstand in the cabin or the name scrawled across it. He can't know I need the information about that man even more than he does, or why. But I need every word LaRoche might have about him.

  “I would really like to think that, Ms. Monroe, but you have to understand what this looks like.”

  “No, Chief. What does it look like? As far as I can tell, this man doesn't fit in with the other disappearances or the murders. The last time we spoke, you said you didn't even know who he is.”

  The chief opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a slip of paper. He slid it across the desk toward me.

  “Does this name mean anything to you?”

  I look down at the paper.

  “Ron Murdock?” I shake my head. “No. I've never heard it.”

  “Seems nobody else has, either. At least, not when it comes to him. Which leaves me wondering why that's the name he used for the hotel room he rented three towns over.”

  “How do you know he rented a hotel room?” I raise an eyebrow in doubt.

  “Surveillance video.” He tips his face down to look at me through lowered lids and licks his lips in a slimy way that makes me cringe. “I guess we know a little bit more about the investigation than you want to give us credit for.”

  “Is that all you wanted to ask me?” I ask.

  I start to stand up, but Chief LaRoche leans toward me.

  “Do you know anyone in Florida?” he asks.

  My breath catches in my throat, but I won't let it show on my face. Letting the breath out slowly, I keep my eyes locked on him.

  “Why?”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “Is this some sort of game we're playing?”

  “The address he gave when he registered for the hotel room is in Iowa but his license says he’s from Florida.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  He throws his hands up in the air and gives a disingenuous smile. “Probably nothing. Just thought I'd run it past you and see if you had any ideas.”

  “I was in that cabin for less than an hour when he came to the door. Why would I have any ideas about who he is?”

  My mind wanders back to the note in the drawer. Part of me wonders if I should tell LaRoche what I know. There are details I could give him, insight I could offer. That man is dead, lying somewhere waiting for someone to know who he is. But I stop myself. His face hasn't shown up on any missing person's reports. The news hasn't shown a desperate woman pleading for the return of her husband. No one is looking for him, but he was looking for me. I need to know why, and I'm not going to compromise the link he has to my past.

  “Be careful where you go around here, Ms. Monroe. It's easy to get lost when you don't know what you're dealing with.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “I don't think this is something we should call him about. He should know in person.”

  The chief's eyes lift up toward the voice going by the open door to his office.

  “I tried, anyway. He's not answering. We should just go find him,” another voice answers.

  The two voices are close, which means the men likely stopped in the break room just to the side of the chief's office. LaRoche doesn't look happy about me hearing them, which means I want even more to know what they're talking about.

  “Is he up at the bar at this time of day?” the first voice asks.

  “Thank you for coming up here to talk to me,” Chief LaRoche harrumphs, clearing his throat and making his voice a little louder like he's trying to cover up the sound of the other men. “I appreciate your help.”

  “They're talking about Jake,” I say. “What's going on?”

  “I don't know what they're talking about. But I promise I will keep you updated on the man on your porch if there are any further developments.”

  I point behind me toward the door. “They're talking about Jake. I want to know what's going on.”

  He stares back at me, his watery eyes daring me to challenge his authority. I stand up and walk out of the room. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor as he pushes back to chase me would be amusing if I wasn't so interested in finding out why they were talking about Jake. Nicolas and an officer whose name I never caught look over at me from the coffee machine as I walk into the break room.

  “Are you looking for Chief LaRoche?” Nicolas asks.

  “What's going on with Jake?” I answer.

  “Ms. Monroe, this area is not open to the public,” the chief says, coming up behind me. “If you'll come with me, I'll walk you out.”

  But I stay still, staring at Nicolas. His gaze flickers from me to the chief and back. “This is an active investigation, and until we've spoken to Jake, we can't talk about anything.”

  He's not going to budge. But I'm not going to back down. I walk out of the police station and get into my car, but don't leave the parking lot. Several minutes later, Nicolas and the other officer come out of the side door and get into the marked car parked in one of the few spots. I wait until they pull out of the lot, and then drive up behind them. They might not tell me what's going on, but there's nothing they can do about me driving through town and happening to go to the bar. Maybe I want a snack. I definitely need a drink.

  Nicolas glares at me when he sees me parked across the street from the bar.

  “I thought I told you this was an active investigation,” he says.

  “You did. You didn't say anything about me not being able to go to a public place.”

  I step in front of them and walk into the dimly lit building. Jake is leaned against the bar, staring down at something in front of him. There are only two people sitting in one of the tables in the far corner, and the rest of the room is silent. He looks up when he hears the door, and a look of relief softens his face. He crosses to me and gathers me in his arms.

  “The police are here,” I manage to tell him in the second before the door opens.

  I step away, but Jake takes my hand and keeps me close beside him.

  “Nicolas, Brent. What is it? Did you find out something about my father's grave?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk, Jake? In private.”

  His eyes slide to me, but Jake's hand tightens around mine. “I want Emma with me.”

  “Fine. Can we go in the back?” Nicolas asks.

  Jake looks over at the one occupied table. “Burke. Keep an eye on things for me. Cissy should be in soon to cover the bar.”

  One of the men lifts his hand above his head in acknowledgment. Jake leads us behind the bar and through a door leading into the back of the building.

  Chapter Eleven

  Then

  There wasn't really a water park season in Florida. That's one of the reasons she loved living there so much. There were a few months during the year when the temperatures would drop low enough to keep her out of her bathing suit, but that didn't stop the parks from being open. Some might shut down briefly and others would have long refurbishments, but seeing the slides churning out water when they drove past, even if she was in a jacket, made the lonely days less dark.

  They didn't get to go to them nearly as often as she would have wanted to. If she had her choice, she would check in to one of the parks sometime in February and not leave again until the Christmas lights went up. She longed for the peaceful weightlessness of floating in the lazy river. Hours could slip by under the bright sun, nothing but the flowing water and inner tube beneath her, and she barely noticed. There was no worry in the water. It held her up and guided her along. She didn't even have to think. There were no decisions to make, no reason to have to feel on edge.

  When she wasn't in the lazy river, she went for the slides. The bigger and faster, the better. She remembered being younger and staring up at the biggest slides. They towered over her, the sound of the water rushing down them almost deafening. People screamed as they shot down them and bounced across the surface of the pool at the bottom. Some children even sobbed as they dragged themselves out after toppling beneath the water. It didn't deter her. She wanted to experience it. She wanted to feel what it was like for gravity and water to take over completely and send her shooting along the brightly colored tubes.

  She was too small then. Her head hovered a few inches beneath the wooden arrow that marked the height requirement, not even letting her straighten her spine or puff up her hair and steal a bit of extra height. She would have to wait.

  Then they were gone. They went somewhere without water slides or pools, where a park was little more than a sandbox and swings. It was cold and gray a lot of the year. That's when she started to long for the palm trees and ache for the sting of the hot concrete. By the time they went back, and she stood on that concrete again, staring up at the slides, they didn't look as big. The rush was still there. The people were still screaming. But she didn't want to know what it was like to give over her control. Instead, she wanted to push back.

  She refused to close her eyes when she crossed her arms over her chest and slung herself down into the slide. The vibrant orange tube glowed with sunlight and echoed with the movement of the water and her own gasping breaths. She watched every instant, refusing to close her eyes or completely relinquish control.

  There was only one slide she wouldn't ride that day. As much as she didn't want to admit it, the dizzying, almost vertical slide at the very end of the complex seemed insurmountable. People stepped into a small clear chamber on a floor that acted as a trapdoor. With little more warning than the flash of a light, the person operating the slide released a lever, and the floor went out from under the rider. In an instant, they were gone, dropping into a black tube that finally ended in a large rectangular pool. It made her heart beat in her temples, and her throat run dry. As much as she tried to cross to it and step up onto the narrow, steep steps leading up to the top, she couldn't make herself.

  She went to the concession stand instead.

  In other areas of the country, in the town they just left, people were still cowering beneath hooded sweatshirts and jackets. It was that time of year when the weather was untrustworthy. The sunlight could seem bright and intense, promising warmth, but the air felt thin and fragile. A hint of a breeze or a wayward cloud would tip the temperature over into chilly territory again. So people hid themselves in layers and didn't tempt fate.

  Not here. Here the breeze was soft and warm, and the sunlight evaporated droplets of water from her skin almost as soon as she got out of the water. She craved sno-cones and salt-coated French fries so hot the oil burned the tips of her fingers. She took cash from the waterproof container hanging from a bungee on her wrist and carried the food back to the chairs she and her parents claimed when they first came in early that morning.

  It wasn't too hard to get seats at that time. As soon as the summer months officially rolled in and more tourists flocked the parks, claiming a spot beneath an umbrella became survival of the fittest. Her father tossed himself down onto the chair beside her moments after she sat and immediately dipped his hand into her fries. He laughed at her protest, and she smiled at him. She liked how he looked in the sunlight. She preferred the touch of gold that showed up on his skin when they were in Florida. Her mother never got that glow. Her milk-white skin was a gift of her Russian bloodline, and it stayed that way no matter where they traveled. It was consistent. Reliable. She thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  The rainbow slush froze her lips and tingled on her tongue. She chased it with the heat of the fries. Her father lay back against the chair and rested his head on a rolled-up blue and white striped towel. Round black lenses covered his eyes, but she could see his head move when he looked across the small pool at the edge of the collection of chairs. She turned her eyes like his. Looked past the white rubber lounges and multi-colored scatter of pool bags and towels. Saw beyond the sun-drunk adults and water-hyper children.

  Found the man staring back at them. A tall man with dark hair and sunglasses that reflected the people staring back. Dark jeans and a light-colored button-up shirt with rolled up sleeves didn't fit in with the rest of the park. But as out of place as he looked, he seemed completely at ease.

  In the back of her mind, he looked familiar. Not in a way she could really put her finger on. Not in a way that she was even fully sure about. But it sparked something small that made her fingers twitch like she wanted to wave. She didn't.

  The next day her father left before the sun came up and didn't come back until tourist season. But her mother wasn't afraid. So she wasn't afraid. At least, not when anyone was looking. When he came back, the gold was gone from his skin.

  Chapter Twelve

  Now

  The basket of fresh French fries the cook brings into the office is a clear ploy to find out why the police came to talk to Jake. He doesn't get anything out of it. Jake's intense eyes chase him out of the room before the officers say anything. But I can't resist the salt glistening on the sheen of oil and the way the smell reminds me I haven't had anything to eat since before the sun was fully in the sky. I eat one of the fries and offer another to Jake, but he turns his head away.