“So I looked, and I was matched to the Combs family and a bunch of other people in this part of the state. Brittany Combs’ name and the town where she lives—Rydell—are on there for me to see. It said she was my aunt or cousin. I came here and asked around and found this farm.”

  “Okay, so it’s a mistake. They mixed up the samples. Do you know how many times labs fuck stuff up?”

  “It’s not a fuckup, Avery. There are too many points that agree.”

  Avery’s hands rested in her lap. She didn’t know what to do with them. She didn’t know what to do with the information coming at her. “What are you trying to say? That Dad . . . Jane . . . I don’t get it. . . . Are you saying you’re adopted, and they decided not to tell you? That’s the kind of thing that happened in the 1950s. Not today.”

  “Do you remember when I was born? You and Alisha are both old enough to remember. You’re nine years older than I am. And Alisha’s eight years older. So what do you remember about it?”

  “I wasn’t in the delivery room.”

  “What do you remember about it, Avery?”

  “I don’t know. We weren’t in town. Dad—he and my mom were on very bad terms, as you know, because of—”

  “Because he had an affair with my mom.”

  “Right. And Mom always said, ‘Watch, girls, he’s going to have a new baby with his new wife, and you’ll be cast aside.’ ”

  “She said that?”

  “She wasn’t the happiest person.”

  What portion of Avery’s feelings toward her sister were the product of actual experience and what part could be laid at the feet of her mother’s bitterness and hurt? The repeated messages that Avery and Alisha were going to be forgotten and replaced.

  “We were in Florida when you were born. My mom had a new boyfriend, and she moved us down there to be with him. It didn’t last. Dad wasn’t in contact with us, and Mom didn’t want to have anything to do with him. But they must have talked. One day, Mom told Alisha and me that Jane had had a baby. A girl. Anna. An A name, like Alisha’s and mine. That was it. When we came back home, we saw you. “

  “And conveniently there aren’t any pictures of Mom pregnant, right? No picture of me in the hospital or right after I came home?”

  “They had that fire . . .” Avery’s words sounded weak to her, even as she said them.

  “That destroyed all the photos. What? They’d never sent a newborn photo of me to anyone? Every photo of me under a certain age disappeared? There are photos when I’m a little older but none as a newborn.”

  “Okay . . . okay . . . let’s say it’s all true. Let’s say the DNA test is right, and you aren’t Dad and Jane’s kid. And you aren’t related to Libby or our cousins or anyone else. You were adopted. Why keep that a secret? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Except Mom—Jane—”

  “You can’t start calling her Jane. She raised you—”

  “Don’t lecture me, Avery. This is my fucking life and my fucking feelings.”

  “Okay. Call her whatever you want. Lord knows I’ve called Dad some things over the years.”

  “Okay. Thank you. But Jane . . . Jane . . . all she wanted to do was have a baby. She always told me how much she wanted to be a mom. She still complained about how much she wishes you would accept her as a mother figure of some kind. Especially since your mom died.”

  “Yeah . . . okay . . .”

  “So they pretended I was theirs all those years, so their perfect little narrative all hung together. They fell in love. Who cares that Big Russ was already married and had kids with his current wife? Russ and Jane were so in love, they had to be together at all costs. And how could that perfect union not produce a child if they wanted one?”

  “I always thought we looked alike.”

  “You used to go around saying we didn’t look alike. If we were in a store, the three of us, or at a family function or whatever, and someone would comment on how much we three girls looked alike, Alisha would take the compliment and agree. But not you. No. You’d go out of your way to say that we didn’t look alike, that we were just stepsisters and not related. You said that all the time.”

  “Okay, I’m an asshole. Guilty as charged.”

  “It’s true, though. Why am I so much shorter than the rest of the family?”

  “Okay, you’re a smaller person. Grandma Ava was short. She died before you were born, but she was about four-eleven.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Anna, I just talked to Dad. You should see how worried he is.”

  Anna made a huffing noise.

  “I’m just saying Dad and Jane really care for you. And they see Al and me as your sisters.”

  “Jesus, Avery, did you know? You’re the oldest. Did you know? Is that why you never accepted me? Did you know I wasn’t really your sister? Does Alisha know too, and nobody fucking bothered to tell me?”

  “No. No, Anna. I didn’t know any of this. And, again, I’m sorry about the stepsister shit. It’s an awful thing to say—”

  “No, don’t apologize. You were right. Clearly. You knew something and I didn’t.”

  “Anna, it doesn’t mean—”

  Anna stood up. She dusted off the back of her jeans. “Avery, don’t.” She held her hand up in the dark. “Just don’t. Dad—Russ—and I, we never understood each other. And you didn’t ever give a shit about me. Alisha and Jane . . .” She lifted her hands, shrugging to the heavens. “Maybe they’re just good people. You know? Better than you or me. Whatever shittiness exists inside Dad—I mean, Russ—the bitterness and the anger, we have it. It must be in the air and not genetic. But Alisha and Jane are better than you and me. That explains that.”

  Avery stood up, and Anna backed away like she feared Avery would wrestle her to the ground and force her to listen. “I came all this way for you. For you, Anna. For the little girl who played with her boats in the bathtub while I watched over her. The one who crawled in bed with me when she got scared. That’s you and that’s real.”

  Anna backed farther away. “No, don’t do that manipulative shit on me, Avery. Don’t play the childhood-memory card. We were in the same house by chance. Sometimes. By accident. And that was a long time ago.” Anna’s voice caught, just like it had down at the gate when Avery arrived. “Don’t push me on this, Avery.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “You said you had to tell me something. What is it?”

  “Oh, shit.” Avery wished she didn’t have to say it, but she had no choice. “Oh, Anna, you know I came to Louisville with Charlie. To use his contacts to help find you.”

  “Yeah, you told me.”

  “There was all that shooting and chaos in the park. And Charlie, I didn’t really know this, but he had some health problems.”

  Anna listened, her head tilted forward. “He has a bad heart. I knew that.”

  “I guess I didn’t know how bad it was.” Avery looked at the dirt, her right shoe resting on a twig. “He had an episode of some kind and went to the hospital.”

  “Don’t say it, Avery. I don’t want any more bad news.”

  “I’m sorry. He died in the hospital.”

  Anna turned away, showing Avery her back. Her shoulders shook.

  Avery took a step toward Anna. She placed her hand on her sister’s back.

  “I’m fine.” Anna sniffled and huffed. “I’m fine, Avery.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that on top of everything else. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  “No, I want to know. I’m tired of shit being kept from me.”

  “Well, I’m still sorry. He really cared about our family. He wanted to find you.”

  “I know. . . .” Anna’s sniffling slowed. She ran her sleeve across her face. “Jesus, Avery. Kayla. And Charlie. And that girl in the park—did you see her?”

  “I did.”

  “She’s dead too, right?”

  “I believe she is. Yes.”

  “What the fuck, Avery?”

  “Anna, if you want to talk more—”

  “Just leave in the morning. Go home. You can tell . . . those people whatever you want. I’m so fucking mad at them, I don’t know if I can ever talk to either one of them again.” She jabbed her index finger against her chest, sinking it into the deep down of the coat. “It’s my decision to tell them what I want to tell them. Or maybe I’ll decide never to speak to them again. Okay?”

  “Okay. I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Anna.”

  Anna wiped at her eyes and sniffled. “Fucking right.” She started off, kicking over twigs and stones as she went in the dark. “Just go. And don’t try to come and say good-bye. You’ll hear from me when you hear from me. Or you won’t. I’m here because—because I want to see if this is where I belong. If these are the people I connect with. Okay? Can you let me have that?”

  Avery watched her go, disappearing into the darkness.

  67

  Morris was in the passenger seat as Hardeman pulled his Rydell cruiser up to the gate of the Combs property. It was morning, the sun climbing.

  Hardeman had insisted on going along and insisted on driving, which hadn’t bothered Morris at all. He’d figured Hardeman would want to go to great lengths to make sure the Combs family was treated as fairly as possible. They had the biggest business in the county, and Hardeman’s future as chief of police likely rode on their approval.

  Hardeman dropped the car into park but made no move to get out. Morris looked over, impressed by how sharply pressed the man’s uniform was. Like he lived in a dry cleaner’s shop.

  “Are you going to call?” Morris asked. “How do they know we’re here?”

  “Oh, they know. Just wait.”

  Morris looked around. The gravel road continued on past the cattle gate and disappeared into the thick trees. There was no way to tell what lay beyond the gate, back on the property, which was exactly the way the Combs family preferred it. And Morris didn’t really care what they did. He was investigating a murder, not trying to bust someone for growing and distributing weed. Sure, if a drug charge provided leverage on a murder charge, he’d be happy to explore that option. But something told him the Combs family was well versed in avoiding trouble and keeping their business contained inside the boundaries of their property.

  “Here we go,” Hardeman said.

  Two men came down the gravel road, heading for the gate. Taking their time.

  “Do you know these gentlemen?” Morris asked.

  “Sure. The one on the left is Taylor Combs. He’s the current patriarch of the family. Not a bad guy. I grew up with him. The other is Colby Hogan. He works for the Combs family.”

  “Doing what?”

  Hardeman rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Well, I guess whatever needs to be done. Let’s get out.”

  They reached the gate at the same time the two men on the other side did. Taylor Combs wore a bright blue UK sweatshirt and a matching hat. His cargo pants were clean, but mud was caked to the soles of his work boots. He looked like any number of men in the state who worked as farmers or contractors or builders. A combination of businessman and laborer.

  Colby Hogan rested his left arm on the top of the gate. He wore a suit coat over a sweater, like he was about to step into an important meeting. “Howdy. What could the law possibly want with us on such a fine fall morning?”

  Taylor Combs remained silent, hands stuffed into his sweatshirt pockets. A flock of geese in an arrow formation swept by overhead, honking.

  It was Hardeman’s show, so Morris let him run it.

  “Well, we sure are sorry to bother you so early in the day,” Hardeman said as though he were seeking favors from a king. “But this is Detective Vic Morris, from down in Breckville. He’s up here investigating a case, and he just wanted to ask a few questions.”

  “That’s a long way from home,” Hogan said.

  “We had a young woman murdered in her apartment near Gracewood’s campus,” Morris said. “Kayla Garvey. She was just twenty-one. Her parents are devastated, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “I heard about that,” Hogan said, shaking his head. “Terrible.”

  “Anytime a young life is snuffed out that way, it’s terrible,” Hardeman said.

  “I think we can all agree on that,” Morris said. “We’re here because we’ve identified a potential witness. A man named Nicholas Yates. We were hoping to speak with him, but he’s proving to be a tough man to track down.”

  “And you think he’s here?” Hogan asked.

  Morris addressed his comments to Taylor Combs even though he hadn’t yet spoken. “We hoped maybe you’d seen or heard from him.”

  Taylor Combs kept his eyes locked on Morris. “Do you know anybody named Nicholas Yates, Hogan?”

  “I don’t seem to recall anyone by that name. You have to understand, Detective, the nature of farmwork is seasonal. And transient. We hire folks for short periods of time, and then they move on to the next place when their work here is done. If this Yates worked here for a short period of time, we may not have known him very well. Or even remember his name.”

  “I don’t think he worked as a field hand,” Morris said, moving his eyes from Combs to Hogan and then back again. “He likely did more specialized work.”

  Hogan laughed. “Most of the specialized work here is done by the family. They do their own books, file their own taxes—which they pay on time, as the chief can tell you. The county sheriff could tell you the same thing. It’s a quiet, simple business. If this Mr. Yates is mixed up in something unsavory, we don’t like that. And he wouldn’t be around here for long.”

  “Well, we thank you for—”

  Morris cut Hardeman off. “This Mr. Yates was seen by a witness outside Kayla Garvey’s apartment right before she was killed. And then a police officer spotted Mr. Yates—and started to issue him a parking citation—outside another apartment in Louisville.”

  “A parking citation? Wow. Dangerous.”

  “This parking citation, Mr. Hogan, was almost issued outside an apartment where we believe another young woman was staying. Kayla Garvey’s roommate, who may have been the actual target that night. Maybe you know her. Anna Rogers?”

  “Anna Rogers?”

  “Her father is a retired captain with the Kentucky State Police.”

  Hogan looked over at Combs, who continued to stare straight ahead at Morris. “I don’t believe I know this Anna Rogers you’re talking about either. Or her father. Do you, Taylor?”

  “No, I don’t,” Combs said, his lips barely moving as the words came out.

  The sun rose higher, grew hot against the back of Morris’ neck. “So no Nicholas Yates and no Anna Rogers? You don’t know either one.”

  “We sure don’t.”

  “Well, then—”

  Morris cut Hardeman off again. “Would you have any objection to me coming through the gate and looking around? It’s possible, as you said, that one of these folks is working for you on a seasonal or temporary basis and you just don’t know who they are. But if I could come and have a look, maybe I’ll recognize one of them.”

  “Do you have a warrant for that?” Hogan asked. “Either one of you?”

  “No, we sure don’t,” Morris said.

  “It’s generally our policy that if someone from law enforcement wants to come onto the property here and start looking around, they need to have a warrant. It’s just a policy we follow. I’m sure you understand. We try to follow the law and to limit government overreach.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that all you wanted?” Combs asked.

  “I think that’s it,” Morris said.

  “Then have a good day,” Combs said, already backing up and turning around.

  Hogan nodded and fired off a salute in their direction as he followed along behind Taylor Combs.

  When Morris and he were back in the car, Hardeman jerked it into reverse, backed up until they came out onto the county road, and started back for town.

  “I didn’t know you were going to push them so hard,” he said. The muscles in his jaw were clenched.

  “You think that was pushing hard?” Morris asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Interesting. To me, that was just a little tap on the shoulder to get their attention.”

  68

  Avery managed to sleep at some point.

  She had spent hours on the miserable cot, staring at the rough boards of the cabin, listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets and birds, the haunting call of an owl. Something scurried across the roof of the cabin at one point, and Avery jumped, adrenaline surging through her body.

  She guessed she fell asleep around four or five. Until then, she replayed the conversation with Anna. Over and over. No matter how many times she did, it made no more sense. Anna had been adopted but no one had told her. Why not?

  Was it possible Alisha knew? Avery and Alisha told each other everything—or so she thought. But had her sister kept this from her?

  Avery’s mind went to even darker places. Was Alisha really her sister? But Avery pushed those thoughts aside quickly. Avery had seen the photos in her mom’s album. Photos of their mom pregnant and Avery just a baby. Photos of their mom and dad bringing Alisha home from the hospital—and Avery was there. Photos of Avery and Alisha at every stage of growing up.

  That was real—wasn’t it?

  Avery woke after dreaming of the old man. He was young and able-bodied, and they were in the house they’d lived in before he and her mom split up. And her dad was running around the house, locking the windows and doors, telling them someone was outside trying to get in, and he had to stop them.

  Avery looked out the window in the dream, and it was Anna in the yard. The person her dad was trying to keep out of the house—