“Barb’s going to bed but says thanks for the help. She appreciates it.”

  “Anytime, Mr. Potter. Good night, sir.”

  “Jamie…before you go…I’m askin’ if you would also do me a favor.”

  Jamie looks confused. “Sure I would. What is it?”

  “I’ve been doin’ a lotta thinking. About all those emails you and my wife have been gettin’. Gonna need you to go for a ride with me. Ten minutes west on Highway 67, just past Swift Hollow Road. Think you can do that?”

  Jenelle interjects, “Don’t Billy and Billie Jean live around there?”

  Jamie swallows. He looks at Jenelle, then back to Buddy.

  Buddy scratches his beard. “Son, can you come with me or not?”

  “Any time you need, sir.”

  Buddy claps Jamie on the shoulder, then heads back upstairs.

  After Jenelle gives Jamie a goodnight peck on the cheek, she scurries upstairs as well and buries herself under her stuffed animals. She’s feeling excited and scared at the same time and isn’t entirely sure why. Why would her father be asking her boyfriend to come with him on such a short ride, and why would they be going to Billy and Billie Jean’s part of town?

  Retrieving her secret cell phone, Jenelle considers texting Jamie to talk about it. But she decides to hold off, and instead logs in to Facebook.

  She’s relieved to see her page hasn’t been hacked since the last time she signed in earlier that night. Billy, Billie Jean, and their friend Lindsey Thomas haven’t posted any new insults about her, either. At least not publicly. Jenelle is dying to check their personal pages, positive she’d find a trove of cruel words about her there, but all three of them blocked her months ago. Jerks.

  Before Jenelle even realizes it, lost in her mindless scrolling and “liking,” a few hours have gone by. Finally feeling sleepy, she logs off and gets ready for bed.

  Dozing off, she hears her father’s muffled voice coming from his bedroom. It sounds like he’s on the phone. Who could he be calling at almost four in the morning?

  Curious, Jenelle puts her ear up against their shared wall and listens.

  “You remember that favor I asked you?” she hears him say. “Can you do it this morning?”

  Chapter 18

  Okay.”

  That’s all Jamie Curd says before hanging up with Buddy Potter.

  Just one simple, single word.

  But it may very well be the most consequential word he’s ever uttered in his life.

  Jamie shuffles into the drab kitchen of his ranch-style house and reaches for the fifth of Evan Williams whiskey sitting on top of his fridge. He unscrews the cap and takes a long pull. Jamie isn’t much of a drinker, but if now isn’t the right time to take a shot, when the hell is?

  Jamie heads to his bedroom. He was awake when Buddy called him, fussing with his home computer in the den, wearing an undershirt and sweatpants. He changes into a pair of wrinkled jeans and a heavy flannel shirt.

  As Jamie puts on his boots, hat, and jacket—and waits for Buddy—the full weight of what they might be about to do starts to hit him.

  Jamie feels his knees start to buckle. He’s standing stock-still, but he’s out of breath. I can’t do this, he thinks. This is crazy!

  Buddy never made his intentions explicit. But he never had to. Jamie fumbles for his cell phone. He starts to dial the Potter house, intending to tell Buddy he’s sorry but he’s changed his mind, he’s out, he wants no part in anything that’s about to happen—when his phone chirps.

  It’s a new text. From Jenelle.

  “He’s leaving now. I hear the car. I love you, baby. I love you!”

  The message hits Jamie like an emotional punch to the gut. He can practically hear the anxiety, the relief, the gratitude, and the affection in Jenelle’s words.

  All of which reminds him why he agreed to go with Buddy in the first place.

  The woman he loves is in very real danger. This CIA-sanctioned operation is the only real way to ensure her safety.

  To keep his precious Jenelle alive.

  Tamping down his nerves, Jamie texts Jenelle back that he loves her, too. Then he puts away his phone.

  Minutes later, a familiar black pickup truck pulls into his driveway.

  “Morning, sir,” Jamie says as he climbs into the passenger seat.

  Gnawing on a toothpick, wearing a black leather jacket and his trusty camo baseball cap with the Marine insignia, Buddy simply gives him a curt nod.

  The two sit in tense silence as they drive across town via Highway 67, a desolate, four-lane strip of cracked asphalt that cuts through the pitch-black Tennessee countryside. Finally, after ten excruciating minutes, Buddy turns right.

  Into the parking lot of a Pentecostal church.

  “What are you doing?” asks Jamie, suddenly thrown. Buddy never went over the exact details of his plan, but Jamie certainly wasn’t expecting any part of it to involve a church.

  Buddy doesn’t answer. He finds a parking spot and kills the engine.

  “Sir, the Payne house is a quarter of a mile away,” Jamie continues. “Why are we—”

  “Recon. From an elevated position.”

  Buddy takes a rifle scope from his pocket and holds it up to his eye.

  “Target building is less than a fifth of a mile from our position, right on the other side of this sloping, wide-open field. Look for yourself.”

  Buddy hands Jamie the scope. He peers through it. Sure enough, there’s a clear, direct line of sight to the home. He hands the scope back, feeling inadequate compared to a decorated combat veteran like Buddy, with his years of covert operation experience. “So now what?”

  “We sit tight. And wait.”

  Calmed by Buddy’s confidence but still a little uneasy, Jamie settles back into his seat.

  Chapter 19

  They don’t have to wait long.

  “Look alive,” says Buddy, squinting through his rifle scope. “We got activity.”

  At first, Jamie doesn’t see anything. Then, off in the distance, he can just barely make out a car turn on its headlights and pull onto the road.

  “Positive ident: Paw Bill,” says Buddy. “Leaving for his shift, right on schedule.”

  Jamie is impressed—and spooked. “How did you know what time Billy’s dad—?”

  “No more chatter. Let’s walk over.”

  Buddy starts to get out of the pickup. Jamie stays put, planning to slide over behind the wheel and wait for Buddy until he comes back to drive him home.

  But Buddy glares at him. “Means you, too,” he hisses.

  “Me?” Jamie feels his fear bubbling up again. “But…you said I was just—”

  “Now, Jamie. I’m giving you an order.”

  And just like that, Jamie’s resistance crumbles faster than a sandcastle.

  He and Buddy slowly make their way across the dark field toward the house. Jamie looks over at Buddy, but he can barely make out the man’s shadowy figure. At this quiet hour, the dull crunch of dead grass under their feet is the only sound they can hear for miles. The only light guiding their way comes from the sliver of moon above.

  Crossing the Payne property line, Buddy leads Jamie to behind a toolshed in the backyard. From the rear, the house looks dark and quiet.

  But Jamie knows full well that two adults and a baby are fast asleep inside.

  The whole thing is starting to seem like a bad idea again.

  “Mr. Potter, what are we doin’ here?!” Jamie whispers. “If Billy sees us, all hell’s gonna break loose!”

  “Shh!” Buddy admonishes. Then he crouches down, lifts up his left pant leg, and takes out a subcompact revolver from his ankle holster.

  He holds it out to Jamie—who recoils in horror.

  “No way, Mr. Potter! I can’t kill nobody!”

  Buddy snorts, irritated. “You ain’t got to.” He gestures to the sliding-glass back door. “I just need you to stand at that door and keep watch. Can you handle that?”

  “But, why do I got a gun if I’m only—”

  Buddy waves him off and skulks toward the house. Reluctantly, Jamie follows.

  With the sleeve of his jacket covering his hand, Buddy gives the glass door a gentle tug. It’s unlocked. Buddy softly opens it all the way. He points at Jamie, then at the ground, then at his own eyes, signaling “Stay here and stay alert.”

  Buddy steps inside the house, drawing a semiautomatic from his hip holster.

  Jamie watches through the glass door as Buddy disappears down the hall. But the only thing he can hear is the thundering of his own heartbeat. He knows he’s supposed to keep a lookout, but to calm his nerves, he briefly squeezes his eyes shut and tries to picture Jenelle. She’s the whole reason he’s here. She’s what will help him get through this.

  “What the hell?!”

  Jamie hears Billy Payne’s panicked cry from somewhere in the house.

  He opens his eyes and looks inside. He hears more muted yelling, and glimpses Billie Jean dashing from one room into another. It looks like she’s hunched over, as if carrying something in her arms. Baby Tyler? Or a weapon? Too dark to tell.

  Blam!

  A single, deafening gunshot rings out.

  Jamie gasps and jumps back, as if struck by the bullet himself.

  He stands there, stunned, frozen, for the longest forty-five seconds of his life.

  Finally he sees Buddy reemerge and exit the sliding-glass door.

  The former Marine levels a penetrating and inquiring look at Jamie—who knows exactly what Buddy is asking.

  Jamie whispers, “Down the hall,” and points in the direction Billie Jean ran.

  Buddy spins and marches back into the house.

  Seconds later, Jamie hears a woman’s petrified screams—and a baby’s piercing wails. Though muffled, there’s visceral panic and terror in both.

  Jamie shuts his eyes again, even tighter this time. He tucks the pistol in his belt and covers his ears as well. In his head, he silently begs Buddy, again and again, to show mercy to the mother and child.

  Blam!

  A second shot echoes from inside.

  Billie Jean’s shrieks abruptly cease.

  And the cool January night settles back into eerie, absolute silence.

  Chapter 20

  January 31, 2012, five hours later

  As Linda and Roy Stephens pull into the driveway of the white-clapboard house, Linda hears a sharp metallic squeal.

  Those darn brake pads! She’s been asking him to replace them for months! Linda sighs. She really doesn’t want to get into an argument with her husband this morning. They’ve been doing that plenty these past few months—so much so that Roy has actually been sleeping here at Paw Bill’s house a few nights a week. He’s even started forwarding his mail, which is what they’re stopping by this morning to pick up.

  Linda wants to be supportive, and hates to be a nag, but the two start bickering almost immediately when she brings up the brake pads. Before their quarrel can escalate, Roy gets out of the car and heads around to the back of the house.

  Linda shakes her head. She wishes she and her husband wouldn’t fight so much. Then again, she reminds herself, at least she doesn’t have the problems Billie Jean Hayworth has.

  Billie Jean lives here, too, with Paw Bill’s son, Billy, and their seven-month-old baby, Tyler. Linda has only met Billie Jean once or twice before, but she always found her a sweet young woman. So she was shocked a few months back when she was working at the gas station and noticed Billie Jean crying and screaming at two women in another car that was boxing her in.

  Linda was in the middle of her shift, but she hurried outside to intervene. As she shouted to Billie Jean that she was going to call the police on her behalf, the second vehicle sped off.

  Linda tried her best to help the hysterical woman calm down, especially after she noticed Billie Jean’s newborn was in the car. Billie Jean told Linda the two women who drove off were Barbara Potter and her daughter, Jenelle, who’d been tormenting her for months—for absolutely no reason as far as Billie Jean knew.

  “Tormenting you how, dear?” Linda asked.

  “Threatening me!” Billie Jean answered, between sobs. “This won’t stop! They called me trash. Said I shouldn’t be here. And that I shouldn’t be a mother! That I didn’t deserve to have Tyler!”

  Thinking about that day, Linda’s heart breaks all over again. No stranger to difficult relationships herself, she hopes that whatever issues those women might have had, they’re done and buried. Life is just too short to hold on to petty—

  “Linda! Come quick!”

  Linda turns in confusion to see her husband sprinting toward their car.

  “Roy, what in the devil are you so—”

  “It’s Billy! He’s been shot! Come on!”

  Linda hears the words, but they’re so shocking, she can’t fully process them. So Roy yanks open the passenger-side door and starts all but dragging her to the house, down the hall, and into one of the bedrooms.

  There, lying on the floor drenched in blood, practically naked, is Billy Payne.

  “Dear God!” Linda exclaims.

  “You still know CPR, right?”

  “I…I mean, I used to! It’s been years since the last time I—”

  “Just try! I’ll call 911, they’ll walk you through!”

  “Roy, no, wait!” she cries.

  But her husband has already disappeared, leaving Linda alone with Billy’s body.

  Every instinct she has is telling her to look away—to run away—but Linda forces herself to try to help this poor man if she can. She creeps closer, kneeling down beside Billy’s head. His left cheek is a gory mess, blown apart by what must be a gunshot.

  It makes Linda want to vomit, but she fights that urge and begins to tilt Billy’s head back to listen for his breathing. Doing so, she realizes his throat has been viciously slashed as well, exposing horrific bits of muscle and cartilage.

  “Here, it’s ringing!” says Roy, reappearing and thrusting a cordless phone at her.

  “Johnson County 911,” says the female operator.

  “I need an ambulance, bad!” Linda blurts out.

  “Okay, what’s going on?”

  As Linda starts to frantically explain, she notices Roy rush out of the bedroom again.

  “Okay, is he breathing?” the operator asks calmly.

  Linda leans closer and puts her ear near Billy’s lips. Nothing. She presses her fingers around his spongy, gaping neck wound, desperate to feel a pulse.

  “No! And I can’t find…I can’t find a pulse! All I see is blood!”

  The operator says something in response, but all Linda can hear is a wailing baby.

  She turns and sees Roy reenter the bedroom, carrying Tyler in his arms.

  Linda screams, losing her last bit of control over her emotions.

  “Oh, my God! Is he okay?!”

  “Yes, yes!” Roy insists, tilting the infant forward so his wife can see that although Tyler is speckled with dried blood, he looks otherwise unharmed.

  “What about Billie Jean?!” Linda cries. “Where’s his mother?!”

  Roy doesn’t answer.

  He doesn’t need to.

  Linda understands right away that this beautiful new baby has been orphaned.

  She drops the phone and covers her face with her bloodstained hands, letting out a deep, primal moan.

  Part 3

  Chapter 21

  Tennessee Bureau of Investigation special agents Scott Lott and Mike Hannon step out of their black Chevy Charger and into the midday January sun. They exchange not a word as they button their suit jackets and walk up the driveway to a modest white house on a sleepy gravel road.

  It’s been just over an hour since the two homicide victims were found. The crime scene, ringed with yellow tape, is buzzing with activity. Local police officers have secured the perimeter, taken statements, and begun canvassing for additional witnesses. Forensic techs, wearing full-body white suits, have started combing the property for evidence, inside and out.

  Lott and Hannon flash their badges, duck under the yellow tape, and approach the open front door. But Lott stops before they enter, something dawning on him.

  “Owner said he saw both victims alive before he left for work. Then he locked this door behind him. Always does. But he kept the back door open. That’s how the first witness—the one who found the bodies—got inside, too. Right?”

  Hannon shrugs. “So?”

  “So, I wanna see what he saw, how he saw it.”

  “The witness?”

  Lott gives his longtime partner a look. Hannon understands.

  The killer.

  The two men walk around the side of the home to the backyard. They note the large grassy field that leads to a tiny church. The toolshed. The sliding-glass door.

  Lott and Hannon enter the house and move through the hallway to the body of the first victim. Male, Caucasian, age midthirties. Single gunshot wound to the head, deep laceration to the neck. The agents observe the partially clothed body and cluttered bedroom as techs take photographs and dust for prints.

  “Perp hated him so much, he killed him twice,” quips Hannon.

  Lott nods. “A victim’s throat is slit? That means it’s personal.”

  They move on to the nursery, to the second victim. Female, Caucasian, age midtwenties. Single gunshot wound to the head.

  Lott looks grim. “Witness says he found the victim’s seven-month-old son still in her arms. It takes a cold-blooded person to shoot someone holding a baby.”

  “Poor kid,” Hannon says, shaking his head. He asks one of the techs, “Find any shell casings yet? Near either victim?”

  “No, sir. We’re still looking.”

  “Where are you with prints?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  As Lott and Hannon exit the nursery and head back outside through the front door, Lott says, “We ain’t gonna find shit.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “This is one of the cleanest scenes we’ve ever seen, Mike. Two perfect head shots. No casings, no prints, no signs of forced entry, no eye-wits. And I saw a laptop, two smartphones, and a flat-screen TV in there, all untouched. This wasn’t a B&E. This wasn’t a sexual assault. This wasn’t a crime of passion. This was a hit. Meticulously planned and executed by a highly trained killer.”