“Cole? How did he know?”

  “He said he’d heard it somewhere, but I found out later he was selling drugs to Nate Keneally.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Could Cole or Nate have told anyone else?”

  “Maybe. I think the only reason Cole told me was to make me mad at Denny. He was always working on our heads. Eventually he broke us up.”

  “Beck still carries a grudge about that.”

  “Yeah, so do I.” Louisa patted her baby bump fondly. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d stuck together. This little one might be Denny’s and—” She looked up, embarrassed. “I’m not saying I don’t love my husband, it’s that sometimes I think of what might have been.”

  “No harm, no foul,” Riley replied. “I do the same every now and then.”

  “Are you two—” the girl ventured.

  “Close friends, but . . . ” Could she admit the truth to Beck’s ex? “I want more. I want what you’ve got. Well, not the baby right off, but you know.”

  Louisa smiled broadly, then it faded. “You have to find him, you hear? Don’t let him disappear like those boys.”

  “I’ll try.” No, I will find him. She couldn’t live with anything less.

  By the time Riley left the house, she’d been given a picture of Beck from when he was fifteen. He lounged against an old car, clad in worn jeans and a black T-shirt, his summer-blond hair spiky and unkempt. His half smile barely disguised his damaged life. It only made her miss him more.

  FOURTEEN

  As the temperature rose, Beck took the opportunity to strip out of his jacket and shirt so he could shake out the red bugs. Once he thought the clothes had fewer critters he put them back on. All the while his mind was working through options. The lack of food was an issue, and there wasn’t anything within reach that would be of help. He’d pointedly ignored the bugs skittering around in the underbrush. He wasn’t that desperate . . . yet.

  What he really needed was the right stone or thick branch to use as leverage to widen the gap in the ring. Then once he freed himself from the tree, he could arm himself with the chain and make a dash past the demon toward the canal. From there he’d have to figure out which direction to walk to reach civilization, but he’d done that before and lived to tell the tale.

  As he buttoned his shirt he found himself staring at the next tree over. It had a chain as well, a twin to the one holding him prisoner, probably left over from when there were logging operations in the swamp.

  If he could get that other length of chain free, maybe he could use it in some way, if nothing more than as an additional weapon against the demon. Beck walked over as far as his leash would allow, within ten feet of the tree, but couldn’t cover the space. He went down on his knees, then on the ground, angling himself for maximum stretch. Clawing across the leaves and debris, he edged closer. As he moved, he uncovered beetles and other crawly things. Beck shuddered and kept working forward inch by inch. And fell short. There was no way he’d be able to retrieve the other chain.

  Swearing, he rolled over on this back and stared up at the sky. It was a brilliant blue, quite pretty, unless you were trapped in a swamp. Think, dammit! There has to be a way to get free.

  His right shoulder blade began to complain about the uneven ground, so he rolled up into a sitting position. Hoping to score a rock, he dug with his fingers, but instead unearthed something metal. Even better. Scooping away the dirt revealed the business end of a rifle and he excavated it from the ground.

  Brushing it off, he felt a thrill of hope. If there was still a cartridge in the thing, maybe he could find a way to weaken the chain. He knew better than to try to shoot off the padlock; that only worked in movies. Beck struggled to his feet, knocking dirt out of the barrel, then opened the chamber. There was no bullet.

  “Of course not,” he muttered.

  At least now he had another weapon. It would only be a matter of time before some small critter got too close to him and the rifle would make a great club. If it came to eating raw squirrel rather than dying of starvation, he’d find the will to do it.

  Exhausted, his muscles jittery, Beck rested. He caught sight of an anhinga observing him from its perch. The locals called them snake birds, and when they dove into the water their feathers became saturated so they’d have to sit in the sun until their feathers dried and they could fly again.

  Beck’s eyes lowered to the weapon in his hand. It seemed in decent condition other than the damaged stock which had suffered from too much moisture. He scrubbed away on the wood with a thumbnail, then froze. The wood had a skull and crossbones imprint and the initials NTK.

  Nathan Tate Keneally

  “Oh my God,” he whispered. He knew this gun. He’d fired it once.

  He looked up to find the demon watching him from a respectful distance, resting on its haunches again.

  “Is this some trick of yers?” he demanded.

  The fiend shook its head. “It has been here since that night. Do you remember?”

  There was no way he could ever forget that night. It had played havoc in Beck’s nightmares for years, switching back and forth with the one from the war.

  “What really happened to them?” Beck asked, his throat tight.

  “Your soul for the answer.”

  “I’ve lived seven years without it, I can go a bit longer.”

  “So you’d like to believe,” it replied, then crept off into the brush.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  After her visit with Beck’s ex, the next stop was Sadie’s house. Though Sam offered to help with the cleaning, Riley declined the offer. This was her job, her way of thanking Beck for everything he’d done for her over the last few months. Besides, she needed time to think things through.

  “When do you want me to pick you up?” Sam asked.

  Riley checked her phone for the time. “Make it three hours. By then I’ll be tired of cleaning. Meet me at the funeral home, will you?”

  “Okay. I’ll be here.”

  Riley blew through the remaining rooms in Sadie’s house like a robot at warp speed, mostly because the work was mindless and the cleaning products smelled a lot better than stale cigarette smoke. As she scrubbed and dusted, she tried to look at Beck’s disappearance from all angles. Cole was at the top of her list of suspects, but that was because she couldn’t stand him. Still, it wasn’t like the guy would make off with Beck just to get a chance to hook up with her. That meant this had something to do with the missing boys.

  I hope Donovan can figure this out or Beck’s screwed.

  By the time Riley had finished nearly all the cleaning, she’d reached the one task she’d been putting off. Digging in someone else’s closet made her feel like a voyeur, especially when that person was dead. It was no surprise to find that Sadie’s clothes weren’t fancy, mostly jeans, shirts, a few tank tops, and a jacket or two. Nothing you’d want to be buried in.

  Riley kept moving clothes around until she found something promising. The dress was navy and had a slight sheen to it, probably knee length on its owner. If Sadie had done something with her hair and makeup, maybe added a few dozen pounds, she would have looked good in it. At least before she’d taken ill.

  Riley laid it on the bed, wondering what had led Beck’s mom to buy the dress in the first place. Was it for someone special? She dug around a little longer and discovered a pair of high heels. A check of Sadie’s jewelry box didn’t turn up much: The woman wasn’t into bling. Feeling it was best to go simple, Riley picked out a cross and a plain pair of earrings. She packed everything up in a grocery bag and set off for the funeral home.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  McGovern accepted the bag of clothes. “Thanks. I was wondering who was going to handle this now that Beck’s gone.”

  “He’s not gone, he’s just . . . missing,” Riley replied.

  “Hope he hasn’t done something stupid,” the man continued.

  “Like what?”

  The undertaker hesitated. “He said life wasn’t worth a damn now that his mother was dead. Said he wasn’t sure how he could go on.”

  “What? When was this? At the hospital?” That certainly hadn’t been a topic of conversation at the motel.

  McGovern hesitated. “Last night. I called him and he came by to sign some papers. He said he was going to buy some beer and get hammered.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Ah, about nine fifteen or so.”

  No way. Beck was too careful about driving drunk, worried he’d lose his truck.

  “Did you tell the cops about this?” she demanded.

  “Didn’t seem that important,” McGovern said, shrugging. “Denny was always out of control.”

  A low growl formed in her throat. This guy was lucky he was the only mortician in Sadlersville.

  “Anything else you need?” she asked.

  “Not right now. You headed home soon?”

  “No, I’m not going anywhere until I find Beck.”

  When she reached the front door, she looked back. McGovern’s eyes were narrowed and he was watching her too closely. He’s lying about something.

  Sam was waiting for her in the parking lot, right on time. Riley had barely reached the car, about to offload about McGovern’s stupidity, when a cop car pulled up next to her. It was the deputy who’d come to the motel, the one named Martin. His side window rolled down.

  “Need you to come with me,” he said.

  “Did you find him?” Riley asked.

  “We found his truck,” was the terse reply.

  “But what about Beck?”

  “Just get in the car.”

  Riley’s chest tightened. Had they found Beck’s body and Donovan wanted to tell her the news in person? “Give me a sec.”

  She turned her back on the deputy and leaned over to talk to Sam. “Can I trust him?” Riley whispered.

  “Yeah, he’s on the level. He just lacks social skills.”

  That she could handle. “Thanks. I’ll let you know what’s going down.”

  “Hopefully, it’s good news,” Sam said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  Riley hopped into the cruiser and buckled the seat belt. “Where are we headed?”

  “South of town.”

  As they made the drive, the deputy asked questions while Riley responded with noncommittal answers. She’d learned that skill from her time with the Vatican’s Demon Hunters. As she saw it, if the cop wasn’t willing to tell her anything, that could go both ways. Finally, he gave up.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Their destination was the eastern edge of the swamp, somewhere near where Beck had taken her for their pizza picnic. The location looked like an impromptu parking lot with two other cop cars, some sort of state vehicle, and an ambulance.

  Oh God.

  “What is all this?” she asked, her fear growing.

  Martin gave her a dispassionate look. “We found a suicide note and—”

  Riley was out of the car before it came to a stop, her feet pounding toward the ambulance, kicking up sand as she ran. No! Beck wouldn’t do this to me.

  Donovan stepped into her path, causing her to skid to a stop. “Hold on!” he called out.

  “Where’s Beck?” She searched for the familiar face, the one she longed to see, but he wasn’t visible. Then she spied a man on the stretcher being carried over the sand by two EMTs.

  “Beck?” she cried and took a few steps forward.

  Donovan caught her arm. “It’s not him.”

  Then why was she here?

  As the stretcher rose to enter the back of the ambulance, Riley caught sight of a head crowned in dark hair and a face covered in blood. It was Cole Hadley. A short time later, the ambulance was rolling across the sand toward the main road, lights and siren engaged.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “Hadley’s been shot,” Donovan said. “Don’t know if he’s going to make it or not.”

  “Who shot him?”

  Martin joined them at this point. “Beck, who else?”

  “We don’t know that yet,” the sheriff replied.

  “Works for me. He gets Hadley out here—probably told him he wanted to buy some drugs from him—then he shoots him and takes his wheels. Not that I’m upset he did it or anything.”

  Could Beck have shot Cole? He certainly hated him enough. Riley shook her head at the thought. “Shooting him puts Beck in jail and then he can’t bury his mom or go back to Atlanta.” To his rabbit and his job and all the stuff that matters to him.

  She felt the shakes coming on, so she took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. “What’s really going on here?” She angled her head toward the deputy. “He said you’d found a suicide note.”

  With a glower at his subordinate, Donovan waved her forward toward the back of the pickup. The topper was open and the tailgate down. “Tell me if anything’s missing or seems out of place. Newman’s still dusting for prints so don’t touch anything.”

  Riley stepped closer and peered into the bed of the Ford. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected but there was nothing out of the ordinary. There was no blood.

  “It looks like it did last night,” she said.

  “What about in the cab?”

  She moved around to the passenger door, which was open like the driver’s side. As she peered inside, Newman sprinkled black powder on the steering wheel. Beck’s keys sat in the ignition and the glove compartment door was hanging open.

  “There should be a steel pipe and two blankets behind the seat. Well, maybe not the pipe. He gave one to me about a week ago and he might not have replaced it yet. They’re expensive.”

  “What about inside the glove compartment?”

  “His trapper’s manual, truck registration stuff, and . . . ” She looked up at the sheriff. “He keeps his gun in there.” And a box of condoms. She wasn’t going to mention those or face ridicule from Deputy Martin.

  “The gun is gone,” the sheriff replied. “We found this on the seat.” He handed over an evidence bag, like the kind you’d see on the cop shows. A piece of paper was inside, a note it appeared.

  They were right. I killed Nate and Brad. What with my mother gone now, I hear them in my mind, calling to me. Demanding retribution for my sins. I’ve settled my score with that asshole Hadley and I’m out of here. No one will miss me. Just like when I was alive.

  Riley looked up at Donovan, her mind whirling. “What? This is total crap. He didn’t write this.”

  “Tell me why you think that,” the sheriff replied, watching her closely.

  “You know that Beck never called Sadie mother. There was too much bad blood between them.” She sighed, unhappy to give up one of his closely guarded secrets. “That line, ‘demanding retribution’? That’s not Beck. He can barely read and write. Though the signature kind of looks like his handwriting, the rest of it isn’t. It isn’t even close.”

  “You sure about that?” Martin challenged.

  “Yes, I am. I know his writing. This isn’t it.”

  “Someone might have helped him with it,” the deputy countered. “I know a few in this town who’d be happy to see him gone.”

  “Beck has everything to live for now. He’s been invited to Scotland to meet some of the grand masters in the International Demon Trappers Guild. For a trapper, that’s a really big deal.” She speared the deputy with a look. “Does that sound like someone who’s jonesing to kill himself?”

  “Not unless the guilt got to him,” Martin replied sullenly.

  “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “He wanted to clear his name. Someone doesn’t want that to happen.”

  Riley’s phone rang. Irritated at the interruption, she pulled it out. It was Beck’s number. “Ohmigod, it’s him!”

  “Put it on the speaker,” Donovan ordered.

  More fumbling, but she got it done. “Beck? Where are you?” she cried out. “Are you okay?”

  “Go home,” a raspy voice said. “It’s over.”

  A second later, the sound of a gunshot split the air.

  FIFTEEN

  Donovan snatched the phone from Riley just before she dropped it. As he strode away from her, he jammed a finger in one ear and tried to listen to the sounds coming through the speaker. There was silence, a clunking noise, and rapid breathing. Then the call ended.

  When he turned back, Riley was on her knees in the sand, rocking back and forth, sobbing, a strained, high-pitched wheezing sound issuing with every breath she took. Martin was on his knees as well, trying to reassure her.

  Donovan knelt on the other side of her. “Take it slow. Breathe in, then out. You’re okay.”

  “He shot . . . himself.”

  “No, I don’t think he did.”

  Riley’s tear-tracked face rose to his, desperate. “But I heard—”

  “Just relax your breathing. That’s what’s important right now.”

  Sheclosed her eyes and made an effort to slow each breath, making them deeper, less panicky. When she finally regained control a few minutes later, she frowned.

  “Beck wouldn’t do that to me. That was cold. Cruel.”

  “I agree,” Donovan replied. “If Beck shot himself . . . ” He hesitated, his eyes meeting the deputy’s. “It probably would have been in the head. His gun is a 9mm, which would have taken him down instantly. I should have heard a body hitting the ground or some noise to indicate he was incapacitated. Instead, there was rapid breathing for at least seven or eight seconds, some other sound, maybe the gun being put down, then the call was disconnected.”

  “Beck can’t hang up a phone if he’s a corpse,” Martin said, frowning.

  “Exactly.”

  Fury built on Riley’s face as she struggled to her feet. “What kind of sick creep fakes someone’s suicide over the phone?” she demanded, her fists balled.