Still, we didn’t have Google Maps back then. I figure there are only so many houses in the area I’ve identified, and not many of those will have sufficient open space to keep horses.

  I zoom in as closely as my screen will let me and find two properties that have what could be fields or paddocks around them, along with large roofs which might be barns.

  It might not be either of them, but it’s a start, and there’s only one way to find out.

  Go there.

  Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should go back to the city and start writing like Maddy told me to. Maybe I should text either of my brothers, who would most definitely talk me out of this.

  Or maybe I should just act like a real journalist and do the final bit of legwork on my story. All this “out past the ferry” and “Jeb Dixon breaks people’s arms” and “Ed Cormier’s in jail” is probably just Boo Radley stuff. Urban legends, except in the country.

  Well, except I guess Ed really is in jail … which means he won’t be at his property, so one less thing to worry about.

  Anyway, it’s ridiculous that I’ve never been to a place that’s less than twenty kilometres from where I grew up. I’m sure it’s beautiful out there. The river by the ferry is a broad expanse of clear, blue water, framed on either side by dense mixed forests, and the nearby properties are probably gorgeous.

  I guess I’ll be finding out before long.

  ***

  The first property I identified is interesting but a no. The building that could have been a barn appears to be a small airplane hangar and the open space is a long grass runway surrounded by windsocks. A private airstrip.

  Very cool. Something I’d find out more about if the Oak Junction Journal was up-and-running and I was an OJJ reporter. But I’m not, and the property isn’t what I’m looking for, so I move on.

  Fortunately, the second one is the right place and there’s no need to guess about it. An off-kilter mailbox covered in peeling camouflage vinyl sports six faded red stickers: C, R, M, I, E, R. The gap between the C and the R tells me this is Ed Cormier’s mailbox.

  A length of fence runs along the road with horses grazing behind it. I cruise past the mailbox and the grazing horses and pull into the next crossroad, which is very narrow, with rutted gravel that clearly hasn’t been graded for years. I pull the car as far off the road as I can without getting it stuck, under some low-hanging branches that make me feel like I’m in a cave.

  It’s good that I changed out of my fancy breakfast clothes — cropped chinos and sneakers are definitely better for a spot of country walking than strappy sandals and wide-legged pants. Still … I keep a stash of “emergency” supplies in the spare tire wheel well. There’s an old hoodie in there which I pull on, relieved that it’s green and should blend into the vegetation.

  I snug my hair into a ponytail and pull the hood up. What I don’t do is pause to ask myself why I’m doing all this. Why hide the car? Why disguise myself? What am I getting ready to do? How far am I willing to go?

  I’m just being prepared. That’s all. I won’t do anything dangerous, but if what I’ve heard is true, and Jeb Dixon is as unpredictable as everybody says, it’s best to be on my toes. This is me tiptoeing.

  I want to see his horses. I should have brought horse treats. There’s a tin of mints in the console of the car, which I slip into the hoodie’s kangaroo pouch.

  Then, I set out through the brush toward the horses’ paddock. Why aren’t you going by the road? I’m not sure if it’s Rowan’s or Xander’s voice in my head, but my answer is quick — He might have cameras by the road and you were the one who didn’t want me to confront him. This is me being careful.

  This is also me wading through hip-high undergrowth, tripping on fallen logs, batting at bugs, and trying not to get scraped by low-hanging branches. A big tick-check will be in order tonight.

  I’m using the overhead map image I looked up as a mental reference. I had the impression I could get to the paddock this way … I just didn’t think it would be such a long hike.

  As I’m wondering whether I’ve been walking in circles without knowing it, the trees thin ahead and I can make out the lines of a wire fence.

  The sun’s come out and I stand for a moment, arms propped on the fence, blinking to adjust my shade-accustomed eyes to the brightness of the wide-open field. The cicadas are sawing for all they’re worth. The horses’ coats gleam under the sun’s rays. I can imagine them hot under my palm.

  Even in my hoodie, in the mid-afternoon sun, a chill runs through me. Maybe it’s a poke from my subconscious reminding me of my brothers’ warnings. It was a day like this one when Wren disappeared, and nobody thought it could happen then. Best be wary.

  I pull out my phone and type out a message: If you get this, I need help. I leave it unsent, but ready to go. And, yes, I feel silly, but better silly than sorry.

  This is me being careful.

  I shake the mint tin.

  Heads pop up, one after another. One horse immediately begins walking, head outstretched, straight for me.

  I hope nobody’s watching the field because there’s no dismissing the herd’s reaction.

  I keep my eyes open, ready to run if I have to. Ready to press “send” on my message if I need to.

  I slip a mint to the first horse to arrive. “Good boy. You’re such a good boy. Aren’t you a good boy?”

  He crunches it, and a waft of peppermint hits my nostrils. Finding that he likes mints is a good first step.

  Now for the second step, which is to see if he’s tattooed and, if so, take a picture. After combining Xander’s information about Jeb’s past horse-related swindles with the horse identification information I gained at Oak Copse, determining the true identity of Jeb Dixon’s horses could be very useful.

  However, how to juggle the mints — which the horse wants immediately — while holding his halter and my phone? I could use one more hand.

  Honestly, I don’t even know how to read a tattoo on the inside of a horse’s lip. It seems like a hard enough thing for a complete horse rookie like me to do without trying to take a photo at the same time.

  So, OK. Don’t try to take a photo. I switch my phone to the front camera, select video, press record, then put the phone grip in my mouth. If the horse minds being approached by a pair of eyes, fronted by a cell phone, he doesn’t show it. I offer him another mint and he noses eagerly toward me.

  While he crunches, I take hold of either side of his halter and rub the soft skin around his mouth. He seems to like it. I slide my hands forward and maybe they have mint residue on them, or maybe it’s just good, old-fashioned salty sweat, but he licks at my fingers.

  It’s now or never. The horse might pull away. Jeb might show up. I slide my thumbs under his top lip, leaving my fingers behind it as leverage and, taking a deep breath, flip the lip.

  I’m surprised how easily it flips right up. I can clearly see the tattoo — I just hope my camera’s pointing in the right direction. I’m also surprised at the horse’s reaction. He seems to think it’s a game. He pushes into my hand and, when I release the lip, instead of backing away from me, he nuzzles me.

  While he’s doing that, I switch my phone to photo and take as many pictures of him as I can, from different angles, trying to show all the markings on his legs and face.

  Then I try for another horse.

  Three more of Jeb’s horses are happy to play along with my mints-in-exchange-for-photos game. I figure any who don’t approach the fence are less amenable, and I probably don’t want to be messing around with their mouths anyway.

  It’s actually good that they stay a ways out in the paddock, heads down, grazing. It makes what I’m doing at the fence less obvious.

  With my phone full of horsey photos and videos, and my mints gone, I begin to walk along the fence line, just inside the trees, hoping the horses won’t follow me. No mints, no interest — they drop their heads and graze with their friends.

  I’m not sure where I’m going, but Maps showed me the driveway — and the buildings strung along it — are on the opposite side of the paddock. Ahead, I can see the end of the cleared field. I’m assuming when I get to the corner, I’ll be able to turn right and continue walking along the fence, in the shelter of the trees, except this time I’ll be walking toward the buildings.

  Sure enough, when I reach the corner, the fence stretches off along the edge of the forest. I set off that way, looking to my right across the field to the group of horses slowly drifting away from the fence where I stood. When I look to the left, there are occasional spots where the trees are thinner and I can glimpse openness and the river through them.

  I’m not really thinking beyond staying in the shade of the trees, not stepping on anything that will trip me, hoping that my photos and videos turn out.

  Then I hit the far corner. The one closest to the farm buildings. Now I need to make a decision. Now I need to figure out what I’m doing here.

  Now, I should really turn around and go back to the car.

  The buildings are right in front of me, though — about fifty feet away. A line of them, running along the gravel drive. They look interesting. They look like they could hide any number of intriguing things. They look to be a reasonable distance from the house — given that there’s no house in sight.

  I’m still hidden, but if I step out any further, I won’t be. Then again, anybody out and about also wouldn’t be hidden from me. I stand as still as I can for five minutes, keeping my breath shallow, keeping my eyes open, listening.

  Beyond the rustling of something small in the leaf litter by my feet and the light breeze touching a branch here and rustling a leaf there, I swear I’m alone.

  I won’t have another chance like this.

  So, I’ll just be careful. I check my phone — make sure my SOS message is still ready to be sent — then I take my first step out from the tree trunk I’m sheltering beside.

  Twenty-Seven

  I run. I stay on my tiptoes — quick, but quiet. At least that’s the aim.

  The first building is a proper, classic barn like the ones scattered across fields and farms in this valley and throughout Eastern Ontario.

  It’s clapboard sided with a fieldstone foundation and topped with a central-ridge pitched roof. The double doors at the end are rolled wide open and when I peer in, I see the entire inside has been gutted. There would have been stalls in here once, but now all that’s left are regularly spaced load-bearing posts, leading up to structural beams, and a loft covering about half of the overhead space. There are hay bales stacked high in the loft. The floor is a loamy mix of dirt and sand, and there are haynets strung from the walls.

  A loafing barn. Just about the right size for the herd of horses in the field.

  Because it’s wide open, with nowhere to hide, I don’t feel comfortable going in. However, for the same reason, I don’t think there’s anything of interest hidden in there.

  Time to move on. I hug the non-driveway side of the barn until I get to the corner. Here, a lane divides this building from the next one, which is a large quonset hut. Looking right, the lane leads to a gate, which leads into the field I just walked around. It all makes sense for bringing the horses in during bad weather.

  I force myself to wait for another long, quiet interlude and again, not hearing or seeing anything, I scamper across the lane — once again going as quickly as I can, once again trying not to make any sounds.

  In just a few seconds, I’m hugging the side of the quonset.

  I’ve already seen a barn big enough to hold all the horses. Peering ahead, I can just make out the back of the house with several sheds dividing it from the quonset hut. Those are big enough to hold any equipment needed on the farm.

  So, what’s in this hut?

  I think of what Maddy would say — It doesn’t matter what’s in the hut. It has nothing to do with the story I’m supposed to write … supposed to be at home, in the city, writing right now.

  But I’ve come this far.

  There are double doors on the hut, just like on the barn, but these ones are closed. I roll from my heels to my toes, taking the few silent steps needed to reach the doors. There’s a hasp, with a padlock threaded through it, and I have to admit relief floods through me at the sight of it.

  That’s it — investigating over — nothing more I can do. I’m not a lock-picker, nor do I have bolt-cutters.

  I give the padlock a casual tug … and it opens in my hand.

  Shit.

  I don’t want to look inside.

  What if Wren’s in there?

  The possibility makes me want to look even less.

  I open my phone one more time and override my privacy settings to allow tracking. Double-check my emergency message. Cautiously crack the door open.

  If there’s someone inside, they’ll see the door moving. I stand, poised to run, and wait for a yell.

  Nothing.

  Right. OK, then. Am I really going to do this? Am I going in?

  I pull the door open just enough to slip in, then shut it behind me. Unfortunately, there’s no way to replace the padlock in the hasp, so I’ll just have to hope nobody strolls casually by and wonders why the padlock is missing.

  Unlike the loafing barn, which was dim and cool, the top part of the quonset is canvas so the area is bright, and the air is warm. It makes me feel ridiculously exposed, but it also means I can see everything.

  Massive shelves line each of the long walls, and a row of vehicles occupies the open space down the middle — a couple of trucks, a tractor, an ATV. I start taking video.

  I walk the entire long side, recording the contents of the shelves, which mostly seem to be bags of horse feed. I cross in front of the other set of double doors at the far end of the hut and walk back along the other set of shelves. At one end is a variety of equipment — buckets, ropes, and other equipment, in the middle are stacks of bags that say “shavings,” and back at the end where I entered, are plain old boring cardboard boxes. Except for the labels on them that say Equine Pharma and read Warning. For delivery to veterinary offices only. Not for resale. and Ketamine, Banamine, Bute.

  Even though it’s not my thing, I’ve heard of Ketamine. And the other two … Banamine and Bute … they’re familiar. For some reason, I think of bananas. Not bananas, Banamine, I tell myself. Then, like a lightbulb it all comes together. The smell of bananas. Ruth telling me about Banamine. A sachet of Bute in Wren’s medicine cabinet.

  I open the nearest box and find rows and rows of the little wet-wipe-looking sachets. My brain is racing. It’s too much to figure out right now, so I scoop a few out and stuff them in my pocket, then I stop the video and take pictures of each of the different labels on the boxes.

  I’ve just captured Ketamine when the doors at the far end of the hut roll open and somebody yells, “Hey!”

  Run. It’s all I can think. I don’t even take time to consider that another person could be waiting for me right outside. It’s my good luck that nobody is, but that’s the end of my good luck because I still have to get out of here.

  I can’t run along the drive toward the road since the person who yelled at me is at that end of the hut. The route back to my car is long and circuitous, and the most direct path — straight across the field leaves me wide open to observation, not to mention being chased down on an ATV.

  My instinct is to get to the river, but I also don’t want to run straight there — I don’t want the person chasing me to know where I’ve gone. So I run across the drive and push between two bushes into the woods on the far side.

  The forest here is as dense as the thickest patch I pushed through between the car and the paddock, and it’s impossible to run quickly.

  My heart’s pounding high and thready in my chest and I recognize the cause is fear rather than exertion.

  Calm down, I tell myself. Nobody coming behind can run quickly either.

  All I need to do is leave them unsure which way I’ve gone, then make my way to the river.

  Then what?

  Worry about that then. For now, just keep pressing forward.

  Only seconds later I hear the first cracklings and snappings of branches telling me my pursuer has entered the woods. “I’m going to get you!” he yells.

  I drop to my knees and crawl, hoping to stay below his radar. I turn toward the river, knowing it’s hard to see any distance in the thick undergrowth, counting on the green of my hoodie to help camouflage me.

  My hand’s hurting. It’ll hurt more if you get caught.

  I know the water’s not far ahead. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a friendly fishing boat right at the shore.

  Behind me, the person I assume is Jeb yells, “You can’t come onto my property, you little thief! Nobody steals from me — you won’t get away with this!”

  I don’t think he’s that close. I don’t think he turned when I did. But I’m not looking back to find out.

  I can see the water now — Stay low, stay low — there’s a downhill slope to the shore and I duck and let myself roll down it.

  There’s no fishing boat. In fact, there isn’t really a shoreline, just a scrubby, rocky strip separating the trees from the water. The stretch of river in front of me is empty, but I know the ferry is ahead. A quick consultation of my mental map tells me it has to be less than a kilometre.

  So I go.

  I scamper along, half in the water, slipping, getting wet. I remember Maddy telling me about going out with a group to do an activity like this when she took a trip to Wales. She called it coasteering, and she paid to do it. You couldn’t pay me enough to ever do this again.

  I’m still breathing hard, mostly because the terror hasn’t left me, but I don’t think there’s anybody behind me and the woods alongside me seem as difficult to penetrate as the ones I ran through, so even though I’m slow, anyone trying to push through them would be slower.

  It’s only when I round a sharp bend and see the ferry dock jutting out a couple of hundred metres ahead that I take a second to pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s miraculously unbroken, and unsoaked by any of my splashing. I pull up my earlier message and add I’m at the Oak Junction ferry dock. before hitting send.