I sped into the woods, putting far too much faith in the ATV and my helmet. Sapling branches smacked against me as the wheels ate up the rough terrain. I was on a deadline. My shoulder ached with each rough jolt, but my curiosity wouldn’t be denied. Garrett had another week of bed rest before he’d be able to do any riding, and there was no way he’d let me go alone. My need to investigate had intensified each day until I devised a plan—one that Garrett would be pissed about as soon as he figured out what I’d done.

The frigid air was still, giving no push back as I hurtled toward the biggest discovery of my search. The grave filled my thoughts. What was it doing out there, who dug it, and who was in it? My heart told me I’d find my father there, but I maintained an odd little sliver of hope. Like a splinter in my grief. Maybe it wasn’t him.

I focused on my path, following the trail we’d blazed a week before, then splitting off toward the shack. Digging the grave would take half an hour. I counted on safety for that short window of time. Even if the shooter had seen me leave the house, he’d have to have wings to make it to the spot of woods near the shack in time to do any damage.

Hunkering down, I picked my way through the undergrowth, aiming for patches of sun and avoiding marshy areas. The smell of damp earth clung to my nose as I rushed through the crystalline air and bitter cold. My thoughts flitted back to Garrett asleep in the house. I’d locked all the doors and made sure he’d be comfortable. Assuring myself that he wouldn’t be too mad when I got back home safe, I turned my attention to the thicket up ahead.

Heading to the left, I veered among the dark tree trunks until I found the opening in the twisted vines. I powered inside, my wheels following the faded tire tracks I’d left before. I pulled to the right, away from the shack, and toward the dig site. After about ten more minutes of riding, I slowed as I approached the dented ground, the dead limbs hiding nothing from my trained eye.

I rolled about ten feet from the depression and killed my engine. Then, I pulled off my helmet and listened. Minutes passed as my breath fogged in my face, and the tips of my ears began to ache from the cold. No sound, no breeze, just the infrequent sound of a woodpecker in a distant part of the forest. Satisfied, I slung my leg over the ATV and walked to the indentation. Dusky green moss crept along one side, covered here and there with brown leaf litter. One corner had a deeper depression—maybe due to normal settling or perhaps an animal trying to get at whatever lay beneath the ground.

The limbs around and on top of the grave had hidden it for maybe a season. After that, the leaves rotted off and left only interwoven branches, like two hands crossed over a dormant heart. I pulled them away and grabbed my rake to scrape the site clean of any other debris. The ache in my shoulder grew with each movement, but the burning need to know only glowed brighter.

I pulled my small hand spade from my pack and knelt at the edge of the grave. The cold earth seeped through my jeans to my knees as I shoved the wide edge of the shovel into the damp dirt. It sank in easily. My heart thumped with heavy beats, as if filled with tar instead of blood. Putting pressure on the handle, I turned a small bit of earth up and out of the depression. I dug the way I’d been taught, the way I knew would preserve whatever I found. Slowly, methodically. Another slice into the earth, another push deeper into the mystery. Five turns of the spade later, each one creeping inward, I hit something springy. Something unnatural.

Wiping the sweat off my brow, I shucked my heavy coat and tossed it onto the ATV. I stepped into the grave, careful to plant my feet where I’d already dug, then took a small hand shovel to the spot. I dug around the anomaly, trying to be careful despite my desire to hurry, to finally discover what I’d been searching for. I excavated around the shape until I hit something hard. Scraping the dirt off the top, a sob rocketed from my lungs and tears overwhelmed what little resistance I had put up.

A shoe. I’d found a shoe. Blue canvas with a white sole. The only type of shoe I’d ever seen my father wear. I’d found him.

“Daddy.” I choked on my grief. Bottled for too long, it had fermented into something uglier, something bitter, and I hated whoever had done this.

Bile rose in my throat, and I darted out of the grave as my breakfast pushed its way into my mouth and out onto the unforgiving ground. Acid burned my throat, my mouth, and I didn’t stop retching until I was completely empty.

I stood and leaned my head on the nearest tree as I tried to calm the shake in my hands. Who did it? I breathed deeply, forcing myself to go about this more rationally. I needed to find clues, something to point me to his killer. The grave was the only place I could look for them, but the thought of digging him the rest of the way out horrified me, sent my skin crawling. I dry-heaved and clenched my eyes closed as endless tears streamed down my cheeks.

A scuffing sound at my back caught my attention. I turned and reached for the gun tucked in my jeans, but someone grabbed a handful of my hair, yanked me back and then shoved me face-first into the tree.

I crumpled, blood streaming down my face.

“I told you to stay out of these woods.” The scratchy voice, the unkempt beard. Recognition flared right along with a burst of fear. Danny loomed over me, my pistol in his hand. He flipped it so he had it by the barrel. The butt of my own gun was the last thing I saw.