The drive to Nederland was a race against time. Agitated apprehension impelled me on, urging my foot to press harder on the gas. The car zipped ahead, and I pressed it on and on, all my thoughts focused on going faster, getting closer to my goal.

It was only once the trip was a third done that I noticed the almost unbroken line of trees lining the road on either side. Already I was nearing Wheelman, and it felt like I had just gotten into the car. Maybe it was because I was entranced by the printout I had beside me: Mr. Brock Anderson in his full, blurry glory. Every time I glanced over, his pixelated eyes seemed to be mocking me.

“I will find you,” I told him. “Wherever you are, I will.”

And to myself, I silently added, I have to.

Turning on the radio produced the final chords of some song I didn’t know. The next song, from the first twangs of the guitar and melody of the harmonica, however, was unmistakable. It was the song Charlie had serenaded me with in the middle of the night, guitar in hand, right outside my apartment window, yell-singing over my neighbors’ curses and a dog’s howls.

It would’ve been romantic if it hadn’t been after I had broken up with him for cheating on me.

My finger went to the button to change the song but stopped on the black knob.

I couldn’t quite press down and turn it off. The song was like an irresistible ice cream sundae with peanuts that I was allergic to.

It was heartbreakingly nostalgic, reminiscent of the bad old days I had never really enjoyed. Mesmerizing, in a word. And yet, no matter how I knew that the peanuts would swell up my face, still I ate relentlessly, uselessly. Charlie had never been good for me, and yet, still now, a part of me missed him. It always would.

My finger finally pressed down on the button and the song cut off, but it was only so my hand could grab my phone and check for messages. Sure enough, like clockwork, there his was: I’ve been thinking about you. After three months of no contact, what were the odds? Then again, he was in town.

I turned off my phone and shifted my attention to the road. I may have been thinking about you too Charlie, but not for long. I was embroiled in my biggest case yet.

Now I was passing through Platt Rogers Memorial Park, where the road was bordered by even more trees, whole hills full of the tall proud pines, some even craning out of cliffs of rock.

A forest-green sign with white words flashed past my window: Nederland – 5 miles.

Funny, Nederland was so close to Eldora, where I grew up, and yet I had only been there a handful of times. I had gone out of town rarely as a kid. Mom and Dad always meant the best, but sometimes I wondered if they had protected me too much. In any case, there was no time to go on a nostalgic trip down memory lane; I was almost in Nederland. In less than 10 minutes, I would be there.

It seemed to take only seconds, however, before I was passing the gorgeous aquamarine sheet of the Baker Reservoir and encountering the first buildings on the outskirts of town. I pulled into the parking lot of one, which turned out to be a garage, and parked at the edge. Then I looked at the printout beside me again.

Where would someone like Brock Anderson—a criminal in hiding—go? Would he go anywhere without worrying, or would he hide away indefinitely, send someone out for supplies, or just have everything delivered? Maybe he’d only go places he had to, like the grocery store. Everybody had to eat.

My hand went for my phone as a smile slunk onto my face. The only result my internet search showed made my decision easy: B&F Mountain Market.

I pulled out of the garage, back onto the road, and sped into town past more spaced-out buildings and a small park. Farther down the road, I turned into the parking lot of a brown and green shopping complex.

I parked in a spot as close to the front as I could, grabbed the photo printout, and then walked up to the massive building with the sign that read “B&F Mountain Market.” Inside, luckily, it was just as empty as the parking lot outside. I walked up to the portly, older cashier.

“Hi,” I said, holding up the picture of Brock Anderson. “Have you ever seen this guy around?”

Her dark brown eyes squinted at the picture for a good while, as if she wished she had seen him.

“Naw,” she finally said.

Then she opened her eyes wide, showing the whites on both sides.

“Why?”

“Just want to talk to him,” I said.

Which wasn’t really a lie, but it was still pretty darn unlikely considering how intense he looked in the photo.

The other cashiers I asked hadn’t seen him either, so I left the supermarket with nothing but a banana to show for my efforts. I slunk back to my car and gulped the banana down in three big bites, my mind buzzing with ideas of where to try next.

A grocery store had been my best bet. Were there any others? Maybe a general store?

Back inside my car, a second online search gave two popular Nederland eating spots I could check out: Kathmandu and New Moon Café.

Kathmandu had décor as interesting as I’d expected. Located in a squat, pink-bricked building with a wooden sign, its interior was wood-finished, had red linens, and contained only one drowsy-looking Pakistani man who tilted his head at my entry.

A glance at the triangular wall clock revealed that it was 3 p.m., not exactly high dining time.

When I showed him the picture, his response was as I’d come to expect.

“Nope. Never seen him,” the man declared, shaking his woolly-haired head so vigorously that a napkin at his table blew to the ground.

My experience at New Moon Café was just as disappointing. The cute little bakery with wooden furniture and floors, charming vases of wildflowers, and walls covered in beautiful art contained a few more customers. They all eyed me with an unconcerned sort of curiosity as I interrogated the braided-haired girl behind the front counter. I asked whether she’d seen the man as I thrust forward the photo printout.

She lowered her head and, beneath fluffy blond bangs, demurely replied, “No. Oh no, no, no.”

So there was nothing to do but buy a well-marshmallowed cup of hot chocolate and slink out of there.

The rest of the day passed more or less the same. On my desperate, fruitless hunt, I zoomed through so many restaurants and fast-food joints that I lost track, wound through the community library and its many desks of clueless employees, and popped in and out of every other lodge or hotel where polite but unhelpful employees all shook their heads the same. No one anywhere had seen him.

The only dent I’d made by the time it started to get dark was on my wallet, having spent more money on snacks and coffee than I could afford. At this rate, I was going to be losing money on this job, not earning it.

Finally, having searched basically every place that looked like a public establishment in town, I returned to where I had started, the garage parking lot, to regroup.

I sat there in my car, the picture of the nonexistent man, Brock Anderson, crumpled in my hand.

Maybe there was no such man. Maybe Russell Snow and his fake name had given me a fake job too, and I had no one to blame but myself for having believed him.

I turned my phone back on and the text returned to the screen: I’ve been thinking about you.

There was another one from Tiffany: Helloooo? Kyle said he talked to you??

I turned my gaze to stare out the window desolately at the outskirts of the town where I’d searched what seemed like everywhere. There was no point in continuing to look, but this couldn’t be the end of the line, the dead end of my search. It couldn’t be.

I stared vacantly at the sign beside me: East Street Garage. East Street Garage, Garage, Garage—why not try it? I straightened myself up and paused, squinting at the not-so-promising red-brick building at the end of the line of cars. Why try it at all? What was the point? Out of all the places Brock Anderson would go—to eat, to buy supplies—he probably wouldn’t go to a mechanic. How often did you need to eat versus go get your car looked at? If I hadn’t found Brock Anderson anywhere in town, I wouldn’t find him here, at this random garage on the outskirts of town.

And yet what did I have to lose? This was my last chance, so why not try it? So I did. I got out of my car and walked over to a man sitting on a lime lawn chair out front. At my approach, he put his tan hand over his eyes to block out the sun.

“Excuse me, but have you seen this man?” I asked, holding out the printout.

Still using his weathered hand as a visor, the man squinted long and hard at the paper, so long that I was about to take the paper back when he grumbled, “What’s it to ya?”

Now his dark squint was on me, his tan hand tilted up.

“Uh, nothing—just want to talk to him!”

I gave him a nervous, close-lipped smile, and his black eyes slid over me. Evidently not finding my blond nervousness a threat, he said, “Sold ’im winter tires less’n a week ago.”

I gaped at him, so surprised and overwhelmed with wanting to hug him and thank him and thank God for being a blond, unthreatening-looking private detective that it took me a minute before I could sputter out, “T-thank you. Thank you so much!”

His cracked, brown lips moved into something suggesting a smile, and he continued with a precarious fling of his arm behind him. “Had a maroon pickup truck, kinda rusty. Left thataway.”

“Thank you!” I said, shaking his hand vigorously before I headed back to my car.

Flopped on my camo-printed seat, I tried to figure out what to do next.

That I had to follow Brock Anderson up that road, find him, and get evidence of his criminal activity was obvious. The only question was, how? Another glance at the half-crumpled photo confirmed what I had sensed already: this was a cunning face, a suspicious face, one that would only buy the most convincing of stories. I couldn’t just show up claiming I was lost. I needed a plausible excuse, a reason.

My stomach growled. In the meantime, while I brainstormed my next move, I needed food.

I hadn’t planned on returning to the New Moon Café, but when I found myself pulling up to the wood-slatted building, I turned off my car and hurried inside.

Now was not the time to debate my choice of food. Once I grew hungry, I also grew unbearably indecisive; the best thing was to eat until I was no longer starving and be done with it.

When I passed through the café’s cloud-blue door, I knew I had made the right choice. Now the bakery was even busier and was filled with the delicious aroma of the cookies that a different ponytailed girl was loading into a jar on the front counter.

Everyone was smiling and laughing, sipping delicious-looking drinks and biting at yummy-looking pastries and sandwiches. All of New Moon Café was celebrating my most recent victory with me, and they didn’t even know it.

At my approach, the front counter girl paused, her amber ponytail bobbing as her head raised.

Her cookie-bearing hand was in the jar, the cookie with the still-glistening chocolate chips suspended over the others.

“How many cookies did you just make?” I asked.

“Ten,” she replied.

“Can I have the whole lot?” I asked.

She blinked, grinned to show dentist-white teeth, and said, “Sure!”

After I handed over the last of my cash and accepted my bursting brown bagful of cookies, I went to sit at the table in the corner, the one under the landscape painting of a sweeping mountain ridge.

And then I sat there in my wooden seat, not thinking, not planning, just eating and enjoying. Just being.

It was me and chocolate chip cookie after cookie. Sugary goodness incarnate. A delicious oblivion. Flavor nirvana.

By the time I’d finished, an idea had come to me thanks to a swath of red-and-white striped bags hanging by the front counter’s cash register.

Who could say no to free cookies in a nice pretty bag delivered by yours truly, the most innocuous-looking blonde there was?

I marched back up to the front counter, bought a striped bag and 10 more cookies from the now downright-bemused cashier with my debit card this time, and was off.

Driving back to the garage and the dirt road going off it was easy; it was following the road afterward that got hard. The dirt road started off as a wide two-laner but rapidly shrank to a single lane that was a bumpy, weed-infested jungle before almost disappearing entirely. Soon I was bouncing along what looked to be a man-made, car-flattened path through a field.

By the time it dawned on me that if this was the wrong way I was screwed, it was too late. There was no turning back. While a pickup truck or larger vehicle could have easily carved its own path through this thick underbrush to turn around, for my little sedan it would have been near impossible. To have gotten out of there, I probably would have had to back up all the way.

The path seemed endless. A constant stream of tall grass, leaning-over arms of wildflowers, and terrifyingly close branches of trees mashed at my closed windows, all as eager to get in as I was to get away.

Far-off buildings suggested an abandoned village, though I was more worried about the fact that I was now on an incline, the “road” as overgrown with vegetation as ever. Higher and higher my little car went, while overhead it grew darker and darker due to increasing number of trees.

Finally, however, the path came out to a wide surface of dirt, at the end of which, standing small and unmistakable, was a cabin. I stopped the car but kept it running as I peered at the rough-hewn log structure. It looked well-kept yet empty. There was a maroon pickup truck parked off to the side. After turning off the car, I was just getting out when the front door of the cabin opened.

“Can I help you?” a bearded man said gruffly.

I paused, taking him in, wishing I could look at the photo I’d left crumpled up in my passenger seat to be sure.

As I walked up to the door, the more certain I became.

It looked like Brock Anderson, and yet, in the picture, he hadn’t looked so…handsome. This man was tall and tan with shaggy brown hair and—yes—that unmistakable scar on his left eyebrow. Yes, this handsome man was Brock Anderson. I had found him.