He’d borrowed a clean white shirt from one of the Lake Haven PD guys and was buttoning up when Lena said, “I did a search for Saratoga High School Class of 2012. The first hit was for a list of graduates in the Mercury News. No pictures, just names.” She peered at him from her desk. “Trevor Garris is one.”

“He’s two people,” Mike reminded, “if he’s John Durie pre-adoption and Trevor Garris afterwards. I mean – the father got sent up for meth distribution, killed himself in jail. Not a great legacy. So, maybe he changes his name to fully individuate. Maybe his adoptive parents encourage it. And I was just thinking – Garris, as an IT guy, could have access to the records room. Remember the server was down there.”

He waited, wondering if Lena was going to keep pushing back. But she said, “And there was a camera; we could see if there’s any footage of him looking through old files, like we were, finding out the people involved with his case from when he was ten.”

“Exactly.” He felt relieved.

“So then this guy would have two IDs or what?”

“All he needs is the one. He could’ve used his adoptive parents’ names – those adoption papers are a perfectly valid state document – and get a driver’s license, and from there a Social Security number. And he’s officially Trevor Garris. And yeah, I’m thinking he’s down there in the records room, learns that Lavoie transferred out, picks up her trail in Watertown. He’s been with DSS for how long?”

“Went to work for them just about a year ago,” Lena said, looking at her screen. “So there’s time, yeah, for him to find out about her, go after her. She’s kind of a loner, so she makes an easier first target. Harriet is tougher because she’s married and she works in the same place Trevor does.”

Mike felt wired. It was falling into place: Trevor Garris locates Lavoie, learns her routine, makes sure he bumps into her one night at the movies. He explains who he is, but he’d have to make it nice then somehow persuade her to go with him. Or he knocks her out, or something, takes her right there. Then he brings her to Tupper Lake, dumps her in the bog. Why?

“Eddie Roth said there was a cemetery not far from Spring Pond Bog – Haymeadow,” Mike said. He thought of Neil Johnson again, and his devotion to his mother, no matter what she’d put him through. “Can we check where Melissa Clay’s body was laid to rest?”

“Yeah. We can do that. My guess though is that she was brought back home, buried in Tupper Lake. Probably Haymeadow.”

---

Jamie looked like shit; that was the first thing she noticed.

Bobbi kept a distance between them. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes were plaintive; he looked hurt or something, even sick. His hair was long, tucked up under a battered baseball cap, and he’d grown a beard. “I’m here to see you, B.”

Bobbi glanced at the table where Rachel was just getting up, laughing about something, an empty pitcher of beer in her hand. Her laughter faded and she slowed her approach as she observed Bobbi’s situation.

Bobbi forced a smile and held up a finger, indicating it was okay, she just needed a minute. If Jamie was dangerous, she didn’t want Rachel involved. Then she moved toward Jamie, took his arm, and led him toward the door.

Outside was a small bloc of smokers standing along the edge of the street; Bobbi walked a few yards away and Jamie followed. She turned around to face him. He took a step toward her but she held up her hand, keeping that distance.

“You look good, B,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“Jamie, what are you doing?”

“Took me a while to find you. I been to three different bars. Been shouting over the noise, asking people if they’d seen you.”

“You’ve been out looking for me? Jamie, you’re acting like a stalker.”

He pouted, as if wounded. But she knew Jamie, his tricks. This was his lost-puppy routine to lure her back in. He said, “I figured you weren’t going to take my calls or anything, Bobbi. Why’d you get so cold? You were never like that when we were together. You were sweet.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out, bent his head, and lit one up. Squinted through the smoke at her. “Why’d you come all the way out here to live?”

“Because there was a job opening, Jamie. Because it’s a job in my field.”

“It wasn’t to get away from me? Because I think it was. I mean, you’re mad. I understand. Even though I apologized a million times.”

She watched as the group of smokers headed back inside. The music grew momentarily loud as they opened the door and went in, leaving Bobbi alone on the street with him. The main drag was just twenty yards away, a car going by every now and again, but the side street was dead. She was ready to go back in. But she was angry.

“Jamie, stop it.”

“Stop what? I can’t come see you? Jesus, Bobbi, you act like we weren’t together for four years.”

“Three and a half. And you act like you didn’t cheat on me, or push me around. You act like you’re not a completely… This is all about you, Jamie. Not me. This is because you feel rejected, and it hurts your ego.”

He opened his mouth to argue but she was on a roll. “Let’s say we get back together. Huh? Yeah, baby, let’s do it. I miss you so much. Your ego gets repaired and then you’re off and running, off with another woman, off doing whatever you feel like, just the same.”

She took a step closer, feeling a twist of adrenaline. “Were you outside my house the other night? Did you come into the building?”

He smoked, and squinted at her, but didn’t answer.

“I called the cops, Jamie. And I told them I thought it was you. They’ve been looking for you.”

“I keep a low profile,” he said, the smugness dripping. “I’m not worried about any cops. I know how to handle all that shit.”

“Whatever you’re doing, whatever you think this is, you have to stop. I’m calling the police, right now. And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. No calls, no texts, no physical proximity.”

He spat to the side then took a step closer. “Oh yeah? That what you’re gonna do? You gonna beat me up with your karate?”

“Don’t come any closer.”

“Come on. Just come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Oh no? You think you’re safer out here, on your own? All these fuckin people dying, bodies floating up. Yeah, I know what’s going on. I know all about it.”

He took another step, and she tensed, feeling fear, then heard a familiar rumble behind her and looked around. Connor’s truck turned off the main drag and came rolling up. He put his window down as he drove up alongside them, and he stared between Bobbi and Jamie. “Hey,” he said. “How you doing, guys?”

---

The phone rang and Mike jumped for it.

“Detective Overton’s office.”

“Um, hi… Looking for Mike Nelson with the state police?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Nelson, this is Hank Garris. My son Alex told me that… this is about Trevor?”

“He’s your adopted son, is that correct?” Mike glanced at Lena.

Garris answered, “Yes.”

“Can you tell me what Trevor’s name was when you adopted him?”

“Is there some way I can verify…?”

Lena was leaning close, listening in, and she reached for the phone. “Mr. Garris, this is Detective Lena Overton with the Lake Haven Police department.” She gave her shield number and said, “This is my number you’ve called. Here’s Investigator Nelson again.”

Mike took the phone back and Hank Garris still sounded cautious. “What is this about?”

“Mr. Garris, we’re investigating the death of a woman in Lake Haven. Trevor worked with her at the Department of Social Services. We’re just checking into all staff, getting their backgrounds.”

At last Hank sounded relieved. “Well, he was John Durie when we adopted.”

Mike felt the skin tingle around his ears, grabbed a pen from her desk, and scribbled on a nearby notepad: It’s him.

Lena left the desk, hurrying to the door.

Mike asked Hank Garris, “He was ten years old?”

“Eleven. He was in foster care for about a year before we adopted him. The whole thing takes a while.”

“Did he have… Were there problems with Trevor?”

A hesitation. “Just what you would expect. It was hard for him at first, but he fit in after a while, he adapted. I mean he did, you know, what teenaged boys do. He had moods. He closed himself in his room and listened to music, that kind of thing.”

“You have other kids?”

“Two boys. Twins – Alex and Toby. Toby attends Hobart and William Smith, Alex is going to Fordham, they’re home for a short time this summer. Is that everything you need then?”

“Did Trevor ever see anyone? A professional?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“My information is that Trevor had some trauma as a child. Poisoning.”

Garris paused again, then said, “He’d been looked at. Pediatric neurologists, things like that. He had a psychiatrist for a while. But he was, I don’t know… We wanted him to have as normal a childhood as possible. He struggled with his classes, but he was smart. Sometimes he… I don’t know what you’d call it. They said “fugues,” but to me it was just like he’d blank out for a few seconds.”

The way the man was now unspooling, Mike thought, he’d been expecting something like this. Lena came back into the room, gave a nod, then went after her gun and holster, put them on. She’d put the word out on Trevor.

Mike asked Hank Garris, “Have you had any contact with him recently?”

“We saw him a couple months ago. My wife and I took a trip up.”

“How did he seem?”

“He was his usual self. Kind of withdrawn. Look, mister…”

“Mike Nelson. Mike.”

Garris sounded strained, his voice small. “Mike, what happened? Do you suspect Trevor of something? I think if I’m going to answer any more questions I’m going to need to do it formally, with a lawyer present.”

“Sure,” Mike said.

Then Hank Garris let out a sob that went through Mike’s bones.

---

Bobbi’s pager tweeted again; someone had placed a call to the hotline, notifying the state register via anonymous tip that Roy Richardson was yelling at his kids and hitting them.

Bobbi thought it was probably his own mother, Anita.

She walked back up the street to where she’d been standing with Jamie, but Jamie was gone. Connor had parked and was just nearing the bar entrance on foot. “He left soon as you got paged. Walked into that back parking area. I drove in, but he was gone. What do you want to do?”

“I can’t believe it, but I gotta go.”

He nodded, looked around. “You want me to try to find him?”

“No. I’m going to be meeting a policeman on this call. I’ll tell him Jamie was here.”

After a silence, she said, “Thanks for showing up.”

“Yeah, sure. You gonna be long?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

Connor stepped off the curb. “Alright. Well – I’ll go home. I’ll wait for you there.”

She closed the gap between them, said, “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“No. Not at all.”

“You’ll be okay to drive and everything?”

“I’ve had three over the last couple hours, plus drank water. I’m good to go.”

She felt embarrassed, behaving like his mother or something. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” But he knew.

“Let’s just see what happens, okay? My mind can get ahead of me.”

He was trying to hide a smile, she could tell, but then it cracked and he reached for her, grabbed her, and pulled her to him. “Be careful out there.”

“There’s going to be a patrol officer meeting me,” she said.

“I know, I heard you. Be careful anyway. Call me later, soon as you’re done.”

“I will.”

---

Thirty minutes later, she was turning up the long driveway to Anita Richardson’s house. The patrol officer from Lake Haven was already there, but that was it. Anita’s rusted Ford Escort was either not there or off in the dark somewhere out of sight. Maybe along with the Jeep Cherokee that Carrie had been borrowing from her sister, which wasn’t in the driveway either.

Bobbi parked beside the police car, left her keys in the ignition. When the dirt in the air settled, she saw the patrol officer had gotten out and walked up along the other side of her Honda.

She knew him from the morning Harriet was found, and later at Lennox Palmer’s house: Officer Mullins. A nice man with laugh lines around his eyes. She shook his hand.

“Did you just get here?” Bobbi asked.

“Yeah. Two minutes ago. Looks like everybody left…?”

“I don’t hear the kids. I mean, it’s late, but the hotline said they were up. I don’t get it. Let’s see if anyone is home.”

Mullins put up a hand. “Hang on. I got a call just a few minutes ago. We’re looking for someone. Let me just go check the—” There was a loud crack in the air, and Mullins jumped.

He fumbled for his gun, looking at the house, and Bobbi looked there too, too stunned to speak. On the upper floor, a window was open, something sticking out.

Another report, and Mullins’ head jerked back and he dropped to the ground.

---

Bobbi froze, confused. It took her thoughts a moment to catch up to what she already felt in her gut: Mullins was just shot.

She ran around the car, saw him on the ground, unmoving. His eyes were open and he stared up at the sky. There was a hole in his forehead the size of a cherry pit, oozing blood.

Thumping sounds from the house. Like someone descending stairs. Bobbi glanced at the upstairs window: still partly open, but nothing there, just curtains shifting in the breeze.

Nothing made any sense.

Her instincts overrode her objecting, rational mind: Get back in the car, there is a shooter in the house. Mullins is dead. Get in the car, drive away, call 911.

The front door to the house banged open. A man came out holding a rifle, then pointed it at her. Bobbi scrambled away from Mullins and hid behind the car, her heart beating so hard she thought she was going to have an attack. She struggled to dig out her phone, hearing the footsteps of the man crunch along the gravel driveway.

She knew who he was.

Big guy, young face, but with a receding hairline. Someone she saw around the office.

He worked on her computer.

---

Mike drove the Impala, not knowing where to go, but cleared the town, running on instinct, headed toward Tupper Lake, where Garris had first grown up as John Durie. And where Melissa Clay was buried, his biological mother. It was as good a direction as any; Garris was not at his home; no one knew where he was.

Mike dialed Lena, his cell phone mounted to the dash, using speaker mode. “How did I miss this guy?”

“We missed him,” Lena said, in her own car. “He was hired on a contractual basis,” she reminded. “No civil service exam, background check was clean. He gave an alibi, Mike. We just never checked it because he was nobody to us compared to Pritchard, Fuller, and the rest. It took us by surprise. It took me by surprise.”

Mike slammed a fist against the steering wheel, cursing. He urged the Impala faster.

“Everybody else missed him, too,” Lena went on. “It’s been fourteen years. He looks completely different – he’s going bald, looks older than he is. These caseworkers see hundreds of kids in their careers…”

An idea sliced through his thoughts and he let off the gas for a moment. “He’s tracking them down. He knows their schedules! He knew when Harriet was going to be alone that night. Jesus, Lena, Jesus.”

“Slow down – what are you thinking?”

He hit the gas again. “We need to find out if there’s a caseworker on call today. This guy, Garris – he could fake a call or something; call in a complaint. He’s got Lennox Palmer – I bet he’s got Lennox Palmer somewhere – but he hasn’t done anything yet.”

“Why?”

“First he abducts Corina Lavoie, kills her, and hides her. But he kills Harriet at DSS, leaves her right out in front for someone to find, for all of us to see, and it’s a more violent stabbing. Going back to hiding victims with Lennox Palmer? I don’t think so. He’s working his way toward something, I just don’t know what. But he’s going to try and make it big. He’s got something to show everybody.”

---

There was music playing. It was faint, like it was far away, coming from inside the house. Bobbi thought she recognized “Riders on the Storm” by The Doors.

The shooter was standing on the other side of the police car. She could see his feet.

“Hey.”

Trevor. It’s Trevor from work.

“Hey, Bobbi. C’mere.”

She didn’t move. The air was still. Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid she was going to pass out.

Breathe.

“Come on, Bobbi. It’s alright. I want to show you something.”

Frantic piano playing from inside the house – still the same song. Now it was quieting down, and she could hear the rain effect on the track. Then Jim Morrison’s voice floated out, singing something about being thrown into the world like a dog without a bone.

“Come on, Bobbi,” Trevor said. “Up. I’m gettin’ impatient.” His boots crunched gravel again as he started around the car.

She was on her hands and knees. She finally rose to her feet, slow, legs like rubber. Trevor walked around behind the car, stopped a distance from her, leveled the rifle.

“See this?” He dipped his head toward the gun. “This is my new toy. Bought it yesterday. Just had to walk in and plunk down my cash. Instant background check; no problem.”

She looked at his face, willing her mind to work. He looked the same as when she saw him around the office. The big forehead. The dark brown eyes; dark enough that the pupils and irises sort of blended together. That slight furrow to his brow like he was working on a complex computer problem, which usually he was.

But he’d been up to more than just networking their new system, nursing them through their software upgrade. He’d been spying on them. It was the only thing that made any sense – Trevor was the man who had killed Harriet. And Corey Lavoie. And probably Lennox, too.

If so, he had a reason. Or thought he did.

She tried to speak, but her vocal cords weren’t cooperating. All that came out was a weak, whistling breath.

He seemed to be studying her, a bemused look on his face.

Trevor jerked his head toward the house. Anita’s house. How had he gotten here? Why was he here?

“Come on; go on inside.”

Her voice finally cooperated. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit if you want to or not, Bobbi. Go on inside.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He blinked at her then turned his attention toward the police car beside him. She could see him working something through. He said, “Come on. This piece of shit has to radio in, do a status check. When he doesn’t, they’ll send out backup. So we got like twenty minutes, maybe a little less if it’s a statie.” He turned back to her. His eyes looked like normal eyes, his face just a normal face. “Get going,” he said, “or I’m going to shoot you in your head, right fucking here.”

“He’s not a piece of shit,” she said, her voice quavering. “His name is Cal Mullins. He has a wife and—”

Trevor raised the rifle, pointed the barrel at her nose. She could almost reach out and grab it – he was just a couple of paces too far.

“Go the fuck. In the house. Right now.”

“No.”

He wanted something from her, she thought, which was why she was still alive.

He stepped closer. “Bobbi, move your fucking a—”

She lunged. With her palm, she drove the barrel up toward the sky and came for his midsection, aiming for his crotch. But the rifle went off, startling her, and she missed him and fell, skidded across the gravel on her hands and knees.

She was quick. Before he knew what was happening, she swept his legs with her own. He was too big to knock down, and only stumbled forward a few steps, his eyes wide, mouth opened in an O.

Get in the car.

The keys were in it. She could leave right now.

But the kids might be here and in danger.

Bobbi scrambled to her feet and ran. She knew Anita had a landline in the house but she wasn’t going in there, not yet. She had her own phone in her pocket as she sprinted around behind the house. The land sloped up into the woods – she could hear Trevor yelling behind her and wanted to find some cover before she called. She clawed and toed the dirt up the embankment, grabbed the trees, dug for her phone, and it fell from her grip.

It tumbled down the hill, toward the yard, back the way she’d come.

She went after it, slipped, managed to grab it. Bobbi jammed her heels into the earth then flipped over and scrambled up further into the trees.

She found a spot where she could hold on and use her phone at the same time. She dialed 911 and waited for the call to go through. From her position on the hill, she could just see Trevor: He was moving alongside the house, doing something with the rifle, pulling a piece of it back, like he was loading another round.

“I’m gonna kill him!”

Bobbi waited, her breathing so fast she was going to hyperventilate. She closed her mouth, pulled the air through her nostrils, willed herself to slow it down, slow it down.

Trevor was getting closer to the woods, starting up the hill.

“Bobbi! Bobbayyy…”

She checked the screen of her phone. The call was still placing. The network indicator said 1X. There was barely any coverage out here; she wasn’t getting through. Bobbi had her arm wrapped around a tree. There were bits of things in her hair and something in her mouth she spat out.

Trevor aimed the rifle. She was confident she could see him but he couldn’t see her, but he was pointing it right at her.

“Bobbi. Come on down! Your phone ain’t gonna work, kid – no towers out here. Or if it manages to get through, they ain’t gonna hear shit. Come on, now. Come on down.”

No way was she going back down there. She looked behind her. The embankment kept going up, though she thought she could detect the top of the hill in the dark. Tough to say. But far better to run deeper into the woods and wait this thing out than to do what he said. Trevor was probably right, too – Mullins wouldn’t be doing any status update, and the police would send another car out to investigate. Maybe.

If so, Trevor would probably shoot at them.

I’m gonna kill him – Trevor must’ve meant Mason.

How was Trevor even here? Anita was supposed to be home with the two kids but her car was gone.

Panic.

Maybe Trevor had hidden Anita’s car somewhere on the property. She could be in the house along with Mason and Hailey. Trevor had shot a cop. He’d murdered Harriet. He was a killer. It could be bad in there, a nightmare.

But I’m gonna kill him meant someone was alive.

Her emergency call was still attempting to connect. The green icon flashed repeatedly: Calling… Calling… Calling…

Trevor remained in the backyard; she could just make him out in the light of the windows. She searched the house. Several windows were lit, others dark.

She could continue to push up the hill, keep away from Trevor. Wait for the police to come. It had to be soon. If they were coming.

Her phone chirped three times. The screen said, Failed to connect.

“Alright, Bobbi,” Trevor said. He sounded disappointed. “That’s fine. I’ll just go in and finish this thing up.”

“Wait…”

She spoke before coming to really decide on things, like part of her mind was going ahead without consensus.

“Yeah?” He sounded hopeful, eerily childlike. “You coming down?”

“Don’t hurt anyone.”

She started down through the trees, her fingers numb, grasping at roots and tree branches as she lowered herself back down the embankment. “Don’t hurt anyone, Trevor, okay?”

“Hey, no… You… Are you really coming out? Oh shit, there you are.”

She braced for the rifle shot. If she lived to tell about anything, she would report how the moment she stepped out of the woods she had resigned herself to death. It was the oddest thing, she would say, if she got the chance. As if every other thing she had done in her life was a slight forgery, not quite real, and this was the only genuine thing she’d ever done.

“Bobbaaayyy,” he intoned. “Good of you to rejoin us. Now, if you ever try that shit with me again, I’m going to put this thing in your mouth and pull the trigger. Okay?”

All the introspection had passed through her mind in a second or two. “Okay,” she said. It sounded like someone else had spoken for her, like someone else controlling her movements as she walked crisply to the rear entrance of Anita’s house.

She arrived there before Trevor did, and he told her first to slow down, and then he was just a voice floating behind her, and said, “Open up.”

---

The music was louder inside. The song had changed.

“You like that?” Trevor asked. “That’s my man Jim. I plugged in my iPhone. Pretty sweet, huh?”

He was behind her, but Bobbi wasn’t focused on him – as she walked in she was looking for signs of the children, or Anita.

The rear entrance was off the kitchen. There was a light on over the stove, providing enough glow to see how neat and clean everything was.

“Who’s in here, Trevor?”

“Let’s go. Go on, I’ll show you. You know this house; you were here just a couple days ago. Go up the stairs.”

She moved from the kitchen into the hallway. Living room to her left – she glanced into the darkness as she passed the doorway. Didn’t see anyone in there, just some toys scattered on the floor. Turned to her right and started up the stairs to the second floor. She heard his footsteps creaking up behind her. He was keeping a nice gap between them, not taking any chances. Her legs were shaking.

“Why are you here?”

“I followed you, you know. To Harriet’s house. To talk to her husband, or whatever you did. Why am I here? You mean this house? Yeah, Roy and I came to an understanding. He’s not a fan of what you people do.”

“Roy let you in?”

How did Trevor know Roy, Carrie Lafler’s drunken ex? But she figured it out: Trevor knew Roy from snooping around in the DSS files. The information she worked so hard to protect was ultimately vulnerable because someone like Trevor had access to their system. Roy and his kids were one of her first cases.

“I made it my business to know him,” Trevor said, confirming it.

“Where are Anita and the kids?” She reached the second floor.

“Hold up, go slow, take it easy; he’s in the second bedroom there, on the left. Go ahead. Nice and slow.”

“Trevor? Where are they?”

“Don’t worry about it. She went to her sister’s or something. Took the kids. I wouldn’t hurt them – they’re who I want to help.”

Thank God. The relief made Bobbi weak in the knees as she stopped in the doorway, looked into the bedroom. She thought it was the room Trevor had been shooting from. Her relief was short-lived.

Lennox was in the corner, tied to a chair. His face was purple and swollen. He looked unconscious, his head down, chin to his chest, with a tendril of saliva hanging from his mouth.

“There we are,” Trevor said softly. “All together again. A little after-work party.”

Bobbi rushed to Lennox, lifted his head, and he moaned. Still alive. The music thumped below, vibrating up through the floorboards. Jim Morrison was now singing about breaking on through to the other side.

“Len,” she said. “Lennox. Can you hear me?”

“He can hear you, he can hear you. Okay, I want you to sit right there on the bed.”

Trevor loomed in the doorway. God, he was big. He seemed bigger in here – maybe the ceiling was low, the doorway smaller than normal. He had the rifle gripped so that the barrel was pointing toward the open window.

“Come on. Move to the bed.”

Since reaching the bedroom, Trevor’s voice had changed. The lamp from the bedside table illuminated his face – something was different in his expression, or maybe it was just the light.

She moved cautiously toward him and he snapped the rifle at her. “Don’t. Do what I say and sit on the bed.”

“How… Let’s talk about this. Okay?”

“Stop stalling. Sit on the bed, Bobbi. You have only yourself to blame for this.”

His voice now came over fully inhuman now. Like whatever in Trevor Garris that could be called his soul had stayed downstairs. This was just a shell. Synapses firing, nerves and cells grasping for their blast of chemicals.

He wanted her to feel regret for something. Remorse. He wanted her to feel pain.

“You’re going to watch,” he said. And he swung the rifle toward Lennox.

---

“All units, all units,” dispatch came over the radio. The dispatcher relayed Anita Richardson’s address; Mike was already on his way there – she lived between Lake Haven and Tupper Lake. He’d found out that Bobbi Noelle was paged, called to that location. It would take ten minutes. Maybe less, with the Impala doing over 100 miles an hour in the dark.

His hands clutched the wheel. If a deer jumped out into the road, it was hamburger.

---

She didn’t scream.

Trevor blocked the doorway. He pointed the rifle at Lennox. “You’re going to watch me kill this son of a bitch. You’re going to watch, you’re going to see what happens. When you interfere with people’s lives, there are consequences.”

“Something happened to you,” she said.

His finger moved against the trigger.

“What happened to you, Trevor?”

“Don’t try that bullshit.”

“I want to know. What did he do to you? Tell me. Let me help.”

His eyes came over blank, his lips cracked, and he lowered the rifle, just a hair. “All of you do it. That’s why after I kill him, I’m going to kill you, and you can never do it to anyone else. You can never take anyone away from their mother like they took me away from mine.”

He jerked the rifle back into place, his eyes still drifty, and Bobbi ran toward him, grabbed the barrel, and shoved upward.

As the tip arced toward the ceiling, she reached in and grabbed the gun stock. She pulled down toward her chest with everything she had and pried the weapon from his grip.

She had it. She had the rifle in both hands.

Self-defense had taught her how to disarm a shooter, but she wasn’t a shooter herself. In a moment of impulse, she threw it out the open window.

Trevor lunged for her. She evaded his long reach just barely, ducked, and punched him in the crotch. As he howled and bent over, she pushed past him and ran out of the bedroom.

Down the stairs.

Out the front door.

To Mullins’ police car, and she grabbed the door handle. The door was locked, the engine running, all the bells and whistles lit up inside.

Police left their cars running because of all the devices – one of those things on the console gave his radio broadcast power. When on a call, an officer wore their radio.

She circled around to where the officer lay on his back, and she groped in the dark, yanked the radio from his belt, fumbled around with it.

Wasting time – she thought Trevor was right and police would already be on their way because he hadn’t reported in. But she found the button she thought was the transmitter anyway, and pressed it.

She tried to speak, found her vocal cords locked up again. “Hello,” she said at last. She gave her name and the address and said, “There’s a shooter – Trevor Garris – and there’s a victim, Lennox Palmer, and he’s alive. Send an ambulance.” She set the radio down. Time to get out of here. She considered getting the handgun out of Mullins’ holster, but she was just as unfamiliar with using a short firearm as she was with a rifle.

Just go now.

She flung her door open and stared – no keys in the ignition. Trevor had taken them.

Mullin’s radio crackled nearby but she didn’t hear the response – she was now focused on Trevor’s heavy footfalls coming down the stairs in the house.

He appeared in the front doorway, the hulking shape of him. The music drifted out the open front door.

Trevor had a knife in his hand.

He weighed over 200 pounds, easily. He was over six feet tall. He was strong. She’d taken him by surprise – twice – but now he would be ready.

Bobbi saw where the rifle lay in the gravel. She sprinted for it and Trevor got moving. She snatched it up as she ran, looking for somewhere to throw it he’d have a hard time retrieving it from. He was right behind her and chased her around the house. She was fast but he had longer strides and was closing in behind her. She threw the rifle into the woods as hard as she could, heard it knock against a tree and come to rest in the underbrush.

She changed course, headed for Anita’s garden, and hurdled the chicken-wire fence. She heard Trevor attempt to do the same and get caught up, fall over. He blurted a few curse words but she didn’t look back. She jumped the fence on the other side and fled into the darkness.

The hill. The kids played on a hill and she found their little playhouse just beyond. Now she dared to look back – didn’t see Trevor; the hill blocked her view. She opened the door to the playhouse and slipped inside.

She gripped herself around the legs. Buried her face, tried to slow her rapid breathing.

How much time was left until help arrived? She just needed to stay alive for another five minutes. Ten at the most.

She listened.

Heard him scratching around in the garden, still muttering curses. The chicken wire rattled. His legs swished through the high grass.

“Bobbi…”

She peered out one of the tiny windows. Saw him; just a shape. He was like a giant.

“Bobbi, you in there?”

Bad move, coming in here. She kicked open the door, jumped to her feet, and ran. She was fast, but he had those longer strides and caught her before she could crest the hill, grabbing a handful of the back of her shirt. She wrenched free and dropped to the ground, started to crawl back up the hill. He took a hold of her foot and dragged her. Her fingernails dug furrows of earth. Then he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her in the air while she kicked with her feet; kicked at nothing.

She felt the blade cut across her left shoulder, slice through her chest above her breast.

She screamed then threw her head back and connected – maybe with his chin – but he didn’t let go. She saw the flash of the knife as he twisted it in the air, coming in for another blow, this time to stab her. She writhed and thrashed and flipped her head back again, missing him entirely. She crossed her arms in front of her and the knife hit her forearm, glided along, peeling her skin back like an orange.

Panic.

Flashes of memories: sparring with her sensei, the snap of their gis as the loose fabric tautened with a quick punch.

Connor, Jolyon; the little boy wrapping his arms around her legs in a hug.

Harriet, sitting in her car – her last thoughts. Probably her family. Her desire to live.

But this was something she wasn’t able to overcome. Trevor was too big. Too strong. Training was different than real life. Training was—

More memories: fighting with her foster brothers. Brad, particularly aggressive, always clutching at her, reaching his arm around her—

Mike Nelson, touching her shoulder—

Bobbi grabbed Trevor’s wrist. She used her knuckles to dig into a pressure point and twisted. It was one of the first things she’d ever learned, when she was just a girl.

Trevor said something unintelligible as he expelled air in pain and surprise. He dropped the knife. She thought maybe he’d drop her, too, but he held on with his other arm, which slid up under her chin, started to cut off her windpipe.

No.

Gagging, unable to breathe, she jabbed with her elbows and this time connected, getting him in the ribs, the sternum. She didn’t stop until he let go, and she fell to her feet. Stayed up. Twisted around and struck with the heel of her palm, snapping his jaw shut with an audible click.

Trevor took a step back, off-balance on the hill, and she came at him. She landed a heel on his knee cap and he howled. She kicked him square in the balls and he doubled over. Grabbed his hair and tore out a handful.

He screamed like a child and scrabbled at her, tried to get her off him. He swung at her and missed. Swung at her again; she blocked it. Swung at her a third time; connected. Bobbi saw stars and dropped to the ground.

Her eyelids fluttered. She’d landed on her back. Tried to flip onto her feet. Something was wrong, though. She wasn’t able to get up. He had her in some kind of a hold, like a wrestler.

She was losing air. Losing blood. Her body felt crushed.

Lots of fights went to the ground. Karate classes were one thing, street-fighting was something else. But she was little, she was able to reach, get a hold of his arm, pull it back the wrong way.

She heard him exhale through gritted teeth – and then he let go.

For a moment, she didn’t know where he was. After their noisy struggle, the silence seemed to jump out of the ground. She could smell soap.

Then Trevor loomed over her. He had the knife again. He raised it up.

“Don’t…” she said.

There was a loud, sharp snap in the air, and Trevor fell away, a mist of his warm blood spraying against her skin, the last thing Bobbi felt.

---

Mike picked her up.

He carried Bobbi away from Trevor Garris, who was unmoving on the ground. He stumbled a little as he walked but didn’t drop her. Got her over beside his car and laid her gently down.

He stood, saw that his arms were slicked with her blood, then he knelt beside her and put his head against her chest.

Her heart was beating. He took her pulse. Weak, but there. He ripped off his shirt and used it as a compress – her forearm wasn’t cut deep, but she had a bad gash across her shoulder and another on her upper breast.

Mike heard the ambulance siren under the noise of the music pouring out of the house. Bobbi had radioed that Lennox was inside. But he stayed with her, keeping the pressure on her wound, talking to her, though he didn’t really think about what he was saying.

“You did good, Bobbi. You did real good. You’re good people, Bobbi… Hang in there, come on…”

He was still there when the first trooper pulled in, the ambulance a half a minute after. Trooper Farrington took out his firearm and cleared the house. He came back out as the EMTs went in, looked at Mike, who pointed toward the garden. Farrington slipped away into darkness.

More vehicles arrived, everything crunching in the gravel, tires and running feet. Two more EMTs dropped down beside Mike and Bobbi. They had to gently but forcibly pull him away. They went to work on her, put her on a stretcher; Mike watched them carry her off.

Farrington wandered back out of the gloom.

Mike waited.

“He’s gone,” Farrington said.

“Gone?”

“He’s dead, Mike.”

“We need to look around for anyone else. The woman – Richardson. Two kids. Hailey and Mason.”

Farrington nodded, joined up with two other troopers in the driveway, gave directions. They fanned out.

---

The EMTs brought Lennox Palmer out through the front door. He looked bad, but alive. They packed him in with Bobbi and closed the doors. Mike stood back as the ambulance surged out of the driveway, hit the road, and tore off toward Lake Haven, lights blaring and siren wailing.

“Somebody shut that music off!”

He walked to the house, went inside, and had a look at everything. Saw a clock radio smashed on the floor, found an iPhone plugged into the stereo and yanked it out. The music continued to play – he recognized The Doors – but small now, tinny, just coming from the phone.

He needed to get crime scene people here. The troopers were clomping around, looking for anyone else, trampling evidence. His phone was buzzing.

Lena.

“Mike? Are you… What happened? Mike?”

He sat down on the stairs going up to the next floor, ran a hand through his hair. Two troopers were talking in the kitchen. One yelled from upstairs, “Clear on the top floor!”

“Mike,” Lena said. “Talk to me. Is she… Was there anyone else there?”

“No. No one else here.”

“Okay, thank God. I’m going to try to locate them. Then I’m on my way.”

“It was bad, Lena.” He pulled his hand away, slightly shaking, covered in blood. “It was bad.”

A pause.

“Yeah, Mike. I know. But we got him. It’s gonna be alright.”