“Investigator Nelson?” Bobbi switched the phone to her other ear. His phone call was alarming. “Is everything okay?”

“Just Mike,” he said. “Everything’s okay; nothing to worry about. Need to ask you a quick question.”

“Okay…” She was alone in her apartment. A pizza box and paper plates littered the kitchen. She’d been too tired to clean up after the boys had left last night. Connor had hinted at wanting to stay, but she’d worried about Jolyon – not just what he might infer about spending a night at her house, but she feared for his safety if someone was after her. So she’d told Connor she needed some time to think and process everything – the truth, even if it scared her to be alone – and now she braced for what Mike would say next: We have reason to believe the killer intended you to be the victim, and he plans to correct the mistake.

“I was wondering if Harriet ever talked about her brother, Steve Pritchard,” Mike said.

She felt some relief, quickly followed by curiosity. “I know she had two brothers… We talked about it a little because I grew up with brothers, too.”

“Did she ever talk about either of them specifically?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve only been there a few months. We meet in group-soup every Monday, that’s the only time we ever really discuss our personal lives.” Bobbi left the kitchen and went into the bedroom, pulled a duffel bag out of the closet and gave it a kick. It felt full, but she bent and unzipped it anyway.

“Group supervision, right. Some of the other caseworkers have referenced that.”

“Is there something that… Is one of her brothers a lead, or something?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t really say right now.”

“I wish I had something else for you.” She pawed through the gear inside the bag – her karate gi, her sparring gloves, an empty water bottle. She brought the bottle into the kitchen to fill it.

“No, that’s perfectly alright. I appreciate your cooperation.” He paused. “How are you holding up? Any of the media been bothering you?”

“I had someone call. The reporter asked me what I knew about any developments, if the police had any suspects. I told them no comment. Is there going to be a press conference?”

“That’s good. Yes, the local DA is putting that together for later today. At the town hall in Lake Haven.”

“I don’t know how they got my number,” Bobbi said. “I just have a cell phone.” She screwed the cap back on the water bottle and set it beside the sink. “You think someone is talking? Sharing information or something?” She immediately thought of Jessica Rankin, but that was probably unfair.

“Small town,” Mike said. “First murder case in almost twenty years. At the press conference we’ll really stress that the media leave all the employees alone. They ask you anything else?”

“Well they knew that she – that Harriet – was covering for me. No idea how they knew that either. When they started to ask me if they thought Harriet was killed by mistake, I hung up.”

Silence from Mike. After a moment she said, “Hello?”

“Sorry. I’m here, just thinking.”

“Sure. So, are we going to, um…?”

“We’ll talk soon. In the meantime, just… you know, try to live your normal life, keep busy. And be with friends, if you can. Be visible.”

The fear came back, the nightmare persisting after all. “Mike, should I be worried?”

“Maybe this thing with the Fullers,” he said at last. “I’d say that could be part of it, but they’re in jail, so… is there anyone else you can think of who might want to hurt you, Bobbi?”

She wondered, not for the first time, if her ex-boyfriend Jamie was capable of something like this. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other – she was sure he’d moved on. It was true he had a history of violence, but slashing someone to death was a big leap, mistakenly killing Harriet an even bigger one.

“I don’t think so,” she said. She zipped up her bag, ready to go. Throwing shade – whether on Rankin or her ex – wasn’t her style.

“Listen,” Mike said. “Take care, Bobbi. Just keep doing what you’re doing; we’ll figure this thing out.”

“I will.”

---

Mike drummed his fingers on the desk. Finished talking to Bobbi, he stared at his computer screen.

“How are you doing, Mike?” Lena Overton had arrived in his doorway.

Mike twisted his screen away and offered her a smile. “Come on in, sit down.” She crossed the room, just long enough for him to notice the shape of her legs stemming out of her skirt. When she took the chair on the other side of his desk, he asked, “How is your guest?”

“He was a live one, they said. Finally passed out around three in the morning.”

“Can’t wait to see him again. He say anything else before he passed out?”

“No. Never asked for a lawyer, either. What’s the story on the vehicle? Is that what you’re looking at?”

“No, not what I’m looking at; we’ll get to that in a second.”

“I’ve been going through Facebook and Twitter all night,” Overton said. “Caseworkers and social workers don’t post much. Or – some of them do: Rachel Watts is pretty outspoken on politics. Pritchard has zero social media presence.”

“Someone called Bobbi Noelle. Newspaper or TV – I don’t know.”

“She say anything to them?”

“Said she stonewalled them.”

“Good. But, so, anything from the vehicle? We get a print for Pritchard and this thing is done. He’s totally good for it. I mean, if we’re settled that Harriet was the intended victim…” She lifted her eyebrows. “Are we settled?”

“I don’t know. Bobbi is new – nowhere near the history Harriet has with DSS. And Bobbi is from out of town. That could mean she brought trouble with her. I’m waiting to see what we get from the car. Right now it looks like there was no break-in.”

Mike opened the file from the top of the stack on his desk. Around them, phones rang and men and women circulated through the large room where state troopers and investigators commingled. The area was sometimes referred to as the bullpen, though Mike and some of the older investigators had dubbed it the Boiler Room – they were in the business of selling evidence to the prosecution.

He read from the file, paraphrasing: “Labrador retriever hair everywhere. Rear seat fabric removed for processing.” He glanced up at her. “The search for trace evidence is ongoing, but nothing so far, no prints we haven’t eliminated.”

“Camera?”

“Front surveillance camera is the only one, as you know. Footage shows Harriet Fogarty leaving DSS just before eight, but nothing – no one else.”

“Okay.” Overton had her own file she opened and read off the top page. “So my officers spoke to several people on River Street…”

Mike leaned forward, hoping for good news.

“Neither the residents of 113 River Street, nor the residents at 4 McIntyre or 7 McIntyre report seeing anyone parked between 113 River Street and 117 River Street at any time from seven to eight on Thursday night,” Overton said. “Or for that matter, five to nine – I asked them to keep going and widen out on it.”

He slumped back in his chair.

“But,” she said, flipping to a new page, “we spoke to Darlene Bilger with Adirondack Real Estate. She’s the agent for 117 River Street.”

“That’s the pea-green one looking like it’s about to fall over? I went by there.”

“That’s the one. And it just so happens that Bilger drove by the house the night of to give it a look.”

“What time?”

“Well, she’s sketchy on that. You ask me, I think she gets done regular business hours, has a couple at the Bark Eater.”

“She’s kind of a drinker?”

Overton shrugged. “I know Darlene. Ever heard the saying, ‘It doesn’t take much to get a damp sponge wet?’ That’s her. She says it was around eight when she went past the house, but she’s not sure.”

“Why’s she looking at the house, anyway?”

“She likes to do this every now and again with her listings. And along River Street there’s a few kids who like to throw a football around, and sometimes that football goes through a window. She said there’s been some vandalism too, of the green house, but she didn’t report it. Just minor stuff – someone etched a penis onto an exposed floorboard on the porch.”

Mike was getting impatient. “What did she see? She saw someone parked there?”

“No. But she said she saw a car coming toward her – a white sedan, a four-door.”

“She get the make?”

Overton shook her head. “She said the car swerved a bit. Like the driver didn’t see her right away, jerked back onto his side of the road. It’s narrow in through there. And, you know, like I said, she might’ve been under the influence.”

It was disappointing. A potentially inebriated real estate agent seeing a car in the vicinity wasn’t much to go on. Overton raised her eyes to him. “We ought to at least check that vehicle type against what the DSS staff drive.”

“Let’s do that.”

“And what does Pritchard drive?”

“Nothing. No vehicle registered in his name.”

“He could have borrowed a friend’s car.” She re-crossed her legs the opposite way and set the file on his desk. Mike noticed a couple of the guys giving Overton a look, too. It was hard not to.

“Let’s say Pritchard comes into town,” Overton said, “borrows a friend’s car, parks on River Street, goes into the woods. Waits for Harriet to come out from work, makes his move. I mean, the assailant is sitting in the back of her car. He kills her right there. Like you said, no sign of forced entry. Could indicate she knows him. Maybe she was even expecting him.”

“Or maybe it was a cloned key fob. The vehicle is a 2012, so uses both a standard key for the ignition and the fob as an option for the power door locks. Anyway, we’ve found no communication between Pritchard and Harriet on his phone. Just texts between Harriet and Bobbi Noelle on Noelle’s phone.”

“She could have talked to Pritchard from her phone at the office.”

“Maybe,” Mike said. “Maybe earlier in the day. But the other supervisor, Jessica Rankin, claims no one picks up the phone after 5 p.m.; it goes to their answering machine. Anyway, until we get the court order from the judge on Monday, we can’t listen to Harriet’s voicemails or go through her calls. We can’t look into her case files.”

“Well, we may not need to,” Overton said. “We’ve got Pritchard, so let’s see if he’s got any alibi. Right now he’s been arrested for drunk and disorderly. During the arrest, he assaulted Officer Daniels. The DA has the report; she’s ready to charge. But we can hold him without arraignment for another thirty-six hours, so if we get something solid, she can add it. Or we serve an arrest warrant when we do.” She scowled at Mike. “What is it?”

Mike was listening to Overton’s summary, but his gaze had wandered back to his computer screen. “Come here.”

Overton gave him a curious look, got up, and came round the desk, leaned down beside him. For a moment she didn’t say anything, just stared along with Mike at the pleasant face of a middle-aged African-American woman. Then Overton said, “Why are you looking at missing persons?”

He made a move with the mouse and scrolled the screen. Overton scanned the digital case file, picked up on the information right away. “Oh boy – there we go. She was a caseworker?”

“Yes. And she disappeared ten months ago.”

“I think I remember that – they never found a trace of her.” Overton slowly walked back to her chair and sat down. She stared off, now thinking the same thoughts he was. “This could be an issue,” she said quietly.

“Right now,” Mike said, keeping his own voice low, “this is just you and me.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, Cobleskill will know – she’ll pick up on it, she’s the sharpest DA we’ve had in years. Even if it’s a different MO, she’ll wonder.”

“I’m not suggesting we don’t make this connection,” Mike said. “Or hope that she doesn’t. I’m hoping that Pritchard owns up. I’m hoping that it’s this beef over his family’s estate, he came to loggerheads with his sister on it, and in a fit of drunken, jealous rage, attacked her in her car – and this bit with this other caseworker, Corina Lavoie, is an unrelated coincidence. But what I’m saying is we don’t want this going public. Not now.”

“Yeah okay, we’re agreed. But – two caseworkers, one missing for ten months, the other killed outside DSS… The press is going to draw their own conclusions. So the statement I’m seeing goes: ‘We’re pursuing all leads, but in order to protect the integrity of this investigation, we have nothing to release at this time.’”

“I like it. But I’m also hoping to talk to Pritchard and get a confession before press time. He was already halfway there last night.”

“A confession would be wonderful,” Overton said, “because we have no physical evidence, yes.”

“Right. But if I can find something first – if there’s anything to find – the heavier I can be in the interview. So I just want to check something out. Let Pritchard sweat, wonder what’s going on, sober up.”

“Okay but not too long,” Overton said. “He hasn’t lawyered-up yet but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to.”

---

Bobbi blocked the punch, pivoted forward, and kicked. The sensei caught her ankle and dropped an elbow on her knee, pulling back at the last second so she felt only his slight touch. It was the pantomime of a brutal hit; a real one would have left her debilitated with a blown kneecap.

She kept her balance on her back foot as the sensei addressed the class. “You see how I did that? How did I do it? Senpai Bobbi has a fast kick, but I was able to catch it. What happened?”

A twelve-year-old boy with buck teeth raised his hand from where he knelt with two dozen others beside the mat. “Because she… she moved her body like this.” He demonstrated with a movement. “You knew she was going to kick.”

“That’s right. She telegraphed the move when she stepped back.” The sensei let go of Bobbi’s ankle. She turned toward him and they bowed to each other.

“So this is what I want to teach you,” the sensei said to the group. “I want you to be able to maintain your balance, to have an effective strike, but not advertise it. Stay off your back heel; be up on the balls of your feet. Balance is key; what we strive for here is that every movement flows into the next. Now, Senpai Bobbi is a good sport – I asked her to demonstrate this with me. But let’s watch what happens when she doesn’t telegraph her move.”

Bobbi faced the sensei again. He was a fifty-year-old family man named Doug, but in class he was a master of Okinawan karate, a man she respected. She bounced a couple times, feeling good. Her knees were springy, and she got into her low stance.

They began to circle each other. One foot was always the fulcrum. To the uninitiated, Bobbi thought, it would resemble some ritual dance. The mat was big and wide, the students watching on their knees, hands on their upper thighs.

The sensei struck, this time with his left, a low blow she deflected with a down-block. She let the momentum carry her, dipped right as she raised her left leg and snapped it forward, her knee like a hinge. The sensei raised his own knee in defense and reached for purchase, but this time only his fingertips grazed her skin. He struck again, quickly, and they sparred in a rapid exchange of blows and blocks, the fabric of their gis snapping with the sharp movements, the mat sticky but yielding beneath her bare feet.

The sensei moved in for the kill and caught her wrist, tried to bend her arm back. She slipped the hold and dropped to the ground, swept her leg. He was able to jump out of the way and pounced on her before she could regain her feet. His fist hung suspended in the air above her nose. Her heart pounded.

He got up quickly and held his hand to her. Bobbi couldn’t resist: she drew her legs back and then flipped up onto her feet.

Afterward she placed her right fist in her open left palm, turned it over, and gave him a deep bow. The sensei bowed back, and she saw the beads of sweat shining on his brow.

She was getting good.

---

Mike pulled over on River Street, parked behind the Subaru sitting in front of the pea-green house. Darlene Bilger, a thirty-five-year-old woman dressed in a skirt and blouse that looked like an ex-hippie’s best guess at corporate casual, was standing on the broken sidewalk out front. He offered his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Of course.” She was chewing gum. “Anything you think will help.”

“Did you know Harriet Fogarty?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t. But I’ve heard she did a lot of good in the community. And this is a real, real tragedy.” Darlene keyed into the door, which opened with a squeak.

The empty house had a strange odor, a kind of maple syrup smell, mingling with other musty scents. The front room had been stripped of its carpeting, the floorboards exposed dusty and dark.

Darlene led him in, apologetic. “This is what you call a real ‘fixer-upper’… There was a family who lived here for years, then the kids all moved away, the woman’s husband died, and she was here alone, right up until the end. Used to get Meals on Wheels, didn’t leave the house for weeks at a time.” She sniffed and grimaced. “We can’t seem to chase that smell out of the house.”

Mike walked through a doorway in the center of the living room. He passed a bathroom on the right. On the left, stairs went up to the next floor. The back of the house was a kitchen and dining area with plenty of windows to let in the light, dust swirling in the door draft. The view overlooked the woods between the house and the DSS building. He stopped and had a long look.

“I did some research online,” Darlene said, “and there are all sorts of possible causes for it. Bed bugs, that’s one. Bees in the walls – that’s my favorite.”

“How long has this been vacant?”

“Um, a year, just coming up.”

The land sloped down and away from the back of the house, toward the woods. Mike left the window, refocused on the room, but there wasn’t much to look at. Hardwood flooring had been scratched up from years of use. The linoleum floor on the kitchen side of the room was faded and cracked. Nothing along the baseboard – not a cigarette butt or a snack wrapper. Aside from dust, the place was barren.

A good spot to hang out, though. To wait for caseworkers to leave their office for the day.

“Can I see the upstairs?”

“Of course.”

Maybe the gum she chewed was to mask the scent of a two-martini lunch, but Darlene seemed perfectly on her game. She took him down a short corridor between rooms. The stair treads groaned as they ascended to the next floor. Straight ahead was a second bathroom right over the downstairs one, and to the left a master bedroom with fake wood-paneled walls and shag carpeting.

He approached the back windows again. From the higher elevation, he could see over the treetops. A better view: the edge of the DSS parking lot was visible, and the access road.

“Have you had any break-ins?”

“No. Not that I know of… You think someone was in here?” She was either excited or worried, maybe both.

“I really don’t know.”

“Why would they come in here?”

Mike stood next to one of the windows, insects buzzing against the glass. He imagined the killer standing, perhaps looking down like he was, watching as the DSS workers left the building at five o’clock, two days ago. After taking hundreds of pictures and getting all their samples, the police had impounded the car and effectively returned the parking lot to the public. But no one was parking in Harriet Fogarty’s space – he could see the blackout tent from here. Two nights ago, the killer could have been right in this spot, watching.

A third of the parking spaces were earmarked for DSS staff, though unassigned to specific employees. About six staff spots were visible from the top floor of the house. It was still undetermined whether the murderer had targeted Harriet Fogarty or been waiting for any generic social worker to be late, like a stray member of the herd, but Mike was leaning toward Harriet as the target, with Pritchard compelling as a scorned brother upset over inherited property, maybe money.

But then there was the idea of angry parent who’d lost custody of a child, out for revenge.

Or even someone on staff – a jealous co-worker, like Rifkin? Or the kind of odd one who seemed nervous – Lennox Palmer?

Someone else, maybe, not yet on the radar?

Mike stepped away from the window and walked past Darlene. The upstairs was split into three bedrooms, the floors uneven. He ducked his head in each then backed out and looked above him. The pull-string for an attic door dangled in the air. “May I?”

“There’s not much up there, it’s just a crawl space…”

He pulled the door and unfurled the stairs. He gave the bottom step a test, putting a little weight on it, then started up.

The heat, which had been significant on the first floor, stifling on the second, was positively choking in the attic. It had to be over 100 degrees as he poked his head up into the space. There was maybe four feet between the floor and the peak of the roof. No flooring, just the exposed joists, pink puffy insulation smooshed in between. Mike hauled himself up, breaking a sweat.

“Please be careful…” Darlene’s voice was muffled.

He crawled on his hands and knees toward the octagonal window on the woods-side of the attic. The sweat really started to pour, dripping into the insulation. He went joist by joist until he reached the small window, dressed in spider-webs and dead flies. At least ten more parking spaces were visible from here. That meant fifteen, sixteen employees; almost all the spots marked for DSS workers. From this position, the killer could have easily known that Harriet Fogarty had been the last employee of the day.

Or, if he’d mixed up the cars, assumed it was Bobbi Noelle.

---

Mike ran the water in the second-floor bathroom and splashed it on his face. Darlene stayed in the hallway, gripping her purse, looking less excited and increasingly anxious. “Did you see something up there?”

No towel handy, so he wiped his face with his hands, dried them on his pants. His undershirt was soaked with sweat; dark circles beneath the armpits of his suit. “The front door has been locked all this time, correct? No access except for the key?”

“Right.” She shook her head back and forth. “No access. I’m the only one. I was here, I don’t know, about a month ago, with someone from a cleaning company. It was to get out that smell…”

Mike left the bathroom, started back down to the first floor, and she followed. “Maybe check the subfloor in the living room,” he said about the odor. “Sometimes unfinished wood like that can give off a sweet smell. You took the carpet out, and that’s why it’s the strongest in there. Can I see the basement?”

“Yes… You think that’s it? The flooring?”

“Might be.”

The basement was accessible off the kitchen. The realtor nudged past Mike, opened the door to reveal a dark set of wooden stairs. “The electric is off.”

Mike clicked on his flashlight.

A basement typical of older houses, stone instead of concrete blocks, a dirt floor. An ancient boiler squatted in one corner, a rickety workbench, and a couple of empty crates stacked against one wall. The street-side of the basement was cramped, and the dirt floor sloped down toward a door with a simple slide bolt, withdrawn so that the lock was disengaged.

Mike stepped out into the overgrown backyard. The tall grass and weeds were trampled, forming that path toward the woods if you looked just the right way.

He took out his phone and typed a name into his contacts, placed the call. “Hi Brit. I need a team at 117 River Street. Possible prints on the basement doorknob, and up in the attic along the floor joists, maybe the window. Really need to just go through the whole house and comb the backyard.”

Brit Silas would need elimination prints from the family who’d lived there, which would be tedious, depending on where they were located and if anyone was already in the system. Mike returned to the main floor and asked Darlene about the family who still owned the house. “Well, one of the boys is overseas,” she said. “There are two other kids, and they’re local. Mary is the daughter, and she’s the one I work with on selling the house. It went to all three kids, but she’s the one who handles it. What’s going on?”

“Could be nothing,” Mike said.