SCREAMS IN THE NIGHT...

Deep in the woods of upstate New York a woman flees a blazing barn. She is burned beyond recognition, and her dying words point police to a labyrinth of “confinement rooms”—rooms designed to hold human beings captive—where they make other chilling discoveries.

A GUT-WRENCHING PHONE CALL...

In Manhattan, Kate Page, a single mom and reporter with a newswire service, receives a heart-stopping call from a detective on the case. A guardian angel charm found at the scene fits the description of the one belonging to Kate’s sister, Vanessa, who washed away after a car crash in a mountain river twenty years ago.

A LIFE-AND-DEATH RACE AGAINST TIME

Kate has spent much of her life searching for the truth behind her little sister’s disappearance. Now, a manhunt for a killer who’s kept a collection of victims prisoner for years without detection becomes her final chance to either mourn Vanessa’s death—or save her life.

Praise for the novels of Rick Mofina

“A compelling novel that’s impossible to put down. The exciting plot is edgy and fast-paced with many suspenseful twists leading to an intensely thrilling ending. Mofina is at the top of his game.”

—FreshFiction on Whirlwind

“With the exciting plot and a conclusion that is a true surprise to one and all, this is one book that has to be seen ASAP.”

—Suspense Magazine on Into the Dark

“Mofina is one of the best thriller writers in the business.”

—Library Journal (starred review) on

They Disappeared

“Rick Mofina’s tense, taut writing makes every thriller he writes an adrenaline-packed ride.”

—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author, on The Burning Edge

“A blisteringly paced story that cuts to the bone. It left me ripping through pages deep into the night.”

—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author, on In Desperation

“Taut pacing, rough action and jagged dialogue feed a relentless pace. The Panic Zone is written with sizzling intent.”

—Hamilton Spectator

“Vengeance Road is a thriller with no speed limit! It’s a great read!”

—Michael Connelly,

New York Times bestselling author

“Six Seconds should be Rick Mofina’s breakout thriller. It moves like a tornado.”

—James Patterson,

New York Times bestselling author

Also from Rick Mofina and MIRA Books

WHIRLWIND

INTO THE DARK

THEY DISAPPEARED

THE BURNING EDGE

IN DESPERATION

THE PANIC ZONE

VENGEANCE ROAD

SIX SECONDS

Other books by Rick Mofina

A PERFECT GRAVE

EVERY FEAR

THE DYING HOUR

BE MINE

NO WAY BACK

BLOOD OF OTHERS

COLD FEAR

IF ANGELS FALL

And look for Rick Mofina’s next thriller

featuring investigative reporter Kate Page

EVERY SECOND

coming soon from MIRA Books!

Full Tilt

Rick Mofina

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is for you, the reader

He healeth the broken in heart,

and bindeth up their wounds.

—Psalms 147:3

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

Bible Verse

1

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3

4

5

6

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9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

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22

23

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25

26

27

28

29

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31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

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48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Endpage

Copyright

1

Rampart, New York

The old burial grounds.

Nobody ever goes out there.

Chrissie was uneasy about her boyfriend’s birthday wish to “do it” there.

“That place gives me the creeps, Robbie.”

“Come on, babe. Think of it as your first time with an eighteen-year-old man, and our first time in a graveyard. How cool is that?” Robbie sucked the last of his soda through his straw, then belched. “Besides, we’ve done it everywhere else in this dog-ass town.”

Sad but true. There was not much else to do here.

Rampart was a tired little city in Riverview County, at the northern border of New York. It was home to small-town America—flag-on-the-porch patriots, fading mom-and-pop shops, a call center for a big credit card company, a small Amish community and a prison.

The way Chrissie saw it, all people in Rampart did was work, get drunk, have sex, bitch about life and dream of leaving town.

Except maybe the Amish, she thought—they seemed content.

Chrissie and Robbie had been together for two-and-a-half years. Now, as they sat in his father’s Ford Taurus waiting for the light, she contemplated the dilemma facing them.

She’d been accepted at a college in Florida. Robbie didn’t want her to go. He was getting a job at the prison and was talking about marriage. Chrissie loved Robbie but told him she was not going to stay and be a Rampart prison guard’s wife, working at the mall, driving her kids everywhere while trying not to hit the Amish buggies.

Chrissie wouldn’t be leaving for a couple of months, but Robbie avoided talking about it. He lived in the moment. That was fine, but sooner or later she would have to end it with him.

But not tonight. Not on his birthday.

The light changed and they rolled by the Riverview Mall. Its vast parking lot was deserted and dark.

“So, are you up for the boneyard, babe?”

Robbie was already guiding the Taurus along the highway out of town. The white lines rushed under them and she made a suggestion.

“Why don’t we go to Rose Hill?”

“Naw, we go there all the time.”

Chrissie felt Robbie’s hand on her leg.

“Come on. It’s my birthday.”

“But it’s so freakin’ creepy. Nobody goes out there.”

“That’s what makes it fun.” He rubbed her inner thigh. “I got the sleeping bag in the trunk.”

Chrissie sighed and looked out her window at the summer night.

“Okay.”

The headlights reached into the darkness as they drove beyond town. The Ford’s high beams captured the luminescent eyes of animals watching from the forests along the lonely drive.

After several miles, Robbie slowed to a stop and turned off the road onto an overgrown pathway. It was marked with an old weather-beaten sign that was easy to miss and bore two words: Burial Grounds.

The car swayed and dipped as he drove slowly over worn ruts until they stopped at a no-trespassing sign wired to a gate that was secured with a chain and lock.

“There, see.” Chrissie pointed. “We can’t get in.”

Robbie slipped the transmission into Park.

“Yes we can.”

He got out and went to the gate, his T-shirt glowing against the blackness. Moths fluttered around the headlights as he worked on the lock, and the only sound was the chorus of crickets.

Chrissie knew the area’s history. She’d written about it for a ninth-grade paper.

In the late 1800s, the state built a large insane asylum in Rampart. It had its own cemetery because locals didn’t want patients buried next to their loved ones. When the asylum was closed down forty years ago, all the headstones had been removed and grave sites kept secret to protect the families’ privacy. There was nothing there now but a stretch of green grass bordered by lush woods.

Robbie unlocked the lock, the chain jingling as he removed it and opened the gate. After edging the car through, he closed it.

“How did you open that lock?”

“Trev’s dad works with DOT and he told me that if you give that old lock the right twist, it’ll open.”

Robbie drove slowly along the wooded border of the graveyard, cut the engine and killed the lights.

Stars blazed above.

Guided by the light of Robbie’s phone, they walked to a remote section where the grass was like thick carpet. They unrolled the sleeping bag.

“Nothing around but the crazy dead under us.”

“Shh, birthday boy.”

Robbie slipped his hands around Chrissie’s waist then under her shirt and jeans. They kissed and as her fingers found his zipper she froze, pulled away and looked into the pitch-black forest.

“What is it?”

“Something’s out there!”

Robbie followed her gaze to flames, flickering deep in the woods.

“What’s that?” Chrissie held Robbie tighter.

“I don’t know. There’s nothing there for acres.”

“There’s an old barn the asylum used years ago, but—”

A faint, distant scream—a woman’s scream—carried from the fire.

“Oh, God, Robbie!”

“What the hell?”

More screaming, this time louder, pierced the night, raising gooseflesh on Chrissie’s skin.

“Help me! Please! Help me!”

Robbie grabbed Chrissie’s hand and started for the woods leading to the fire—but she yanked him back.

“Let’s take the car!”

“I don’t know if we can get through!”

“We’ll be safer in the car, Robbie!”

They ran to the car, dragging the sleeping bag.

Robbie fumbled for his keys, turned the ignition and headed the car down the path that seemed to vanish into the woods ahead.

The flames were growing.

Chrissie called 911.

“I want to report a fire and a woman screaming for help!”

As they followed the trail, knifing into a thick wall of trees and undergrowth, Chrissie guessed they were about one hundred yards from the fire. She gave the dispatcher directions and was assured that fire, paramedics and police were on the way.

Leafy branches continued scraping and slapping at the car. Robbie drove carefully over the rugged road.

“My old man will kill me if I scratch the Taurus!”

Underbrush and stones smacked at the undercarriage as they came to a clearing, gasping at the sight before them.

The old barn was engulfed in flames, the fire raging against the night sky.

A woman ran from it shrieking, trailing smoke and sparks. The flames that were devouring her entire body flapped like horrific flags as she staggered and collapsed into a burning heap in front of the car.

Chrissie screamed.

Robbie grabbed the sleeping bag, rushed to the woman and smothered the flames. While the inferno of the barn crackled and roared, Chrissie’s screams were soon overtaken by the approaching sirens.

The woman groaned in agony.

As Robbie tried to take her hand, which was now a blackened hook, they saw charred ropes tied to her wrists.

2

Rampart, New York

Oxygen flowed in a soft, calibrated rhythm through the ventilator tube connected to the burn victim in the intensive-care unit of Rampart General.

The small screen above her bed monitored her heart, her blood pressure and her other vital signs.

An IV pole with a drip stood beside her bed.

She was wrapped from her head to her ankles in gauze and was heavily sedated to alleviate the excruciating pain of third-degree burns to over 85 percent of her body.

She’d lost her hair, ears, face, nearly all of her skin.

Her feet were charred stumps, her hands charred claws.

Her injuries were fatal. She would not live through the night, the doctor had told Detective Ed Brennan of Rampart Police Department.

Since then Brennan had waited with the ICU nurse by the woman’s bedside, never leaving it.

He’d been home when he got the call.

His wife had put their son to bed. He’d made popcorn and they were watching the end of The Searchers, when his cell phone rang.

“White female, mid-twenties,” Officer Martin had told him over blaring sirens. “Found her near the old burial grounds. Burned bad. They’re taking her to the General—they don’t think she’ll make it. Looks like she was tied up, Ed.”

Brennan rushed to the hospital in the hopes of obtaining a dying declaration from the victim.

The doctor took Brennan aside after emergency staff had done what they could for her.

“There’s no guarantee she’ll regain consciousness.”

Brennan needed her to help him solve what would soon be her murder.

In the hours he waited, he’d gotten used to the room’s smell. They had no ID for her. There was no chance of fingerprints and no indication she’d had any clothing or jewelry. If so, it had been burned away. They’d have to review local, state and national missing persons cases.

The most disturbing aspect was the ropes.

Again, Brennan looked at the pictures on his phone that Martin had sent from the scene.

Again, he winced.

Then he concentrated on the charred ropes.

She appeared to have been be bound by ropes.

The fire could’ve allowed her to escape from the building.

Escape from what and from whom?

Once they doused the fire and things cooled off they needed to get the forensic people in there.

“Detective?” the nurse said.

The charred remnants of what was once the woman’s right hand moved.

The nurse pressed a button above the bed and the doctor arrived, checked the monitor and bent over the woman.

“She’s regaining consciousness,” the doctor said. “We’ll remove the airway so she can talk, but remember, her throat and lungs are damaged.”

Brennan understood.

This may be his only shot.

Once the tube was removed, the monitor started beeping as the woman gasped. They took a moment to tend to her and the beeping slowed. Then the doctor nodded to Brennan, who stepped close and prepared to make a video recording with his phone.

“Ma’am, I’m Detective Ed Brennan. Can you tell me your name?”

A long moment of silence passed punctuated with a gurgle.

Brennan took a breath and looked at the doctor before he continued.

“Ma’am, can you tell me a name, or tell me where you live?”

A rasping sigh sounded, then nothing.

“Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me?’

A liquidy, coarse utterance began to form a word.

“Share— R...”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Try again.”

“There...are...”

Brennan glanced at the doctor and nurse, blinking to concentrate as the woman tried to raise her blackened hand as if she wanted to pull Brennan to her.

“There are...there are others...”

The woman lowered her arm.

The monitors sounded alerts and the tracking lines flattened.

3

Rampart, New York

Brennan whirled his unmarked Impala out of the McDonald’s drive-through and headed for the scene.

He gulped his black coffee but only managed a small bite of the blueberry muffin. His stomach was still tense from the hospital, the victim and her dying words: There are others.

What’re we facing here?

He’d alerted his sergeant and lieutenant. They definitely had a suspicious death. Confirming the victim’s ID would be critical. A forensic odontologist from Syracuse was en route to make the victim’s dental chart. They’d submit and compare everything—height, weight, approximate age, X-rays, DNA—with all the regional and state databases, missing persons cases, and check her teeth with dental associations and with the New York State Police.

Sooner or later we’ll get an ID on her. Then I’ll have to tell her family the worst news they’re ever going to hear.

He hated that part of the job.

As Brennan drove along the highway he focused on his case. They’d need to pull in Rampart’s other detectives to help. The sun was climbing, which was good because they had to scour that scene. He figured the state police Forensic Identification Unit would be there by now.

Rampart PD often drew on the resources of the New York State Police or the FBI because, as a small jurisdiction, Rampart didn’t get many homicides, maybe five or six a year.

You need challenging cases to make you a better detective. Brennan considered the forest rolling by. Like my life.

He was thirty-four and had been with the department for ten years, the past five as a detective with the investigative unit.

At times he yearned to be with the FBI, the DEA or Homeland, something bigger. But his wife, Marie, a teacher, loved their small-town life, saying it was good for Cody. Their son was five and prone to seizures if he got a fever or was overly stressed.

It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was frightening.

The other day when they were all shopping together at Walmart, Brennan realized that what he had here was good. But when he considered that his last major case was bingo fraud, small-town life got to him. Especially after the weekend call from his high school buddy who was with the Secret Service.

How’s it going there, Ed? I’m protecting the vice president in Paris next week. Are you still chasing the Amish in Ram Town?

Brennan knew that Cody needed the quiet of a small town, but that call had left him reflective.

A cluster of local media vehicles had gathered at the entrance to the burial grounds, which was blocked by a state patrol car. Recognizing Brennan, the trooper waved him through. Brennan ignored questions reporters tossed at his window.

His Chevy rolled alongside the cemetery, then dipped and swayed when he cut into the forest on the old path, which had widened from the increasing traffic. As he reached the scene, the air smelled of burned wood. Smoke curled from the ruins, floating over the clearing in clouds that pulsed with emergency lights from the fire and police units at the site. Brennan parked and went to Paul Dickson, a Rampart detective, and Rob Martin, the first officer to respond. They were huddled with the state guys and firefighters. Brennan, who had the lead on this case, knew most of them and did a round of handshakes.

“Hey, Ed,” Dickson said. “We heard she didn’t make it.”

“No,” Brennan said before shifting to work. “What do we have so far?”

Consulting their notes, Dickson and Martin brought him up to speed. The fire had cooled enough for the forensic guys to suit up. At the same time, Brennan heard a yip and saw the cadaver dog, and its handler in white coveralls and shoe covers, head carefully into the destruction while, overhead, a small plane circled. The state police were taking aerial photos of the scene and mapping it.

“The teens who found her are asleep in my car, waiting to talk to you,” Martin told Brennan.

“Okay, I’ll get to them in a bit for formal statements.”

The barn was state property built in 1901 as part of the farm that grew food for the asylum before it was shut down in 1975 and abandoned.

Brennan took in the piles of rubble, the stone foundation and watched Trooper Dan Larco with Sheba, a German shepherd, probing the scene. As she poked her snout here and there in the blackened debris, her tail wagged in happy juxtaposition to the grim task.

Sheba barked and disappeared into a tangle of wood at one corner. Larco moved after her, lowering himself to inspect her discovery.

“Hey, Ed!” he called. “We got something! Better take a look!”

Brennan pulled on coveralls and shoe covers, then waded cautiously into the wreckage.

The charred victim was positioned on its back beneath a web of burned timber. Most of the skin and clothing were gone. The arms were drawn up in the “pugilistic attitude.” The face was burned off, exposing teeth in a death’s head grin. From the remnants of jeans and boots on the lower body, it appeared the victim was male.

Brennan made notes, sketched the scene and took pictures. The forensic unit would process everything more thoroughly. Maybe they’d yield a lead on identification. In any event, there would be another autopsy.

Now we have two deaths. Is this what the first victim meant when she’d said, “There are others”?

Larco’s radio crackled with a transmission from the spotter in the plane.

“There’s a vehicle in the bush about fifty to sixty yards northeast of the site. A pickup truck, you guys got that?”

A quick round of checks determined that no one on the ground was aware of the vehicle. Two state patrol cars moved to block it. Brennan, Dickson, Martin and some of the troopers approached the vehicle. They took up positions around it with weapons drawn and called out for anyone inside to exit with hands raised.

There was no response.

They ran the plate. The pickup was a late-model Ford F-150, registered to Carl Nelson of Rampart. There were no warrants, or wants for him. A quick, cautious check confirmed the truck was empty. Brennan noticed the rear window bore a parking decal for the MRKT DataFlow Call Center.

He pulled on latex gloves and tried the driver’s door.

It opened.

A folded single sheet of paper waited on the seat.

Brennan read it:

I only wanted someone to love in my life.

It’s better to end everyone’s pain.

God forgive me for what I’ve done.

Carl Nelson

4

Rampart, New York

“Yeah, that’s Carl’s truck. What’s wrong?”

Robert Vander’s eyes flicked up from the pictures Brennan showed him on his phone and he snapped his gum.

“Carl’s been off sick, why’re you asking about him?”

Vander glanced quickly at his computer monitor, a reflex to the pinging of new messages. He was the IT chief at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center, which handled millions of accounts for several credit card companies. With five hundred people on the payroll, it was Rampart’s largest employer.

Vander was Carl Nelson’s supervisor.

“What’s this about?” Vander looked at Brennan, who sat across from his desk, then at Paul Dickson, who was beside Brennan, taking notes.

“We’re checking on his welfare,” Brennan said.

Vander halted his gum chewing.

“His welfare? He called in sick two days ago, said he had some kind of bug. What’s going on?”

Brennan let a few moments pass without answering.

“Mr. Vander, can you tell us about Mr. Nelson? What he does here, his character?”

“His character? You’re making me nervous.”

“Can you help us?”

“Carl’s been with MRKT about ten years. He’s a senior systems technician, a genius with computers. He helped design the upgrade for our security programs. He’s an excellent employee, very quiet and keeps to himself. I got nothing but good things to say about him. I’m getting a little worried.”

“Has he been under any stress lately?”

“No, nothing beyond the usual workload demands.”

“What’s his relationship status? Married, divorced, girlfriend, boyfriend?”

“He’s not married. I don’t think he has a girlfriend, or partner, whatever.”

Vander repositioned himself in his chair.

“Do you know if he has any outstanding debts?”

“No, I wouldn’t know.”

“Does he gamble? Use drugs or have any addictions?”

“No. I don’t think— You know, I’m not comfortable with this.”

“Would you volunteer a copy of his file to us?”

“Not before I check with our human resources and legal people.” Vander’s mouse clicked. “I think you need a warrant.”

“That’s fine. Thank you for your help.”

Brennan and Dickson got up to leave.

“Wait,” Vander stood, his face whitened. “Would this have something to do with that story about the fire killing two people at the old cemetery?”

Brennan let a moment pass.

“Mr. Vander, we can’t confirm anything and we strongly urge you to keep our inquiries confidential.”

* * *

Later, as Dickson drove them from the center, he was frustrated at where things stood in the thirty-six hours since the fire was discovered.

They’d talked to Robbie and Chrissie, the two teens who’d called it in, and got repetitions of what they already knew.

“We’ve still got nothing on our Jane Doe. Nothing more on our John Doe—slash Carl Nelson. We’ve got his note, his truck. There’s no activity at his residence and he’s not at work. We know it’s him. This is a clear murder-suicide, Ed. When’re we going to get warrants and search his place for something to help identify the woman and clear this one?”

Brennan was checking his phone for messages.

“We’ll get warrants once we confirm his identity. Let’s go to the hospital. Morten wants to see us, maybe he’s got something.”

* * *

Morten Compton, Rampart’s pathologist, was a large man with a Vandyke who was partial to suspenders and bow ties.

He was pulling on his jacket when Brennan and Dickson arrived. His basement office in the hospital smelled of antiseptic and formaldehyde.

“Sorry, fellas, I got to get to Ogdensburg.” Compton tossed files into his briefcase. “I’m assisting the county with the triple bar shooting there and I got the double fatal with the church van and the semi in Potsdam.”

“So why call us over, Mort?” Brennan asked. “Have you made any progress with either victim in my case?”

“Some, but first you have to appreciate that confirming positive IDs will take time, given the condition of the bodies and the backlog my office is facing. My assistant is in Vermont attending a funeral. I’m arranging for help from Watertown.”

“So where are we on my double?”

“We’ve submitted dental charts for the female and male to local and regional dentists and dental associations. Toxicology has gone to Syracuse and we’ve submitted DNA to the FBI’s databank.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, I don’t think the male died in the fire.”

“That’s new. What’s the cause for him?”

“Possibly a gunshot wound to the head. I just recovered a round, looks like a nine millimeter. You need to find a gun at the scene, Ed.”

* * *

As they drove to the scene, Dickson raised more questions.

“So how does a dead man start a fire, Ed?”

“Maybe he didn’t start it. Or, maybe he tied her up, started it, then shot himself in front of her, leaving her to burn to death.”

“If he wanted to end things, like the note suggests, why not shoot the woman first? Make sure she’s dead?”

“Maybe he did and missed and we haven’t recovered the rounds yet. My gut tells me we’re just scratching the surface here, Paul.”

As Dickson shook his head in puzzlement, Brennan returned to the woman’s dying words.

There are others.

* * *

The bright yellow plastic tape surrounding the blackened remnants of the barn bounced in the midday breeze. Techs from Troop B’s forensic unit, clad in white-hooded coveralls and facial masks, continued their painstaking processing of the ruins.

Mitch Komerick, the senior investigator who headed the squad, brushed ash from his cheek as he pulled down his mask to meet Brennan and Dickson at the southwest corner of the line.

“Got your message on the update, Ed,” Komerick said.

“Find a gun?”

Komerick wiped the sweaty soot streaks from his face, then shook his head.

“No weapon and no rounds, or casings, so far.”

Brennan nodded and looked off in frustration.

“There are deep fissures where we found the male,” Komerick said, “big enough to easily swallow a gun. My money says that’s where it is. We’re going to put a drainpipe camera down there. We’re far from done.”

“All right.”

“My people have gridded the scene, and we’ll sift through every square inch of the property. We’ve sent the pickup down to the lab in Ray Brook for processing. The arson team says an accelerant, probably unleaded fuel, was used, so the fire was intentional.”

“Okay.”

“But we’ve got something to show you, something disturbing. Suit up.”

After Brennan pulled on coveralls, he followed Komerick and his instructions on where to step as he led him into the destruction. The smell of charred lumber and scorched earth was heavy. Some of the singed beams had been removed and stacked neatly to the side, revealing sections that had been processed. There was a heap of small machinery, now charred metal. Komerick pointed to the wreckage. “Look, these were livestock stalls that someone converted to small rooms, confinement cells.”

“How can you tell? It’s such a mess.”

“We found heavy doors with locks, metal shackles and hardware anchored in the walls and floors, remains of mattresses, at least half-a-dozen cells so far. Somebody was definitely using the place, possibly for porno movies, for bondage, for torture. God only knows, Ed.”

Brennan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

“Mitch, over here!”

One of the forensic technicians was on his knees delicately brushing the ground with the care of an archaeologist. Another technician was recording it.

“Look,” the technician said while clearing the small object, “we can run this through missing persons databases and ViCAP.”

Rising from the grave of sooty earth and ash was a fine chain and a stylized charm of a guardian angel.

5

New York City

Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead, the global news service, blinked back tears as she consoled the anguished father, who she’d reached on his phone in Oregon.

The man on the line was Sam Rutlidge. His eleven-year-old son, Jordan, had vanished six years ago while walking to the corner store, two blocks from his home in Eugene, Oregon. Kate was writing a feature on missing persons across the country, on the toll cold cases exact on the families.

“I accept that he’s gone,” Sam said, “and before cancer took my wife, she told me she’d accepted it, too, that she’d see our boy in heaven. But I need to know what happened to him. Not knowing hurts every day, like an open wound that won’t heal, you know?”

Kate knew.

She underlined his words in her notebook, the quotes she’d use in her story. Her heart ached for Sam, a haunted trucker. She asked him a few more questions before thanking him for the interview.

After hanging up, Kate cupped her face in her hands and let out a long breath. Then she walked from her desk across the newsroom to the floor-to-ceiling windows where she looked at the skyline of midtown Manhattan.

It never gets any easier.

A part of her died each time she talked to a grieving mom or dad. It always resurrected her own pain. When Kate was seven years old her mother and father had died in a hotel fire. After the tragedy, Kate and her little sister, Vanessa, lived with relatives, then in foster homes. Two years after their parents’ deaths, Kate and Vanessa’s foster parents took them on a vacation. They were driving in the Canadian Rockies when their car flipped over and crashed into a river.

The images—hell, that moment in her life—were fused into her DNA.

The car sinking...everything moving in slow motion...the windows breaking open...the freezing water...grabbing Vanessa’s hand...pulling her out...nearing the surface...the icy current numbing her...her fingers loosening...Vanessa slipping away...disappearing... Why couldn’t I hold you? I’m so sorry, so sorry.

Kate was the only one who’d survived.

Her sister’s body had never been found. Searchers reasoned that it got wedged in the rocks downriver. Still, in her heart, Kate never gave up believing that Vanessa had somehow gotten out of the river.

Over the years, Kate had age-progressed photos of Vanessa made and submitted them with details to missing persons groups. She drew on her contacts with them, with police and the press, and she looked into open cases. But any leads always dead-ended.

It had become her private obsession.

Why was I the only one of my family to survive?

Wherever Kate went, she secretly looked into the faces of strangers who might now resemble her sister. For twenty years, Kate’s life had been a search for forgiveness.

I know it’s irrational, I know it’s crazy and I should just let it go.

But she couldn’t. It’s the reason she’d become a reporter.

“Kate, are we going to see your feature today?”

She turned to see Reeka Beck, Newslead’s deputy features editor, and her immediate boss, standing behind her.

Reeka was twenty-six years old, razor-sharp with degrees from Harvard and Yale. A rising star, she’d worked in Newslead’s Boston bureau and was part of the team whose collective work was a finalist for a Pulitzer.

Her thumbs blurred as she finished typing a text message on her phone, then she stared at Kate. Reeka’s cover-girl face was cool and businesslike while she waited for Kate to answer.

“Yes. It’ll be done today.”

“It’s not on the budget list.”

“It is. I put it on yesterday.”

“Has it got a news angle?”

“It’s a feature. We talked about this with—”

“I know we talked about it, but we’d get better pickup with a news peg.”

“I’m adding the latest justice figures on unsolv—”

“Maybe you could find a case police are close to solving.”

“I know how to write news—”

“Did you remember to arrange art for your story?”

Kate let the tense silence that passed between them scream her offense at Reeka’s condescending tone. She was forever curt, blunt and just plain rude, cutting reporters off when they answered her or dismissing their questions. Every interaction with her bordered on a confrontation, not because Reeka was ambitious and convinced she had superior news skills but rather, as the night editors held, because one of Newslead’s executives was her uncle and she could get away with it. Every newsroom Kate had ever worked in had at least one insufferable editor.

“Yes, Reeka, there’s art. The story’s on the budget. I’ll file it today, as noted in the budget, and I’ll insert the new justice stats.”

“Thank you.” Reeka pivoted while texting and left with Kate’s eyes drilling into the back of her head.

Be careful with her. This is not the time to make enemies. Kate walked back to her desk amid the newsroom’s cluttered low-walled cubicles. A number of those desks were empty, grim reminders that staff had been cut in recent years as the news industry continued bleeding revenues.

It was rumored Newslead would introduce a process to measure how many stories reporters produced and subscriber pickup rates of their work, against that of competitors like the AP, Reuters or Bloomberg.

Bring it on. Kate could go toe-to-toe with anyone.

She had proved that a year ago in a brutal job competition at Newslead’s Dallas bureau where she broke a story about a baby missing during a killer tornado. It’s why Chuck Laneer, a senior editor in Dallas, later offered her a job at Newslead’s world headquarters after he was transferred here to Manhattan.

Since then, Kate had led Newslead’s reporting, often beating the competition on coverage of serial killings, mall shootings, corruption, kidnappings, every kind of chaos that unfolded across the country or around the world.

Reporting was in Kate’s blood.

And for as long as she remembered she’d always battled the odds.

Her life had been a continual struggle for survival. She’d bounced through foster homes, spent her teen years on the street, taking any job she could get to put herself through college. She’d worked in newsrooms across the country and had a baby by a man who’d lied to her and written her off. Now here she was: a single mother who’d just turned thirty, and a national correspondent at one of the world’s largest news organizations.

Settling back into her desk, Kate’s heart warmed as she looked at Grace, her seven-year-old daughter, smiling from the framed photograph next to her monitor.

We’ve come a long way, baby. We’re survivors.

Less than an hour later, she finished her feature and sent it to the desk.

As she collected her things to leave, her phone rang.

“Newslead, Kate Page.”

“Kate, this is Anne Kelly, with the New York office of the Children’s Searchlight Network. Do you have a second?”

“Sure.”

“Fred Byfield, one of our investigators, said I should call. You’d asked that we alert you to any queries we get that may relate to your sister’s file, no matter how tenuous?”

Kate’s pulse quickened. “Yes, go ahead.”

“We wanted to give you a heads-up about a query we recently received from law enforcement.”

It sounded like the woman was reading from a message.

“All right,” Kate said.

“We were asked to check our files for a piece of jewelry concerning missing white women in their twenties.”

“But that’s routine.”

“It is, but in this case, Fred said that they’re asking about a necklace with a guardian angel charm.”

Kate froze.

Shortly before her death, Kate’s mother had given her and Vanessa each a necklace bearing a guardian angel charm. Kate had described the necklace in the file she’d submitted with missing persons organizations.

“Does it say anything about engraving or an inscription?”

“No.”

“Can you give me more details, Anne?”

“I can have someone call you.”

“Okay, but can you tell me anything more right now?”

“Well, we just got a message that the query went to our national office in Washington to run a search on the item, and, Kate, I’m sorry but it concerns a homicide.”

Kate slid down into her chair.

6

New York City

Kate’s express train barreled north out of Penn Station.

As she stared into the darkness, her mind raced, absorbing the call about the necklace.

Could it be Vanessa’s?

Contending with the ramifications and questions, she felt a knocking in her heart that turned into apprehension.

Stop it.

Vanessa’s dead. She died twenty years ago. Why do I put myself through this? Why do I cling to the hope that she survived? And now this: a homicide.

The subway platforms blurred by until Kate reached her stop. That’s when her phone rang. It was Nancy Clark, her neighbor, who watched her daughter.

“Hi, Kate, is this a bad time?”

“No. I’m just about home. Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes, Grace really wanted to talk to you.”

“All right, put her on.”

The sound of the phone being passed to Grace was followed by “Hi, Mom?”

“Hi hon. What’s up?”

“Mom, can I get my own phone?”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“But all my friends have phones.”

“I’ll think about it. I’ll be home soon. We’ll talk about it then.”

“Okay, Mom, love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Kate touched her phone to her lips and smiled.

What a kid.

Grace was her sun, her moon and the stars in her life. She’d taken to New York City like she was born here. She loved her school, her new friends, Central Park, the museums, everything about the city.

Kate treasured her job with Newslead, given her long road to get to this point. It had taken a little luck and a lot of hard work, but she’d turned a corner professionally and financially.

We’ve got a good life here. They lived in Morningside Heights in a Victorian-era building where she’d sublet an affordable two-bedroom apartment from a Columbia University professor who’d taken a sabbatical in Europe. While walking the few blocks home from the station, Kate checked for any updates from Anne Kelly at the Children’s Searchlight Network.

Nothing.

Kate picked up her mail in the lobby, the place where she and Grace first met Nancy Clark, a retired and widowed nurse who lived alone on the floor above them.

She was so kind and warm she had practically adopted Kate and Grace. They had each other over for coffee and Nancy quickly insisted she look after Grace whenever Kate worked or traveled. Now, outside Nancy’s apartment, Kate noticed the aroma of fresh baking before Grace opened the door.

“Hi, Mom! We made cookies!” Grace hugged Kate then went back to the kitchen table and collected a small tin and her backpack. “Nancy says I can take them home.”

“Okay,” Kate said. “Thanks for this, Nancy.”

“Anytime. We had fun. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

* * *

At home Kate and Grace each had a cookie while settling in before supper. As usual, Grace emptied her school backpack on the coffee table. Kate set aside the mail, fired up her laptop to review emails, then changed into jeans to prepare chicken tacos, rice and salad. Before setting the table, Kate checked her phone again.

Nothing from the Searchlight Network.

“Mom, did you think some more about my phone?” Grace asked while biting into her taco.

“Still thinking on it, hon.”

“Maybe we could look on your computer for a good one?”

“Not so fast, kiddo.” Kate smiled.

After supper, Kate helped Grace with her book report on Horton Hears a Who!

“Mom, who do you like better, the Cat in the Hat or Horton the Elephant?”

“Well, the Cat creates a lot of mischief whereas Horton tries to help people, so I guess Horton, for that reason.”

“The Cat’s a lot of fun, though.”

“Yes, but he leaves a big mess.”

Later, when Kate got Grace into the tub for her bath, Kate’s phone rang. The number was blocked. Kate left the bathroom door open and kept an eye on Grace, who was singing to herself as she splashed. Kate moved down the hall to take the call out of earshot.

“Hello?”

“Kate Page?”

She didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“Detective Ed Brennan, Rampart Police, Rampart, New York. I got your name and number from the flyer you’d submitted to the Children’s Searchlight Network.”

Kate caught her breath and tightened her grip on her phone.

“Yes.”

“My call concerns your listing of a necklace your six-year-old sister was in possession of when she was presumed to have drowned after an auto accident in Canada, twenty years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Could you go over the details of the necklace for me?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Kate cleared her throat.

“A month before our mother died, she gave Vanessa and me each a tiny guardian angel necklace with our names engraved on the charms. Vanessa wanted to trade them, so she wore the one with my name on it and I kept the angel bearing her name.”

“So, except for the engraving, they’re identical?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still have the other necklace?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I understand you live in New York City.”

“That’s right.”

Brennan paused as if to choose his words carefully.

“I know this would be very difficult, and I apologize for the imposition, but would you be willing to bring the necklace to Rampart to show us? It might help with an ongoing investigation.”

“Couldn’t I just send you a picture?”

“We’d prefer to see the actual necklace—we might have other questions.”

Kate’s stomach began tightening.

“Can you tell me more about the case, Detective?”

A few moments passed.

“This is confidential,” Brennan said.

“Of course.”

“We’ve found a necklace at a crime scene that fits with the description you gave. However, the engraving is unclear at this point. It’ll need further analysis because it was badly charred.”

“Charred?”

“Unfortunately, it was discovered in the remains of a fire at the scene of what appears to be a murder-suicide. We have a white female in her twenties deceased, who was burned beyond recognition. We’re doing all we can to confirm her identity.”

Kate put her hand to her mouth, then glimpsed her daughter happily playing in the tub.

“You say it’s a murder-suicide, what—what else can you tell me?”

“The male’s identity is also unconfirmed. We’ve not released many details to the public at this point. I am very sorry to put you through this. But we wouldn’t have imposed if we didn’t have reason to believe your cooperation might assist us. Will you be able to bring the necklace to Rampart?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll be there with the necklace tomorrow.”

After hanging up, Kate got Grace to bed, then called Chuck Laneer’s cell phone. Although Reeka Beck was her immediate boss, and going over her head would create tension, Kate preferred to talk to Chuck about this. They had a good relationship going back to Dallas when she’d told him about Vanessa’s tragedy.

“That’s an incredible development for you, Kate,” he said when she filled him in. “I don’t see a problem with you taking a few days off to follow up. But to steer clear of any potential conflict, you’re not going up there as a Newslead reporter.”

“Right.”

“You’re going on your own cost and time, to follow up on a private matter. I’ll let Reeka know you’re off for a few personal days.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck with this, Kate. It can’t be easy.”

Kate then made arrangements with Nancy to watch Grace. She used her points to book a flight and car and started packing.

Then she went to her jewelry box and took out the necklace bearing the tiny guardian angel with the name “Vanessa” engraved on it. She held it in the palm of her hand until tears rolled down her face.

I tried to hold you. I tried so hard.

7

Rampart, New York

The calm clip-clop of a passing Amish horse and buggy carried through the window of the Rampart Police Department, belying Kate Page’s unease.

After her plane had landed in Syracuse, she’d made the two-hour drive in a rented Chevrolet Cruze. Mile after mile her knuckles were white on the wheel, until she’d reached the edge of town where Rampart’s sign welcomed her to the Home of the Battle of the High School Bands.

Following the GPS, she went straight downtown to the limestone building housing police headquarters. A receptionist directed her to a creaky hardback bench where she waited for Detective Brennan. Still anxious from her trip, Kate checked local coverage on her tablet.

Mystery Surrounds Double Death. The headline in the Rampart Examiner stretched over a sweeping aerial photo of the crime scene. The charred blotch of the obliterated barn was branded on the lush woods like a wound.

Is this where my sister died?

For much of her life Kate had cleaved to the remote hope Vanessa was alive, and, now, to learn that she might’ve died here was overwhelming. But Kate held on to her composure by concentrating on news reports.

A new one posted on a radio station’s site said police still hadn’t identified the victims. However, sources had told the station that the male was believed to be Carl Nelson, an IT technician at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center. They described him as a shy, “near-reclusive” man, whose truck was found near the burial grounds, the site of the fire. Mystery continued to swirl around rumors that a note was left in the apparent murder-suicide. Police remained tight-lipped about the investigation, the report said.

Kate saved the story with others she’d collected.

As she wondered about Carl Nelson, she looked up when someone said her name.

Two men in sport jackets stood before her.

“I’m Ed Brennan, this is Paul Dickson. We appreciate you coming all this way. How was your trip?”

“It was all right.”

“Good. We’ll go in here to talk.”

They went into a windowless meeting room, where Brennan offered Kate something to drink.

“Thank you, water would be fine.”

“I understand you’re a reporter in New York with Newslead, the wire service.”

“Yes.”

A shadow of concern passed over Brennan’s face and Dickson shot him a subtle glance.

“But you’re not here to report on this case. This is a personal matter.”

“Yes.”

“What we discuss here must remain confidential, do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Brennan positioned a chair for Kate and gave her a bottle of water. She sipped some, reached into her bag for the angel necklace and put it on the table. Brennan looked at it then opened his notebook to a clean page.

“For our benefit, Kate, would you please give us an overview of your family’s background?”

Kate recounted the history of the necklace again.

“Would you be willing to volunteer your necklace for us to process for comparison?” Brennan asked.

“Of course. May I see the one you found?”

Brennan was silent for a moment.

“No, I’m sorry, that’s physical evidence. But we’ll show you this.”

He slid a file folder to Kate. She caught her breath at the crisp, enlarged color photograph of an angel necklace. It was battered; the engraving was illegible. It was blackened, set against a white backdrop, next to an evidence tag and photo-document ruler to show scale.

“They are similar,” Brennan said. “We’ll pass yours to the forensic unit.”

Absorbing the charred necklace in the picture, Kate’s thoughts rocketed to Vanessa, the barn fire, the agony she must’ve suffered.

“I just don’t understand,” Kate said.

“What?”

She lifted her head from the photo. “If this is my sister’s necklace, then how did it get from our accident in Canada to here?”

“If it’s hers, there’re a number of possibilities. It could’ve washed onto the shore. An animal could have carried it off. Someone may have found it. Then, over the years, it made its way through flea markets, yard sales and jewelry stores, pawn shops, who knows, back into the world, as it were. We have a lot of theories and questions.”

“So you’re discounting the possibility that my sister survived and somehow turned up here?”

“We haven’t confirmed anything, so we’re not discounting anything. In fact we’ve made some inquiries with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“Into my sister’s case?”

“Listen, we’d rather not go into detail, but there are other aspects.”

“What aspects? I’d like to know.”

“I know how this sounds but we can’t discuss our investigation.”

“I read that there was a suicide note—what did it say?”

“We’d rather not discuss any other aspects.”

“Well, I’d like to see her, the woman who was killed.”

Brennan exchanged a look with Dickson and shifted in his chair.

“Given the condition, I don’t think it would be beneficial.”

Kate sat there not knowing what to think or say as a long silence passed.

“We’re doing everything we can to confirm identification,” Brennan finally said. “I hate to ask this, but is there any chance that you would still have your sister’s hairbrush or access to her dental records?”

Kate stared at him.

“No, I don’t.”

Kate looked away for a moment.

“Kate, would you be willing to volunteer a DNA sample?”

“Of course, if it helps.”

“It would,” he said. “We’ll get someone from the state forensic unit to do a cheek swab once we’re done.”

As the time passed, Brennan consulted his notes and asked Kate more about her family history, if she recalled any connection to Rampart, or Carl Nelson.

“No, there’s none. I’ve never been here until today.”

“Does this man register with you in any way, Kate?”

Brennan showed her an enlarged color photocopy taken from a New York State driver’s license. Icy eyes glared from the face of a fully bearded man, in his late forties, who evoked a cross between the Unabomber and Charles Manson. A chill climbed up Kate’s spine as she sensed something seething just beneath the surface.

Is this the last face Vanessa saw?

Kate memorized his address, 57 Knox Lane, Rampart.

“No, I’ve never seen him before. He’s not familiar to me in any way,” she said. “Is this the man who died in the fire?”

“We’re confident it is, but we’re awaiting positive confirmation from the pathologist.”

“What do you think the relationship was between Carl Nelson and my sis—the woman who died in the fire?”

“That’s under investigation.”

After the detectives ended the interview, they watched as a technician from the forensic unit used a cotton-tipped swab to scrape Kate’s inner cheek. Then Kate signed papers concerning her DNA sample and the necklace. Before leaving, she asked the detectives to direct her to the scene.

“It’s still being processed,” Brennan said.

“So?”

“We’d prefer you didn’t go there—you can’t see anything from the highway.”

“Can you take me out there?”

Kate looked both detectives in the eyes.

“We’re sorry, we can’t do that,” Brennan said.

“Why not? Haven’t I helped you?”

“We need to protect the integrity of the investigation and we ask that you keep our discussion confidential. We trust you understand.”

“Sure, I get it. You wanted me up here just to help you.”

“No, it’s not like that. We know how difficult this must be for you, but as a reporter you understand that we have to be careful with how things proceed.”

“I get it.” Kate gathered her bag and exchanged cards with Brennan and Dickson. “How long before you can confirm the identity of the woman?”

“There’s no telling,” Dickson said. “The challenge is the condition and the fact the pathologist’s office is backlogged with other cases.”

“Kate,” Brennan said. “Go home. We appreciate your help, and what you’re going through.”

“I don’t think you do, Ed. Either my sister died twenty years ago, or lived two decades without me knowing before she died two days ago. That’s what I’m going through.”

8

Rampart, New York

Kate used the aerial news photo and the Chevy’s GPS to get her bearings for the burial grounds at the edge of town.

She needed to see the crime scene.

She’d deserved that much from Brennan and Dickson.

But she should never have expected it.

From her years of reporting Kate knew that detectives were fiercely protective of their investigations. They had to be so that cases didn’t fall apart when they got to court.

But this is my life.

Brennan could’ve taken her to the scene. She’d helped him and he could’ve done the same for her. She’d paid for the right to know what had happened to her sister—she’d paid for it the moment her hand had slipped from hers in that cold mountain river.

Screw Brennan.

Kate had endured too much and come too far not to find the truth, especially now when she was this close to it. She’d keep digging on her own, just like she’d done most of her life. She owed it to Vanessa and she owed it to herself. All Brennan and Dickson had wanted was for Kate to give them the necklace and her DNA, then go home.

She glanced at aerial crime scene photos on her tablet on the passenger seat.

We’d prefer you didn’t go there.

Just try and stop me. She guided her rental along an empty stretch of highway that curved through dark, wooded countryside. After a few miles she came upon a New York State patrol car blocking the overgrown entrance to the burial grounds. A strip of yellow crime scene tape was extended across the gate.

Kate had an idea.

She parked nearby, got out and approached the lone trooper sitting at the wheel. He gave her a cool appraisal, watching her hands as she reached into her bag.

“Hi,” she said. “Kate Page, I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She showed him her plastic ID. “How’re you doing?”

“Just fine. Can I help you?”

“Can you show me where the press can access the crime scene?”

“This is as far as you go,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, the others were here this morning. You can get updates from Rampart PD. I can give you a number.”

“I need to take pictures of the scene—can I get closer?”

“This is as far as I can let you go. They’re still working on it. The scene hasn’t been released yet.”

Kate tapped her notebook against her leg. So much for that idea. There wasn’t much more she could do here. She was already on thin ice for using her job with Newslead the way she did and against Chuck’s caution.

“Okay, thanks.” Kate returned to her car.

She drove away feeling defeated.

How could she just leave? It was like she was losing Vanessa again. She had to do something.

What? What can I do?

As she struggled to find a solution, the answer came around the next curve in the shape of a roadside rest area. Kate pulled in and parked at the extreme edge, nearly out of sight. She checked her phone. There was still service here; the signal was good. She consulted her map, the aerial photo, then coordinated things with the compass app on her phone. The crime scene was less than a quarter of mile northeast through dense forest.

Kate locked her car, adjusted her bag so it rested on her back, found a straight branch to use as a hiking stick and set off into the woods. The terrain was treacherous. She was glad she was wearing flat shoes today. Thick underbrush concealed the uneven ground. Leafy low-lying branches tugged and pulled at her. She sought deadfall to cross a creek. Several times she was convinced she was going the wrong way but stayed true to the northeast direction of her compass.

Some thirty minutes after she’d set out, Kate heard distant voices carrying into the forest and spotted flashes of yellow and white through the woods. Then she reached the clearing and the blackened ruins of the barn. The scene was ringed with yellow tape. Technicians in white coveralls were probing it, sifting the debris.

A number of vehicles from Rampart PD, Rampart Fire and county and state police were parked at the far side. Keeping to the edge of the woods, Kate moved toward them, where she was able to get closer without anyone noticing her.

The air carried the smell of charcoal and the memory of death.

As the forensic people worked with funereal care the reality hit Kate full force.

Did Vanessa die here?

Anguish swelled in Kate’s throat as an image came to her:

Vanessa is young and they’re crossing the street. Kate’s taking her hand; the earth shakes as a huge rig thunders by. Fear rises on Vanessa’s little face, but she trusts her big sister, loves her, worships her, as her little fingers tighten around Kate’s.

Needing to be closer to the ruins, Kate reached into her bag for her compact digital camera. It had a high-quality lens and she zoomed in on the jagged black tangles of planks and trestles. With each picture Kate stepped closer, and with each photo her heart broke a little more. Moving in, she scoured the burned rubble, her camera offering more detail the nearer she got. She focused on a series of charred beams jutting from the aftermath. They were tagged, indicating they’d been processed. On patches of the wood that were not burned, Kate saw crude markings scratched into the surface. To see them better she needed to get closer—she needed to do the unthinkable.

Kate lifted the tape to step into the scene but hesitated.

She’d be breaking the law.

But this could be the last thing my sister touched.

Her heart raced.

She might never be this close again.

Kate stepped into the scene, taking more photos. Moving in deeper, she looked beyond the beams, noticing pockets within the devastation that appeared to be gridded, cleared and tagged. She concentrated on those areas, zooming in, taking—

“Hey!” Keys jingled as a uniformed officer trotted from one of the vehicles. “Step out of there now! You’re under arrest!”

9

Rampart, New York

Kate could hear her pulse thudding in her ears.

Over that, she heard the police radio dispatches.

She was in the backseat of Rampart Officer Len Reddick’s patrol car. He was in the front verifying her Newslead ID, which he held in his hand. She could smell his cologne and peppermint gum. His jaw muscles pumped away, letting her know that he was still pissed.

“That’s right, Kate Page,” Reddick chawed into his microphone. “Page. Poppa Alpha Golf Echo. Employee number seven-two-six-six.”

Kate’s wrists throbbed against the metal handcuffs. The cuffs were an overreaction because Reddick was angry that he’d failed to spot her. She’d seen the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition splayed on the front seat when he put her in his car.

He’d seized her camera, her phone and her bag, then read Kate her rights.

As his radio crackled, she looked out the window.

This morning she’d kissed Grace goodbye; now she was handcuffed and facing charges. She knew that it was wrong to step into a crime scene, but she was compelled by a raw feeling that her sister had been here.

I can feel it, I can just feel it.

As Reddick pawed through her things she endured the sting of humiliation and, when he found Detective Brennan’s card, braced for what was to come.

Reddick’s inquiries to his dispatcher had launched a train of trouble. Calls were made to Newslead to alert her editors. Brennan was called and was en route. He’d insisted on questioning her, as it was his scene. Reddick meantime had waved over one of the forensic technicians to examine Kate’s camera and phone to review the pictures Kate had taken.

Kate’s heart was racing. So far, Reddick hadn’t patted her down.

She’d taken precautions to save her photos. The instant Reddick had discovered her inside the crime scene, she immediately removed her camera’s stamp-sized memory card, slid it into her sock, then, moving as fast as she could, installed a new card and resumed taking more photos. If the police didn’t find her hidden card, she could look at the images later.

At that moment, Reddick’s cell phone rang.

“Your people in New York.”

Kate raised her cuffed hands and Reddick passed his phone to her. He stepped out of the car to show the technician Kate’s phone, allowing her some privacy.

“It’s Reeka. What’s happened?”

Kate’s stomach tensed.

“I think I should talk to Chuck, Reeka.”

“He had to go to an emergency meeting in Chicago. I’m your supervisor, talk to me.”

“Didn’t Chuck tell you why I’m here?”

“He told me nothing. You should’ve advised me if you were assigned something on your day off. Why are you under arrest in Rampart?”

Kate explained everything to Reeka, exposing the fact she’d gone over her head to Chuck.

“So, from what the police just told me,” the temperature of Reeka’s voice plummeted to a prosecutorial level, “and from what you’re telling me, you go up there on your time for personal reasons, then present yourself as a Newslead reporter to try to gain access to a crime scene, are refused, then you later breach the scene and are now facing charges.”

Kate admitted that was correct.

“You’re aware of Newslead’s policy on how our reporters are to represent the organization and conduct themselves, especially at crime scenes? You’re aware of that, Kate?”

“Of course.”

“Yet, you’ve clearly violated it.”

Kate said nothing.

“I’ll be discussing your situation with senior management. Until then, I suggest you get yourself an attorney.”

The call ended.

This was Kate’s fault and she chastised herself when she thought of Grace. What would happen to her if she was jailed? Would social services be called?

Why didn’t I think this through?

She scanned the scene again, unable to deny its emotional pull. Decades of guilt, of being haunted by Vanessa’s ghost, had clouded her judgment.

Brennan had arrived and was near the car with Reddick and the technician, huddled over Kate’s camera and phone, while Reddick continued searching the contents of her bag. Occasionally Reddick pointed to the scene, with the technician nodding, before Brennan approached the car and helped Kate out.

“I asked you not to come here, Kate. You know full well we have to protect this scene. Anything and everything is considered evidence.” He shook his head. “You misrepresented yourself to the state trooper, you breached our scene and tromped though it, contaminating it, or, possibly planting evidence. You’re facing possible interference and criminal trespass charges. I can’t understand why you did this.”

“Why?” Adrenaline and fury coursed through her and she let go. “I can’t believe you have to ask me that! You found my sister’s necklace out there in that—that killing ground and she’s—”

“We haven’t confirmed it’s hers yet.”

“You know and I know it’s hers!”

“No, we don’t. Kate, everything we have to this point is circumstantial. Nothing’s conclusive.”

“You found her necklace out there! My God, she was supposed to have drowned twenty years ago in Canada! So you tell me how did it get there?”

“We don’t know and we don’t know that it’s your sister’s. You of all people should understand the huge emotional and legal consequences of making assumptions that result in misidentification.”

“Then tell me why you have contacted Canadian police.”

“I’m not discussing this case with you.”

“Yeah. Remember, Ed, you called me to help you! That’s why I’m here. I’ve lived with this for twenty years! I deserve to know the truth! That’s why I did what I did!”

A few tense seconds passed.

“Did you take, touch or leave anything, Kate?”

“No, all I took were some pictures with my camera. That’s all.”

Brennan returned to the others for another long discussion, then returned with her things and Reddick, who removed her handcuffs.

“The technician found no pictures on your phone, so we’re returning it.”

“I told you, I didn’t take any pictures with my phone.”

“We’re keeping the memory card from your camera and the additional memory cards we found in your bag. The technician tells me that your camera had wireless connectivity but that you didn’t send any images anywhere.”

“I didn’t. Are we done? Or are you going to go full-bore cop and strip-search me?”

Brennan let her comment pass.

“No. I don’t have a female officer on duty, for one. I’m going to make a judgment call here, but I think we’ve covered this given the circumstances and the situation.”

“So I can go?”

“Not yet. Now, you’re going to show us your path into the scene so we can mark it,” Brennan said. “Then we’re going to need impressions of your shoes and take your fingerprints. When we’re done, Officer Reddick will drive you to your car.”

“Am I being charged?”

“No, but if you interfere again, we’ll bring the charges back. Understood?”

Kate met Brennan’s stare and she nodded.

“I appreciate your help,” he said, “and what you’re going through. Go home, Kate, and let us do our job.”

10

Rampart, New York

The grill of Reddick’s patrol car filled Kate’s rearview mirror for several miles after she’d left the rest stop.

Driving to town, she bit back on her tears and her anger at Rampart police but mostly at herself. She was churning with rage and an underlying ache, because she’d never been this close to Vanessa.

I’ve got to think clearly.

Kate looked at the time.

Even with the drive to Syracuse she had a few hours before her early evening return flight. Enough time to check into the other part of the case.

Carl Nelson.

She’d become so consumed by the necklace that she’d overlooked his role. She knew nothing about him, the man the local press had named as the second fatality in the fire, the reclusive computer expert. Remembering his long hair and beard from the driver’s license photo Brennan had showed her, Kate thought Nelson fit the image of a creepy eccentric. What part did he play in this? What was Vanessa’s relationship to him? And what about the rumors of a suicide note?

Kate needed to talk to Nelson’s family, neighbors and coworkers.

Stopped at a traffic light, she was glad to see Reddick had backed off. Kate concentrated on her GPS and entered Carl Nelson’s address, 57 Knox Lane, which she’d memorized from his driver’s license.

Is going there a smart move after what happened at the scene?

This is a democracy, and people have a right to talk to other people, she thought, searching her mirror for any sign that Reddick was still tailing her.

Nothing.

She headed for Nelson’s neighborhood and came upon his home, a modest ranch-style house with a neat yard and a detached garage.

And a Rampart police car parked out front.

Kate cursed to herself and let out a long breath.

She wanted to knock on the door, talk to anyone who was there, and Nelson’s neighbors. She wanted to do her own digging for answers, but not with a cop sitting there eyeing the quiet street.

Kate bit her lip, taking in the house as she drove by slowly, knowing the cop was likely recording her plate. No, this wasn’t going to work. Kate rolled down the street for a few blocks, coming to a gas station.

Maybe somebody at the station can tell me about Nelson and point me to people he worked with at the call center.

When Kate stopped and signaled at the intersection, she spotted another Rampart patrol car parked on the street.

Reddick again.

He’d been watching her.

Un-freaking-believable. Okay. She got the message.

Kate headed for the interstate and Syracuse.

As she put Rampart behind her she refused to be knocked off her feet. There were other ways she could pursue this. It took about sixty miles for her to calm down. She stopped in Watertown at a Sunoco to fill up then went to a Burger King for a coffee and a muffin. She sent Reeka and Chuck a message.

Worked it out with Rampart PD. Not going to be charged. Heading home.

After sending it, Kate looked at Grace’s face, the background image on her phone, and checked the time. She should be home with Nancy.

Kate pressed her number.

“Hi, Nancy, it’s Kate.”

“Hi, how’re things going up there? Did you have success?”

Nancy was aware of Kate’s tragedy and her lifelong search for answers.

“A bit, but it’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

“Would you like to talk to Grace—she’s right here?”

“Yes, thanks. And, Nancy, thank you for doing this.”

“No need to thank me, here she is.”

“Hi, Mom!”

“Hi, sweetie, how did school go today?”

“It was fun. We learned about butterflies, it was so cool.”

Kate cut a lonely figure in the corner of the restaurant. Listening to her daughter tell her about her day was a balm, briefly pulling her mind from Rampart, the death scene and the questions that troubled her.

* * *

The flight to La Guardia was delayed.

Kate waited in pre-boarding, too tired to think or do much else but look at her phone and older photos of herself with Vanessa when they were children. There they were, sisters, hugging at Christmas. There was Vanessa on the sofa, looking so small and smiling so big. Her new angel necklace glinted in the flash. Kate blinked at the memories before closing the images.

Later, as the jet finally lifted off, Kate contended with the aftershocks of self-reproach for messing up. Then she considered Brennan and his reluctance to escort her to the scene.

Why wouldn’t he do it?

Seasoned detectives she’d known would’ve had no trouble with her request, which indicated to her that Brennan was either a rookie or being overly cautious, or that something more was going on.

Well, there’s no way I’m letting this go.

When the plane leveled she shut her eyes for a few tranquil minutes.

* * *

When Kate got home, Grace was asleep in Nancy’s guest room, which smelled of lavender and loneliness.

“You can let her spend the night, if you like.”

“Thank you, Nancy, but we’ve imposed all day.”

Kate caressed Grace’s cheek, kissed her softly. She stirred and groaned, “Hi, Mommy...love you,” as Kate hefted her into her arms.

“Oh, you’re getting so heavy.”

Nancy got the door, carrying Grace’s backpack, and followed Kate back to their apartment. After Kate put Grace into bed, she returned to her living room and put five crumpled twenties into Nancy’s hand.

“What’re you doing, Kate? I can’t take money from you.”

“You’re always helping. Take it. Please.”

“Now, listen to me.” Nancy put the money into Kate’s hand, closed it and held her hands firmly around it. “Ever since my Burt died, I lost my way. We have no children, no family, well—you know. You and Grace arrived in my life like an answered prayer. I’m here to help you whenever you need it. You mean more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Kate found a depth of warmth and love in Nancy’s kind face that came as close to a mother figure as she’d ever known. Kate hugged the older woman, holding on for a moment.

“Thank you. I’d be lost, too, without you.”

“Okay, good night. Now you get some rest and let me know if I can help with anything.”

Kate took a hot shower and made a cup of raspberry tea, glad that she’d have another day off to recover. Still, something was niggling at her.

I’m forgetting something.

Before going to bed, she went through her unopened emails. Most were routine and could wait. Then she came to one from Reeka, sent only minutes before.

Be in the office tomorrow for an important meeting at 10 a.m.

11

New York City

Newslead’s world headquarters took up an entire floor near the top of a fifty-story office tower on Manhattan’s far West Side.

Kate waited alone in a corner meeting room. It offered sweeping views of midtown, the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, but Kate only saw trouble in front of her. Being summoned as she was after what had happened upstate was not a good sign, especially on a day off.

At least she had gotten Grace to school before coming in.

The large room was cold. Kate used her phone for a quick check for updates out of Rampart. Nothing. She listened to traffic on the streets below and the hum of the ventilation system until the door clicked open.

Three people filed in.

First, Chuck. His tie was already loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair mussed. He dropped a folder on the table and sat without looking at Kate.

Next was Morris Chambers, from Human Resources. He was the antithesis to Chuck. He wore a suit, button-down shirt and bow tie. He opened a leather-bound executive notebook and clicked his pen.

Reeka followed, dressed to kill in a dark power blazer that would’ve worked for a funeral. Her face was in her phone, thumbs pausing when she shut the door and started the inquisition.

“Kate, this meeting is a result of what happened yesterday.”

Kate threw a questioning look to each of them. She thought this had been resolved, that Reeka had updated Chuck upon his return.

“I admit that what I did was stupid, but I was not charged.”

“This goes to your breach of Newslead policy.”

“But I worked it out with Rampart PD—this was a personal matter.”

“Yes, Chuck informed us of your sister’s tragedy. It’s heartbreaking. Still, it doesn’t excuse the violation, Kate.”

Reeka turned to Morris, cuing him to step in.

“Yes...” Morris cleared his throat. “The policy forbids Newslead staff from using their position for any form of personal gain.”

“But I didn’t gain anything.”

“You went to Rampart on a personal, private matter,” Morris read from his notebook. “But you represented yourself as a Newslead reporter on assignment, to New York trooper Len Reddick in an attempt to gain access to a crime scene. After you were refused access, you trespassed.”

“That led to possible charges.” Reeka stared at her.

Sensing a noose being tightened, Kate turned to Chuck, who was just sitting there. She couldn’t believe it. She and Chuck had been through hell together. He’d begged her to come to New York and work for him at Newslead. He knew about her sister and had been supportive. He was the most powerful manager in the room and, she thought, her friend. But there he was staring at the skyline. Leaving Kate alone.

“Quite frankly, Kate,” Reeka said, examining her own glossed nails. “I fail to comprehend why you went up there and did what you did.”

“What?”

“My read on this is that it’s a regional story, a rural domestic, a murder-suicide. Didn’t you lose your sister in western Canada?”

“What the hell do you—”

“Kate,” Chuck intervened.

“I was called by Rampart police,” Kate said. “They requested my help and I cooperated. There are strong indications my sister, who’s been feared dead for twenty years, was a victim!”

“Kate, take it down,” Chuck cautioned.

“But identities in Rampart have not been confirmed, have they?” Reeka lifted her eyebrows to punctuate her point.

“What? Reeka, how can you sit there and—”

“Kate, hold off,” Chuck said. “This is a difficult, complicated situation. It’s put you under stress and strained your judgment. The best action here is for you to take two weeks off, Kate, starting now.”

“Are you suspending me?”

“No, you’re taking time off with pay. I’ve approved it.”

Chuck signaled an end to the meeting.

“We have counseling services available, if you need it.” Morris clicked his pen and closed his notebook.

“I suggest you look into that, Kate. It’s for the best,” Reeka said.

They walked out of the room, leaving Kate alone with Chuck.

Several beats after the door had closed she turned to him.

“What happened?”

“You lost control in Rampart, Kate. The organization will not tolerate that. I cautioned you before you went there to avoid any conflict. You were on your own and could not represent yourself as a Newslead reporter.”

“Yes, but the indication my sister had been there was so strong.”

“You’ve followed similar leads over the years and unfortunately each one has dead-ended. Didn’t you tell me that yourself, Kate?”

“I know, Chuck, but this time it’s different.”

“I appreciate what you’re going through. Take time off, for your own peace of mind. See how your Rampart lead plays out, but if you pursue this, for God’s sake, do it on your own. Is that understood?”

Kate nodded.

“Listen,” Chuck added, “the rumors of more layoffs looming may come true. We’re not breaking big stories. We’re losing subscribers. Everyone’s on edge.” He ran a hand over his face. “Kate, you’re a good reporter, an asset to the company.”

“Thank you.”

“Morris had your termination papers in his notebook. Reeka wanted you fired. I put a stop to that.”

12

New York City

Kate was still reeling when she returned to her empty apartment.

She splashed warm water on her face, then buried it into a towel as a million thoughts swirled through her mind.

I was that close to being fired.

She shut her eyes tight, then opened them.

Thank God, Chuck had my back.

And the rumors of layoffs were true.

If I’d lost my job... Calm down.

She had a nest egg, built from the freelance pieces she’d done, like the big one for Vanity Fair on the Dallas story. And, because of her sublet deal and having gotten rid of her car, she’d saved more money.

Grace and I have been through hard times before—we’ll make it.

Eclipsing everything was the reality that Kate had never been this close to finding out what had happened to her sister. She had to use these next two weeks to go full throttle in her search for the truth.

I’m forgetting something. What am I forgetting?

Her phone started ringing. She went to her bedroom and answered it.

“Kate, Ed Brennan in Rampart.”

Her anger rose before she could think.

“I want my necklace back, Ed. And when you’re done with my sister’s necklace I want it, too.”

“Hold on there—everything’s still under investigation. I’m calling to update you because you should be among the first to know.”

“First to know what?”

“We’ve confirmed the identity of the deceased female.”

Kate’s stomach tensed and she gripped the phone tighter.

“Is it Vanessa?”

“No. I’m sorry. The victim’s name is Bethany Ann Wynn from Hartford, Connecticut. Identification was confirmed through dental records. She’d been missing for three years. Her age at death was twenty-two.”

Vanessa would’ve been twenty-six.

For a long moment Kate didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry for Bethany Wynn’s family. Do they know?”

“They’ve been informed and we’ve just posted a news release.”

“What does this mean for the situation with my sister?”

“I can’t answer that at this time.”

“But how did Bethany come to be at that barn, Ed?”

“I’m not going to answer that or speculate.”

“And how did my sister’s necklace get to the scene?”

“We still haven’t confirmed if the necklace belonged to your sister.”

“Come on.”

“It’s being processed. Look, we still have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, who’s Carl Nelson?”

“We still haven’t confirmed the identity of the deceased male.”

“What do you think went on at that barn?”

“Kate.”

“What about the cause of the fire? Was it intentional?”

“Kate, I’m not getting into any of this. I’ve told you, respectfully, to back off and let us do our job. Because you’ve helped us, I’ll update you on a need-to-know basis, that’s it. I have to go.”

Kate sat on the corner of her bed.

Her eyes went around her room as she processed the development. She was saddened by the news, heartbroken for the victim’s family, but what had happened only raised more questions.

Who was Bethany Ann Wynn and how did she get from Hartford, Connecticut, to Upstate New York? Moreover, who was Carl Nelson?

The best thing she could do now was get to work.

Kate switched on her tablet, went to the Rampart PD site for the press release. It was brief and she latched on to the key facts about Bethany.

At the age of nineteen, she was reported missing from the Tumbling Hills Mall in the Hartford suburb of Upper North Meadows, after completing her evening shift as a part-time manager at The New England Cookie Emporium. At the time of her disappearance she was last seen leaving the mall to take a bus home.

Kate collected those facts, then, like a prospector, she mined the internet for more information on Bethany’s background.

Scrutinizing older news stories and anniversary features, Bethany Ann’s short life emerged. She was the daughter of James and Rachel Wynn. James was the owner of a tow-truck company. Rachel was a school nurse. Bethany was a junior at Albert River College, studying veterinarian medicine. She had a younger sister, Polly, and at the time of her disappearance, a German shepherd named Tex.

Bethany had had a happy, stable life with a loving family. No indication of depression, drug use, bullying, boyfriend trouble, or any other reason to run off. No mention of Carl Nelson or a connection to Rampart. There was speculation of abduction, although security cameras at the stop Bethany took were not working and no witnesses had stepped forward.

Photos of Bethany showed a pretty girl with a bright smile and hope in her eyes. Kate scrutinized each picture for any jewelry she wore but found nothing resembling the angel necklace.

Kate thought for a moment, then found a home telephone number for the Wynn family.

Maybe Rampart or the local police had told the Wynns something about the case? Maybe they knew something about Carl Nelson, the necklace, her sister? Kate reached for her phone. She was in full-bore reporter mode as she dialed the number, reasoning that since the press release was public, the family would surely be getting calls from reporters. As the line rang, Kate envisioned TV trucks rolling up to the Wynns’ suburban home.

She hated calling. It was part of her job she loathed, intruding on people at the worst times of their lives. Over the years people had cursed her, hung up or slammed doors on her. Still, the majority struggled to talk about their loss. In most cases, through choking sobs, they would pay tribute to the father, mother, daughter, son, husband, wife, sister, brother or friend. Or they’d send Kate a heart-wrenching email, or pass her a tearstained note. If she went to their home, they showed her the rooms of the dead and the last things they’d touched.

It tore her up each time and she hated it.

But it was part of the job.

She never took their reactions personally. In that situation people had every right to lash out. Kate strove to be the most professional, respectful, compassionate person she could be in each case.

The families deserved no less.

As the line clicked, Kate steeled herself.

A man answered. His voice was deep, but soft.

“Hello.”

“Is this the home of James and Rachel Wynn, Bethany’s parents?”

“Yes.”

“My apologies for calling at this time and my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“Sir, my name’s Kate Page and I’m a—” Kate stopped herself cold. She was on the brink of identifying herself as a reporter from Newslead, a reflexive act that was now a firing offense. She was not on the job right now. “I’m sorry. My name’s Kate Page and I’m calling with respect to the press release that Rampart police in New York just posted online about Bethany Ann Wynn’s case?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering if I could speak to her mother or father. Are you her father?”

“No, Beth’s dad passed away last year. Cancer. I’m her uncle—Rachel’s my sister-in-law. She’s out right now, at the funeral home making arrangements. I’m here receiving people at the house until she gets back.”

“Oh, I see.”

“What did you need to talk about?”

Kate considered the propriety and her own anguish. The uncle seemed steady, receptive and kind, so she seized the opportunity.

“My little sister, Vanessa Page, has been missing for a long time and I’ve got reason to believe her case is somehow connected to Bethany’s. Is that name familiar to the family?”

“Vanessa Page? No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”

“Did Bethany ever own a necklace with a guardian angel charm?”

“Goodness, I wouldn’t know. Her mother would know that.”

“Sorry to ask so many questions.”

“It’s all right.”

“I was just wondering if Bethany’s family knew much more about what happened in Rampart.”

“All we’d heard from police here was that this Carl Nelson was some kind of computer expert and a reclusive nut and that he left a note...that maybe it was a murder-suicide. We figured he must’ve been the one who took Beth three years ago, kept her prisoner before he—”

“Did the police tell you much more?”

“No, I’m sorry. It all happened pretty fast. I think it was the other day, a detective here told Rachel the police in New York were checking Beth’s dental records. It gave us hope that maybe they found her and—” His voice broke. “And that somehow maybe she was alive. But, deep down, we knew. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking too clearly. It’s been real hard on all of us. God, I remember holding her when she was a baby. I’m her godfather. This family’s seen a lot of pain these past few years, a lot of pain.”

“Sir, I’m so sorry to intrude. I’ll let you take care of things.”

“Wait, there’s something. I do remember Rachel saying that one of our detectives here who’d been working on Beth’s case said the guys in Rampart were fearful there may be other victims.”

“Other victims?”

“Yes, and that maybe they just hadn’t found them all yet.”

13

New York City

Kate stood in her kitchen feeling horrible for having intruded on Bethany’s grieving family.

But she’d had to make that call. So much was at stake.

As tendrils of steam rose from her kettle she searched them for answers. Bethany’s uncle—Lord, I never got his name—had been kind to her and she weighed what he’d revealed about the case.

There may be other victims...they just hadn’t found them all yet.

Other victims.

It changed everything.

Kate had thought there was only one female victim. This helped explain why Brennan was so guarded. His case was more than a murder-suicide.

What really happened at that barn by the cemetery? Who was Carl Nelson?

The kettle’s whistle pierced the air like a scream.

Kate made raspberry tea, returned to her desk and her online digging, intent on finding more on Nelson. She regretted that she’d missed the chance to talk to people in Rampart about him and considered going back.

Maybe she’d do some phone work?

First she’d check Rampart news sites for any updates. The Rampart Examiner’s latest item was short, naming Bethany Ann Wynn as the female victim but offering no confirmation of the deceased male. The investigation was continuing. The region’s TV news and radio stations were reporting the same, as were news sites in Hartford.

Kate then checked her email.

She’d set up an alert for anything posted online on the case to be sent to her. She’d received more stories from Rampart and Hartford, but they contained nothing she didn’t already know.

I’m forgetting something—what is it? Wait—it’s the pictures!

Suddenly she’d remembered how she’d slid the tiny memory card with photos from the Rampart crime scene into her sock. Kate rushed to the hamper in the bathroom, rifled through the clothes, finding the socks she’d worn, shaking them until the little square fell to the floor.

How did I forget this?

Kate returned to the kitchen, inserted the card in her camera then connected the cable to her computer, downloaded the images and opened them. They showed the jumble of charred lumber, an array of protruding trestles and beams. On sections that were not burned she noticed markings, like messages cut into the wood.

Kate enlarged the image but the area was blurred. She opened another photo, one that was crisper. As she zoomed in, carved words swam into focus and she read “I am Tara Dawn Mae. My name used to be—”

It ended there.

What is that?

After studying the words for several moments, she wrote them down in her notebook. Had they been scratched in the wood earlier, prior to the deaths by somebody joking around, like some sort of graffiti? But it was not the usual obscenity or put-down.

Was it evidence?

It had been tagged for processing by the forensic cops.

I am Tara Dawn Mae. My name used to be—

Was this an unfinished message from one of the victims?

Kate immediately searched the name online.

In seconds, the results matching her query appeared, offering pages of headlines and excerpts that stunned her:

Canada’s Cold Case files...

Tara Dawn Mae was last seen at a truck stop...never seen again...

Royal Canadian Mounted Police—MISSING...

Tara Dawn Mae was 10 years old when she vanished from...

Brooks Prairie Journal—Mystery Disappearance Haunts...

It has been twelve years since the disappearance of Tara Dawn Mae, and neighbors in the tiny farming community try to remember...

FIND THE MISSING KIDS

Tara Dawn Mae. Age at time of disappearance: 10. Eyes: Brown...

Kate continued searching, finding a police summary of the case.

Tara Dawn MAE Cold Case Files

Location: Brooks, Alberta, Canada

On July 7, 2000, Tara Dawn MAE was ten years of age and living with her parents, Barton Mae and Fiona Mae, on their farm near Brooks, Alberta. After shopping for groceries in Brooks, the family stopped at the Grand Horizon Plaza, a large and busy truck stop along the Trans-Canada Highway.

While Barton purchased gas for the family pickup truck, Fiona and Tara entered the facility to use the restroom. While browsing the food court and gift shop, Tara got separated from her mother and was never seen again.

An exhaustive investigation has failed to yield any leads as to Tara Dawn MAE’s location or details as to her disappearance.

Kate then found a webpage showing several photographs of Tara. There she was smiling in a full-face shot. Next, a formal head-and-shoulders school portrait, and then Tara with a puppy and laughing.

Tara looks so much like Vanessa.

Deep in a corner of Kate’s heart, something cracked, a thin ray of hope emerged and she blinked back her tears. She needed to know more about this case and how it was connected to Rampart.

Kate reached for her phone and called Anne Kelly, with the New York office of the Children’s Searchlight Network. Anne alerted Fred Byfield, one of the group’s investigators.

“I’ll get in touch with our sister networks in Canada,” Fred said after listening to Kate. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Kate continued researching. Again and again she came back to the pictures, haunted by the little girl’s sweet, shy smile, her dark eyes, shining like falling stars.

Could this be Vanessa?

Kate used maps and made some calculations. Their accident happened about ten miles east of Golden, British Columbia, when their car left the highway and crashed into the Kicking Horse River. That was some 270 miles west of Brooks, Alberta, a five-hour drive across the prairie and through the Rocky Mountains.

Vanessa would have been twenty-six now. If Tara Dawn Mae is still alive, as the message in Rampart suggests, she’d be around twenty-five or twenty-six now, as well.

Was it all coincidence?

Kate went back to the crime scene photos.

My name used to be—

What was her other name?

Was Tara Dawn the Maes’ biological child or an adopted child? Kate couldn’t find any divorce records on public sites. Maybe Tara Dawn was a street kid who’d run away and changed her name? It was not uncommon. Kate knew that, from her time on the street. Kids were always running from something.

As she continued working throughout the day she came across an in-depth article done on the third anniversary of the case that stopped her cold. It said that Barton and Fiona Mae had adopted Tara Dawn about three or four years before her disappearance.

Adopted?

Kate’s mind raced.

She tried searching for court records, knowing that they weren’t usually made public, a fact confirmed when she called the clerk’s office for Alberta’s family courts in Edmonton, the capital. Kate was thinking of hiring a Canadian private investigator to help her dig deeper into the case when she realized the time.

She had to pick up Grace from school.

* * *

They’d passed the remainder of the afternoon with Grace coloring a project about the world’s oceans and chatting about her day while Kate got supper ready. Whenever she could, Kate thought about the case. That evening while they were watching The Wizard of Oz, Fred Byfield called.

“Kate, I talked with our people in Calgary affiliated with our network and I don’t have a lot more to add.”

“I’ll take anything, even advice.”

Kate patted Grace’s leg and left the sofa to take the call in the kitchen.

“Canadian police still have it listed as a cold case.”

“Yes.”

“No real leads, nothing at all, and both of the parents have since passed away.”

“I didn’t know that about the parents. How’d they die?”

“Accidents, maybe, we’re not sure but did you know that Tara Dawn was adopted?”

“Yeah, I found a magazine piece that mentioned it. Any details on that?”

“I don’t know, and our source in Calgary didn’t know.”

Kate considered the information.

“So what do you make of these factors? Is it Vanessa, Fred?”

“When you add them up—the necklace at the scene, the carved message from Tara Dawn Mae, the dates, ages and the fact they never found Vanessa’s body—they do present a compelling argument that your sister was at the Rampart crime scene.”

“But? I detect a ‘but’ in your tone.”

“But, you know as well as anyone, real life is not like mystery books and thriller movies where it all ties together nicely. Real life is complicated and missing persons cases can be complex. Simple factors that appear to be connected often have explanations proving there is no link whatsoever.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And there’s no DNA from Tara Dawn’s case to compare to yours, at least none that we know of. And we don’t know what Rampart police know, or what they may be telling the RCMP in Alberta about their case. Now you’ve got to decide what you’re going to do next. I think this warrants further investigation and we’ll help you as much as we can.”

“Thanks, Fred.”

Kate returned to the movie, sitting next to Grace. As Dorothy followed the yellow brick road in her quest to get back to Kansas, Kate searched for the right path she needed to take.

“You were talking about Aunt Vanessa on the phone,” Grace said. “I could hear you say her name.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Is that why you went away the other day, to look for her again?”

Kate looked at her and smiled. Grace was a smart little girl. Last year when she’d turned six, the same age as Vanessa at the time she went missing, Kate had told Grace about the crash, how she’d lost her hold of Vanessa’s hand, how they’d never found her and how she still looked for her everywhere. Grace understood, or seemed to, and Kate was okay talking about it with her.

“Yes, honey, that’s why I went away the other day.”

After the movie, as Kate got her into bed, Grace asked her a question.

“Are you going to go away again to look for Aunt Vanessa, Mom?”

“I’m not sure. I have some time off from work right now, so I’m not sure.”

“Maybe one day you’ll find her, Mom, just like Dorothy found her way back home to Kansas.”

Kate smiled.

“Maybe.”

Later that night, as Kate continued researching, she couldn’t help but think how her pursuit of the truth about Vanessa had turned into her own yellow brick road of doubt and defeat by dead-end leads. Kate was a reporter and, like a cop, needed facts. What she had now were puzzle pieces, and what she needed to do was keep digging for more to see if they all fit. Kate found herself on airline sites checking flights to Calgary.

Kate called Nancy.

After telling her everything, after explaining her situation, Kate was still unsure about leaving Grace, about the whole idea of going to Canada, with her job situation and everything else.

“There’s no question you have to go,” Nancy said. “This is part of the fabric of your life, of who you are. How would you live with yourself if, after all that’s happened, you never did all you could to find the truth about your sister because you’d left a big stone unturned? Go. I’ll take care of Grace.”

Five minutes later Kate booked a flight to Calgary.

14

Rampart, New York

Pathologist Morten Compton sat at his desk in his basement office at Rampart General and reviewed his notes on the two deaths at the old burial grounds.

We’ve got to nail down the ID on the male. And the cause of death.

It was late and as Compton worked he started wheezing again. His wife had warned him to cut back on the meatball sub lunches at Sally’s Diner and to drop a few pounds. The job stress didn’t help.

Compton’s temporary assistant, Marsha Fisher, who’d gone for the day, had left him a summary.

Detective Brennan’s extremely anxious for updates.

As you know Dr. Hunt made dental charts, which we’ve circulated with no results so far. If the male victim had a dentist, it appears he didn’t visit one recently or locally.

One potentially positive new aspect: the forensic unit at the scene recovered a military dog tag in the vicinity of where the male was found. I’ve attached a photo of it. I’ve submitted it to the military’s National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis with an urgent request for comparison of our dental chart with the dog tag info. You should be hearing back anytime now.

Compton clicked on the image.

The dog tag was charred and twisted metal, but the information was clear to read. The name was: Pollard, J.C., blood type was O positive, followed by the Social Security number, and other information.

Compton stroked his Vandyke.

Were there more victims?

The blood type was the same as the presumed victim, Carl Nelson, but O positive was very common. The dog tag could have already been at the site and have no bearing on the victim. Then again, it could be a key piece of evidence.

Identifying a body this severely burned was always challenging. The face was gone, so identification by a relative or friend would not be possible. The hands were gone, so fingerprints were not possible.

Clothing was destroyed. No distinctive jewelry for the male had been recovered.

Compton had taken X-rays of the remains, hoping to find any medical implants or screws for a broken leg and such. He’d circulated them with doctors in the region. So far to no avail. And as far as the DNA went, he was unsure if, given the extensive damage to the body, the tissue sample he’d submitted to various databases, including CODIS, the FBI’s national DNA database, was viable.

That brought him to the cause, which had all the indications of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The entrance was the right temple. The wound track was right to left and slightly forward to the left temple, where he’d recovered the 9mm round, but there was also a significant skull fracture from blunt trauma. The injury could’ve been a result of being struck by debris, such as a large beam, falling from the burning building. The problem for Compton was that given the severity of the damage to the body, he couldn’t conclusively determine the order of events. He was leaning to concluding that death was the result of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and the skull fracture was postmortem, given the other supporting factors of Carl Nelson’s suicide note, his vehicle and his absence from his job.

The phone rang.

“Pathologist, Compton.”

“Dr. Compton, this is Major Robert Ellis with the office of the chief of dental services with the United States Army. I’m calling in response to your request, concerning the dental records of Sergeant Pollard.”

“Yes, Major, thanks for calling.” Compton reached for a pen.

“We can confirm that the chart you sent for comparison is the chart of Sergeant John Charles Pollard formerly of the US Army Special Forces. He toured Iraq and Afghanistan and was honorably discharged seven years ago.”

“You’re positive on the chart?”

“Yes, sir. It’s clear regarding the patterns and wear of several large amalgams.”

“This is one hell of a game changer.”

“We’ve arranged to expedite written confirmation and can provide you with scanned and physical copies of Sergeant Pollard’s full military records and photographs to assist your investigation.”

“Thank you, Major Ellis.”

Compton hung up.

His breathing had quickened.

He stared at his computer’s monitor and the charred, twisted dog tag that belonged to the former US Army sergeant. Before Compton made another note, before he called Brennan, he absorbed the new information.

If the body is Pollard, then where is Carl Nelson?

And why would Nelson leave a suicide note seeking forgiveness for what he’d done?

What the hell have we got here?

15

Buffalo, New York

Yellowing tape held meal schedules to the walls of the dining hall of the mission in downtown Buffalo.

The rules were up there, too: “No weapons, no drugs, no booze and no fighting. We offer: Love, respect, understanding and healing.” After reading them Dickson shook his head.

“It sickens me that any veteran, after sacrificing everything for our country, comes home to this.”

Ed flipped through his notes. The two Rampart detectives were at a table waiting for the mission crew to finish up with breakfast so they could interview people about former Sergeant John Charles Pollard.

That Pollard, not Carl Nelson, had been identified as the male victim took this thing to a whole new level. They needed to determine his connection to Nelson, to Bethany Ann Wynn, to any aspect of the case.

After the pathologist had alerted them yesterday to Pollard’s ID, Brennan and Dickson pored over his military records, made calls and tracked his last known location to Buffalo.

Pollard, aged thirty-nine, was from Toledo, Ohio, and had enlisted as an artillery man in the US Army in 1998. He was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 319th Airborne Field Artillery Regiment and had several deployments to Iraq and then Afghanistan. By 2009, he was with the US Special Forces in Kandahar’s Zhari District. Later, at a Forward Operating Base in Paktia province, his unit was pinned down in a firefight that lasted a week. Pollard witnessed the deaths of most of his squad members.

He came home to Toledo, suffering post-traumatic stress and became addicted to alcohol and other drugs. He lost his job as a truck driver, his wife left him. He fell into debt, then drifted across the country, ending up on the streets and finally in this homeless shelter.

Brennan was grateful to Buffalo PD, which had made initial inquiries with local shelters. It cleared the way for him to get up at four this morning and make the four-hour drive to Buffalo with Dickson to continue their investigation. They hadn’t released Pollard’s name yet. They were working with the military to locate his family.

“Doesn’t it make you sick that vets end up homeless when they should be treated like heroes?”

“It’s a disgrace.” Brennan sipped his coffee and over the rim saw Tim Scott, the shelter’s director, wiping his hands with a towel as he approached them.

“Thanks for waiting.” Scott joined them at the table, then waved to staff members behind the counter. “Sure we can’t get you fellas something to eat after your long drive?”

“We’re good with the coffee. Thanks,” Brennan said. “What can you tell us about John Charles Pollard?”

“I can’t believe he’s dead. In a fire...maybe he took shelter in the barn?”

“Maybe.”

“It always hurts when we lose a client.” Scott shook his head. “People come to us broken. We give them a meal, a bed and hope in the way of counseling and services. J.C. had been with us for five months and was showing promise. He’d gotten clean and sober. He’d gotten his license again and was ready to apply for driving jobs.”

“So things were looking up?”

“Yes, despite all he’d faced, he was slowly getting back on his feet. But some guys have their setbacks and they disappear. That’s what I thought might’ve happened.”

“That he’d had a setback?”

“That’s what I was thinking. The other guys who knew him best had been asking about him because he hadn’t been around for a week or so. Reggie and Delmar. They bunked with him for a time and were probably the closest he had to friends. They’re right here.”

The first man was in his thirties. His clothes hung loose on his skinny frame. His face bore fresh scrapes, as if he’d collided with the sidewalk.

“Is it true? J.C.’s dead?” The man called Reggie sniffed and sat down.

“I’m afraid so. My condolences.”

Reggie nodded sadly.

“May I ask what happened?” Brennan indicated the man’s cuts.

“Was drunk, fell on the street.”

“Reggie, may I get your last name, date of birth and could you show me your Social Security card? It’s routine.”

Brennan cleared a page in his notebook, took down Reggie’s information then did the same for Delmar, the taller of the two. Delmar had a full, scraggly Moses beard dotted with crumbs.

Brennan thanked them and said, “We ask that you keep our inquiries confidential. It’s critical to our investigation.”

“So he got killed in a fire in Rampart?” Delmar looked around the table.

“Something like that. Guys, can you recall if John—”

“Oh, we call him J.C., nobody called him John,” Reggie said.

“Sorry. Can you recall if J.C. had any connection to Rampart?”

The three men shook their heads.

“Ohio, mostly, that’s where he came from,” Reggie said.

“Do the names Carl Nelson or Bethany Ann Wynn mean anything to you in relation to J.C.?”

“Don’t think so.” Delmar looked to the others, who agreed.

“What about Canada? Did he ever talk about it?”

More shaking of heads.

Dickson cued up photos on his tablet.

“Do you recognize anything in these pictures, any connection at all?”

The first were several photos of Bethany Ann Wynn.

None of the photos registered with the men.

Next were photos of Tara Dawn Mae, from her missing persons file from Alberta.

Again, nothing.

Then they showed them enlarged photos of the necklace with the guardian angel charm.

Nothing.

“What’s this really about?” Scott was clearly troubled. “I get the feeling there’s something more serious going on. Do you think J.C. had something to do with these people?”

“At this point, we’re not sure what to think,” Brennan admitted.

Then came photos of Carl Nelson.

“That guy.” Delmar tapped his finger on Nelson’s face.

“He used to come around, talk to J.C.,” Reggie said, nodding.

“When did he start coming around?” Brennan stared hard at the men.

“It started a month or so back, maybe two months,” Reggie said. “We were in the park, passing a bottle of Thunderbird. J.C. wouldn’t take none, he was on the program doin’ fine without preachin’ to us. That’s when this guy—” Reggie pointed at Nelson “—came up and just gave us money. Fifty bucks each. Said he remembered when his family had hard times. We get that sometimes.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“Jones, Adam Jones, I think,” Reggie said.

“Then the guy came around more,” Delmar said. “Bought us lunches and took an interest in J.C., his military time, telling J.C. how thankful and honored he was.” Delmar jabbed his forefinger into the table. “I tell you, sir, that meant the goddamn world to J.C. because he was still carrying the ghosts of the men he lost.”

Reggie nodded.

“J.C. was a true-blue soldier. You know, he still had his dog tags. Put them in his boot so no one would yank them from his neck if he got jumped. I think we were the only ones he told.”

“Can you recall any other details about the man’s interest in J.C.?”

“He started bringing him clothes, pants, boots, jackets, stuff he said he no longer needed, or never wore,” Delmar said.

“Yeah,” Reggie said. “Good stuff, because they were practically the same height, build, age, the same everything. The guy told J.C. the clothes were his and he didn’t need them anymore.”

Brennan and Dickson exchanged a glance.

“Do you recall anything else?”

“They were getting chummy,” Delmar said. “I remember, about two weeks before we last saw J.C., he was saying that he might have a lead on a good job but it was across the state.”

“In Rampart?” Brennan asked.

Delmar shook his head. “Didn’t say, but he sure was feeling good about things, you just saw it on his face and stuff.”

“Then that was it,” Reggie said. “We never saw J.C. after that.”

* * *

Brennan and Dickson shared their theories on the case on the long drive back to Rampart.

“What do you think, Ed? Nelson was making bondage, porn movies at the barn, maybe invited Pollard to take part?”

“Maybe, but look again at what his note said.”

Dickson read it aloud. “‘I only wanted someone to love in my life. It’s better to end everyone’s pain. God forgive me for what I’ve done. Carl Nelson.’ Okay, so something else was going on. Where does Pollard fit?”

“We need to get warrants on Nelson’s house, his bank records, credit card and his computer.”

“Wait, how did Nelson use Pollard?”

“Look at their physical particulars, both are white males, both are six feet tall. Nelson’s in his forties and Pollard’s thirty-nine, almost the same age and both have the same body type.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I think Nelson selected Pollard to stage his own suicide.”

16

Calgary, Alberta

The Southern Alberta District headquarters for the RCMP’s K Division in northeast Calgary was housed in a glass-and-brick building overlooking Deerfoot Trail, the city’s major expressway.

Thankfully, it was also near the airport, Kate thought as she wheeled her rented Toyota into the parking lot.

Kate had arranged to meet a Corporal Jared Fortin at 9:00 a.m. to discuss Tara Dawn Mae’s disappearance and Vanessa’s case.

She had ten minutes before her meeting and checked her phone for messages. Nothing new. Smiling at her daughter’s face, she remembered what Grace had said before giving her a million hugs goodbye yesterday.

“I hope you find out what happened to Aunt Vanessa, Mom.”

Kate entered the building and went to the front desk.

“I’m Kate Page. I have an appointment with Corporal Jared Fortin, who I believe is with Major Crimes.”

“Yes, one moment, please.”

As the receptionist’s keyboard clicked, Kate looked at the wall map behind her. The Southern Alberta District had more than thirty detachments and covered everything in the southern region of the province west of Calgary to British Columbia, east to Saskatchewan and south to Montana, an area larger than most states.

The receptionist stopped and looked at Kate.

“Kate Page, from New York City?”

“Yes.”

“Did Corporal Fortin not contact you about today?”

“No. Is there a problem?”

The woman resumed concentrating on her monitor, then, finding something, her expression changed, indicating all was well.

“No, it’s fine. Sorry.” She then requested Kate exchange two pieces of photo ID for a visitor’s badge and her signature on a sign-in sheet. “Thank you. Please have a seat. Someone will be right with you.”

Kate went to the waiting area, wondering if the receptionist had inadvertently signaled a problem. She sat in a chair and glanced at the spread of magazines on the table. Something was up. She took out her phone. She hadn’t received any new messages. She scrolled through news sites out of Rampart, scanning stories for any updates.

She’d found nothing new.

“Ms. Page?”

A man in a dark blue suit had materialized. He was about six feet tall with a solid build, short brown hair and thick mustache. He looked to be in his late forties.

“Staff Sergeant Ian Owen.” He extended his hand. “I’m Corporal Fortin’s supervisor. Right this way.”

He led her to his office. Through the large windows Kate saw jets approaching the airport. Sergeant Owen directed her to a chair before his desk.

“Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Owen sat, took up his pen and leaned forward, staring at it for a moment.

“Ms. Page, I’ll come to the point. I know why you’re here. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do to help you.”

“But Corporal Fortin assured me he was willing to discuss my sister’s case and the cold case of Tara Dawn Mae.”

“He explained your call to me. All I can say is that we’re supporting an active investigation in another jurisdiction.”

“But the case in Rampart, New York, and the case in Brooks, Alberta, are linked and there’s every possibility they’re linked to my sister.”

“I understand, and I can only imagine how terrible this sounds to you, especially after you’ve traveled here from New York.”

As Kate’s heart sank, she grew angry. Angry at herself for believing police here would help her when, in the back of her mind, she knew cops were all the same. As her resentment rose she realized what had happened.

“You’ve been talking to Ed Brennan about me, haven’t you?”

“As I said, we’re supporting another jurisdiction in an ongoing investigation.”

“I got that. Forgive me for being blunt, Staff Sergeant, but I’m not an idiot. Let me give you some context, which I’m sure you know from talking to Rampart. Ed Brennan called me, requesting my help. He asked me to bring my necklace to him so he could compare it to one found at his scene, which resembles my sister’s necklace.”

Owen said nothing, letting Kate continue.

“At the same time, there’s evidence at the Rampart scene that’s tied to the disappearance of Tara Dawn Mae, which is in your yard. Now, here we sit, some one hundred and fifty miles from where I lost my sister in the Kicking Horse River.”

“That was twenty years ago near Golden, BC. That’s E Division’s jurisdiction.”

“Stop, stop this bureaucratic police bull, please! I was underwater in that river when our car crashed into it. I held my sister’s hand—”

“Ms. Page, I understand but—”

“No, I’m sorry, you don’t understand. For twenty years I’ve lived with being told my sister was dead. But her body was never found and I’ve refused to give up hoping that she’d somehow survived. And now her necklace surfaces at a murder scene in New York with a link to the cold case of a missing girl from your jurisdiction. I’ve cooperated with you guys. I’ve given you my necklace, my DNA, yet you, just like Brennan, throw up your hands with the I can’t discuss the case, it’s an ongoing investigation when we all know that it’s the ghost of my sister that’s tying this all together for you!”

Owen repositioned his pen as his jawline pulsed.

“Since we’re being blunt, allow me to give you a little context, Ms. Page. It’s my understanding that you have charges pending against you in Rampart for trespassing on a crime scene, possibly tampering or planting evidence?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I did not tamper or plant evidence.”

Owen leaned forward.

“That may be, but given your personal stake, a good defense attorney could easily create the perception in court that you did, and destroy a case, allowing someone guilty to go free. Now how do you think that would sit with the family of Bethany Ann Wynn?”

Kate let out a long, tense breath and glanced at the 747 approaching the airport.

“Ms. Page, I’m sure you can appreciate that it’s critical for investigators not to risk weakening an iota of the case so that it will remain solid when it comes to prosecuting it.”

Kate said nothing, letting a few moments pass.

“I think it’d be best if you let us do our job.” Owen stood to conclude the meeting. “Give me your contact information and if there are any developments that I can share with you, I give you my word, I will.”

Kate reached into her bag for her wallet and handed him one of her business cards. Owen then escorted her to the reception desk, where she traded her visitor’s pass for her identification.

“Safe travels, Ms. Page.” Owen shook her hand.

In her car, Kate was still simmering from the exchange.

Before she’d left New York for Alberta, she’d made other calls. She paged through her notes for other people who’d agreed to talk to her.

Sheri Young was a neighbor of Barton and Fiona Mae at the time of Tara Dawn’s disappearance. Then there were Eileen and Norbert Ingram, who now owned the Maes’ former house. And the Children’s Searchlight Network was working on finding her people familiar with the Mae case. She roared out of the lot. As she glanced at the RCMP building in her rearview mirror an image burned across her mind.

A tiny hand rising from the cold dark water...

Kate squeezed the wheel. No way was she backing off.

Not now.

Not ever.

17

Tilley, Alberta

Kate drove toward the horizon undaunted.

The Trans-Canada Highway east from Calgary cut across gentle hills that soon flattened for as far as she could see. Still smarting from her meeting with the RCMP, she was now counting on the people of Southern Alberta to help her.

“Certainly, we’ll talk to you,” Eileen Ingram had told her earlier when Kate had called. Eileen and her husband, Norbert, were the current owners of the Maes’ house.

Two hours after leaving Calgary, Kate had reached Brooks, a small prairie city known for agriculture, gas, oil and meat processing. Staying on the Trans-Canada, she passed the Grand Horizon Plaza.

The truck stop where Tara Dawn Mae was last seen fifteen years ago.

Kate continued east to the hamlet of Tilley then followed a ribbon of highway south for another fifteen minutes or so before coming to the remote property amid the eternal rolling treeless plain. It was a modest two-story frame house, set back from the road. Gravel crunched under her tires when she rolled along the driveway to the house. Two women and a man stepped onto the porch to greet her.

“I’m Eileen, this is my husband, Norbert, and this is our neighbor, Sheri Young. She used to babysit Tara Dawn for Fiona and Barton.”

“You made good time,” Norbert said as Kate shook everyone’s hand, noticing that Norbert held an unlit pipe.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

The house smelled of soap and fresh soil. They led her to the kitchen and a table covered with a checkered tablecloth. Everyone sat while Eileen made tea and coffee, then set down a plate of cookies.

“Eileen told us about your accident in BC, when you were a child.” Norbert looked into the bowl of his unlit pipe. “What a terrible thing.”

“You really think that Tara Dawn’s disappearance is connected to your sister’s case?” Sheri spooned sugar into her coffee.

“Yes, a lot of new factors have surfaced with a recent murder and suicide in New York State.”

“What sort of factors?” Eileen passed Kate a mug.

Kate gave them an account of what was found at the Rampart site and how, along with dates, it all aligned with Vanessa and Tara Dawn’s cases.

“That sounds unsettling, for sure,” Eileen said.

“Could be there’s something to it.” Norbert nodded.

“I’m not sure how much we can help, though,” Eileen said. “We never knew the Mae family. We’re from Manitoba and bought this place ten years ago this spring after Norbert retired from the railroad. Sheri knew the family better than anyone.”

“I did,” Sheri said. “What would you like to know?”

“Tell me what you can about the Maes, about Tara Dawn’s adoption and her disappearance.”

“Well...” Sheri reached back over the years. “Barton and Fiona didn’t mix with other people. They were private, deeply devout. You only saw them at church, or at the store. They just worked on their farm. Then Fiona had a baby, a girl, but she died after a year.”

“What happened?”

“Nobody in town really knew. One day we saw the ambulance and the Mountie cars out at the place. Later, it got around that their baby had died. My mom figured it was SIDS or some sickness. Then my dad said there was a rumor that Barton had dropped her. But no one knew the truth.”

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