The Viper
Author: Brad Meltzer
Date: 2026-01-06 00:00:00+00:00
Description: "A thrilling adventure, full of twists and turns, gripping from the first page to the last. Hugely enjoyable. The perfect book to meet Zig & Nola." — Alex Michaelides, New York Times bestselling author of The Silent Patient New York Times bestselling author Brad Meltzer is back with his thrilling Zig and Nola series, unraveling a shocking cold case with a personal—and deadly—twist. Andrew Fechmeier is a master at hiding. He'd better be—he's spent decades concealing a secret that could get him killed. So when he's diagnosed with a terminal disease, he heads for the local funeral home carrying t
Publisher: HarperCollins

Dedication

In memory of Jill Kneerim,
my wise soul,
who found me as a rough draft,
and of course,
never let it stop her

Epigraph

I don’t believe in closure,

I don’t think we ever really get over anything.

—Dale Maharidge

Contents

Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Prologue
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About the Author
Also by Brad Meltzer
Copyright
About the Publisher
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Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Prologue

Prologue

Arrow Rock, Maryland

These were the last sixteen minutes of his life.

“Harry Smith, yes?”

“That’s me,” said the middle-aged man with the lopsided grin. It was the first lie he’d tell. His real name wasn’t Harry Smith. Back when he first disappeared, he picked it for its commonness—if you googled Harry Smith, there’d be too many to sort through. His real name was Andrew Fechmeier, though he hadn’t been called that in years. Decades, really, which showed how good he’d become at hiding.

It was no accident. As his former boss once told him, a good lie is a fine art.

Limping inside and wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball cap tipped low enough to hide his face, Fechmeier glanced around the blue-carpeted entryway of Generaux & Sons Funeral Home, which had all the charm of a law firm and somehow smelled of cookies. It was a trick used by funeral homes around the country, baking cookies in back to mask the stench.

It didn’t fool Fechmeier, who was as good at spotting lies as crafting them. Growing up, everyone used to call him Fetch, since he was always the teacher’s pet. He was a smart kid . . . brainy, even—the first to wear glasses in his grade, and the first to have them broken.

In gym class, when teams were chosen, he wasn’t picked last . . . Malcolm Latrine (his last name was actually Latrine) was always last . . . but Fetch was usually near the bottom. So in fourth grade, when one of the coaches made Fetch a team captain, Fetch knew the schoolyard rules: You pick Malcolm last.

On that day, for reasons even he couldn’t explain, he picked Malcolm first. A few of the cooler kids laughed. But a few others—the gifted ones—took it as a victory. Fetch did something no one had ever tried. In fourth grade, and especially in Fetch’s mind, that moment redefined him—made him brave, confident.

That is, until Latrine, thinking Fetch had made fun of him, shoved him down the stairwell after gym class, breaking Fetch’s wrist. Even in fourth grade, it was a valuable lesson: always check your back.

“Tough day, huh?” asked funeral director Dustin Generaux, an overweight man with wispy gold-dyed hair and a body shaped like a teardrop. He noticed the way Fetch was scanning the front door, then each of the windows, including the one that had a little bonsai tree on the ledge and that overlooked the parking lot along the side of the building. A tiny bead of sweat filled the notch in Fetch’s chin. “Mr. Smith, if you need some water—”

“I’m good,” Fetch said, noticing the tiny Notre Dame logo at the tip of the funeral director’s tie. Hoping to change the subject, he added, “Like your tie, by the way.” Those were lies number two and three.

“It’s a hard day. I get it,” the funeral director said, assuming Fetch was nervous or uncomfortable, like anyone else in a funeral home. That was true. Fetch was nervous—he didn’t want anything to go wrong.

Yet if Fetch were being honest, a part of him was also a bit excited. Decades ago, on that night at the drive-in theater, Fetch made a mistake he’d forever regret. Lives were lost, there was no taking it back. But now, all these years later, he had a chance to set things right. Assuming he didn’t get killed in the process.

“Mr. Generaux, when we spoke earlier, you said you had a private room for—?”

“Of course,” the funeral director replied, motioning to what Fetch was carrying. “I take it that’s the suit?”

Fetch nodded, lifting a wire hanger that held a ’90s-era double-breasted suit with gold buttons.

This was the suit he’d be buried in.

Most people don’t pick out their own funeral attire. Family or friends usually choose—that is, unless they’re all dead.

“Yeah, this is the suit for—y’know . . .” Fetch said, taking one final glance over his shoulder, checking the front door, then the bonsai window and the parking lot. All clear.

“C’mon, let’s get you set up,” Mr. Generaux said, reaching for the suit.

Fetch didn’t hand it over, not until he was sure it’d be safe.

If you go to a bank to open a safe-deposit box, paperwork gets filed and the government gets notified. Same if you open a P.O. Box at the local UPS Store. Hell, they make cookie jars that are Bluetooth-enabled to see if someone swipes a chocolate chip. In today’s interconnected world, everything’s tracked.

But if you hide something in an old suit and tell your local mortician to hold it for your funeral, you don’t just have good estate planning, you have a lie worthy of fine art. A truly untraceable hiding spot.

If it all goes right.

Fourteen minutes left to live.

“So this is normal for you?” Fetch asked, following the chubby mortician up the beige hallway with its dark wood chair rail that was supposed to look like mahogany but was really just brown paint. On their right was a bland oil painting of a Virginia landscape that Fetch couldn’t tell was a sunrise or sunset, though maybe that was the point of funeral art. “Lots of people give you clothes in advance?”

“Some.”

Fetch knew what he meant. If you’re picking out your own funeral outfit, it’s usually because you have no one else in your life—or even worse, you know what’s coming.

Last year, as Fetch grabbed his favorite snack, a Honeycrisp apple, his hand started trembling. He knew it was bad.

He was right: Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, a genetic mess that would come down to a coin flip. Heads, everything would be fine; tails, he’d hit the ditch.

Within weeks, the tremors got worse. Then his gait changed, his posture starting to hunch. The ditch was getting closer. The doctors revised their outlook, giving him six months to a year. Tops.

“You should see what people give us to be buried in,” Generaux added, trying to keep the conversation upbeat. “Military uniforms . . . football jerseys . . . I’ve got one client—seventy-one years old, opened nearly every Jiffy Lube in the state—he gave me the cowboy hat that his ex hates more than anything and said to make sure she’s first in line at the wake.”

Fetch faked a laugh, his limp getting worse as they passed a glass conference room that looked like any other, except this one displayed different-sized urns and wood samples for caskets.

For so long now, Fetch had spent his adult life as a man of compromise. He compromised on his dreams, on his job . . . he compromised for the woman whose photo he still kept in his wallet, even on the way he ran—from the police, from the pain, from that night he made the decision that wrecked their lives. Worst of all, Fetch had gotten used to it, this life of mediocrity, of hiding, this existence in a low-tipped baseball cap where he lived on the margins rather than in the spotlight.

Until he was diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob.

For the first few months, he’d sit in the doctor’s waiting room, replaying a moment from junior high when his math teacher, Mrs. Schemer, said he had potential. Back then, his friends liked that potential. He liked that potential. But those days were gone.

Unless, somehow, he stopped being scared and did what he swore he’d never do.

Three weeks ago, Fetch made a trip to the local library, pulling up the map on a public computer rather than putting it into his burner phone. That’s how scared he was they’d find him. It took another two weeks to lay out the details—he’d travel only at night, only on back roads, using motels that took cash. The night before he left, he was so nervous, he popped a blood vessel in his eye.

But he still made the trip.

As terminal patients know, when death gets close, you tend to be less afraid of life . . . especially if you have the right insurance policy.

“I appreciate you holding on to this,” Fetch said, handing over the suit with his left hand while using his right to pat what he’d stitched into the lining of the jacket’s back vent. Even if you checked the pockets, you wouldn’t find what was hidden inside. Not unless you knew what you were looking for.

Eleven minutes to go.

Late last night, Fetch noticed a pale blue Nissan hatchback pass his motel room two different times, like it was circling the block.

Probably nothing, just being paranoid. But when he saw the same Nissan again this morning, well, time for a detour.

“Whatever you need, we’re here,” Mr. Generaux said, carrying the suit into his office, toward a storage closet filled with sequined dresses and pin-striped jackets that hadn’t been in style since Clinton was President. Grandparent outfits. On the top ledge was a black cowboy hat and three glittered tiaras. “God willing, it’ll be years before you need to wear this.”

Fetch nodded a genuine thank-you, suddenly thinking that Generaux was a better man than Fetch first judged him to be, and isn’t that the real secret to life—dig a little deeper, and you’ll find more good in everyone?

As Fetch turned to leave, there was a thunk and a click, the mortician shutting the closet door, flipping a metal latch, and sealing it with a padlock.

Safe and sound.

Nine minutes to go.

Outside, the midday sun was so bright, Fetch couldn’t help but squint, even with his baseball cap, as he scanned the parking lot, the paint store next door that used to be an arcade, and the secondhand clothing shop across the street that used to be a Friendly’s. It was the hardest part of coming home. Some things can never be erased.

Starting his car and hitting the gas, he pulled out onto Briarwood Lane, the small two-lane thoroughfare that ran through this and all the nearby towns. Every car, gas station, and storefront he passed, he checked his rearview, checked his surroundings, checked for anyone who might’ve followed.

All clear.

At a red light, he flipped on the radio, finding Hall & Oates singing “You Make My Dreams Come True” and wondering if he should take it as a sign. Not a chance, he thought, knowing how it works with Charlie Brown and his football. The moment you think you’re home free, life puts you on your back.

Seven minutes to go.

With a sharp left at Arby’s, he spotted the Carousel Motel halfway up the block. The only person in sight was an elderly woman on a bus bench across the street. The back of the bench held a sun-faded ad for a local personal injury lawyer named Heartman, though the way the woman was leaning, her body and grocery bag covering the H and the bottom of the e, it looked like Fartman.

It was the exact type of dumb joke Fetch needed as he pulled into a spot around the back of the motel, so his car couldn’t be seen from the street. Hall & Oates were still singing about their dreams coming true, and Fetch couldn’t help but add a set of Ooh-ooh, ooh-oohs.

The song’s too good, he thought to himself, still humming it as he shut off the car and walked through the lot. Though it’s no “Sara Smile.”

Fetch scanned the roof, the alley on the far right, and each motel room window to see if anyone was watching. He even checked his own room on the second floor, where he’d left the curtain open just a hair—so if someone snuck in and pulled it shut, he’d know they were waiting for him.

Everything looked good.

Pressing his keycard to the front door lock, he waited for the magnetic thunk and shoved the door open. Two steps through the threshold, he was still humming Hall & Oates when—

Kllk.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are.”

Fetch tried to turn, but the barrel of the gun was already pressed into the back of his head. Raising his hands, he got his first good look at the room. The mattress was pulled from the bed, the drawers were out of the dresser, and every square ceiling panel was popped open and askew—like someone was looking for something . . . and hadn’t found it.

“Tell me why you came back, son,” his attacker growled. He had a calm in his voice, with a flat accent, like someone from the Midwest, maybe Minnesota. But from the angle of the gun . . . the way it was being pushed upward, Fetch could tell he was short, maybe 5'4". Was he a kid or—?

“Mr. Fechmeier, there’s a blood moon coming that I’m really looking forward to, so I’m not asking again. Tell me why you’re here.”

“I-I’m sick!” Fetch insisted. “Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. There’s a file—”

“I saw.”

On Fetch’s left, his medical file was open on the dresser. Everything else in the room was tossed, torn open. But the pages of the file were in a neat stack, like they’d been read.

Two minutes to go.

“I’m asking this once, Mr. Fechmeier. Your answer will decide how much you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Did you bring it with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

Without a word, his attacker kept the gun on Fetch’s neck and used his other hand to press something into the lower left corner of Fetch’s back. At first, Fetch didn’t feel it—it was just wet. But within seconds, a tiny electric shock hit and . . . it was blood. His blood. He’d been cut with a knife—with subtlety—and precision . . . like a butcher working a fillet.

“Did you just stab me?!” Fetch screamed.

“Last chance, son. We know what you took. Did you bring it with you?”

“I told you—!”

Another soft shove. Another electric shock. His attacker was smart about it—calculated—like he was purposefully avoiding major organs.

“Mr. Fechmeier, people say that patience is about hatching the egg, not smashing it. But there’s something to be said about cracking things open, don’t you think?”

Fetch was crying now, the gun still at the back of his head. He made a sound like a dying dog.

One minute to go.

“I’d like to know where you were just now, Mr. Fechmeier.”

“Nowhere! I swear to God—”

“Mr. Fechmeier . . .”

Fifteen seconds to go.

“I-I swear . . . on my mother’s grave . . . I was just grabbing lunch and then—!”

Blam.

A burst of blood hit the ceiling. Fetch’s body slumped to the carpet.

It was the last lie Fetch ever told.

For the next few minutes, the man with the blade—it was a fillet knife actually—picked through Fetch’s pockets, combing through his wallet, his flip phone, his socks, and the waistband of his underwear to see if it was somehow tucked in there. He didn’t find what he was looking for.

Indeed, when it came to Fetch’s most prized possession—hidden in the lining of an old suit and now locked in the storage closet of a local funeral home—even Fetch could’ve never anticipated who would eventually find it.

1

Dover, Delaware

Two days later

It felt good to be back.

No. It felt fantastic.

“Mr. Zigarowski . . . wait!” shouted Piper, a young Asian woman in a beige polo shirt, as she hit the brakes on the golf cart and it bucked to a stop.

“Appreciate the ride,” Zig called back, already out of the cart, carrying a file box against his chest and heading toward the glass entryway of the building he never thought he’d see again: the mortuary at Dover Air Force Base, where he used to work.

“I’m supposed to walk you inside!” Piper added, though she knew she was wasting her breath on this late April morning. After two hours of processing Zig’s paperwork at the base’s civilian personnel office, it was clear there was no slowing him down. Like a dog coming home, there’s too much excitement.

“Assume you told Sheila I’m here?” Zig asked, catching his reflection as he yanked open the glass door. His silver-and-black hair had more silver than the last time he visited. Along his jaw was the same hairline scar that he used to his advantage during those wild years after his divorce.

He was already inside by the time Piper asked, “Who’s Sheila?”

Last night, when Zig played it out in his head, he wondered if they’d put up the “Welcome Back” banner—but there was no banner in sight. No matter.

Zig had turned forty-nine a few weeks back, and the best gift he got was from an old high school friend who imparted his definitive rules for surviving middle age: 1) Never pass up a bathroom; 2) Don’t trust a fart; and 3) Never waste an erection.

It was good advice, especially after downing that giant Dunkin’ Donuts coffee he’d picked up this morning.

Stepping into the small glass vestibule, Zig balanced his file box on his hip and gave the interior glass door a tug. Locked. No surprise. Dover wasn’t a place that accepted unannounced visitors.

For most of his adult life, Zig worked as a mortician here at the mortuary for the U.S. government’s most high-profile and top secret cases. On 9/11, the victims of the Pentagon attack were brought to Dover. So were the astronauts on the space shuttle Columbia, the thirteen victims who were killed in Kabul as the United States left Afghanistan, and the remains of well over fifty thousand soldiers and CIA operatives who fought in Vietnam, Bahrain, Iraq, and every secret locale in between. In Delaware, of all places, at Dover Air Force Base, was America’s most secretive funeral home.

Two years ago, Zig left this place, thinking life would get easier leaving behind all this death—but all it did was get . . . boring. He missed the work, missed the energy, and especially missed helping grieving families through their roughest moments. The irony wasn’t lost on Zig—it took a mortuary to make him feel alive—but that explained why he was running back to it. Clearly he had no idea what he was running into.

Ignoring the visitors’ phone on his right, Zig headed straight for the door’s security pad and punched in the code: 1210. A decade ago, Colonel Wyatt Graff, Dover’s Wing Commander at the time, kept forgetting his swipe card at his mistress’s house, so someone in IT gave him an override code that almost no one knew about—1210—the Colonel’s birthday.

Click.

Zig grinned, pulling open the—

“What the heck’re you doing?” a female voice challenged. “Where’s your ID?”

Zig turned, spotting a fortysomething dark-skinned Mediterranean woman in a gray skirt and a turquoise blouse with a stylish scarf. Civilian for sure, based on the lack of uniform. Someone new in accounting?

“I used to work here,” Zig explained, holding up the file box in his hands.

“You need an ID,” she insisted, grabbing his shoulder and physically steering him back through the threshold. Before Zig could react, she slammed the glass door behind him and pointed him to the phone. For visitors.

Rolling his eyes, Zig picked up the receiver, the Mediterranean woman still staring at him through the glass.

“Welcome to Dover. How can I help?” a voice asked through the phone.

“It’s Zig. Jim Zigarowski—I’m starting here t—”

“Mr. Zigarowski. Of course. Be right there . . .”

As Zig stood there, waiting, his phone vibrated. A text.

You free? Got a new case & would love you to take a look.

It was from Roddy LaPointe. New Jersey cop and twin brother of one of the most important people in Zig’s life. Since Zig’s specialty was dealing with bodies—and with his semiretirement since he left here—whenever a tough case came up, Roddy would call for advice, though sometimes Zig thought it was just because Roddy was lonely.

Can’t, Zig texted back. New job. About to impress the boss.

Only need a sec, Roddy replied, though Zig ignored it.

Thirty seconds later, a young soldier in a camouflage uniform offered a smile through the glass. From the short hair and androgynous features, Zig couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman—though whatever they were, they looked like a teenager in high school. It caught Zig off guard, making him feel unusually old in a place that used to make him feel so young.

“Specialist Olivia Bach Armas,” she said as she opened the door, and the smell of the lobby hit Zig in the face—cinnamon potpourri, lemon Pledge, and a massive dose of bleach to hide the stench of embalming fluid. It was a horrid smell, and the sad part was, Zig had missed it.

“In the spirit of all the useless info you’ll be provided at orientation, I was named after Olivia Newton-John. Don’t ask. They met in a throwback production of Grease, and it’s better than Frenchy,” she explained. “Anyway, welcome back to the circus—what’s your act?”

“I, uh, I didn’t realize I needed one. How much would I regret it if I let you choose for me?” Zig asked.

“Depends how much you like wearing a tutu and high-diving into a bucket. Wait. You can’t do the tutu part—Olivia in benefits is doing that.”

“Well, if it helps, you’re already my favorite Olivia.”

“It’s not a contest. All us Olivias are special.”

Heart or no heart? Olivia had heart, Zig decided.

“Here, aren’t you a little old to be carrying heavy boxes . . . ?” she teased, grabbing the box he was holding.

“That’s not even funny,” Zig shot back, now wondering what was worse: that she took it from his hands, or that it was actually getting heavy. Either way, didn’t matter. He’d been in a rut for so long, as he jogged to catch up with her . . . this was the energy he was missing in his life.

Inside, the lobby was organized around a circular stone wishing well, making it look like a hotel with an arched glass atrium and indoor trees. The marble planters had been updated, and the tan sofas had been replaced by modern gray ones. But Zig saw one thing that was unchanged—a framed bright red-and-white football jersey hanging on the left-hand wall: Fallen #1,028. The name Tillman was across the back.

Two decades ago, the Arizona Cardinals presented the jersey to Dover as a thank-you for taking such good care of Pat Tillman’s body when he was killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan. Tillman had given up his NFL career and multimillion-dollar salary to fight for his country. Instead, the twenty-seven-year-old was sent home in a box. It was Zig who’d prepped Tillman’s body, spending nine hours working on just his head so that his family could see him one last time. For the funeral, Tillman wasn’t buried in his military uniform or even his football one. Instead, he was buried in T-shirt and jeans, humble to the very end. Zig still remembered what Tillman’s father whispered as a thank-you.

“Y’know Tillman’s body came through Dover, right? Our folks prepped him for his funeral,” Olivia said, following his eye.

“So I’ve heard,” Zig said, doing the quick math and wondering if Olivia was even born when Tillman was shot.

“Anyway, here we are,” Olivia added, making a quick left.

Zig looked around, confused. His old office was farther up the hallway—all the morticians were in the same part of the building.

“It’s just temporary—they’re renovating the offices in back,” she explained, motioning to a door with no number on it. It was the storage room where, during the busiest days of Iraq and Afghanistan, they kept extra stretchers for all the bodies being carted in. “At least it’s got a window.”

It’s got a vent, Zig thought, remembering a decade ago, when they used it to air out the smell from the stretchers and—

“That your daughter?” Olivia asked.

Zig turned, confused. As Olivia put the box on the desk, he saw what she was looking at. Inside was a framed photo of a twelve-year-old girl with light freckles on her nose—Zig’s daughter, Maggie, his Magpie—holding an ice cream cone and mugging at the camera.

The photo was from an old birthday party, the soft serve giving her a grin that lit up like a sun. A few months later, Maggie would be dead, but at just the sight of the photo, Zig could smell her favorite orange-banana shampoo . . . and the Thin Mints she’d carry around to sell but wind up eating herself . . . which, of course, brought him back to that night at the Girl Scout campout, when a can of orange soda exploded in the campfire, sending shards of metal at Maggie’s face.

On that night, a fellow Girl Scout named Nola Brown had pushed Maggie out of the way, saving Maggie’s life and giving Zig an extra year with his daughter. It would never be enough, Zig thought as he pictured Nola fully grown, when she’d reentered his life a few years back. Nola had saved Zig’s own life too when they worked a case at Dover. He hadn’t seen her in months, but he knew what came with that.

The hardest part was seeing Nola as an adult, a cruel reminder of what his daughter would never get to experience. Indeed, for years, Zig never brought Maggie’s photo to work—it was too much, raising too many questions. As someone warned him years ago in group therapy, when a stranger asks if you have kids, tell them no, just to avoid all the inevitable follow-ups: How old are they? What’re they doing now?

For years, it was good advice. But last night, as Zig packed his mortician kit with extra scalpels, modeling clay, and makeup, he was done leaving Maggie hidden in the house. Today, even as he felt that familiar corkscrew in his chest, he was glad he’d brought the photo. Though that didn’t mean it was easy.

“Her name’s Maggie,” Zig said proudly. “That’s her at—”

He never got the words out. Olivia’s phone started buzzing, and caller ID sent her running for the door.

“Good morning, Colonel . . . yes . . .” Olivia said, picking up, her posture changing at the sound of her boss. “On my way now . . .”

Before Zig could react, Olivia offered a wave and was gone, leaving him alone in the quiet storage room that had all the charm—and the same concrete walls—as his freshman dorm. He looked up at the open glass vent that tipped outward, then down to the photo of Maggie, which he put on his desk.

Welcome back, quitter, read a Post-it stuck to his chair—from Esther in Veterans Affairs, who’d downshifted to part-time so wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

For a few seconds, Zig stood there listening to the rhythmic mmm-mmm-mmm of the building’s air-filtration system. Was it louder than it used to be? He picked up the phone to ask Kellis in Departures, then remembered that Kellis left a few months back.

Sticking his head outside, Zig glanced down the hallway at the bullpen of desks and cubicles for the support staff. Even from here, he didn’t recognize a soul.

Introduce yourself, he thought. Don’t be such a—

“Ahuuuuuuhhhh!”

Zig turned at the sound, one he’d heard too many times here. More than a scream, it was a wail—the pained cry of someone sobbing—coming from the vent, from outside.

Without hesitating, Zig darted into the hallway and made a sharp left. He knew the vent led to the private lot along the side of the building—the one they saved for VIPs . . . Senators and Presidents . . . though sometimes parents would make their way over from the family center, begging for answers.

“Ahuuuuuuuuhhhh!” a female voice sobbed again as Zig shoved open the metal exit door and spotted a middle-aged couple—bald husband with caterpillar eyebrows hugging his wife, who was all frizzed blond hair and a banana clip straight from 1989.

According to Dover training, when it comes to mourners, most employees are advised to stay away . . . leave them to the grief counselors. But Zig was never like most employees.

“Ma’am . . . ma’am . . . let me help you, I can help you,” Zig called out, heading toward them.

As he got closer, he realized they weren’t hugging. The husband was holding tight to his wife, who was fighting, elbows thrashing, like she was trying to claw out of her own skin.

“How could they—? Those bandages . . . How could they not let us see him?!” the wife shouted in a Louisiana accent, tears and snot streaming down her face.

Zig knew what bandages meant. When a soldier’s injuries are too severe, Dover will wrap their head in gauze to spare the family pain.

“For all we know, it may even not be Marcus!” she added, a thick gold cross around her neck. “God would tell us he was gone! I’d know it!”

“Ma’am, please . . .” Zig began, knowing never to say calm down. “Let me . . . Tell me how I can help Marcus.”

She turned at her son’s name, blinking over and over, staring with that hollow gaze Zig knew all too well—the one that comes when you see the absolute worst that the universe can muster, and it’s clear it’s now your reality.

“I-I just want to see him . . .” she pleaded, a drip of snot dangling pregnant from her nose, “to—to—to . . . I need to know if it’s true.” She and her husband were wearing matching shirts with their son’s Marines graduation photo across the front. One read marine mom, the other marine dad. Made for a celebration.

Congrats Marcus K. Brady Jr.!

“Mr. and Mrs. Brady, tell me—does Marcus have any distinguishing features?”

“Pardon?”

“Tattoos . . . scars . . . something to confirm it’s him. If I could get you inside—”

“His left foot, second toe,” Mrs. Brady blurted. “When he was little, his brother hid a piece of glass in his shoe and— It don’t matter. You’ll see. That toe ain’t right.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. If you follow me—”

“Mr. Zigarowski, can I speak to you a moment?” a female voice interrupted.

Zig spun back toward the building, where a fiftysomething Indian woman in military dress—shirt and tie—was standing in the side doorway. Colonel Judith Gupta, Dover’s Wing Commander and top boss.

As a child, young Judith was fascinated by the military. Every Halloween, she’d dress as a soldier, her parents joking that she was born in camouflage. Decades later, as a helicopter pilot, she was shot down in Afghanistan but kept her copter angled so that she was the one taking fire rather than her passengers, a group of Army Rangers whose lives she saved by letting them leap onto a nearby roof.

Zig knew it wasn’t hype. In fact, when Gupta’s copter finally crashed, a piece of metal shrapnel left her with a pale scar across the side of her neck that, according to her staff, turned light pink whenever she was annoyed. Right now, it was glowing brighter than a flamingo.

“Ma’am, this family h—”

Colonel Gupta held up a single finger, like a switchblade. Stop. “Mr. Zigarowski. I need. To speak to you. Inside.”

Mr. and Mrs. Brady froze, confused. “W-Where’re you—?”

“I’ll be back shortly. I promise,” Zig reassured them, following the Colonel inside and not saying a word until the metal door slapped behind him.

“Mr. Zigarowski, do you know who those people are?” the Colonel began, her voice quiet, almost gentle, but filled with power.

“Their son Marcus—”

“I know who their son is.”

“They just need some proof—”

“Mr. Zigarowski—”

“Zig. My friends call me Zig.”

“Mr. Zigarowski, I really hate repeating myself, so I need you to stop interrupting. Those two parents—Mr. and Mrs. Brady—are part of the most litigious family in all of Baton Rouge. They already filed a complaint against their son’s unit for not finding his body fast enough, then they filed notice against the ambulance that got commandeered to take him to a local hospital, the paramedics in the ambulance, even the flight that brought his body here from Germany. So while I appreciate your desire to do right by people, if I let those two inside, we’re both going to spend the next six months in depositions with lawyers who smell like legal pads and desperation.”

“Ma’am, I had no idea—”

“Of course you didn’t, because you’re so busy thinking you can save the day, you don’t realize you’re putting our facility at risk. Back to your office, Mr. Zigarowski.”

“Ma’am, please—”

“You’re not listening—again—Mr. Zigarowski. And by the way, Katie told me you tried to sneak into my building with some old passcode you had from back in the day. Don’t do that. It undermines me, which makes me annoyed in a way that my acupuncturist says is not healthy for my overall spiritual alignment, whatever the hell that means.” She was still staring at him. “It’s fine to care about people, Mr. Zigarowski. But I need you to be smart. Go back to your office and finish your training.”

“Training? I worked here f—”

“Have you finished NO?” she asked, referring to the newcomers orientation.

“I did. Years ago.”

“The online version or the one where you bubble answers in with a number-two pencil?”

Zig shot her a look.

“You can’t get into the system or be granted network access without it,” Gupta added. “Finish your NO. That’s all we need from you today.”

Nearly an hour later, Zig was leaning back in his chair, munching on a pack of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips, the least healthy snack in the new vending machine, which was filled with far too much dried fruit and granola.

“Whoa, check out this CD I found!” a young soldier said onscreen in what looked like a YouTube video. The soldier was in full camo uniform, standing in the Dover parking lot. “Maybe there’s some hype music on it.”

“Hype is right,” a female soldier replied, channeling acting skills that Zig hadn’t seen since the creation of the Afterschool Special. Just from the graininess, the video was a few years old, though Zig was more embarrassed by the fact they used actual soldiers, since no way could a real actor be this bad on purpose.

“We should play the CD!” she added.

“Hey, my new computer can play CDs,” the male soldier agreed, turning toward the entrance to Dover as the scene froze midframe.

At that, a question appeared onscreen:

Should these employees . . . ?

1. Play the CD on their computer
2. Throw the CD away
3. Report it to their security manager
4. Make copies of the hype music and share it

Zig rolled his eyes, wondering how many Colonels and Public Affairs officers had to sign off on the words hype music.

Letting his chair drop forward, Zig reached for the C key, but his office was so small, he bumped into the desk and hit D by accident.

“Nonono . . .”

An automated message appeared onscreen.

Incorrect answer.

Please restart this section from the beginning.

“Mothertrucker!” Zig added, pounding the desk, his coffee mug and picture frames jumping at the impact.

“Whoa, check out this CD I found!” the male soldier announced onscreen.

“Screw you and your CD full of viruses and hype music!” Zig shouted at the screen.

On his desk, his phone vibrated. Zig jumped, worrying for a half second that Colonel Gupta was listening in. It was another text. From Roddy LaPointe. Again.

You working on bodies yet? Roddy wrote.

Don’t ask, Zig texted back.

The three gray dots appeared, then Roddy’s message: Just call me. Need your expertise on this case.

Zig tossed his phone back toward the desk. His only priority right now was orientation, yet as the phone landed, it hit the edge of the keyboard and . . .

Incorrect answer.

Please restart this section from the beginning.

“Whoa, check out this CD I found!” the male soldier announced onscreen.

For Zig, that was it. For months, he’d been sitting at home, fixing old furniture, refinishing his front porch, even building a sturdier hive for his bees, telling himself he was content. And then one day, on his ex-wife’s Facebook page, he saw an inspirational quote she posted.

Zig knew what a cliché it was—being moved by a vapid online quote, on his ex’s page, of all places!—but for days, he couldn’t shake it, the line from an old Hermann Hesse book: You are willing to die, you coward, but not to live.

Soon after, Zig asked for his old job back, and here he was, in his tiny closet office, staring down at his phone as he reread Roddy’s words.

Need your expertise on this case. An actual case.

“Hype is right. We should play the CD!” the female soldier announced onscreen.

A day and a half from now, when the worst of the horrors hit, Zig would look back at this moment and wish he never wrote Roddy back. Instead he texted,

What kinda expertise?

Roddy’s reply came quick.

The thing you’re best at, Mr. Zig. Dealing with the dead.

2

“You look terrible.”

“I think you mispronounced Thank you for making this trip with me,” Zig said, holding tight to the steering wheel and eyeing the upcoming highway exit. On his right, Roddy studied him from the passenger seat, his stare always lingering a few beats too long.

“At first, I thought you were just tired,” Roddy added, “but y’know how they say some people have old souls? Right now, you have an old face.”

No question, Roddy was weird, missing that filter that keeps you from saying every stray thought that rolls through your brain. But he was also loyal. A few months back, Zig was attacked while working a case. It was Roddy who jumped in and put his own life at risk, defending Zig and saving him from a brutal attack. Even when he should’ve run, Roddy stayed, unleashing punch after vicious punch.

“I’m thinking of getting a pet, Mr. Zig. Have you ever had a pet?”

“I had a dog growing up. Noodle,” Zig explained, again thinking about his ex-wife, who once said she was allergic to dogs, even though everyone knew she wasn’t. “Now do you want to tell me why you’re not wearing your uniform?”

Roddy turned at that but didn’t say a word, his spidery fingers fidgeting with the tip of his tie. Usually, Roddy was dressed in a dark blue beat-cop uniform. Today, he was in a full suit—and not the typical navy blazer and jeans, what most cops called the Bronx tuxedo. No, this was a gray wool suit with a subtle black-and-tan check that made him look like a banker. Whatever was really going on, Roddy was working to make an impression, right down to his badge and gun, both out on his waist so they could be seen, but not in anyone’s face.

“I thought about getting a cat, Mr. Zig—but cats don’t generally like me. They think I’m—”

“This isn’t a work case, is it, Roddy?”

Roddy again went silent. He had caramel skin, a pointy face, and a nose that’d been broken years ago. When his black eyes with flecks of gold locked on you like an anchor, it made it hard to tell when he was lying. “C’mon, Mr. Zig—of course it’s a work case. What else would it be?”

“Destination is . . . on your right,” the GPS announced.

With a sharp turn, Zig pulled into the parking lot of an ’80s-era white building, complete with glass block windows and two large pillars holding round seafoam spheres. The sign out front had a fancy calligraphy font:

Generaux & Sons Funeral Home

“Roddy, tell me the real reason we’re here.”

“I told you, people don’t like speaking to cops these days. If I go in there with my badge, everyone shuts down—but if you go in there as a fellow mortician, well . . . you know how to speak funeral.”

Kicking open the door, Roddy was out of the car—a deep blue ten-year-old Ford Mustang that Zig had bought from a client who’d passed away and whose family couldn’t afford the payments—before he could say a word.

Later, Zig would realize this was the moment he should’ve walked away. Instead, he replayed Colonel Gupta scolding him this morning. At least here, he’d be useful. Shutting the engine, he followed Roddy. Time to go to work.

Pulling open the front door, they were hit with the faint whiff of fresh cookies. Zig knew that trick but never liked it. Even in the business of death, the worst thing to sell is a lie. Strike one.

He liked it even less when no one came to greet them. As he learned in mortuary school, you never keep clients waiting on the worst day of their lives. Strike two.

“Dustin, you here?!” Zig called out.

Roddy turned, confused.

Zig pointed with his chin at the nearby framed certificate on the wall. It was in every funeral home in the country—a government document IDing the supervisor who was ultimately responsible for decedents on the premises. According to this, the local manager was someone named Dustin Genereaux III.

“Be right there!” a voice called back. In general, funeral directors were a soft-spoken bunch. This guy sounded annoyed.

Up the blue-carpeted hallway, a tall man with olive skin stepped out of a nearby office. He had dark lashes and broad shoulders, but what jumped out at Zig was his untucked button-down and stylishly faded jeans. Most funeral directors wore suits, or at least khakis. Heart or no heart? Zig was trying to be generous.

“You must be Dustin,” Zig said, extending a hand.

“And you are . . . ?” the man asked, shaking Zig’s hand but never taking his eyes off Roddy.

“We’re morticians,” Roddy blurted as Zig rolled his eyes.

Just behind Dustin, a second employee joined them in the hallway. He looked Peruvian and was built wide like a billboard—also in jeans—a bald man with sunglasses hanging from the neck of his button-down. Every funeral home had someone strong enough to do removals and lift bodies, but even more than his partner, he kept glancing around, studying the front door, like he was expecting someone else to come in.

They were both leaving the display room for caskets and urns, but as Zig couldn’t help but notice, a few of the caskets had both lids open, their satin pillows and blankets askew, like someone was fixing them up . . . or rummaging through them.

“We’re looking for someone who died. One of your clients,” Roddy blurted.

“What he’s trying to say is, we saw you were the home of record for Harry Smith. Approximately fifty-two years old. Apparently passed two days ago,” Zig explained, pulling out the photo that Roddy had given him, the driver’s license of a middle-aged man with a lopsided grin. According to the cell phone records that Roddy tracked, this funeral home was the last stop Harry made before he was stabbed two days ago at the Carousel Motel.

“You a relative?” the shorter man asked.

“Actually, a fellow funeral director . . . Jim Zigarowski, from Parkview,” Zig said, extending a handshake and referencing a town two exits over. “I represent Mr. Smith’s parents. They have a family plot that Harry apparently didn’t know about and . . . simply put, they’d love for Harry to join them there. It’s prepaid—and they’ll cover your transfer expenses of course.” It was a perfect pitch, Zig basically telling them he’d do all the work for the funeral and pay them for doing nothing. In the mortuary industry, there’s nothing better than a prepay.

“We’d be happy to help, but right now he’s still at the morgue,” the man with dark lashes replied. “The ME said his body should be coming later today. Maybe you can call us then?”

“Great. I appreciate that. By the way,” Zig added, pointing up at nothing in particular, “that smell . . . I remember it from mortuary school. That’s Nu-Deco, right?” he asked, referring to an old pungent embalming fluid from back in the ’90s.

“Yup. Nu-Deco,” Dark Lashes agreed, adding a nod as Zig headed to the door.

Confused, Roddy shot Zig a look. They still hadn’t asked abou—

Let’s go. Now, Zig said with a glance.

Still lost, Roddy followed, neither of them saying a word until they were back in the car.

“What the hell was that?” Roddy asked. “Dustin—”

“That’s not Dustin. And they aren’t morticians.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Nu-Deco—that embalming fluid I asked them about? They stopped making it decades ago. It was so strong, it used to petrify bodies.”

“You were testing them?”

“They failed,” Zig said, starting the car. “And so did you.”

“What’re you—?”

“This isn’t some random police assignment, is it?”

“Mr. Zig—”

“Don’t lie to me, Roddy, because right now, I smell bullshit. Whoever those two are, whether they paid the real mortician to take a hike, or did something worse, they’re clearly chasing something—and I’m guessing you’re chasing it too.”

“I swear to you, Mr. Zig—”

“No. I’m done. Whatever’s going on, you’re now putting me at risk, so either tell me the truth, or get out of my car and walk the hell home. Those are your options.”

Sitting in the passenger seat, Roddy stared straight ahead, blinking slowly, like his wiring was off, which it was. No doubt Roddy was different, but he wasn’t stupid. “Mr. Zig, when I was little, I had real problems. I got help with those problems—”

“Stop with the damn preamble. Say it already!”

“Mhmm,” Roddy muttered, more to himself than Zig. Still staring straight ahead, he explained, “This man who died . . . the one who was stabbed in the motel . . .”

“Harry Smith.”

“His name isn’t Harry. It’s Andrew Fechmeier—at least, I think it is. Apparently, he was one of the four . . . he’s part of it.”

“What’re you talking about? Part of what?”

Roddy turned, cocking his head like Zig was speaking Chinese. “That’s why she died, Mr. Zig. If I’m right, Fechmeier or whatever his real name is . . . he knew who killed my mother.”

3

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Twenty-six years ago

These were the last three minutes of her life.

She was going too fast, that was clear, her Volkswagen vibrating as she eyed the bridge up ahead. The Duke Bridge, everyone called it back in high school, since it looked like one of those rickety wooden bridges that cars were always jumping across in that TV show The Dukes of Hazzard.

God, she used to love that show back when she was six, with her bright blond curls, when she used to carry emergency confetti in her pocket in case something great happened. Every day, she’d be ready to throw it. Today, Daniella Brown was twenty-three, her hair faded to something the color of straw, reminding her that life wasn’t full of confetti moments.

Checking the rearview and hitting the gas, she picked up speed on the straightaway of the gravel road. Daniella wasn’t sure why the sight of the approaching bridge made her feel better—maybe because on the show, if the Duke brothers raced across the county line, they’d get away—but that was TV bullshit, wasn’t it? It’s not like cops couldn’t follow her wherever they wanted. Still, the bridge felt like a marker . . . a defined space that signaled the outer edge of town . . . a membrane that if she broke through, she’d finally be safe.

Just clear the bridge, Daniella told herself, digging her nails into the vinyl of the steering wheel, a trick she used to calm herself down. It wasn’t working.

Checking the rearview again, she replayed the call, barely a half hour ago, where she heard those words that made her feel like she was standing in an unmarked grave.

They know.

“Oh God,” she’d whispered, not even realizing she said it.

Slamming down the phone, she had no choice but to run. Get out . . . go . . . if they find you . . .

She bolted from her house so fast, the only thing she grabbed was her purse and a recent People magazine. By the time she started the Volkswagen and punched the gas, she knew it was a dumb thing to grab. She always thought if there was a fire, she’d grab the photo album, or her grandmother’s fake gold earrings, or something of value, but on this afternoon, Daniella was rushing so fast, so worried for her life, her only instinct was to grab a copy of People, thinking she’d need something to read.

She glanced over her shoulder, eyeing her chubby three-year-old twins in the backseat, with their tufts of black hair, dark eyes with flecks of gold, and matching Barney the Dinosaur sippy cups. They were all that mattered.

For half a second, Daniella had thought about dropping them at her mom’s, but . . . she couldn’t punish them like that. Besides, she’d never leave them. Their father disappeared years ago. Daniella was all they had. This was her promise—every mother’s promise: to protect them, to keep them safe.

“Everyone okay back there?” Daniella called out, shoving some extra playfulness into her voice, like they were headed to a playdate rather than a brutal disaster.

One of the kids—the girl—kicked her leg in the air. For no reason, the other dropped his sippy cup.

“Mommy’s got it,” Daniella said, reaching back to grab the cup but never taking her eyes off the Duke Bridge. She could see it in the distance, maybe a football field away. We’re gonna make it, Daniella thought.

She was wrong.

The car hit sixty as she lowered the armrest, patting the backseat for the sippy cup. It rolled just out of her reach, both twins reading their mom’s frustration, suddenly looking like they were about to cry. They didn’t—they rarely cried—which always made Daniella worry something was wrong with them. Right now, though, that was a problem for another day.

Two and a half minutes to go.

She was approaching seventy as she blew past a thick hemlock tree with a rusty metal sign nailed to it for Pinway, the town’s local bowling alley.

At just the sight of it, Daniella thought about her bowling party there when she was eight. Those were the easy days, before her parents’ divorce, before the fight with her mom, before that night at the drive-in where . . . No. Nothing good came from replaying that.

Instead, as the metal sign disappeared behind her, Daniella pictured a newer version of herself, a better version. Maybe all this—the running and hiding—maybe it could be a blessing, a chance for a do-over, an opportunity to finally throw some confett—

PMMMMP.

A flat tire, she thought.

It wasn’t.

In police slang, they call it a stinger, though its proper name is a spike strip—a metal contraption that cops expand across the road like an accordion, to stop speeding cars by puncturing their tires with steel spikes.

Daniella never saw it. She was glancing backward during the impact, to find the stupid Barney sippy cup.

When the tires popped—all four at once—she spun back to the steering wheel, gripping it tight, as if she still had any say in where the car was going.

The wheels locked.

The car started to skid.

The car was on the road. The car was off the road. The car was heading toward a drainage ditch that ran parallel to the road and was filled with water.

That’s how fast it happened.

The car stopped with an unforgiving crunch, a brutal rending of steel, glass, plastic, and bone. The world went black, a burst of silver fireworks.

Daniella blinked again, and the airbag was in her face. There were pebbles of glass in her hair, on her arms. The front windshield was shattered. She’d hit something . . . a rock, a tree . . . she had no idea. The world was ringing, but in that groggy space between fighting and acquiescence, she noticed how quiet it was.

Then this thought: The kids. Why aren’t they crying? They should be crying!

Daniella frantically tried to turn, to shove the airbag out of the way, but a ribbon of pain shot through her fingers . . . Mother of God! . . . her wrists were broken . . . her hands dangling like a T. rex.

Two minutes to go.

“B-Boo-bears, you there?! Boo-bears!” she screamed.

No one answered. She was fighting now, desperate, but as the pain set in, she couldn’t find leverage, couldn’t find her grip, everything suddenly slippery . . . Don’t! Don’t pass out! she told herself.

Clawing at her seat belt, she tried to undo it, but her fingers wouldn’t listen, nothing was working right . . . My kids! She twisted her body, like she was trying to leap out of it. It shouldn’t be this quiet . . . ! They should be crying! Then it hit her . . . It wasn’t quiet.

Outside was a crunch of leaves. Someone coming.

Police called it a stinger, but police weren’t the only ones who could get their hands on one.

Ninety seconds to go.

“You need a doctor,” a familiar voice called through the passenger window, which had a broken branch sticking through its shards.

Daniella’s heart went jagged. She turned to follow the sound, and it was the first moment she realized the car was tipped forward in a ditch, the front corner of the hood underwater.

On her right, someone pushed the branch aside and leaned through the open window. “Daniella, I think you have something of mine—”

“I-I don’t—! I didn’t—!” The tears streamed from her eyes, her heart jabbing harder than ever. “I-I-I wasn’t the one who took it!”

“All you have to do is return it—”

“I WASN’T THE ONE WHO TOOK IT!” she exploded, shards of glass falling from her hair as she fought for a look at the backseat. “Th-That night . . . You know that . . . I wasn’t the one who took it! I swear to you . . . I swear on everything!”

The person looked over their shoulder, to someone Daniella couldn’t see. Someone else was there, at the top of the embankment.

Thirty seconds.

“Please! Check my car . . . look . . . look through my stuff!” Daniella insisted, pointing with her chin, feeling something sharp in her mouth. Her front teeth were chipped, and that coppery taste . . . it was blood . . . “Check! I got nothing but a People magazine!”

Her attacker glanced down at the glossy mag, which had Patrick Swayze on the cover.

“If I had it, you really think I’d run?” she added. “I’d sell it back . . . blackmail you . . . blackmail everyone for top dollar!”

Her attacker thought about that, still leaning through the window. “I believe you, Daniella.”

“You do . . . ?”

It was the last question she’d ever ask.

In one quick movement, a pistol appeared.

Ftt. Ftt.

Two shots. Both to the head.

Daniella’s body slumped sideways, collapsing into the remnants of the deflated airbag.

Two down in their so-called Breakfast Club. Just a few more to go.

“Put her in the water,” a man’s voice called from the top of the embankment.

It was a good idea. The more it looked like a car crash, the fewer questions there’d be. But as he crossed around to the driver’s side, something moved in the backseat.

“Um . . . you see that?”

“What’re y—?”

“In the backseat . . . her kids. I thought she left them with her mom.”

Stepping down from the embankment, the man pulled his own pistol.

“Don’t. We’re not killing kids.”

“But you said—”

“They’re kids. Put it away.”

Nodding like he wasn’t even considering it, the man holstered his gun. Through the window, he took one last look in back, at the matching car seats, where the three-year-old twins—Nola and Roddy—were no longer unconscious, just beginning to stir, beginning to cry. “What if they—?”

“Just grab the damn car seats. They’re barely potty-trained,” his associate said. “What’re they gonna possibly do to us?”

4

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

“Wait, you think your mother was murdered?”

“I know she was murdered,” Roddy insisted.

“I thought you and Nola never met her,” Zig said from the driver’s seat, still parked in front of the funeral home.

“Mr. Zig, when I was three years old, a Filipino nurse named Nene stepped out of the emergency room at the end of her shift and nearly tripped over two car seats that someone had left propped up against a bench outside. From there, caseworkers sent us to the first of many group homes.”

“You actually remember that?”

“I was three. I remember nothing except my mom having blond hair. Sometimes I think I remember her laugh, but . . . I’m not sure that’s real,” Roddy said, his voice flat as he stared out the front windshield at a woman walking a wrinkly bulldog across the street. “When I was seven, a particularly thoughtless foster mom mentioned that my real mom was murdered. I didn’t believe it—I figured you’d feel something like that, right? But when I first got my badge, I couldn’t help myself, and I tracked down the police report. Apparently, the morning after we were left at the hospital, a woman named Daniella Brown—my birth mom—was found on the edge of town, in the front seat of her car, after shooting herself in the head. The file was open and shut, a clear suicide.”

“Let me guess—you found something in the autopsy that made it not so clear.”

“They didn’t order one, which is pretty typical for small towns back then. But what did jump out was the only other sheet of paper in the file—a bill from the local towing company. Apparently, when they found her, her car was in a ditch with four flat tires, which means my birth mom either tried to kill herself by driving into that ditch, then somehow decided to shoot herself in the head . . . or she shot herself while driving and then crashed into a ditch. You’ve seen your share of suicides, Mr. Zig. If you’re planning to end your life, do either of those sound like reasonable ways to do it?”

Zig sat there a moment, eyeing the woman and her bulldog across the street. Lowering its butt, the bulldog took a thick dump in the middle of the sidewalk. The woman, in her late seventies and wearing ancient bright yellow Sony Walkman headphones, had a poop bag tied to the leash, but didn’t stop to scoop it up. Instead, she kept walking.

It reminded Zig of something he’d just read, that anyone who thinks small towns are friendlier than big cities lives in a big city.

“I assume you tried tracking down the officer who wrote the report?”

“Officer Jonathan Bratter. Died from ALS a few years back. Horrible way to go. Otherwise, my birth mom didn’t have any relatives, besides her own mom, who had a heart attack a few years later. It was the same with those DNA tests, which gave me some third cousins who never even heard of our branch of the family. It was all dead ends; I had no choice but to let it go. Then a few years back, on Mother’s Day of course, I was clicking through the internet and found a site that digitizes old high school yearbooks. Look Up Old Classmates! I hated my classmates, Mr. Zig, and I hated even more what I did to some of them, but it was Mother’s Day, so . . .”

“You put in your mom’s name.”

“Just to see her photo. It was dated and awkward—everyone looks so weird in high school—”

“Roddy, just tell me what you found.”

From his jacket pocket, Roddy pulled out a square of paper that looked like it’d been folded and refolded a thousand times. Zig opened it, revealing a printed-out photo from a yearbook—in a cafeteria, two girls, two boys. The girl in front had stringy blond hair, a sly smile, and was wearing a Green Day concert tee while holding up an apple. Next to her was a nerdy boy with oversized glasses that were outdated even back then and who was pointing to a carton of chocolate milk like it was art. It was the type of photo that’s in every yearbook, kids mugging for the camera, the two in back with french fries in their mouths. The caption box read: “Daniella Brown, P.K. Runyon, Ivy Munn, and Andrew Fechmeier love lunch!!”

“I don’t believe double exclamation points are ever necessary,” Roddy said.

Zig barely heard the words. He was too busy staring at the handwritten notations below the photo: four bright red X’s—one next to each name.

- Daniella Brown
- P.K. Runyon
- Ivy Munn
- Andrew Fechmeier

“Roddy, what’re the X’s for?”

“I keep thinking about that little air bubble in a carpenter’s level, Mr. Zig. How it occupies no space but is the most important part.”

“Roddy—!”

“After high school, all four of them went their separate ways—to Drexel University . . . to junior college . . . P.K. went to work at his dad’s boating business down on the Jersey Shore. Until, on June 2, at twenty-three years old, he’s found dead in a freak boating accident.”

“Hold on. This kid P.K. is dead too?”

“Three weeks after that, on June 21, my birth mother, Daniella Brown, was found dead by suicide. And when I went looking for Ivy Munn and Andrew Fechmeier, by July of that same year . . . poof . . . I can’t find a thing. No tax records, death records, any records. Driver’s licenses in their old names haven’t been renewed since they were kids. It’s like they disappeared off the planet.”

“You think they’re dead too or just hiding?” Zig asked.

“On my job, I chase people who don’t want to be found. Most aren’t very good at it, which left me not knowing what to think. Back then, P.K. was living by the shore, so the local cops there had no reason to link his death with my mom’s. After all this time, all I could do was put a pin in the system,” he said, referring to the tech that police use so they’re notified if one of their witnesses gets pulled over or in trouble. “A year goes by and nothing, then another and another until . . .”

“Two days ago, when Andrew Fechmeier shows up here,” Zig said, glancing back at the funeral home, Fechmeier’s last stop before he was killed at the Carousel Motel. “A third murder.”

“Quite a coincidence, right? Though maybe I have it all wrong, and I’m overreacting, Mr. Zig. Maybe this has nothing to do with my mom, and after hiding for so long, maybe Fechmeier just came here for some human interaction.”

Zig glanced down at the old cafeteria photo from the yearbook, of the four high school friends smiling wide. Daniella Brown, P.K. Runyon, Ivy Munn, and Andrew Fechmeier love lunch!! Three down; one still missing.

If Zig wanted to walk away, this was the moment to do it. Even in the best-case scenario, nothing good comes from picking at old wounds. The problem was, Zig wasn’t so good at walking away, especially from Roddy, but—to his surprise—even more so from Nola. In addition to saving his daughter’s life, a few years back she saved Zig’s as well. That had to count for something.

Staring down at the photo, Zig studied each of the victims, but his eyes kept shifting over to the blond girl with the sly grin and Green Day concert tee. “You could’ve told me this was about your mom.”

“I don’t want your pity, Mr. Zig. I just needed some help with the funeral home.”

Zig nodded, still eyeing the yearbook photo, doing that thing you do when you meet someone’s parents, trying to spot the family resemblance. “Your sister know about this?”

Roddy made a noise, like a grunt. Nola was clear she wanted nothing to do with Roddy—or Zig. Over the past few months, Zig had called her multiple times. She never called back. A few weeks ago, when he went to check her trailer, she was gone. These days, he had no idea where she was living, making Zig wonder if that’s why he was suddenly so interested in this case—because it would help him reconnect with her? God, when did he become so sentimental?

“Talk to me about this newest victim, from the motel,” Zig said, pointing to the nerdy kid in the yearbook photo.

“Andrew Fechmeier.”

“Any idea why he was calling himself Harry Smith and using a fake name?”

“Not just using a fake name. According to the fingerprints I pulled from the police report, he’d been hiding—for decades.”

“So the other girl in this photo . . .”

“Ivy Munn,” Roddy said, motioning to the auburn-haired girl with the french fry in her mouth. The only one still potentially alive.

“Any leads on her?”

“That’s the question. If we’re lucky, she’s still out there. But in my experience, when people hide that long, they’re usually running from something that’s worth running from.”

Zig glanced across the parking lot, at the only other car there, a frost-blue Dodge Challenger, the kind of muscle car that didn’t exactly scream funeral home employee.

“You really don’t think they’re morticians?” Roddy asked.

“Easy enough to find out. You still have those trackers?”

Roddy smiled one of his awkward smiles. From his wallet, he took out a thin metal object the size of a half-dollar: GPS transmitter.

Twenty minutes later, the front door to the funeral home opened. The two “morticians”—Dark Lashes and Peruvian Bald Man—both still in jeans, cautiously stepped outside, scanning the otherwise empty parking lot and heading for their frost-blue car. Dark Lashes had an olive three-day assault go-bag slung over his shoulder. Peruvian Bald Man was doing a full sweep, checking all the angles.

Convinced they were alone, Dark Lashes pulled out an ancient flip phone, inserted a battery, and dialed a number he knew by heart.

It rang three times before someone answered.

Dark Lashes didn’t say a word into the phone. Instead, he hit the star button on the keypad three times. Simple code: Headed to you now.

Sliding into their Dodge Challenger, they checked their respective side mirrors and tore out of the parking lot.

They had no idea that half a mile away, Roddy and Zig could see their location on an iPad screen and were trailing behind them.

5

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Ten minutes ago

He was thinking of Bimini again, of that reef twenty miles south of Cat Cay.

He was there a few months back, to celebrate his fiftieth, with a friend who tried to coax him onto the dance floor in a crappy techno club by telling him modern dancing is easy—just sign your name in the air with your ass.

Not a terrible way to live, though not nearly as good as what his doctor told him before his recent colonoscopy. Don’t hoard stuff. Hoard time.

Crossing the street and readjusting his construction hat and fluorescent vest, the man known as Fish headed toward his best piece of equipment, which looked like a telescope but was what highway workers called an auto level. Actually, that’s what it was meant to resemble. In reality, it was simply an ancient handheld JVC camcorder on a tripod. But for Fish, the makeshift “auto level” was the perfect way to stay camouflaged. Even on a busy street, no one looks twice at a construction worker.

For the past few hours now, he lingered along Aparo Avenue, heading to the mailbox at the corner, then back past the Asian nail place, then back again to his camcorder, pretending to work while eyeing every angle of the modern white building across the street. In bad movies and TV shows, people spy from a well-placed van, but the first rule of surveillance was no different from the first rule of fishing: if you want to nab the big one, staying mobile will always give you more options.

“Hey riddle-riddle! Why do folks hate playing poker in the jungle?” a man called out.

Fish didn’t bother to turn. Up the block was a homeless man wearing flip-flops and a faded Washington Nationals baseball jersey. Fish spotted him hours ago, selling jokes outside the local church. Called himself Lenny Deuce.

“Too many cheetahs!” Deuce announced, laughing a huffy laugh that reminded Fish of the hyenas in The Lion King. “That’s ya free one. Next one’ll cost ya a quarter . . . or a dolla if ya got it—but that’s cheap for happiness, yeah?”

Fish kept his back to Deuce, pretending to peer through his makeshift level. For most people, that was enough of a hint to stay away.

“Hey riddle-riddle! What’d the janitor say when he jumped outta the closet?” Deuce called, now heading Fish’s way. “‘Supplies!’ That’s my final freebie. Bet you thought it was some gay joke, right? Comin’ outta the closet?”

In the small of his back, Fish wore a Buck fillet knife in scout carry, parallel to his belt. It was his favorite blade, strong enough to cut through a line, or bait . . . or, as he learned, even through bone if you applied enough pressure.

“Hey riddle-riddle! What kinda tea is hard to swallow?” Deuce asked, extending a hand like he was looking for a tip. “Y’hear me, big fella?”

Fish’s eyes slid sideways, the rage rising in his chest. His head turned slowly away from the camcorder, revealing a crooked nose and stunning blueish gray eyes that drilled through Deuce, showing him something ancient, a place Deuce didn’t want to be.

“I-I . . . it’s okay if you don’t like jokes . . .” Deuce hedged.

Fish continued to stare with a look that felt like a kind of death.

Diagonally across the street, a single car turned the corner, heading for the parking lot of the stark white building that Fish had been watching.

Fish reached for the fillet knife at the small of his back, his fingertips touching the handle . . .

“You have a blessed day!” Deuce called out, already gone, speedwalking up the block toward the church.

Letting go of his knife, Fish shifted his weight, making it look like he was just reaching for his wallet. Readjusting his hard hat, he glanced around and scanned the block, checking for bystanders, then looked back in his camcorder toward the white building. What kinda tea is hard to swallow? Reality, he thought to himself. Heh. That’s not terrible.

His real name was Philip. It was his grandfather, Papa Boyd, who first started calling him Fish, during a trip to Shagawa Lake in Minnesota. He promised they’d go back when Fish turned sixteen—a kind gesture that was quickly revealed as a lie when Papa Boyd was shot in the head in a supermarket parking lot in what authorities said was a random drive-by. It was the fifth worst moment in Fish’s life, sending him on a path toward his fourth worst, and his third as well.

Still, all these years later, Papa Boyd’s advice held true. Fishing wasn’t a sport. It was about water movement and structure. Learn to read the water, and you’ll find those spots where two currents collide. That’s where fish tend to congregate.

Across the street, the arriving car parked in front of the white building. Two men got out—one in his late forties, one younger—both checking over their shoulder. Based on the bulge in the younger one’s jacket, he was the one carrying. Posture was solid, shined shoes—maybe a fed, more likely a cop.

Through the video camera, Fish zoomed in to read the car’s license plate. Pennsylvania plates. A quick internet search did the rest.

Dialing a number he’d known for decades, Fish let it ring, still watching the parking lot.

Maybe he could get in a few casts tonight, he thought, picturing his old spot on the Chesapeake just a few miles away. Arrow Rock was built as a port town, until bigger towns with actual beaches took away the tourists. Not that he minded. Spring was arriving. On late April nights like tonight, at dusk, the stripers really came out, striking aggressively. People forget nearly all fish are predators. He’d seen it over and over, one fish trying to eat another half its size. Had to admire gall like that.

“Tell me something good,” a voice answered through the phone.

“You were right,” Fish replied. “Someone showed. Someone new.”

“How new?”

Fish looked across the street, to the white building with the frosted glass windows—Generaux & Sons Funeral Home. Out front, the older of the two men—the driver of the car—held the door for the other as they both took one last look around, convinced all was clear.

“Jim Zigarowski,” Fish read from onscreen. “Ring any bells?”

His associate didn’t answer, which was the only answer Fish needed.

“Got it. On it,” Fish said, shutting his phone.

As Zig and Roddy disappeared inside, Fish packed up his tripod and slid it into the backseat of his car, which was parked farther up one of the side streets. Reaching for his fillet knife, he headed toward the building . . . until the front door opened again, and Zig and Roddy raced outside.

Fish stayed where he was, pretending to window-shop. Something clearly went wrong for their visit to be that short.

Twenty minutes later, the doors opened again, revealing the two funeral home employees. Unbeknownst to them, Zig and Roddy were right behind, though unbeknownst to Zig and Roddy, so was Fish.

Still thinking about those stripers in the Chesapeake, he couldn’t help but once again recall Papa Boyd’s advice all those years ago: You want to catch the bigger fish? Just bring the right bait.

6

Twin Falls, Pennsylvania

Nola wasn’t great at relaxing.

She was sketching, trying to stay out of sight—in a church of all places—tucked into the last pew, her hand a blur as her charcoal pencil flitted across the page.

“Sorry, sorry . . . welcome!” said Reverend Ned, a chubby fortysomething man with a cheery grin, weak red beard, and a habit of leading with apologies, as if it were some form of endearment. “Forgive me . . . come in, come in!”

He was motioning to a family of three Ukrainian refugees—the Kovalenkos—Mom, Dad, and a four-year-old son, whom the father was cradling like a baby. At first glance, you’d think they were pampering him, but Nola spotted how thin the boy’s legs were, slanted lifelessly over Dad’s arms. Disabled. Either too poor or too new an injury to have a wheelchair. Nola had sketched them before, a hasty rendering that didn’t quite capture the fear on the boy’s face.

On that first night, as they were ushered to the basement, the mother gripped the handrail, terrified about going downstairs. Thanks to Google Translate, it became clear that back in Ukraine, they hid in a basement when Russian bombings nearly killed them. Reverend Ned tried to reassure them—but it didn’t work until they saw the pancake supper and pool table that were waiting downstairs.

That night, Nola spent nearly an hour sketching the boy, trying to capture his crooked teeth, pencil-thin legs, and the wary skepticism on his face as he clutched the pool table’s orange 5 ball like a talisman the entire night. Today, though, he was all excitement.

“I got your favorite . . .” Reverend Ned said, pulling out a yellow Starburst and offering it to the boy, who grabbed it like it was the key to the whole damn chocolate factory.

Nola didn’t like drawing families. She liked drawing kids even less. But that was the job.

A few months back, the Brandywine River Museum of Art put out a call for local artists. Nola ignored it, but one of their curators saw her sketching in a bar and asked her to document the work that local churches had been doing over the past few years resettling Ukrainian refugees.

Nola needed the money. It wasn’t more complex than that. Though that wasn’t the only reason she was here. Indeed, as she sat here now, waiting in the back pew and spotting the perfect shaft of sunlight cutting through the sanctuary, Nola had to admit she’d been thinking about this boy and his parents, wondering if they were coming . . . wondering about the dad and the way one of his eyelids drooped—definitely an old injury—and wondering about the red silk scarf that the mom always had tied to the strap of her purse. There was definitely a story behind it.

As Nola sketched the scarf from memory, a set of embroidered initials appeared on her notepad just as they appeared on the scarf: RG. Different last name from Kovalenko. A gift. Or a hand-me-down. From her own mom . . . or someone else.

Even as a little girl, when Nola was drawing, she saw things—things she had no idea were there. When her pencil hit the page, a full image appeared. Her art teacher, Ms. Sable, called it a gift. Army psychologists saw it as a more practical asset, selecting her to be the Army’s Artist-in-Residence.

Since World War I, the Army has had an artist—an actual painter—on staff to document everything from the beaches of Normandy and Vietnam, to 9/11 and COVID. With Nola’s ability to find things as she painted—like an elderly Iraqi man on a bicycle—she could see what others overlooked, like the can of Sprite he was holding. On that day in Iraq, Nola looked up mid-brushstroke. The village didn’t sell Sprite or promote any American products. Pulling her gun and shooting the man in the throat, she confirmed that the Sprite can he was holding was actually a grenade.

According to her supervisors, Nola saved half a dozen lives that day. Soon enough, the Army realized that her observational skills were something they could use to hunt and kill those who did harm in this world, which was fine by Nola, since, my God, she excelled at that.

Back during her first assignments, her supervisors warned her not to get emotionally involved with a subject. Was that happening here? Doubtful. Nola didn’t suddenly develop some maudlin attachment to a Ukrainian boy who still couldn’t figure out that yellow is the worst color Starburst.

Yet as they entered the sanctuary and Nola’s pencil flittered to a new page of the sketchbook, trying to re-create the contours of the boy in mid-Starburst-chew, she couldn’t help but think that over these past few weeks, the drawings she’d been doing of these refugee families . . . the shading, the crosshatching . . . it was better, more expressive, opening her up in a way that caught her off guard.

Glancing sideways from the sketchpad, Nola stared at the Kovalenko family, who were passing around the empty wrapper from the yellow Starburst, each of them sniffing it and comically acting like they were smelling a bouquet of roses.

Sometimes in life, you see the bars of the cage, and sometimes you see the gaps between them.

In Iraq, Afghanistan, and so much of her life, Nola saw the bars. But here—

“Sorry, sorry . . . don’t mean to get in the way . . .” a voice whispered.

Nola turned just as Reverend Ned blew by her, heading behind the last pew.

There was something hidden back there, the Reverend rummaging, then a metal clanking sound as he pulled out . . .

A wheelchair. It was small, child-sized, brand-new.

“Got it donated!” the Reverend whispered, smiling wide, his red beard looking even spottier up close. “Wasn’t even hard, since . . . y’know, there’s no business like sick-kid business.” Rolling the wheelchair backward and blocking it with his body, he did his best to keep the Kovalenkos from seeing it.

“Here’s your money shot,” he whispered to Nola. “Make a painting of this, and you’ll fund the museum for a year.”

That’s not how it works, Nola was about to say, but she never got the words out.

Her phone started vibrating. Caller ID showed her the FBI prefix. Bad news for sure.

“What’s wrong?” Nola answered.

“Your brother,” a female voice replied. “I finally figured out what he’s up to.”

7

Annapolis, Maryland

The ride took over an hour, crisscrossing through Maryland, to a brick-front building with a triangular awning that seemed oddly familiar.

“Roddy, does that look like an old Howard Johnson’s to you?”

“What’s a Howard Johnson’s?” Roddy asked from the passenger seat.

Zig turned and made a face. “Don’t say stuff like that. It physically hurts me.”

Today, the brick façade was painted white, and somehow they added a second story, the whole thing an island of misfit architecture. There was no sign out front, just a red-and-yellow poster in the window:

Parliament Languages

Learn Spanish, French, German, Finnish

Any Foreign Language in 6 Weeks!

“Do morticians usually have a flair for being multilingual?” Roddy asked.

Zig laughed, but Roddy didn’t mean it as a joke. He was serious, shifting in his seat, clearly impatient.

According to the tracker, the Dodge Challenger was parked around back. Zig took a spot in front, better to get a lay of the land.

To the untrained eye, nothing looked out of place—the building was sandwiched between a used-car dealership on the left and a Wendy’s on the right, both of them managing the stragglers of their respective lunchtime rushes. But as Zig scanned the building, he spotted the cameras: one in the awning, one at the entrance . . .

“Up top as well,” Roddy said, pointing to the corner of the second floor. They were all relatively basic—commercial grade, nothing high-tech—but three security cameras for a business that sold Spanish lessons?

With a click, Roddy chambered a round in his gun, slid his badge to the center of his belt, and reached for the car door.

“Whoawhoawhoa,” Zig said, grabbing his shoulder.

In a blur, Roddy spun, slapping Zig’s hand away. His eyes were dark, ready to attack, but within a half second, he was already apologizing. “Mr. Zig, I didn’t mean t—”

“It’s okay.”

“I was just— When people touch me—”

“Roddy, we’re good. Take a breath,” Zig said, nodding over and over until Roddy was nodding with him. “I know what this case means to you—”

“You don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” Roddy said. “What you had with your daughter . . . that was a tragedy, no question . . . but you had twelve years together before she was gone. With my mom, I had none, Mr. Zig. Or at least none that I remember.”

Zig sat there a moment, knowing Roddy was right. It was the first rule of mortician school: you can never understand someone’s grief. “All I’m saying is, if you want answers, maybe it’s better if we start subtle,” Zig suggested. “Let me go in first—”

“I’m not sure that’s best.”

“C’mon, Roddy, have you seen this charm?” Zig asked, pointing at his own face. “This is professional-grade handsomeness, boss level. For all we know, there’s a logical explanation.”

“And if there’s not?”

“Then you bring the hammer. At least this way, you’ll watch my back and keep me safe.”

Roddy wanted to argue, but he knew it made sense. Only a fool goes in without backup.

“You know this may not have anything to do with your mom, right?” Zig asked as he shoved open the car door.

Roddy stayed silent, still holding his gun in his lap. “Five minutes. Then I’m coming in.”

Approaching the brick building, Zig couldn’t help but wonder if Roddy was overreacting. Then he gave a push to the front door. It didn’t budge. Locked.

As Zig squinted through the glass, there was a low vibration and a thunk, the door giving way as they buzzed him in, reminding Zig of that high-end jewelry store where he bought his ex that diamond tennis bracelet.

“You need me to sign something?” a male voice called out in an accent Zig couldn’t place.

Behind a black-draped welcome counter that looked like something out of a trade show sat a young, mustached Armenian man in his late twenties, thin like a straw, wearing bright orange Crocs, which should’ve been Zig’s first hint. How can you trust a grown man in Crocs?

He had a fragile look about him, like an accountant, but somehow he radiated strength, pulling out his earbuds and eyeing Zig with brownish green eyes, the color of a toad.

At funerals, when the sobbing started, Zig would sometimes try to feel the dead, feel their life force. It never worked. But walking in here, he could feel that this was a place he wasn’t supposed to be.

“Hola, merci, and shalom!” Zig announced, keeping things extra schmoozy. “I’d love to learn how to say You’re a handsome devil in five different languages, please.”

“I take it you’re not the Amazon delivery guy,” the Armenian said, sounding disappointed, tapping one of his earbuds like a tiny gavel. Tk, tk, tk.

“Just a paying customer,” Zig said, getting a quick lay of the land.

Behind the welcome counter were a handful of desks, each with an outdated Dell computer but with no picture frames, no personal effects, and no sign of the two men from the funeral home.

“If it helps, I’ll learn handsome devil in six languages, but only if one of them is Klingon,” Zig added.

The Armenian rolled his eyes, turning his phone facedown on the counter. On the back of his phone case was a faded sticker that read every time you talk, i hear that sound that plays when pac-man dies. “I’m about to leave for lunch. You need a class?”

“That’s me. I need class,” Zig said, eyeing the tiered display stand that held dozens of brochures—Learn Spanish! Learn French! Learn Farsi! Most of the pamphlets were faded from the sun and sagging forward, like extended tongues. “A friend told me you had a fantastic Spanish teacher, but I can’t remember his name. If you have an employee list, I’m sure I’d recognize it.”

“Actually, our Spanish class is full.”

“I meant French.”

“French is full too.”

Zig forced a grin. “What about Italian?”

The man glanced at his computer, squinting, like he was looking at something onscreen, but not really. “Sorry.”

Zig rolled his tongue inside his cheek, studying the Armenian. From the nearby display stand, Zig pulled out three brochures—Portuguese, Arabic, Romanian—and fanned them across the counter, along with his phone and car keys, directly in front of his host. “I take it these are full too?”

The Armenian tapped his earbud against the counter and smiled, his mustache curling, his lips still shut. “It’s just that time of year. Wish I could be more help.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to be a pest, so maybe we can just be kind and rewind a moment, yeah? I know it’s hard to tell, but I’m an extremely nice person . . . like so nice that even those bratty little kids that no one likes to babysit for? They adore me,” Zig said, leaning both elbows on the counter and putting his phone and keys in a neat pile, like he was sharing a secret between friends. “I know you’re trying to race out for lunch, but here’s the honest truth: In two weeks, I’m visiting my favorite cousins in Barcelona, and they told me that one of your employees is the single best tutor they’ve ever had. If I had his name, I’d gladly share it, but I know he drives a blue Dodge Challenger w—”

“I think we’re done now, sir.”

“What’re you—?”

“We’re done,” the Armenian said, scratching at his mustache. “You have a good day now, sir.”

Annoyed, but working hard not to show it, Zig turned back toward the door.

“By the way, don’t forget these,” the Armenian called out, waving Zig’s phone and car keys, which Zig had left on the counter. “You have a great day, sir,” he added, putting his earbuds back in.

Outside, Zig beelined for his car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Hand me a bag,” he asked Roddy.

“What’re you—?”

“There . . . inside . . .” Zig said, pointing to the glove compartment as Roddy flipped it open, revealing a stack of industrial-strength Ziploc bags stamped with the name of Zig’s old funeral home, to hold personal effects for clients.

“Mr. Zig, what’s going on?”

“We’re about to find out.” Zig opened one of the bags and dropped his phone inside. “By the way, did I mention that no matter how many Hollywood stars wear them, the mustache should never come back? And neither should Crocs.”

“You purposefully left your phone behind so he’d put his fingerprints on it, didn’t you?”

Zig handed the bag to Roddy. “Just run the prints.”

8

Denning, New York

Last night

It was supposed to be the perfect place to hide.

Tucked away at the top of a hill upstate, it used to be an old summer camp, which became an abandoned camp, which became a developer’s nightmare since there was only a one-lane private dirt road to get there.

Naturally, locals weren’t happy when a religious group came to look at the land.

They were even less happy when all 134 acres were bought by an organization known as Haruspex, LLC, named after the religious official in ancient Rome who interpreted omens by inspecting the carcasses of sacrificial animals.

At the local zoning board, an optimistic city councilman said they’d be harmless.

Within days, a barbed-wire fence went up, along with a guard tower, which was quickly identified as a gun tower once it was covered with signs that read trespassers will be shot.

Neighbors called it a cult. The founder, an elusive bald and bearded man known as Richard P. Flowers, called it the Heavenly Meadows Commune. To the congregants though, it was always known as The School.

For locals, the gossip came quick, especially when word got out that Richard P. Flowers was a failed marketing exec who now demanded that everyone call him The Herald.

One rumor called it a reincarnation cult where everyone shaved their heads and wore pale blue robes. Another said it was more religious, twisting together bits of Ayn Rand and the Bible, seeing The Herald as their prophet and embracing self-flagellation and public confession. The craziest said it was like NXIVM, adding some delusions from the ’60s and telling followers they were high-ranking Nazis in a former life and that if they had yogic sex with The Herald, it’d cleanse their dark energy.

None of it was true. No one was walking around with glazed, faraway looks—though like every cult out there, from Jim Jones to the Branch Davidians, one detail was an absolute fact: Their leader made a promise.

Richard P. Flowers, aka The Herald, was not a stupid man. And though it’s easy to judge cult followers from afar, according to social scientists, there is no “typical” cult member. They’re certainly not dumber or more gullible than anyone else. As a recent documentary pointed out, Nobody joins a cult. They join a good thing, and then they realize they’ve got a brand-new problem.

That’s how it was for Ivy Munn, who joined Heavenly Meadows two decades ago, though that problem paled in comparison to the one that was coming.

“Helloooo . . . Anybody home?” Ivy whispered, poking her head into the small bungalow that doubled as the library.

It was well past curfew—of course no one was there—everyone knew the rules . . . and what happened if you broke them.

Born in the suburbs of St. Louis, then moving to Maryland when she was two, Ivy was raised by a pastor dad and a hairdresser mom, who did Ivy’s hair every morning in the newest and fanciest styles since she believed to her core that if you follow God and start every day with something beautiful, your day can’t be bad. It was good advice, until Mom neglected going to the doctor to check the lump in her throat, and Dad thought it would be enough to pray on it.

Nine months later, on a breathtaking Christmas morning that was supposed to start with a lattice braid, Ivy found her mom unconscious from the thyroid cancer that would kill her, teaching ten-year-old Ivy the one lesson that would repeat over and over throughout her life: the moment you think things are going well is when life punches hardest.

A decade later, on that night at the drive-in, she’d kick herself when a surefire opportunity presented itself and she didn’t see it for what it was. She couldn’t blame it on adrenaline. She knew what she was doing. By the end of the night, as the sirens were approaching, Ivy and her friends had no choice but to run . . . as fast and far as they could, armed with the two things that every person who joins a cult has—a personal crisis . . . and the need for a solution.

Her dad would’ve called it divine intervention, and for the first time, silly as it sounded, she thought he might be right. Whatever the cause, they were introduced to The Herald, who, for decades now, fed them, took care of them, and gave them the perfect place to hide. But the most valuable gift he offered was the one thing Ivy never had in her old life. Peace.

It took years—decades really—before she stopped looking over her shoulder, convinced that they’d eventually find her. Here, at Heavenly Meadows, Ivy learned to breathe again, to live again. Indeed, these past few years—where even she couldn’t believe the joy she found tending Garden #4 and culling brown rot from the tart cherry trees—had been the most peaceful and rewarding of her life.

“Helloooo . . . Last chance for me to catch you doing untoward stuff, like googling old girlfriends’ houses on Zillow. Rog, that means you . . .” Ivy teased, squinting through the dark, knowing better than to turn on the lights.

If she had a phone, this’d be easier, but as The Herald warned, no good comes from that.

“I mean it, Rog. Final warning . . .”

No response. She was definitely alone. So far, so good.

Heading for the oak desk in the corner, she flicked on the old Compaq computer that was supposed to be used only for emergencies.

As the hard drive whirred to life, she caught her own reflection in the monitor. The dark bags under her eyes, the spiderweb of gray that had all but taken over her dark, spiky hair. Decades ago, on the day she arrived, they buzzed her hair short—though what used to give her a Joan Jett vibe now made her look like a woman in a yogurt ad. God, life doesn’t just take a toll—it takes everything.

Grabbing the clunky, oversized mouse, she waited until precisely 11:19 p.m. to go online.

That was the time they agreed on: 11:19 p.m.

She didn’t plan on logging on for long—just a minute, to check Instagram, or more specifically, to check a user named @doggydogworld27.

“Hope you have a great one, everybody!” Doggydogworld27 posted two nights ago at 11:19 p.m., along with a cute photo of a brown dachshund.

Doggydogworld27 posted the same thing the day before, also at 11:19 p.m., under a photo of an adorable bichon puppy.

“Hope you have a great one, everybody!”

It was a nod to an old WWII numbers station, where seemingly random numbers were broadcast on the radio at the same time every day. If you knew the right time and the cipher, you’d crack the code and get the message. To everyone else, it was gibberish.

“Hope you have a great one, everybody!” Doggydogworld27 was supposed to write at 11:19 p.m. under a new dog photo, a way of telling Ivy, Everything is fine and I’m safe.

Doggydogworld27—aka fellow Heavenly Meadows member Andrew Fechmeier—wrote it three days ago.

And two days ago.

But at this moment, as Ivy Munn clicked to the familiar Instagram profile . . .

Nothing.

She hit Refresh.

Still nothing.

As a teenager, after her mom died, Ivy was so convinced that more misery was coming, she started clenching her teeth. It got so bad, she cracked her left molar, and the dentist gave her a bite guard.

Yesterday, she told herself not to panic. But tonight, hitting Refresh another half dozen times, Ivy felt that familiar pain in her back tooth. It was 11:24 p.m. Still nothing from Doggydogworld27.

She tried to tell herself all was fine, but she knew the truth—if he wasn’t answering . . .

Fetch was in trouble—most likely dead.

Later, she’d wonder if she should’ve cried at this moment. Instead, she sat there, her jaw tensing as blood flushed her ears. Her first reaction wasn’t sadness. It was anger.

If they’d tracked down Fetch, she knew they’d come for her next.

For years, Ivy was sure this day would arrive. The Herald told her to put “the bad thoughts to bed.” She got good at that. But not that good.

Dammit, Fetch, why’d you have t—?

She didn’t finish the thought. On her right, she opened the closet and picked through shelves that were packed with board games, old phone books, and crates filled with everything from loose baseballs to outdated stereo cables. At the very top, behind an orange toolbox, Ivy found what she was looking for. A tattered leatherette binoculars case.

Pulling it from the shelf, she kept her back to the door, in case someone came in.

On the night Ivy and Fetch arrived at Heavenly Meadows, The Herald’s team pulled them from the van and patted them down, rummaging through their belongings and searching for weapons. They found nearly everything.

With a click, she opened the case. On normal binoculars, between the two eyepieces was a small thumbwheel to help you adjust focus. On these binoculars—big and massive like they were from Vietnam—the thumbwheel didn’t move. In fact, it wasn’t even a wheel; the binoculars themselves were hollow.

Wedging her nails in like she was opening an oyster shell, Ivy gave it a tug. On a hinge, the top half of the binoculars separated, revealing the wide, hollowed-out interior and what was hidden inside.

A little .25-caliber Beretta. Her gun from that night they left, which made the smell of popcorn and cigarettes flood back.

She stared at the pistol. The Herald would have her head if he knew she still had it.

Onscreen, she hit Refresh. Still nothing.

For decades, Heavenly Meadows had been a place of peace. If Fetch had died nearby—on a hike or out in the woods—she might’ve been fooled, thinking it was an accident. But for it to happen now, three nights after he left and went back to their hometown . . .

That wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message. They wanted Ivy to know.

That was their first mistake.

You should’ve let it rest, Ivy thought.

But they didn’t.

And now, racking the slide and chambering a round, neither would she.

9

Twin Falls, Pennsylvania

Today

“How’d you get this number?” Nola challenged.

“I’m frustratingly resourceful—like this cold sore I got in college that comes back whenever my ex drops by unannounced,” Waggs said.

“I’m hanging up,” Nola said, still sketching in her notepad, trying to stay focused on the front of the church, where the young Ukrainian boy was being placed into his new wheelchair. Nola was drawing the spokes on the wheels, which were thick and shiny, reminding her of a boy she had a crush on in sixth grade and his old BMX bike.

“Tell me what you’re sketching, Nola.” As head of the FBI unit that analyzed terrorists’ biometrics from explosive devices, Amy Waggs was a master at uncovering what people leave behind. As one of the few people who spent time with Nola on an actual case, back when Waggs nearly lost her life, she was also a master at Nola.

“I’m not sketching.”

“I can literally hear it,” Waggs shot back.

“It’s my job.”

“Right. Your job. And that’s the only reason you’ve spent the last few months in that particular church in that particular town? There’s no one else you’re hoping to see?”

Nola lifted her pencil from the page, staying locked on the Kovalenkos, who were fawning over their wheelchair-bound boy like he was sitting in a new Corvette. “Speak.”

“You just gave me a dog command?” When Nola didn’t respond, Waggs added, “You told me to keep an eye on your brother.”

“I never said that.”

“Then it must be my core belief that bad people will always continue to do bad things. Plus I know you don’t trust him.”

Nola sat there, silently kicking herself for mentioning it a few months back. Waggs wasn’t wrong. “Tell me what you found.”

“Do you realize how many of your sentences are commands? The word please wouldn’t kill you.”

Before Nola could react, her phone vibrated in her hand. It was a text from Waggs with three photos: a blood-spattered ceiling . . . a stained motel room carpet . . . and a body, facedown—a balding man with a chunk of his head missing. Even without the yellow do not cross tape, she knew a crime scene when she saw it.

“Meet Harry Smith, aka Andrew Fechmeier.”

Nola didn’t recognize the name. Flipping to a new page, she began sketching Fechmeier’s wounds, starting with the outline of his head, which surprised her. She usually didn’t start with the gruesome parts, but the shape of it reminded her of a jagged crescent moon.

“From what I can tell,” Waggs explained, “that’s the case your brother is suddenly interested in.”

“He’s a cop. He’s got lots of cases.”

“Not like this one. Earlier today, Roddy made a stop at the Maryland funeral home that’s taking care of Fechmeier’s body—then beelined to some foreign language school in Annapolis.”

“And you know this because . . . ?”

“Someone was watching—they ran the license plates and photo recognition.”

Nola raised an eyebrow. “Define someone.”

“You do realize that’s another command.”

“You were tracking him?”

“When you had that first run-in with him, I put a thumbtack on his name. Don’t judge—I do it to my friends as well, in case they get in trouble,” Waggs explained, referring to the alerts she gets at the Bureau for informants or suspects. Whether it’s a traffic ticket or going through customs, once their name gets entered into a law enforcement database, Waggs was notified. “It’s trickier since your brother’s a cop—and truthfully, he should be smart enough to avoid it . . .”

“Who spotted him?”

“That’s the tickle. Usually these things come at the airport—when TSA scans Roddy’s ID, I get an email. Here, the ping came from OEO.”

Nola knew the acronym. The Office of Enforcement Operations. “Part of DOJ.”

“Which means at some point between Roddy pulling up to that funeral home, then arriving at that foreign language school—to run his plate and facial recognition—someone from the Justice Department . . . or at least someone with access to their database . . . spied what he was doing.”

“Or was watching the entire time,” Nola pointed out, her pencil scratching at the page, filling in Fechmeier’s torso.

“You think that’s their goal? They were watching the entire time just to see who came calling?”

“That’s what I’d do,” Nola said, still working on Fechmeier’s torso, blending the shadows to get the folds of his shirt just right. That’s when she saw it. There was so much blood, it was easy to miss, but as she squinted, there it was. In the back of his shirt was an odd slit. At first she thought it was a tear, but it was too precise for that. No, someone cut this, making her think of a scissors or knife, though why use a knife if you already had a gun?

It reminded Nola of the British SAS Officers who came to interrogations with razor blades. Is that what happened here? You can use a blade to scare or inflict pain . . . but the very best use is when you’re looking for a particular piece of info.

“So for DOJ and the feds to be eyeing that particular funeral home, much less this foreign language school—you think there’s something we don’t know about Fechmeier?” Nola asked.

“That’s my question, though when I clicked the link for the case, I got ‘Restricted Access. Informational Purposes Only.’”

Nola had seen it before, back in the military, when they want to keep you away from something confidential. “Your clearance wasn’t high enough?”

“I’m TS/Yankee White,” Waggs shot back, referring to Top Secret clearance, plus the background check she once needed to brief the White House a few years back. “When the feds put up a wall of fog like that, there’s something big they’re not saying.”

Nola thought about that, gripping her pencil so hard, it practically poked through the page. “Roddy’s looking for who killed our mother.”

“Pardon?”

“Last time I saw him, that’s what he told me. He said he had a lead on our mother’s murder. I thought he was lying,” Nola explained. “Either way, I don’t care about Roddy. And my mother means even less to me.”

“What about Zig? You care about him?”

Nola stopped drawing. “What’re you talking about?”

“Two nights ago, my twenty-six-year-old son asked me to go diamond shopping for an engagement ring for a woman who I can say, without exaggeration, might be one of the most self-absorbed people on this planet, and I’ve met the last two Presidents. I’m in no mood for wasting my own time right now. If the federal government was suddenly painting a bull’s-eye on your estranged brother, I’d send you a text and tell you to buy some popcorn and enjoy the fun. The problem is, Roddy’s not dumb enough to put his own neck in the noose. The license plate that got run? It wasn’t Roddy’s, it was Zig’s.”

“How do you know they’re together? You said facial recognition?”

“And Zig texted me—said he was looking into a case with your brother—but according to the ping I got, Zig’s the one who drove—and the one who walked into the foreign language school—and by the way, whatever’s really going on with Fechmeier and his death, the one the feds are now clearly looking at while Roddy was apparently sitting safely in the car. Think that’s all a coincidence?”

Nola’s jaw shifted off center, her fist gripping the pencil like a knife. She didn’t like Zig—didn’t like how he always made her feel like she was twelve years old and helpless. But twice now, when Nola was in trouble, Zig came to help. Without hesitation.

“Nola, you hear what I said? In the world of law enforcement, there’s a word for when one person takes the blame and the other walks away scot-free . . .”

“A trap,” Nola muttered, no longer sketching Fechmeier’s lifeless body with its crescent-moon gunshot wound. Instead, she put her pencil to the page, scribbling a quick headshot of her brother. To her own surprise, she drew him younger, back when Roddy used to wake her up by spitting in her face and insisting it was a joke. At the time, Nola’s stepdad would console her by saying there was a Good Roddy and a Bad Roddy, but Nola always knew which was the real one. “I assume you tried telling Zig?”

“Three voicemails and half a dozen texts. But y’ever try to talk Zig out of a case once he’s got his hooks in?”

Nola knew the answer.

“Listen, maybe I have it wrong,” Waggs added. “Maybe this all has a simple explanation and has nothing to do with government secrets or your mother’s death. But right now, Roddy’s picking a fight with whoever killed this guy Fechmeier, but it’s Zig’s face that’s gonna take the punch.”

Up by the church’s altar, the mother of the Ukrainian boy knelt in front of her son’s wheelchair, bursting into tears. She was in her early thirties—barely older than Nola—her face contorting, her red scarf sagging to the floor as she sobbed thankfully for the kindness from Reverend Ned and his team.

In seconds, the woman’s family rushed forward, embracing her in a group hug, all of them holding tight, holding on for dear life.

“You got a file on this?” Nola finally asked.

“I always have a file.”

“Fine. Send me what y—”

“It’s already in your email. By the way, if your brother hurts Zig in any way—”

Waggs never finished the sentence.

With a click, Nola was gone.

10

Annapolis, Maryland

Squinting through the glass door, Fish gave it a tap with his knuckles.

“Sorry, closed for late lunch!” the Armenian called from inside.

Fish knew it was a lie. This whole place was a lie—three cameras overhead, plus this security they were using on the front door . . . a stainless steel lockbolt that’s usually reserved for armory vaults? For a place that teaches Spanish and French? No bueno, Fish decided. His only question now was what to do about it.

In fishing, they called it following the wind—when a gust blows toward the banks, it pushes all the smaller organisms to that area. Small fish go for those organisms, which attract the larger predators. That’s where you put your hook down.

“I saw you speaking to that man—Jim Zigarowski,” Fish called through the glass.

“I said we’re closed!” the Armenian shot back, pulling out an earbud and shooing Fish away with it. His mustache made him look older, but he was in his late twenties. Still a kid.

“Do you know who Mr. Zigarowski is?” Fish added, calmly checking his own reflection in the glass. He needed a haircut for sure. “Believe me, you’re going to want to, or more likely, those guys who came back from the funeral home will. Are they your bosses? They’ll want to hear about Mr. Zigarowski.”

It was a bluff, but not a bad one.

Sitting with both elbows on the welcome desk, the Armenian glared at Fish, who glared right back. He wasn’t taking the bait.

Smart kid. Maybe even as smart as Fish, though not nearly as experienced—or patient. Taking a half step back, Fish got a better look at the building. Was this an old Howard Johnson’s? He used to love their chocolate-chip ice cream with the tiny, shaved chips. They should’ve never gotten rid of that. “I guess your bosses are understanding then,” Fish finally said.

The Armenian shifted his shoulders. Just a small reaction, but that’s all Fish needed.

“I just want to relay some info about Zigarowski. If it’s not helpful, throw me out,” Fish added.

Shifting again in his seat, the Armenian sat with that. Sometimes, the biggest decisions in life come down to choosing which of your problems is easiest to live with. Sometimes, you choose wrong.

“Tell me from there . . .” the Armenian warned.

“Kid, I’m trying to save your ass, but there’s only one way that’ll happen,” Fish said, motioning to the lock on the door.

Thinking about it for another half second, the Armenian hit a button below the counter. There was a sharp buzz; the lock gave way.

Shoving open the door, Fish plowed straight for the counter. “I’d like to speak to your bosses now. They have something I’m looking for,” he said, eyeing the old computers . . . the faded brochures . . . this whole place was built for show.

“Easy easy easy . . . you said this was about Zigarowski—”

“I needed you to open the door. Now please, focus. Your bosses . . . I saw them at a funeral home earlier today. They left in a blue Dodge Challenger—”

“Are you outta your f—? Step back from my counter!”

“By your tone, you think we’re having an argument. This is not an argument,” Fish said, placing both palms flat on the counter so the kid wouldn’t feel threatened. “At the funeral home, your bosses were looking for something. I believe it’s the same thing I’m looking for, and I’m authorized to pay them a sum that would—”

“Are you deaf? Step back, Mini-Me!”

Fish took a breath. He’d been under 5'6" his entire adult life. The jokes used to sting; now they just revealed the dull and unimaginative. As his grandfather told him, it’s never the breed, it’s the bite. “I know your bosses are back there,” Fish said, heading toward the door marked employees only.

“Do not!” the Armenian exploded, planting his feet in that stance that Fish knew all too well—when someone goes for their gun.

“Kid, I’m saying this once. If you want to enjoy the rest of your afternoon, keep those hands—”

The Armenian twisted in a blur, reaching for—

Thunk.

The Buck fillet knife flew through the air, stabbing the Armenian’s windpipe, plowing so deep into his throat, the hilt was nearly at his Adam’s apple.

“Huuuuuuhh!” He tried to breathe, choking on the blade, his eyes wide, more confused than panicked. Clawing at his own throat as the pain finally registered, he stumbled backward into a nearby desk. There was no exploding burst of blood, just two small specks by his mustache, then a narrow waterfall that ran down his neck, pulsing with his heartbeat.

It was over in seconds, his head slumping sideways, then forward as he crumpled to the carpet.

“Dammit, kid, why’d you make me do that?” Fish muttered, telling himself he had no choice. The kid was going for a weapon. Yet as Fish ducked below the counter and kneeled near the body, he flipped it over to grab the—

Gun. There was no gun, Fish realized, patting the back of the Armenian’s waistband. Just a blackjack, one of those old leather hand straps with a weighted head that cops used to carry in the old days. This one looked ancient, like it belonged to his grandfath—

“Hands! Now!” a man yelled.

Fish turned, still on his knees, as the employees only door swung wide and two men—one with dark eyelashes, the other heavy and bald—came barreling through, both pointing their guns at—

Blam. Blam.

Fish fired two shots from his pistol, which he’d pulled nearly as fast as his knife. Each shot was a direct hit to the chest, both men collapsing, rag-dolling as they bounced off the wall and fell to the carpet.

Fish didn’t move, the fat part of his finger still on the trigger, still pointing his gun, waiting to see who else might come running.

Thankfully, the only sound was the buzz of fluorescent lights and the hum from the overhead air conditi—

No. He listened closer. Another noise. A faint and wet huffing . . . someone breathing . . . or at least trying to.

“Ghh ghh ghh . . .”

Fish slowly took a few steps forward, following the sound, his pistol in a low ready position.

“Ghh guuh . . .”

It was coming from the corner of the room, the huffing growing softer and—

There.

Behind a nearby desk, down on the carpet, one of the two men—the bald one—was facedown, fighting for a breath, army-crawling on his elbows in a slow-motion getaway.

From the exit wound in his back, Fish’s second shot landed a bit too high, hitting Bald Man in the shoulder rather than the chest.

Shaking his head, Fish scolded himself. Everything’s harder in old age.

“Ghhh . . . ghhhh . . .” The man’s breathing was a wet gurgle as he continued his stomach crawl. “Y-Yuh-y-you’re— Th-They’ll slaughter you for this . . .”

“I told your colleague, this isn’t an argument. I saw you at the funeral home earlier today. If you found something that belonged to Andrew Fechmeier—”

“Fechmeier . . . ? Are you . . . ? L-L-Listen to me, you little Napoleon piece of shit—”

Fish lifted his gun, pointed it at the back of Bald Man’s head, and pulled the trigger. Bits of bone and brains sprayed the carpet.

This is what’s wrong with the country today—everyone’s looking for a fight, no one wants to listen, Fish thought, glancing around, spotting one of those Baby on Board signs that had been knocked off one of the filing cabinets.

warning: may spontaneously start speaking in different languages

It caught Fish’s eye just as it landed next to Bald Man’s gun. A Glock Gen5.

Fish knew that gun.

No. Couldn’t be—

The room was suddenly a sauna. If this was who he thought it was . . .

Squatting down, Fish patted Bald Man’s pants pockets, pulling out car keys and an ancient flip phone. He then worked his way up to his breast pocket, looking for . . .

Bingo.

A sterling silver money clip.

Undoing the clasp, Fish got his first look at Bald Man’s real name and ID. Fish’s mouth went dry. A tiny puddle formed in the divot of his top lip.

Bloody hell.

This is why you don’t scratch old scabs.

11

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“Up there. See the sign?” Roddy asked.

Even in the dark, with the sun out of sight and the blood moon starting to rise, Zig couldn’t miss it—the bright green street sign for Putt Road, where some local high schoolers had taken white paint and changed the P in Putt to a B.

“Butt Road,” Roddy said, his eyebrows knitting together, like he was trying to decode why someone found that funny.

The irony, of course, was the location—a poorly lit and equally poorly maintained storage facility that sat next to the local wastewater and sewage plant. The stench was strong enough to overcome the salty air from Arrow Rock’s port on the edge of town.

“You sure this is right?” Zig asked, pulling around the side of the storage facility. There was no sign out front, no lights overhead, no mailbox, not even visible street numbers.

“Mr. Zig, you should probably wait here . . .” Roddy never finished the thought. The moment the car stopped, he was outside, his profile lit by his iPad.

“Roddy, wait . . . !” Zig called, kicking open his own door and following him to—

“There . . . That’s it,” Roddy said, reading off the map on his screen and pointing diagonally up to a nearby telephone pole.

There were benefits to being New Jersey police, one of them being quick access to the best phone-tracking tech that the tristate area demands. Once the medical examiners found a cheap pay-as-you-go phone on Fetch’s body, it wasn’t hard for Roddy to call in a favor, pull the number, and start the trace.

According to the local cell towers that had transmitted the phone’s signal, before Fetch was killed at the Carousel Motel, his last stop had been the Generaux & Sons Funeral Home. But his first stop was here, this unmarked storage facility. “From what I can tell, this is where Fechmeier first turned on his phone.”

Zig glanced around the empty lot. The asphalt was a maze of cracks with weeds peeking through, plotting their mutiny. On his right, a row of trees sagged into a chain-link fence that wilted like a hammock. But what worried Zig most were the stray wires in the corner of the roofline. At some point, there were cameras here. Now they’re gone.

Roddy saw it too, leading the way toward the side of the building, where nearly two dozen storage doors ran side by side, all of them pulled down and shut tight. “If Fechmeier was hiding something, it’s a smart place to do it,” Roddy said.

As Zig approached the first door, a bright light appeared overhead—an old motion detector blinking awake. Zig jumped. Behind them, there was a sharp snap.

Both of them turned, following the sound as something raced up a nearby tree. Zig thought it was a squirrel, but it was bigger . . . a raccoon or possum.

“This is why I don’t like the outdoors,” Roddy said.

“Check it out,” Zig said, their eyes still adjusting as Roddy squinted at the padlocks. Usually, storage sheds like this had a variety of locks. Here, every door had the exact same padlock, a keyed silver-and-blue Master lock.

“You think one person’s renting the whole thing?” Roddy asked.

“It’s a perfectly matched set.”

“I wouldn’t say perfectly,” Roddy replied, motioning with his chin. Halfway down the side of the building, on a metal door that was no different from any other, was yet another silver-and-blue Master lock—though on this one, the shackle looked longer. No . . . not longer. The lock was cut.

“You see it, don’t you, Mr. Zig?”

In the distance, another tree branch snapped. Checking over his shoulder, Zig told himself it was another possum/raccoon/whatever. For a second, he eyed the stray wires from the missing security cam.

Three nights ago, Fechmeier was here, most likely, for what was in this storage unit. And the lock was already open . . .

“C’mon, Mr. Zig—don’t you wanna see what’s inside?”

12

Guidry, Texas

Twenty-one years ago

This was Roddy when he was seven.

He had a roll of pennies gripped in his fist. It was a move he learned in one of the group homes—if you want to punch someone in the face, a roll of pennies will add weight to the hit. It was urban myth, of course, and more likely to break your fingers than knock someone out, but Roddy didn’t have much of a choice. This was the day he learned how to fight.

“You’ll be fine,” said Calvin Koller, a cocksure kid and the first to get braces.

Roddy nodded like he believed it, gripping the pennies even tighter.

The whole mess had started two weeks back, when he and Nola transferred schools in the middle of the year and got put in third grade because no one knew their real age.

On their first day, when the lunch bell rang and everyone flooded for the door, the second tallest kid in the class—an oaf named Gary Dubursky who’d already been left back once—cut in front of Roddy, shoving him aside.

Two days later, when Roddy was entering the cafeteria, Dubursky rammed him in the shoulder, nearly knocking him on his ass. “Gonna do something about it, little bitch?” Dubursky challenged.

Roddy’s first instinct was to push his thumbs into Dubursky’s eyes, a move he’d seen in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie, but Dubursky was a full head taller—and seemed way tougher than the villains in that Van Damme movie. As anyone in a new school knows, even in third grade, you don’t pick a fight you’ll lose.

“Thanks, little bitch,” Dubursky growled at lunch a week later, swiping Roddy’s chocolate milk and drinking from it even though Roddy had already taken a sip.

Years later, Roddy would have the perfect word to describe what he felt in that moment: impotence. But right now, he blamed it on fear, staring down at his tater tots.

Dubursky slapped him in the back of the head and left.

Roddy could feel his twin sister, Nola, staring at him, the two of them sitting alone at the one table in the cafeteria that even they knew was a poor choice, the one closest to the trash.

Don’t fucking say anything, Roddy warned with a glare. It was their second week at school. The last thing he needed was her—

“Yo, Ronnie,” someone whispered behind him.

“It’s Roddy,” he corrected.

“That’s a weird name. I saw what happened with Gary Dickfacesky.”

Roddy turned, spotting Calvin Koller, whose brand-new braces were offset by a New Jersey accent that made him seem tougher than he was.

“You know anything about him?” Calvin asked in an accusing tone that would one day make him the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Houston.

“Just that he likes chocolate milk.”

Calvin rolled his eyes. “You’re a moron. Dubursky is a pussy.”

“Wha?”

“He can’t fight. All last year, he got his butt kicked,” Calvin explained. “He’s just taking it out on you since you’re new and shorter.”

Roddy nodded, flashing a disarming grin that made him more charming and likable than his sullen sister. And also more dangerous. “Thank you for that piece of information.”

The next morning, in the PE locker room, when Dubursky rammed his shoulder into Roddy, Roddy smashed his palms into Dubursky’s chest, knocking the bully into the lockers.

“Ooooh,” the small crowd reacted, growing even louder as Dubursky cocked a fist and rushed forward to retaliate.

“Nope! Don’t! Goodbye!” Coach Capillo shouted, jumping between them. “Dubursky . . . out of here. Now!”

“You’re dead, new kid!” Dubursky yelled.

Roddy’s body was vibrating with adrenaline. He liked that feeling—the flush of power. But what he liked even more was that look on Dubursky’s face when Roddy hit him. That was fear, proof Calvin was right.

By lunch, their rematch was set.

“Once the fight starts, don’t stop throwing punches,” Calvin told him.

It was good advice, Roddy still thinking about it as they entered the brick alley behind J&J Laundromat, a block away from school so neither would be suspended. Filled with trash cans, rotted wood pallets, and random roof shingles that seemed to be scattered everywhere, the alley smelled of piss and bleach.

“You’re dead, little bitch,” Dubursky announced.

“Fuck yourself,” Roddy shot back, clenching his roll of pennies, the small crowd forming their inevitable circle.

Usually, schoolyard fights quickly descend into wrestling matches. On this day, though, Roddy and Dubursky cocked their fists, sidestepping like they were in a Rocky sequel.

“Make ’em eat teeth, Doobie!” yelled a fifth grader named Rich, who would grow up to run his own well-respected veterinary practice.

He can’t fight, he can’t fight, Roddy told himself, repeating Calvin’s words as—

Ka-tang!

Roddy felt it before he saw it, a rusted metal trash can lid hitting him in the back of the head like a cymbal. The impact wasn’t bad, just one of Dubursky’s friends trying to distract him.

“What in the f—?” Roddy asked, starting to turn.

That was his mistake.

As Roddy looked away, Dubursky buried his fist in Roddy’s eye. The world exploded in a burst of fireworks.

For the rest of his life, Roddy would never forget that feeling—the exquisite sting that came from being punched squarely in the face. Stumbling backward, he crashed into the kid with the garbage lid, trying to keep his balance, trying to stay on his feet. He swung wildly through the air, but it wasn’t even close.

Dubursky punched him again, directly in the nose, a burst of blood setting off more fireworks.

Roddy was tumbling, panicking, the universe moving in slow motion. He tried to run, his roll of pennies in mid-fall, sinking to the ground.

Help! he wanted to scream, but as he stumbled off balance, he caught a glimpse of Dubursky’s friend, the one who hit him from behind.

Calvin.

No . . . no . . . Roddy thought, but there was Calvin, his braces shining . . . his mouth wide open . . . laughing like a jackal.

That’s when Roddy realized this wasn’t a fight. It was a setup.

“Don’t look so surprised, little bitch,” Calvin teased.

Roddy wasn’t new to anger. He’d been kicked out of three group homes for losing his temper, including peeing on the pillow of another foster kid, who’d said Roddy had a lazy eye. But the rage that was buzzing through him now . . . this was a new gear, the same rage that would get him arrested in two years, and another three times after that. His eyes went dark, staring at Calvin’s throat, at the big vein, watching it pulse.

“Oooh, he’s getting pissed!” someone shouted.

It didn’t matter.

Dubursky planted a brutal punch in Roddy’s stomach, forcing the air from his lungs, sending him crashing to the ground.

In seconds, Dubursky was kicking at Roddy’s chest, his stomach, his face.

Racing in like they were battling for a soccer ball, the other boys joined the scrum.

Down on the ground, Roddy curled into fetal position, shut his eyes, and—

Thunk.

The sound was hollow and blunt—wood crashing into bone.

Dubursky didn’t scream or make a sound. In one moment, he was standing there; in the next, he was staggering sideways, like a drunk, clutching the back of his head, which was covered in blood.

“Doobie, you okay?” asked a tall kid with a mole on his lower lip.

Dubursky and the group turned as one, just in time to see Roddy’s twin sister, Nola, wielding a loose piece of wood from one of the pallets like a baseball bat.

The mole kid took a step forward, ready to attack.

Nola’s feet were planted, the edge of the makeshift bat caked with bits of skin and blood. She had a look on her face that some of the boys would think about for years.

“Forget it, she’s a psycho,” one of the boys insisted.

That was the end of it. Once you hit someone in the head with a slat of wood, most everyone starts running.

Still on the ground, Roddy was curled in a ball, opening his eyes as Dubursky and his crew scrambled out of the alley. Glancing around, he only saw . . .

“N-Nola?”

“Get up,” she barked, tossing the wood toward the trash.

“What’re you—? You followed me?” Roddy asked.

Heading out of the alley, she didn’t answer.

“Are you fucking crazy?! They know you’re my— Y’know what that’s gonna do?” Roddy exploded. “They’re never gonna leave me alone now!”

“You’re a dead man, Ramrod!” someone called in the distance.

“See?!” Roddy added. “You made it worse! You should’ve left it alone!”

For the entire walk home, Roddy cursed at his sister, telling her what a mess she made. But from that day forward, he’d never forget the lesson she taught him in that alleyway: There’s no such thing as a fair street fight. Once you’re in a fight, win. Fuck fair. It’s already violent. Be the most violent.

It was a lesson he’d live by.

13

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

“How’s it look?” Zig asked, waving his hand until the motion detector up by the roofline blinked on again.

“Definitely clipped,” Roddy said, down on one knee and using the flashlight on his phone to examine the broken lock on the storage shed. “Clean cut. Nothing melted.”

Zig knew what he meant. Bolt cutters rather than a blowtorch or hacksaw.

“Roddy, before this explodes in our faces, which we know it inevitably will, can I just ask a question? If this was Fechmeier’s storage unit, and he was the one who cut that lock, why’s the lock still here?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Think about it. If Fechmeier was putting something inside this storage locker, when he left, he would’ve locked it. And if he was taking something out, well . . . then he’s the one who clipped the lock. But if that’s the case, once he got what he was looking for, why put the lock back in place?”

Roddy kept staring at the closed metal door.

“You think he was trying to keep from calling attention to it,” Zig added, “so it looked locked from far away?”

Roddy shook his head, still eyeing the door. “Maybe—though I think we disagree on what we expect to find inside.”

Zig recognized that tone. “Roddy, what do you think is in there?”

“As a police officer, there’re only two ways for me to legally open this door, Mr. Zig—and both rely on the fact that we’re not looking for a what. We’re looking for a who.”

Something sank in Zig’s chest, like his lungs and organs were suddenly anvils. “You’re joking, right? You think someone’s— You think there’s a dead body in there?”

“That’s a gruesome way to look at it. For all we know, Fechmeier wasn’t working alone—and like I said before, these storage sheds are a hell of a hiding spot.”

Zig took a half step back. Roddy leaned in even closer, rapping a knuckle against the unit’s metal door. “Whoever’s in there, this is the police.”

No answer.

“Last chance—knock-knock,” Roddy added. “Anybody ho—?”

Kllk.

Zig heard it before he felt it. The cold barrel of the gun on the back of his neck.

“I know what you took, and I want it back,” a voice growled behind them.

14

One hour ago

At the Carousel Motel, in an L-shaped back room that smelled of warm rain and burnt grilled cheese, Nick Kirby glanced at the punch clock, still pissed about the guidance counselor.

At their meeting this morning, the school counselor had scolded Kirby about his fourteen-year-old daughter, saying she’d picked a fight, but c’mon, was it really a fight? Like most junior high battles, no punches were thrown—just some shoving and cursing. One of the popular girls—a little bitch named Isabella who wore a dollar-sign gold charm around her neck—called his daughter a Pick Me Girl.

Kirby had never heard the term, slang for someone who tries to get boys’ attention—Pick me, pick me—by saying things like, “I’m not like other girls—they’re all so dramatic.”

There was a dull thunk. The punch clock clicked from 5:57 p.m. to 5:58.

As he grabbed his toolbox and headed for the door, what bothered Kirby most was the insult sounded right. His daughter was a Pick Me Girl.

“113 is saying the cable’s still fuzzy,” Laverne called out from behind the front desk, her new Invisaligns giving her a subtle lisp.

“That’s not the cable—it’s our crappy TVs,” Kirby shot back, scratching at his feeble attempt at a beard and holding up his old bright yellow toolbox to let her know he was on it.

Back in Missouri, Kirby grew up in a house where you weren’t supposed to cry. His stepdad thought being tough would serve him well, but as Kirby learned from decades of neglecting school, neglecting his ex, neglecting himself, a tough man can be ruthless, but that’s nothing compared to a weak man.

5:59. Right on time.

Heading outside and climbing the stairs, he took a quick scan of the Carousel’s dark parking lot. On the day Kirby got the job, the manager at the time proudly told him that the Carousel was the same name as Jack Ruby’s strip club. More proof that God has a sense of humor, Kirby always thought, following the exterior walkway around to the left and heading toward one of the farthest rooms.

Most of the yellow police tape was gone by now—a single strand hung from the doorknob, sagging like a deflated kite tail.

A final glance at his digital watch told him it was nearly six p.m., only a few seconds to go. On cue, a woman turned the corner, heading toward him. She had pointy features, silvery hair with a dyed black streak, and the most brutal black eyes he’d ever seen.

Nola didn’t say a word, her head still down as they collided, their shoulders bumping into each other.

“Sorry . . . my bad,” Kirby said, both of them turning the same way, trying to navigate the narrow walkway.

To anyone watching, it was an unremarkable interaction, over in seconds. But as Nola and Kirby turned their backs to the parking lot, what no one else could see was Nola handing him four hundred dollars as he slid a master keycard into her open palm.

Don’t be too long, Kirby said with a glance.

I’ll be as long as I want, Nola shot back with her eyes.

“Apologies again,” Kirby said, lifting his yellow toolbox to wave goodbye.

He turned the corner and disappeared just as Nola pressed the keycard to the front lock.

The door opened with a click, and Nola stepped inside Room 206, where Andrew Fechmeier was murdered two days ago.

15

Denning, New York

Last night

It was a candy bar that did it.

Since the moment Ivy spotted the gas station—a former Amoco that now had a faded black-and-red sign that read go go gas—she’d been steeling herself, visualizing the interior like they taught her during her first days at Heavenly Meadows to deal with the stress.

She used that same skill when she started working in Garden #4, which back then was an overgrown, untended mess. In those early days, she didn’t think of herself as a gardener—until her best pal in the garden, a former science teacher named Maynard (who went by the nickname Putt Putt)—told her his firm belief that “every gardener is an introvert. It’s not a community sport, but done right, it’ll recharge your biome,” meaning your energy and spirits.

Ivy liked that . . . and what she liked even more was when he told her to visualize the end result . . . to see and prepare for the tomatoes, eggplants, and blueberries, for the wind and dry conditions that would try to take them down. It sounded like hippie bullshit, of course. But even on that first day, damn did it recharge her biome and bring much-needed calm.

At Go Go Gas, Ivy was visualizing a way to get ready . . . to prepare for the clerk, for his stares, for his small talk, ready for the security cameras that’d be watching . . . even ready for the, well . . . it was a gas station, so the smells of hot dogs, stale mop water, and naturally the sweet stench of gasoline.

Yet as she stepped inside and approached the counter that was stacked high with supplements and impulse display cases of twenty-four-hour energy drinks, it was the Heath bars on the top shelf that nearly knocked her on her ass.

The vintage Heath typeface . . . the old font . . . had been updated into some modern sans-serif block lettering.

So had Snickers, Reese’s Pieces, even Kit-Kats—over time, corporate logos always get a few nips and tucks, but somehow she’d seen all those. Heavenly Meadows wasn’t a cave. They had limited internet and TV, but it was still internet and TV.

So if you asked her ten seconds ago, she’d tell you she was prepared. Yet as anyone in a crisis knows, even when you’re ready for the big things, it’s the little things—like a candy bar logo—that catch you by surprise.

“What pump?” asked the clerk, a skinny twentysomething wearing a T-shirt with a drawing of Thomas the Tank Engine, but instead of a train it was Thomas’s face on an actual tank.

“Actually, can I borrow your restroom first?” Ivy asked, trying to sound friendly, fighting every urge to run from the store, run back to her bungalow, run run run. When you do anything that long, it takes time to undo it.

“Next to the milk case,” the clerk replied, barely looking up from his phone, which was propped on the counter next to a laminated sign that read cash preferred.

It reminded Ivy of a documentary she’d seen about the gift shop in CIA headquarters, where so many agents kept accidentally blowing their cover buying snacks, they had to put up a sign that read if you are covert, do not charge with your covert credit card.

“Don’t forget the key,” the clerk added, sliding her a big purple plastic back scratcher with a key duct-taped to the end of it.

Heading toward the milk case, Ivy wondered if all gas stations locked their bathrooms these days, reminding her of another documentary, this one about a woman accused of staging a home break-in. As a kid, Ivy hated documentaries; now she loved them, couldn’t get enough . . . one of those signs of middle age, like hearing a rebellious song from your youth in a TV ad selling insurance and, well . . . gardening.

Two minutes later, Ivy stepped out of the bathroom, looking embarrassed as she raced back to the counter. “I’m . . . uh . . . your plumbing seems to be on strike . . .”

“Wha?” the clerk asked.

“You got a plunger?” she blurted.

Tank Engine Clerk rolled his eyes, pulling a plunger from below the counter and offering it to her.

Ivy took a half step back, her hands in the air with a look that said, You think I’m doing that?

As the clerk stormed around her and disappeared into the bathroom, Ivy reached behind the counter, grabbed a set of car keys from a plastic ashtray, and darted for the door.

She’d spotted them the moment she arrived, which explained why she spent the past few minutes balling up half a roll of toilet paper until she got a proper clog.

As she learned all those years ago at the drive-in, to do maximum damage, you need a proper distraction.

Racing outside, Ivy popped the locks on a beat-up silver Volkswagen Jetta. Thankfully, the clerk had parked around back—he probably wouldn’t even notice his car was gone.

Sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine, she felt all the stress, dread, anxiety . . . all of it began to lift. But it wasn’t until she hit the gas, speeding out onto Route 9 and into the dark, that a javelin of adrenaline pierced her chest, and she finally remembered that one key detail that she’d buried all those years ago . . .

More than gardening, more than documentaries, Ivy fucking loved stealing things.

16

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

Zig was kicking himself for not seeing it coming.

“Don’t move! Hands high!” a woman barked behind them.

Just from her voice, Zig could tell she was a pro. Simple commands, fully in control. Not for long.

Roddy reached for his gun; Zig for his knife.

“Don’t,” she warned, racking the slide and chambering a round, “unless you want to take a very fast and unsuccessful trip to the local emergency room.”

Zig and Roddy froze. In a blur, she grabbed Roddy’s gun and patted down Zig, finding his knife. It was over in seconds. “Both of you. Slowly. Face me.”

Hands still in the air, both turned, spotting her Smith & Wesson MP40. Not a small gun, though she looked strong enough to handle its kick. She was in her late forties, tall with broad shoulders, a natural brawler, though her cheap business suit and frameless glasses gave her the vibe of a bulldog court-appointed lawyer or annoyed IRS agent. Her only attempt at style was a long turquoise beaded necklace with a heart drop that ran down to her belly button.

She had narrow green eyes that were set close together, short brown hair tugged back in a tight ponytail, and was tactically smart enough to step back a few feet so they couldn’t lunge for her gun.

“We’re not a threat . . . not a threat,” Zig repeated, using the language the Dover MPs taught him to deescalate.

“You’re a cop,” she said to Roddy. It wasn’t a question. “Show me ID.”

“What makes you so sure I’m police?” Roddy asked.

“With a side holster in a suit? I’m not asking again. Where’s your ID?”

“Back pocket.”

“Good. Reach with your left hand. Keep your right in the air,” she insisted, forcing Roddy to use his off-hand in case he was hiding a backup weapon.

Roddy twisted his body awkwardly, pulling out his wallet and staring at her a bit too long. Zig thought he was pissed, but he actually seemed impressed.

“Let’s go, toss it here.” She caught it with her free hand and flipped it open. “Roddy LaPointe, huh? Pretty far from Jersey to be working a case.”

“If you put the cannon away, we can explain,” Zig offered.

“Does it sound like I’m addressing you?” she barked at Zig, though her eyes—and gun—never left Roddy. She knew who the bigger threat was.

“We’re looking for Andrew Fechmeier,” Roddy blurted.

She froze at that. “What’d you say?”

“I can tell you know that name. Your face suddenly looks tense and pale.”

It was a weird comment, but that’s how it always was with Roddy. He was odd. But the way he dropped Fechmeier’s name—just to bait and watch her reaction? Roddy was socially awkward, but he was a damn good cop.

“How’d you know to come here?” she challenged.

“Fechmeier’s phone. It pinged off this,” Roddy said, pointing to the nearby cell tower. “I take it you know he’s dead.”

“Of course I know he’s—” She lowered her gaze but not her gun, studying Roddy’s iPad. “How’d you trace Fetch’s cell so quick?”

“I have a buddy who does CT,” Roddy said, referring to the Counterterrorism Bureau. “He owes me because I didn’t ticket his teenage daughter when I caught her speeding one night.”

Zig started to laugh. The woman didn’t, still locked on Roddy’s iPad, doing the mental calculations. Did she trust Roddy and Zig? Not completely. But did she need what they had? Absolutely.

“If you want, call my captain. He’ll vouch for me—I’m five times decorated f—”

“Stop talking,” she said, typing Roddy’s name into her phone. Whatever database she put him into . . . test passed.

With a toss, she threw back Roddy’s ID and readjusted her glasses. “You realize how close I was to shooting you? Melinda Bix, from the District Attorney’s Office,” she said, shaking hands with a forceful pump. “Tell me more about Fetch’s cell. What time did it ping off the tower?”

“Early—four thirteen a.m.”

“Same time our cameras went down,” Melinda said, making a face like she was doing math in her head. “We thought it could be him but figured he’d never come this close—though leave it to Fetch to be an a-hole one final time.”

“I don’t understand,” Zig said.

“Three days ago, at around four thirty in the morning, we got robbed.”

“Who’s we in that sentence?”

“You have no idea where you are, do you?” Melinda asked, putting a hand on Zig’s shoulder and steering him deeper into the lot. On their left, between two tupelo trees, was a shared backyard that backed up to two modest brick buildings. Once they got close enough, even in the dark, there was no missing the signs. arrow rock county courthouse and arrow rock police station.

“So this area . . .”

“Is the overflow storage facility for our old evidence and case files.”

“You said he took something,” Roddy blurted. “What’d he take?”

“Not until you tell me where else his phone pinged. You said you were tracking him.”

“No,” Roddy shot back. “First you tell us what he stole; then I’ll tell you where he went.”

Melinda shot a look at Zig, who made it clear Roddy wasn’t the type to budge, though from the annoyed look on her face, she’d already realized that.

“Fechmeier stole something valuable, didn’t he?” Roddy added.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Melinda asked. “From what we can tell, well . . . how well do you know The Breakfast Club?”

17

Guidry, Texas

Twenty-one years ago

This was Nola when she was seven.

She was a girl who noticed things. On her first day here, she noticed how her new foster mom, Barb LaPointe, would check herself in the reflection of their shiny kitchen faucet when she washed the dishes. She noticed how her new dad, Walter, would move his lips—concentrating hard—while reading the newspaper.

Today, though, Nola didn’t notice any of it. She was too busy eating her favorite meal: Space Jam mac and cheese, chocolate milk, and Oreo cookies—Double Stuf, naturally.

“Here you go, sweetie pie,” Walter said. That should’ve been the tip-off. She was never sweetie pie. Only his three biological kids were.

Pushing the Oreo plate aside, Walter slid a sheet cake with vanilla icing in front of her. For the rest of Nola’s life, she’d remember the bright green letters.

We Will Miss You!

Confused, Nola glanced around. Neither of her foster parents would make eye contact.

“This will be your last night with the family,” her dad, Walter, said matter-of-factly.

“Wh-What’s going on? Why’re you doing this?”

But really, Nola knew why.

A year and a half ago, Nola and Roddy were rescued from a ferocious group home in Arkansas. Barb saw their photos on a fax and came to the house herself, expecting adorable twin three-year-olds. But Nola and her brother—with matching bowl haircuts so that predators wouldn’t know Nola was a girl—were three years older than the group home had disclosed, and their difficult behaviors had been carefully omitted.

On her first night in Texas, Nola wouldn’t leave her bedroom closet, clutching the only belonging she’d brought from the group home, a stuffed pink elephant named Ellie.

Her twin, Roddy, with his matching honey-colored skin, had a similar reaction that first night, refusing to get undressed and choosing to sleep in his clothes on the couch. Barb LaPointe assumed he was scared. She clearly didn’t know him.

During their first week with the LaPointes, the back window was broken. Then toys started to disappear, always found in Nola’s room smelling like urine. It didn’t take long for the LaPointes to start worrying about the safety of their own young children, a worry that grew exponentially when someone set fire to the living room carpet.

Therapists were hired and, for a time, calm returned. That is, until Nola came home from school with a black eye (and an exorbitant hospital bill) after getting into it with a merciless boy who was two years older and whose front teeth she’d knocked out with a steel thermos.

“Miss Nola,” Walter said in a cold tone that immediately made her uncomfortable, “it’s time to go.”

“N-No,” she replied, tears swelling in her eyes. “No . . . Please don’t do this.”

Walter grabbed her arm.

“Please don’t do this!” she yelled, trying to yank free.

Nola had thought being adopted meant you’d earned a forever home, but if this night taught her anything, it’s that every bond could be broken.

“Please!” she begged again.

At the top of the stairs, the other kids squeezed together like they were trying to get a peek at Santa. Toward the back of the group, Roddy kept his head down so no one could see the grin in his dark eyes.

Nola wanted to scream, It was him! It was Roddy! who’d shattered the window and peed on the toys. He was the one who escalated the war with Thermos Teeth—Gary Dubursky—by spitting in Dubursky’s backpack since he certainly couldn’t take him in a fight. As Nola had done half a dozen times before, she was just coming to Roddy’s aid.

Admittedly, Nola did set fire to the carpet—a rash and poorly conceived plan to empty the house and protect the family dog when Roddy was chasing him with a candle—but right now, would they believe her?

They would. From the start, the LaPointes knew the truth. Both twins had problems, but Roddy was the one who needed real help. Resources were tight, and they had three other kids to take care of. They could help one of the twins, but not both. For a week, Barb prayed on it. A decision was made. They’d find Nola a new home. She was the stronger one. Naturally, it’d be hard for her, but she was resilient. She’d be okay.

“I’ll be good! We’ll both be good!” Nola begged, bits of Oreo blacking out her teeth, crumbs spraying from her mouth. “We’ll be good!”

Duh-duh-ding-ding-ding-ding-DING-DING. The doorbell rang. Back when Nola first moved in, she loved that doorbell. It played “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” though she never knew the name of the song.

“No, please . . .” Nola begged as Walter picked her up, carrying her from the kitchen to the living room. Nola grabbed at the fridge, the phone cord, anything to get a handhold. Barb was sobbing as she followed behind them, prying Nola’s grip from the threshold. “Please, Mom—don’t give me to them! Don’t give me to them!”

That’s what Nola kept screaming over and over. Don’t give me to them.

But it wasn’t them.

It was him.

18

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

Nola wasn’t surprised the motel room was a wreck. Crime scenes weren’t known for being orderly.

Both mattresses were pulled from the beds, their orange floral bedspreads bunched in the corner. Nola was using the mattress closest to the door—now leaning against the wall—as a makeshift easel.

Chirp.

Every few minutes, there was a faint chirp in the air from a few rooms down, where a smoke detector needed a new battery.

Nola had already sketched the entryway and the pine headboards that came to a triangular point and were bolted to the wall’s fake wood paneling.

She’d sketched the chipped brown particleboard nightstand, the lamp with the crooked shade, the corded phone with the push buttons that were black with grime, and the one piece of art on the walls: a framed dark olive and neon pink 1970s abstract landscape that demonstrated a complete misunderstanding of color theory.

And of course she’d sketched the Rorschach-shaped bloodstains on the ceiling and carpet from where Andrew Fechmeier was killed two days ago.

By now, the blood was mottled and brown, adding an overwhelming stench that she knew too well from Iraq and Afghanistan. The violent smell of rot and death. The only thing making it worse were the bits of what looked like buckshot in the ceiling tiles: fragments of Fechmeier’s skull.

Chirp.

The cops had already been through the room. They did a pretty good job too, more thorough than what you usually see in small towns, Nola thought, her pencil scratching at her notepad, fine-tuning the odd angles of the stack of drawers that had been pulled from the dresser and thrown across the carpet.

Cops don’t like cleaning up, but even the worst CSIs won’t leave a crime scene this messy. The police found it like this, meaning whoever put the bullet in Fechmeier’s head was searching for something.

The blood spatter up on the ceiling told her the cause of death was the gunshot. But there was also a pool of blood on the carpet, wide and shaped like the letter c. That wasn’t from a gun. That’s a knife wound. Based on the photos Waggs sent, whoever did this had stabbed Fechmeier from behind. The only remaining question: Did they find what they were searching for?

By the time she was done sketching the room, Nola didn’t see any luggage, bags, clothes . . . no cell phone, wallet, shoes, not even a stray sock. The place was picked clean. Under the sink, even the vinyl trash can was missing its plastic liner.

That’s how it always went. Cops grab anything with DNA, so all toothbrushes, combs, and razors were long gone. In the corner of the sink, hidden by a stray washcloth, was a small cap from an ancient bottle of Paco Rabanne cologne. Old habit, or someone trying to make an impression? Nola wondered, her pencil moving faster than ever.

The only other proof of life were the tiny pellets below the sink—rat droppings—and a smudge along the mirror, a rainbow-shaped swipe from when the shower was fogged up and Fechmeier wiped it clean. Right-handed by the looks of it.

That was all of it.

Chirp.

Flipping back a few pages, Nola scanned her drawings of the closet, the bathroom, then back to the beds and their flipped mattresses, searching for anything she might’ve missed.

Nola told herself she was doing this for Zig, but what caught her eye most were the drawings themselves—they were rushed, the perspective slightly off, like she’d suddenly become a novice. The same thing happened last time her brother showed up, and now she was thinking of Roddy, which made her think of their mother, which bothered her even more.

For years, Nola’s anger was loyal. It was a constant—one of the few in her life. She wanted nothing to do with her mother, with Roddy, with anyone who reminded her of those past versions of herself, those weaker versions that she’d worked so hard to leave behind. And yet, here she was, replaying what Roddy had said when she saw him months ago: he had a lead on who killed their mom.

At the time, Nola thought he was lying. She still thought he was lying, but as she did the math . . . Fechmeier seemed to be in his early fifties. Was that the same age as Nola’s mom? Had to be close. So is that why Roddy was back? Did Fechmeier and their mom know each other? Were they in school together or somehow connected? And now, Nola couldn’t help but wonder if Fechmeier was there the night her mom died . . . Did he know why it happened? Is that why he was hiding, using a fake name when he came back to town? And most troubling of all, is that why Fechmeier was dead—the killer came back to finish the job?

Chirp.

Nola glanced up at the ceiling, at the mottled brown spatter, staring at the bits of skull embedded in the tiles. When she first joined the Army, a sergeant told her that most military people know how to fight—but only the smartest know when not to.

Was Nola being smart right now? Something about this case was tugging at her, dragging her in its undertow. Yet it was more than that. Zig . . . her brother . . . her mother . . . the entire swirl of it. It felt like an unraveling.

For decades, Nola’s mother was a mystery, something that couldn’t be understood. But as Nola was now realizing, when a defining trait is proven wrong, it undoes your whole universe.

Flipping back another page, she stared down at her rendition of the musty orange and brown curtains that were covered in geometric patterns and reminded her of her old Brownie uniform.

The sketch was clumsy and flat. Should’ve done them round, she thought, already redrawing the curtains’ shapes, changing them from lifeless rectangles to a series of cylinders to capture the undulations of the cloth.

That’s when she saw it. Through the gap in the curtains was a clear view of the surprisingly well-lit parking lot. It was empty, except for the very last row, where— Squinting and taking a step closer, she eyed a beat-up white car—an old Mercury or Ford—it was too far to tell, but there was no mistaking the fluorescent green sticker at the center of the windshield. Impound notice, though the police hadn’t towed it yet.

Had to be Fechmeier’s. Nola missed it at first, which bothered her even more.

Stupid rookie error, she thought, storming outside as a blast of fresh air hit her in the face, replacing the stench of death.

At the back of the lot, just behind the car, was the hotel dumpster, where a chubby tabby cat was feasting on garbage. As Nola approached, the cat hesitated, then stayed where it was, deciding she wasn’t a threat. It reminded Nola of her own cat, the thought alone bringing its own odd calm.

From her back pocket, Nola pulled out a small leather case filled with colored pencils, an X-Acto knife, and a few metal instruments that looked like dental tools—a torsion wrench and short hook among them. Lockpick kit.

Thankfully, the car was ancient—a 1986 Mercury Capri with a round bubble back. From the case, Nola took out a key ring that held the jigglers, a half dozen flat pieces of sheet metal shaped like old car keys.

One by one, she jiggled each into the lock, raking them across the pins until . . .

Click.

With a tug on the car door, she slid inside. The cloth roof sagged down like a tiny circus tent, and the interior had a sharp orange whiff that’d clearly been sprayed to cover what smelled like mildew and cigars.

Nola went straight for the glove box, pulling out a stack of napkins, plastic utensils, and a brown vinyl folder that looked like something a waiter hands you when they deliver the check: the holder for the Owner’s Guide and Warranty Booklet. No registration, nothing with Fechmeier’s name on it.

It was the same with the center console—which held a stack of brand-new maps for New York, New Jersey, and Maryland—and the sun visor, where the vanity mirror was long gone.

It wasn’t until she reached for the ashtray and gave it a yank—

It wouldn’t open.

She yanked harder, and it opened slightly, enough to reveal that something was wedged . . .

She put on her phone’s flashlight and leaned down to see it.

A light blue wire, tangled like a small ball of yarn. Sliding her fingers into the gap, she could tell it was hooked on something. A bit of twisting dislodged it, but as she opened the ashtray a bit further, it was clear that the wire ran deeper into the ashtray, back behind the dashboard.

Resting her phone on the center console and aiming the light, she gave the wire another tug. Something moved. A bit higher on the dashboard, the blue wire was now peeking out from where it’d been tucked behind the radio. Pulling out the tweezers from her lockpick kit, she pinched the wire and slowly peeled it out, like she was unraveling a sweater. One side ran up toward the steering column, headed toward the ignition, but the other side ran down the wheel well, toward the gas pedal and dead-ending at—

Ducking down, she again grabbed her phone light to spot it—a small gray plastic tackle box, the size of a wallet. Nola had seen one of these before, Special Forces used them to keep keys and money from getting wet. But to hide it down here?

There was a tear of velcro as she pulled it from its hiding space. Zzzzzt.

What’re you stashing, Fechmeier?

Maybe drugs or a weapon, yet as she flicked the latches and opened the case . . .

It looked like a flip phone, but with nothing to flip. Just a black screen with two icons: battery life and cell signal. Both glowed green.

Nola recognized it instantly, an old GPS tracker connected to the ignition so it didn’t run out of power.

Today, people use Apple AirTags to track everything from their spouse to their luggage, but back in the day, and especially in Afghanistan, this was the way to follow a suspect—hide an old GPS tracker in their car, and you’ll always know where they are. But if Fechmeier didn’t put it here . . .

You didn’t know you were being watched, did you? Nola asked, yanking hard on the blue wire. As she ripped it from the device, her hand crashed into the steering wheel.

Outside, the tabby cat leapt sideways, startled by the impact. It turned back to the dumpster in seconds.

Opening the back of the GPS case, Nola grabbed her phone and took a photo of the one detail she was looking for: a serial number.

With real-time trackers like this, to transmit data, you need a cellular network. That meant you also need a monthly subscription or data plan, which meant, as she glanced back at the motel, at Fechmeier’s dark room with its curtains barely open, she’d soon have the most vital piece of all.

A name.

19

“Breakfast Club as in the movie The Breakfast Club?”

“How many Breakfast Clubs do you know?” Melinda asked as she picked up speed, weaved around two trees, and left the storage sheds behind.

“I never saw that movie,” Roddy said, following a bit too closely. “I don’t have good memoires of high school, so I don’t like movies set there.”

“Roddy, the point of the movie is that no one likes high sch—” Zig cut himself off, realizing that talking to Roddy about movies was as productive as banging on a wall and hoping it transforms into a door.

Increasing his pace, Zig followed the two of them between the trees, toward the back of the parking lot up ahead, the blood moon tinting it pale pink like a rash. “So Melinda,” Zig called out, “this Breakfast Club that Fechmeier was a part of—”

“Fetch. Back then, everyone called him Fetch. It was the one high school where they were able to make Fetch happen,” Melinda said dryly.

Roddy didn’t get the reference, though Zig of course nodded at the line from Mean Girls, which got him his own subtle grin from Melinda, the two of them sharing one of life’s most beautiful moments: finding someone who’s in on your joke.

“I used to watch it with my daughter,” Zig explained, already regretting saying it. For years, he’d become an expert at avoiding small talk about Maggie—better to spare himself from inevitable follow-up questions like . . .

“How old is she?” Melinda asked.

“She’s a . . . it’s a long story.”

“His daughter’s dead,” Roddy blurted.

Zig knew what came next—that familiar mix of sadness and pity where people can’t maintain eye contact.

To his surprise, Melinda glanced over her shoulder, staring straight at him. “I lost my son when he was four. Papillon-Lefèvre syndrome.”

Zig started to say something, but nothing came out.

“What was your daughter’s name?” Melinda asked.

“Maggie. Your son’s?”

“Nicholas. After my ex’s grandfather.” She looked down, noticing Zig wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Neither was she. When you bury a child, few marriages survive.

“Nicholas was my grandfather’s name too,” Zig said, noticing the way her green eyes opened a hair wider when you said something she found interesting. Zig couldn’t help but take it as a challenge.

“Truthfully, I always saw it as a stuffy name, but my ex threw a fit,” she explained, her ponytail bouncing as she picked up speed, “plus he let me pick my engagement ring, so I owed him something. Lord knows I’m not exactly the prize wheel at the carnival.” She let out a spirited laugh, Zig appreciating her even more for that. When you bury a child, you of course lose your child. You also lose your faith and beliefs about how the world is supposed to be. But one of the most public things that also gets trashed is your ability to have normal conversations that aren’t filled with sorrow and dread.

“You’re a judge?” Roddy interrupted.

Entering the parking lot, Melinda turned as Roddy pointed to the back of a nearby black Acura, where a red, white, and blue bumper sticker read: bix for circuit court.

“We’ll see. Judge Carbonara finally said she’s retiring, but the primary’s not until the summer,” Melinda explained, sounding nonchalant, though Zig could see the way she was scanning the parking lot and the surrounding woods, like she was looking for something . . . or already saw it.

Following her gaze, Zig checked the lot himself. It was late—especially in a small town like this, the whole block was empty. The only other vehicles were two police cars, both parked on the far side of the lot, closer to the police station. There was a light on inside the building, yet what Zig couldn’t help but notice was how dark it was out here. Nearly half the light posts were smashed and broken. Melinda had stopped under one of the few that was still lit.

On their right, on the back corner of the brick courthouse, was a security cam pointed directly at Zig and Roddy. Full credit to Melinda—she wasn’t taking any chances.

“You were telling us about Fetch,” Roddy said.

“Actually, I was trying to find out where else Fetch went before he was killed and any relevant details about how he—”

“We’ll be happy to share those,” Roddy agreed, “after you tell us about—”

“Our Breakfast Club.”

“Our?” Zig asked.

“I’ve lived here my entire life. Fetch . . . me . . . we all grew up together,” Melinda explained. “By the time we hit high school, we were a solid five. P.K. was a jock, Fetch was pretty nerdy, and I was even more uptight than Molly Ringwald . . . Anyway, it was a few years after the movie came out, so we’d jokingly call ourselves The Breakfast Club.”

“That’s three of you: you, P.K., Fetch . . .”

“Plus the highest alto in the church choir as well as the star of every school play, Ivy Munn. And this’ll sound dumb, but it’s what everyone remembers: the number one Guns N’ Roses fan in the world, the viper herself, Daniella Brown,” she replied.

Roddy turned as she said the name of his mother. He took a step toward Melinda, then a step back, his body still curving toward her, like he was using every muscle in his body to hold it together. “The viper?”

“Lame joke. She was the original goth girl—and in ninth grade gave Chris Weiss a hickey that he proudly showed to everyone. Plus the rock ’n’ roll groupie thing—”

“That’s three girls and two guys,” Zig pointed out, trying to put things back on track. “The real Breakfast Club had—”

“You’re making it sound like there was a membership committee. It was a stupid nickname, like when Mr. Diskin’s homeroom started calling themselves Diskin’s Dirtbags. We had a jock, a brain, a rebel . . . and the rest of us arguing that they were the beauty, so it just— It was a stupid name.”

“I’m more concerned that three of your club members are now dead. That seems statistically implausible,” Roddy said. Before she could react, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the old cafeteria photo.

“Where’d you—? Is that from our yearbook?” Melinda asked, her eyes widening as she leaned in close.

“I saw photos—you were in the school plays with them. In the drama section of the yearbook, there’s a picture of you with Ivy in The Miracle Worker . . . then another of you where I could see Fechmeier in back; he was painting scenery. You have a good yearbook. They put everyone’s names in the captions.”

“I’ll be sure to thank the yearbook teacher—who’s still teaching, by the way,” she pointed out. “And much as I’d love to discuss the finer points of our Miracle Worker production, can we get back to Fetch’s phone? Where else did you track him to?”

Roddy glanced at Zig, who shot a similar look back. It wasn’t like they had much choice. Melinda clearly knew Roddy’s mother. If they wanted to figure out how Daniella and Fetch were linked together—and what it had to do with this Breakfast Club—Melinda was their best shot . . . and really only one. Most important, she seemed to be looking for the same answers.

“From what we can tell, it looks like a burner phone, bought in a store called Collado Grocery, a bodega outside of Baltimore,” Roddy explained. “I asked local PD to knock on the door, but I bet he picked it because they had no cameras.”

“Fetch always had brains,” Melinda agreed. “You think he was coming from up north?”

“That’s my guess,” Roddy said. “After that, he rented a room at the Carousel Motel.”

“That place was a dump when we were young.”

“And like the bodega, no cameras there either. From there, at four a.m., like you said, he made his way to your storage shed, then went back to the motel, where it looks like he spent the night.”

“And after that?” Melinda asked.

“Later that morning, he took a trip to a local funeral home—”

“Why?”

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Zig said.

“Then he came back to the Carousel Motel, which is where someone put a bullet in his head,” Roddy said.

Melinda nodded, staring into the far distance, like she was mentally snapping puzzle pieces into place.

“If we can get back to The Breakfast Club . . .” Zig said, motioning for Roddy to hand her the old yearbook photo.

“Yeah, no, that looks . . .” She tilted it in the moonlight, squinting at the picture. “I think that’s from the start of eleventh grade . . . right before it all went ugly.”

“Define ugly,” Roddy challenged.

“Relax. It’s not like we were drawing pentagrams in someone’s basement. P.K.’s mom was a flight attendant and was always away. So most weekends, we’d hang out there, smoking cigarettes and pranking people with three-way calls, since back then, three-way calling seemed new and exciting.”

“Do not undersell three-way calling; that was magic back then,” Zig agreed, knowing the advantages of making connections and keeping her talking.

Melinda shot him a look, like she knew what he was up to, but was still enjoying the three-way calling reference. “To put a finer point on it, we thought we were friends forever, but like many cliques, somewhere between junior and senior year the social dynamic started to shift. I got more involved with the school newspaper and the academic crowd, while everyone else . . . they were nice kids . . . they just had a bit more of a wild side.”

“So you left The Breakfast Club behind?”

“Again, you’re making it sound like something official. I’d known most of them since elementary school. I had my first sleepover at Ivy’s for her fourth grade Strawberry Shortcake birthday party.”

“But something made you leave?” Roddy said.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked me the same question in a different way. You seem like a smart cop.” She tightened her glance. “You got something personal going in this case?”

This time, Roddy didn’t answer.

She looked to Zig, who was just as quiet.

Melinda wasn’t stupid. She was a prosecutor, a member of law enforcement, who spent her days honing her bullshit meter. If they wanted answers, they needed to give some. Tell her, Zig said with a glance.

Roddy shifted his weight, stubborn as ever.

“It’s fine,” Melinda said, starting to leave. “Nice meeting you both. I’m thrilled you got those phone records so fast, but I’ll have them tomorrow, and then me and my sheriff will—”

“Daniella Brown is my mother,” Roddy blurted.

20

Melinda froze. “You’re serious? Daniella’s your—? She’s your mother?”

“I never knew her. For years, I didn’t want anything to do with— I thought she—” Roddy stopped, then started again, staring at the camera in the parking lot. “People said she killed herself, but I’m not convinced that’s what happened.”

“I-I remember . . . when she died . . . I remember getting the call . . . I came home from college— My God, that funeral was— Oh, Roddy, I swear I had no idea. I’d heard she had a baby, but never thought—”

“Now you understand,” Roddy said, motioning to the yearbook photo. “In eleventh grade, you were friends with my mom . . . with all of them. I looked through the yearbook when they were in twelfth. You weren’t in any photos with them.”

“I already told y—”

“Don’t tell me you just grew apart. You said things got ugly. Something happened. I need to know what it was,” Roddy insisted.

“What my friend’s trying to say—” Zig began.

“How’d my mother wind up in a ditch, and you’re running for judge?” Roddy demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Zig interrupted. “He’s—”

“I get it. If it was my mother . . .” She cut herself off, holding tight to the yearbook photo but refusing to look at it.

“Please. If you know why she died . . .” Roddy pleaded. “If it’s something with this Breakfast Club—”

Melinda nodded over and over as a lightning bug did a loop-de-loop behind her. “Our time together . . . I meant what I said . . . it was mostly innocent high school nonsense. Until Tommy Bressler’s parents went out of town, and he decided to throw a party,” Melinda added, her voice slowing down as she again scanned the empty lot, like she could hear something above the wind. If she wanted, she could invite them inside, but with the cameras, at least for now, it seemed safer out here.

In the distance, a few more lightning bugs added their own loop-de-loops. Up above, moths kamikazed into the glowing light post. It was so quiet, the only sound was a high-pitched hum like you take home with you from a rock concert.

“My mother died because of a party?” Roddy asked.

“I have no idea why she died, but I can tell you why The Breakfast Club broke up,” Melinda replied, adjusting her glasses. “Tommy’s father was a lawyer who used to work at a big firm in D.C. Their family had money—or at least what we thought was money back then—including a three-car garage with a bright yellow convertible Corvette. It was the kind of car every teenager would’ve killed to drive.”

“This is starting to sound more Ferris Bueller than Breakfast Club,” Zig said.

“You have no idea. On that night, thanks to Daniella’s fake ID, we were armed with enough beer and crappy wine coolers to fill a weekend with bad decisions. Truthfully, I forget whose idea it was to go to the garage, but I remember walking inside and seeing that glow of the bright yellow paint. The convertible top was down, and it still had that new-car smell . . .”

“Can you just get to the part where you crash it?”

“That would’ve been simpler. Within seconds, of course, we all jumped in . . . P.K. in the driver’s seat, Daniella at shotgun because she always took shotgun to run the radio . . . the rest of us were in the back. I remember Fetch squeezed . . .” She laughed to herself as she mentally replayed the moment. “He was in the middle seat and pumping his hips like he was humping the center console. We were juniors in high school—everything seemed funny . . .”

“Until . . .”

“Until Daniella opened the glove compartment.”

Roddy turned to Melinda, no longer scanning the lot. She stared straight ahead, like she was watching a replay in front of her.

“I can still hear Daniella whistling,” she continued. “She used to whistle the opening whistle from Guns N’ Roses’s ‘Patience’ whenever something was going down. But as she opened that glove compartment . . . the moment she saw what was inside . . . she stopped whistling.”

“A gun?” Zig guessed.

Melinda shook her head. “A half dozen baggies. Filled with, well . . . a fine white powder.”

“Oh crap.”

“Oh crap indeed. Turns out Tommy’s dad was using his snazzy yellow Vette as the hiding spot for his cocaine habit,” she explained. “In seconds, everyone was yelling and arguing—Put it back! Don’t touch it! Take it!”

“You could’ve reported it,” Roddy said.

“You didn’t have any friends in high school, did you? We were teenagers—no one wants to be a narc. Plus, Arrow Rock is a small town. We were out of our league, everyone freaking the hell out. And then, in the midst of all the yelling—and I will never forget this moment for as long as I live—the most innocent among us—Ivy the Alto—the undisputed star of The Miracle Worker and every other Arrowette high school play, who used to collect canned goods door-to-door every time there was a hurricane in the Caribbean, leans forward from the backseat and whispers the words she could never ever take back: We can use it against him.”

21

With a click of his phone, Dustin Generaux took three quick headshots of the pale body he’d been embalming for nearly two hours.

It belonged to a man who, two days ago, had entered the funeral home saying his name was Harry Smith, but who, according to the two men who “convinced” Dustin to step out for a few hours this morning, was Andrew Fechmeier.

“Coming through now,” he announced through the speakerphone, his teardrop-shaped body leaning against the gurney as he texted the three photos.

It was the same whenever the Arrow Rock medical examiner was involved. They won’t sign off on payment until they see the final work.

“Still don’t see it,” said Amanda, the ME’s office manager, who made so many high demands everyone called her Demanda.

“Heh,” Amanda said, her phone pinging as the photos arrived.

“Something funny?”

“Sorry, no, was just scrolling Instagram and saw this post saying Forrest Gump is actually a serial killer. That he took his mother’s house, Jenny’s life, Lieutenant Dan’s legs—then he led his acolytes into the desert and abandoned them—always taking on the lives of all he has killed. It’s stupid, but I laughed. Judge me if you want.”

“I appreciate the honesty about not giving me your full attention.”

“Can’t talk . . . found a video of a blind girl getting glasses for the first time. I love these. I’ll have Randi authorize payment. Gotta jet.”

With a click, she was gone, leaving Dustin alone with the body, flat on its back on the rolling cart, a white sheet covering him nearly to his neck.

For the past hour and a half, the mortician had done his best, closing Fechmeier’s head wound with wax, then hiding the seam with extra hair from the local barbershop. He’d even used slower-drying rubber glue to layer it in, but none of that fixed the way Fechmeier’s face sagged slightly to the left, looking a bit lopsided. It didn’t make Dustin a bad mortician, just a typical one, especially with a head wound. Besides, if Fechmeier was right, the funeral would be so small, no one would notice.

Only thing left was to get him dressed.

Heading down the hallway toward the storage closet, Dustin couldn’t help but replay the way Fechmeier’s hands were shaking two days ago. And the way those guys stormed in this morning, demanding answers to their questions.

Whatever was really going on, you don’t drop off clothes for your own funeral unless you know something’s coming. But somehow, it didn’t seem like Fechmeier knew it was coming quite that quickl—

There was a buzz from Dustin’s phone. He picked it up just as he passed the window with the bonsai tree, right next to the closet. “You do realize you ruined Forrest Gump for m—”

“Alan Panzer Hamilton,” a woman blurted. A different woman. Someone new.

“What?”

“Alan Panzer Hamilton,” she repeated.

Dustin was undoing the padlock as he placed the voice of Leilani, the night nurse from The Wilshire, the nearby assisted-living facility. She was using the nickname for Alan Panzer, everyone’s favorite pinochle player.

“Alan Panzer Hamilton died?” Dustin asked, holding the padlock like the skull in Hamlet.

“We found him in his recliner. I think he’s been there since lunch.”

Dustin knew what it meant. Rigor mortis had already set in. This would be a mess.

“If you’re busy—”

“No. I’m good,” Dustin shot back, hooking the padlock back in place. Leilani was a stickler. If he didn’t come immediately, she’d call the guys at Bartles Funeral Home, who kept lowering their prices to make a dent in everyone’s business. “I’m leaving right now.”

If the phone had rung four seconds later, Dustin would’ve undone the metal latch and opened the closet. Instead, with a thunk, he resealed the padlock and headed to the embalming room, where he pulled a sheet over Fechmeier’s head. The hard work was done. He’d finish dressing him tomorrow.

Four seconds.

That’s how close he’d come to pulling Fechmeier’s double-breasted suit from the closet—along with whatever had secretly been sewn into it.

22

“When you saw the cocaine . . . You went along with this?” Zig asked.

“My dad’s a cop. You think I don’t know what happens when people see opportunity in bags of white powder?” Melinda challenged. “Right there, I was out. I didn’t need a headache like that. I hopped out of the convertible and left the party.”

“You sound sad when you say that,” Roddy pointed out.

“The Breakfast Club may’ve been a dumb nickname, but these were people I grew up with. Even if the clique was fracturing . . .” She cut herself off. “No one wants to lose friends. And looking back on it, that’s the night it all began.”

“So once they found the drugs, they started blackmailing Mr. Corvette?” Zig asked, glancing around the parking lot, the blood moon glowing bright.

“Back then, that’s what I assumed. Honestly, I wanted no part of it—but you know how high school goes. People talk. Rumors swirl. Someone said Tommy’s dad got a note threatening to send his cocaine to the local newspaper if he didn’t pay them $2,500.”

“From a wealthy lawyer? They could’ve gotten more,” Roddy said.

“They were kids,” Melinda replied, slapping her own shoulder, angrily waving at a few stray mosquitos. “From what I heard, they would go to people’s parties then raid the parents’ bedroom. At Marcel Martin’s house, they opened his dad’s armoire and found a strap-on dildo. In another, they found a bong and a half brick of marijuana . . . and not sure I ever believed this, but supposedly a stash of gay porn at the Elrods’ house.”

“I take it the Elrods aren’t gay?”

“Reverend Elrod. The minister at the Baptist church,” Melinda said, swatting at another stray mosquito.

“You’re serious?”

“That was the rumor, though it was coming from high school kids, so I just assumed it was gossipy bullshit. In my mind, if it were true, someone would’ve been fired—the Reverend couldn’t survive a scandal like that. But when P.K. started showing up with new Reeboks, then Daniella and Ivy had new jewelry, including a gold microphone charm covered in diamonds, people started to whisper. And then”—Melinda slapped at a mosquito on her wrist: direct hit—“the remaining members of The Breakfast Club got greedy.”

“Is this your theory or actual facts?” Roddy asked.

“If you want, let’s take this into my office and we can start putting it down in an official report,” Melinda challenged.

“You said you left The Breakfast Club behind. How could you possibly know abou—?”

“You read the files,” Zig interrupted.

Roddy turned, confused.

Zig stayed locked on Melinda. “You said your dad’s a cop. It’s a small town. Back then, your father’s the one who investigated this, isn’t he?”

Melinda readjusted her glasses, looking impressed and even a bit enthusiastic.

Right there, a new thought hit Zig’s brain. For Melinda, catching Fechmeier’s killer was about more than just her old high school friends. As a prosecutor running for judge, cracking a decades-old cold case could prove she was best for the job.

“So what’d he find?” Zig added. “You said Fetch and The Breakfast Club got greedy. Did they take something they never should’ve stolen?”

Melinda shook her head, turning away from Zig, her ponytail once again pumping as she headed for the opposite side of the parking lot. “The problem wasn’t what they stole . . . It’s who they stole from.”

“Wait, where’re you going?” Zig called out, following her away from the lamppost and into the shadows.

“You were right about my dad. He’s been sheriff for over twenty-five years. So if you really want to hear what went down that night . . .” Melinda marched across the lot, toward the police station. “You should ask him yourself.”

23

If today were being graded, Annthea Spencer would’ve given it a nine out of ten.

It started when the hinky toaster she got in the divorce made her morning English muffin so perfectly golden brown, it could’ve been in a commercial.

It got even better on her way to work—answering phones at a local pet groomer—when she got the mini crossword with ease, and her #7 bus made every light on Hinton Boulevard.

Best of all, at the end of the day, the cute FedEx guy with the great calves arrived with his afternoon deliveries, lingering at her desk and making small talk about her Dollywood coffee mug while flashing that smile that she’d be thinking about in the bath tonight.

So as Annthea finally got home, opening the metal gate of the house and practically floating through the front door, she barely noticed that the lock was already open.

“Tell me about Andrew Fechmeier,” Nola said behind her.

When Nola first arrived, she couldn’t help but notice the shot-out streetlights along the block. It didn’t get much better inside, where the entirety of the décor was a tattered and sagging leatherette sofa with at least two dozen Beanie Babies—all with their tags still attached—stacked in the corner staring Nola’s way, their glass eyes glowing in the dark.

At the sound of Nola’s voice, Annthea started to turn, reaching for the mace on her key ring.

In a blur, Nola slid her arm under Annthea’s armpit and twisted to the right, pinning Annthea’s arm behind her back with just enough pressure to make her drop the mace. That was the end of the fight. Annthea was forty-two, diabetic, and out of shape.

“Ow . . . listen, listen, listen . . . I don’t got money—!”

“I asked you about Andrew Fechmeier.”

“Andrew? I don’t know any—”

“I saw what you hid in his car—in his Mercury Capri.”

“You outta your mind? The Capri is my car! At least, it was . . . I sold it weeks ago!”

Nola cocked her head, confused. Why would she put a tracker in her own car?

“Lady, you got the wrong person,” Annthea challenged, her arm still pinned behind her back.

With her free hand, Nola flashed the GPS. “Tucked under the dash. Charged to your credit card—”

Annthea stared at the GPS. “Oh, that piece of shit!” she eventually shouted. “That wasn’t me—it was my ex! Y’know how many credit cards he opened in my name? That’s how he—!”

“What the hell’re you doing to my wife?” a male voice called out.

Spinning toward the door, Nola spotted a chubby Black man in a black-and-white-striped referee shirt. He had high, arched eyebrows and a natural misery about him. On his chest was a Foot Locker name tag: Davis.

“You put a tracker on me, you shitwaffle?!” Annthea exploded.

“Get your hands off my wife!” Davis shouted at Nola.

“I fucking divorced you!” Annthea insisted, kicking wildly at Davis, thrashing, fighting against Nola’s grip.

They were moving too fast. Nola had to let go.

“You hid a tracker in my car—like I’m some damn cheater?!” Annthea shouted, plowing forward like a tornado.

“You did cheat!”

“Phone sex, not real sex! And you put it on my credit card?!” she shot back, winding up with a slap and aiming for his face.

Davis was a head taller than Annthea. He grabbed her wrist in midair. She didn’t have a chance. Cocking back his own fist, he aimed for her—

Hkkkk.

Something stung Davis in the neck, knocking the wind from his throat.

From this position, Nola knew at least six lethal defenses. Another few dozen would incapacitate him. She chose the one that delivered the most pain.

“That pressure you’re feeling in your forehead is what happens when I deprive your brain of oxygen,” Nola said, gripping Davis’s Adam’s apple and digging her fingertips in so deep she could feel the cartilage of his larynx.

In seconds, Davis was on his knees, his face red, a thick vein swelling at his temple.

“Davis, yes? That’s your name?” Nola asked, motioning to his name tag.

He nodded frantically.

“You’re now having a very bad day,” Nola told him, tightening her grip. “I’m going to ask you questions, and your answers will dictate whether this becomes a better day. Question one: Do you still live in this house?”

He nodded yes again.

Nola looked at Annthea.

“Just till he gets back on his feet,” Annthea explained defensively. “I know he’s an asshole, but . . . I know him since high school . . . don’t hurt him.”

“Second question,” Nola said to Davis, holding up the GPS, “you’re the one who put this in the Capri?”

Another nod. Yes.

“But you’ve never heard of Andrew Fechmeier?”

Davis made a face, his arched eyebrows knitting together. He didn’t know the name—didn’t know anything about him.

Again, Nola turned to Annthea. “Tell me why you sold the car.”

“Because he loved that car, and fuck him for that. But really, the debt he put me in . . .” She motioned around at the sparse living room and held up her phone. “These collectors track you down. I can’t have them calling me at work.”

“And you sold it when?”

“Two weeks . . . two Sundays ago—I went from church. The used car place . . . they gave me cash.”

Nola glanced down at Davis, then over to the sofa and the pile of Beanie Babies with their endless stares. It wasn’t hard to put the rest together. From what she could tell, the GPS tracker had nothing to do with Fechmeier. Davis hid it to keep tabs on his wife, and she sold the car without realizing it was still transmitting—which meant this part of the search was a complete dead end . . .

Except for one detail.

“Tell me about the car dealership—the one that paid you cash,” Nola said to Annthea. “How far is it from here?”

24

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“Where’s your badge?”

“Excuse me?” Zig asked.

“I see his badge; I don’t see yours—so is this official or something personal?” asked the silver-haired man in tan slacks, a starched white button-down, and the kind of leathery skin that made him look weatherproof. He wasn’t wearing the loaded Sam Browne belt with the flashlight, pepper spray, and all the gear that most deputies wore. Instead, he wore a simple holster, but the four stars on his collar and the epaulets on his shoulder made it clear who was in charge. “We got a way of doing things here, and this is not how we do it. I need you out of here. Now,” Sheriff Arnold Bix barked, gripping the edge of his desk and hoisting himself up.

“Dad, don’t—” Melinda pleaded, jumping between the sheriff and Zig.

“Sir, we’re just—”

“Sir?”

“Sheriff, please . . . I work at Dover, I’m only here t—” Zig stopped himself. “Andrew Fechmeier was murdered two days ago. Twenty-five years ago, Daniella Brown was found dead too. And right before that, a few towns over, her friend P.K. fell off a boat. If I’m right, instead of three separate incidents, they’re all tied together.”

“And since we’re a few exits further up the highway, you assume I’m somehow missing the fact that all three victims used to be friends with . . .”—he pointed to Melinda—“my own daughter?!” The room shook as he yelled. “You know how long I know these kids? I bought a pink bat for Daniella when I coached her in T-ball.”

“Dad, they’re just trying t—”

“Don’t, Mindy. Do not!” the sheriff shot back, turning so fast he knocked into one of the metal toy cars on the corner of his desk. There were half a dozen in total—fancy collectibles—each parked parallel to the other: A 1966 pale yellow Super Sport . . . a 1975 red Chevy Caprice . . . All convertibles, all American-made. Zig wasn’t sure if they were the sheriff’s old cars or cars he’d always longed for.

There was an open can of Dr Pepper next to the cars, and two other empty cans in the garbage, yet what caught Zig’s eye was the item at the center of the desk—the sheriff ’s hat, set there like a museum piece. The military calls them a cover-on/cover-off—uniform purists who religiously wear their hat outside, then take it off when they’re inside. A stickler for sure, though there was something genuine about him, with a clear loyalty to his job, to his town, and—the way he kept glancing back at her—to his daughter. Heart or no heart? It was an easy answer.

“Two decades,” Bix added, holding up his pointer and pinkie fingers like bull’s horns. “Two decades I’ve been sifting through details, worrying if my kid is somehow next. P.K. . . . then Daniella . . . now Fechmeier . . . I know this case better than I know my dog’s pooping habits, yet here you are, acting like you’ve suddenly got the inside track on—”

“Daniella’s his mother,” Melinda interrupted.

The sheriff turned.

Roddy stood there, in a bit of shock himself. He’d never heard someone acknowledge it before.

“Daniella Brown was your mother?” Sheriff Bix asked.

“I never knew her, but I—”

“You have a sister,” the sheriff said.

“Nola,” Roddy said, locking eyes with him. “How do y—?” It didn’t take long to put the rest together. If Bix was a deputy back then . . . “When Daniella— When my mother died . . . Were you there when they found us?”

Staring down at his desk, Bix put a fingertip on the pale yellow Super Sport convertible, rolling it back and forth.

“There was a cardiac nurse,” Bix said to Roddy. “She had a pointy jaw, I forget her name—outside the hospital. She was the one who found you. I remember the call coming through the radio. We didn’t even know what happened to your mom yet. That was later when—” He cut himself off, still focused on the car. “According to the nurse, there wasn’t a scratch on either of you. Your grandmother . . .” He shook his head. “You don’t forget your first big case. I was there when they pulled the body from the car. Even without the death of her daughter, your grandma was in no shape to handle you and your sister. We were all looking for last known relatives.”

“We wound up in a group home,” Roddy said. “But now you understand why I’m here.”

Sheriff Bix glanced at Melinda, who was standing in front of a wall covered in citations and awards—the first sign of the thin-skinned and ego-driven. But as Zig looked closer, they weren’t for the sheriff. They were for his daughter. A Rotary Club plaque engraved with Melinda’s name. The Governor’s Citation. A service medal from the Maryland Bar Association. Plus a framed photo of her swearing-in as District Attorney over a decade ago—her hair puffy and over-styled—with the sheriff proudly holding the Bible as she raised her right hand.

For a solid ten seconds, the sheriff and Melinda shared one of those long, loaded glances you usually see between spouses or siblings that might as well have been a full conversation. Zig couldn’t tell if he was looking at father and daughter or sheriff and prosecutor, but he knew an argument when he saw one. And a victory.

“They’re on our side,” Melinda finally said. “They have resources we don’t—they traced Fetch to our storage shed.”

“We already knew he was here,” Sheriff Bix shot back.

“No, we assumed he was here. They have his phone records—where he went before and after. It’ll take Alden and the state folks another two days to get us that, Dad. And more than just Fetch’s death, they can help crack these cold cases wide open,” Melinda pleaded.

Bix gave a final flick to the yellow convertible.

“Sheriff, you won’t regret it,” Roddy began. “If you tell us who The Breakfast Club robbed that night, we can—”

“Don’t call them that. It’s a stupid name,” Bix insisted. “As for who they robbed, well . . .” He glanced at his daughter, who gave him a nod. “Ever hear of Oliver North?”

25

Abbottstown, New Jersey

Twelve hours earlier

Ivy had a soft spot for libraries.

It wasn’t the books—she was never a big reader. It was a birthday party, back when she turned seven—her Aunt Juju’s idea. This was after Ivy’s mom lost her job . . . after half the town lost their jobs . . . when the local zipper factory shifted all their work to a juvenile prison a few towns over.

With money even tighter than usual and Mom’s Sunday church prayers having no intended effect, local librarian Aunt Juju swooped to the rescue, knowing that on the first weekend of every month, the library held a story hour and puppet show.

Free entertainment is free entertainment, but what stuck with Ivy all these years were the actual puppets in the show: cheap handheld versions of Sesame Street icons Grover and Ernie singing about the wheels on the bus going round and round. With each new song, a new puppet would join in—Raggedy Ann! Snoopy! Mickey Mouse! Smurfette! Even a random Barbie doll that just swayed back and forth to the music!—the whole thing a trademark nightmare that also happened to be the single greatest assemblage of branded characters the kids had ever seen. Even Melissa Cuttman, the spoiled little turdbag who used to call everyone’s cake cheap if there weren’t seven layers inside, said it was the best puppet show of all time.

Ivy was still thinking of the Barbie doll swaying back and forth as she entered the Abbottstown Library, which looked no different from any small-town library, except for two large and well-tended flower boxes filled with magnolias, begonias, and golden creeping jenny. When you walked inside, a large yellow-and-black sign on a nearby bulletin board read:

warning!

librarians are silently
correcting your grammar.

Only if you talk to them, Ivy thought, keeping her head down and making her way to the building’s most valuable asset. An untraceable public computer.

Wasting no time, she clicked through local news sites, checking over her shoulder every few minutes, remembering a documentary that said the human head can turn and see 250 degrees, but you need someone else to see the other 110 degrees.

Taking another peek over her shoulder, she spotted an Asian grandmother ignoring her granddaughter’s pleas to borrow DVDs rather than books.

For the next hour, Ivy kept clicking, but no matter how deep she dug down the Google rabbit hole, she couldn’t find a single mention of Fetch or his fake name—nothing in the papers, nothing on Facebook, Insta, or anything online—not even a mention of anyone matching his physical description when she used one of the library’s free “phone rooms” and called every nearby ER to see if there were any John Does.

It’d been a full two days since she’d heard from him (she’d slept in her car last night, waiting for the library to open). By now, The Herald and everyone at Heavenly Meadows would know she was gone. Fetch too. Once that alarm got pulled, she knew who else would be chasing her. Yet whatever went down with Fetch, the local news apparently still hadn’t gotten word.

That is, until she put in a new keyword—“shooting”—and found a bunch of Facebook accounts using something called @ScannerRadio, an app that broadcasts local police scanners.

Active Event: Shooting, read a post from Greenfield, Iowa.

Active Event: Aircraft Accident, read one from Rawlins, Wyoming.

Active Event: Building Fire, from Tampa, Florida.

There were thousands of them—from every city, state, and small town—an entire subcommunity so bored with their lives, they’d spend their nights eavesdropping on the cops, rebroadcasting ten-second audio clips for reasons she couldn’t fathom.

New search. Narrow it down.

Once again, she focused on @ScannerRadio, but this time, she limited it to just her hometown of Arrow Rock, Maryland.

Active Event: Domestic Abuse, read a post from four years ago. With a click, Ivy reshuffled the results in chronological order.

Onscreen, the newest post was first, from two nights ago, by a user named @Cirdan54, a reference to the oldest Elf in The Lord of the Rings, a detail she knew because Fetch loved rewatching the movies. God, he had such middle-age tastes.

Leaning forward on her elbows, Ivy read, then reread @Cirdan54’s post, from 7:04 p.m. two nights back.

Active Event: DOA. Dead body.

Yet what caught her eye—her ear, really—was what she heard when she hit the audio link. “10-4, Central,” a deputy announced. “En route to the Carousel.”

There it was. The one thing Ivy was looking for.

The scene of the crime.

Next stop—the Carousel Motel.

26

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Twelve hours later

“I don’t get it. Who’s Oliver North?” Roddy asked.

“Ollie North!” Sheriff Bix repeated, as if that were the end of the argument. “From the Reagan administration. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“The eighties were four decades ago. I’m twenty-nine,” Roddy pointed out.

The sheriff glanced over at his daughter, as if he couldn’t quite believe the math.

“Of course I remember Oliver North,” Zig jumped in. “The Iran-Contra guy.”

“Not just the Iran-Contra guy,” Bix said. “The indicted Iran-Contra guy.”

“Can someone please tell me what this has to do with my mother?” Roddy asked.

“Dad, get to the point,” Melinda pleaded in a tone that made it clear how regularly she was forced to keep her father on track. At seventy years old, he was past his prime; in her late forties, she was in the heart of hers.

“What matters is this,” Bix continued, grabbing the nearby Dr Pepper. “Oliver North was a decorated Marine who worked for the White House’s National Security Council. He had a pristine military career and was headed even higher in the White House . . . until he and his bosses were accused of illegally selling U.S. weapons to Iran and then using the proceeds to support foreign freedom fighters who—”

“Dad, even back then, no one cared about the politics. Get to the heart of it.”

He made a face, put down the Dr Pepper, and clasped his hands behind his back like an old drill sergeant. “It was a fiasco,” he explained to Zig and Roddy. “It nearly took down Reagan himself, and at the peak of it all was Oliver North, in full military uniform, raising his right hand and testifying before Congress.”

“I assume he wasn’t doing that willingly,” Roddy said.

“North made a deal. Like an informant, he testified to tell his version to Congress in exchange for immunity. Whether he did it or not, for the rest of his life, North is forever the guy from the scandal—the one who was indicted—and in that, he became the very last thing someone in national security wants to be. Completely radioactive.”

“I thought he ran for Senate,” Zig said.

“And lost. For a while, he milked his fame into the typical radio and TV deals, but in the end, he became the original poster boy for how quickly your life gets pulverized when you testify for the government. And y’know who that hurt more than anyone?”

“Oliver North,” Zig said.

“No, it hurt the government,” the sheriff shot back, eyeing a wide TV mounted near the ceiling. Zig missed it at first—it was over his shoulder—a screen with a grid for nearly a dozen security cameras, showing angles of the station’s front entrance, reception area, hallways, plus a few angles outside, including the parking lot. In the small town of Arrow Rock, Sheriff Bix had a view of it all—that is, except for a single video panel that was blacked out, like a lost tooth: the missing camera that Fetch apparently took down three nights ago.

“It’s not complicated,” Bix continued, hands still clasped behind his back. “Once Oliver North went down, every informant with a brain in their head was now worried about becoming the next version of Oliver North. Basically, the same thing that happened when the JFK assassination files were released. When you reveal your informants’ identities, people stop informing. So for Uncle Sam, adjustments had to be made.”

“What type of adjustments?” Zig asked.

“The kind that keep your best informants from being dragged into the public spotlight while still incentivizing them to bring you all the illegal garbage that makes them good informants in the first place. You follow?” he asked, raising his eyebrows into a chevron.

Zig and Roddy exchanged a look, still lost.

“Dad, just tell them about Koch,” Melinda scolded.

“Vincent Koch?” Roddy said.

“You know him?” the sheriff asked.

“Not until today,” Roddy said, pointing to Bix’s desk, to a file folder that was peeking out from under the sheriff’s hat. The words Koch, Vincent—2022 to Present were written in a squat, block handwriting. Once again, Roddy saw it all.

“I got a few years on him, but Vincent Koch and I grew up around the same time in Arrow Rock,” Bix explained. “When I made deputy, Koch was the founder and owner of AA Logistics—an unfortunately uncreative name—but also one of the most successful companies in the area.”

“He’s also an utter moron,” Melinda jumped in. “Kicked out of high school, fired from every local job, including his dad’s luggage and shoe repair shop. At some point, he got arrested for nonsense like peeing in public and drug possession as a minor. I remember hearing he moved to Washington, D.C., and got arrested again. But when he moved back home, he somehow became the Northeast’s number one distributor of expiring POLs.”

POLs? Zig asked with a glance.

“Petroleum, oil, and lubricants. The military’s acronym for liquids that . . . think of liquids that you’d find in the motor pool: motor oil, diesel fuel, antifreeze, WD-40, even spray paint,” Melinda explained. “The government uses it by the truckloads—billions of gallons. But the thing about POLs is they expire. So every year, right before the expiration date, if it hasn’t been extended, Uncle Sam sells it . . . at an absurd discount, of course. And the lucky recipient of all those expiring petroleum and oil products is . . .”

“Vincent Koch,” Roddy blurted, glancing from the file folder to the screen with the security cameras.

“Sounds like a sweetheart deal,” Zig said.

“It’s more than a sweetheart deal—it’s a nine-figure multimillion-dollar Christmas present. AA Logistics was eventually renamed something called Orange Corp. The point being, the profit from the motor oil alone means he’s set for life. People would saw off their own arms for a gift like that. But here’s the vital thing about Koch,” Melinda explained. “He has no background in oil or energy . . . no experience in machines or as a mechanic. Hell, far as we can tell, the guy never even worked at a gas station.”

“And you said his family ran a luggage repair business?” Zig asked.

“You’re smelling it too, aren’t you?” Melinda said. “When the most sketchy kid in town suddenly shows up with a bag of magic beans from the U.S. government, you gotta stop and ask why the feds are suddenly giving their beans to him.”

“He made a deal,” Roddy blurted. “That’s why you told us the Oliver North story. You think Koch ratted someone out.”

“Cello Chiarmonte,” the sheriff insisted.

“Cello? That’s a person?” Zig asked.

“Short for Marchello, founder of Cello Distributors, which back in the day used to be Arrow Rock’s most successful import/export shop, practically owning our little corner of the Chesapeake, or at the very least exploiting it for businesses all along the East Coast.”

“He was the guy who’d always sponsor every Little League team,” Melinda clarified.

“The respectable family man everyone wanted to be,” the sheriff added. “That is, until he got busted for taking payouts from the Albanian mob to help them smuggle guns and stolen weapons underneath the noses of the Coast Guard.”

“And you think that’s how Koch got power? By ratting him out?” Roddy asked.

“All I’m saying is, Cello was the reigning king of the county. Then one day, he’s serving thirty years in Jessup Correctional and King Koch is suddenly holding the scepter . . . and a multimillion-dollar government contract.”

“We should go see Mr. Cello,” Roddy insisted.

“You can try. He died six years ago,” Melinda said.

“So there’s no actual proof Koch is even linked to this guy,” Zig said.

“All I’m saying is whatever part of his soul Koch had to sell, for thirty years now, the government has kept him happy. And between the private bodyguards and that overpriced up-armored car with the bulletproof glass that he drives around in, he’s made it very clear he doesn’t like people sniffing through his sock drawer,” the sheriff said, his voice shifting speeds, “much less taking something from it.”

Zig turned at the tone. Roddy was still staring at the security screen.

“You think The Breakfast Club—Fetch, Roddy’s mother, and the others . . .” Zig began. “You think that’s who they robbed all those years ago? This guy Koch?”

“I’m not in the business of making guesses—or getting sued by hyper-litigious businessmen,” the sheriff said, turning to Roddy. “When your mother passed, we looked at Koch. To be honest, we looked at everyone in town back then. But truthfully, without the proof the deaths were related, there was nothing to find. That is, until two nights ago—”

“When Fetch showed up dead in your backyard,” Roddy blurted.

“We didn’t know it was Fetch until you confirmed it,” Melinda said.

“It was him. He was here,” Roddy said, still locked on the security cameras, on the small black square that used to show the storage sheds in back. Three nights ago, Fetch was here—clipping the lock and smashing the camera—like he was looking for something. “He stole a file, didn’t he?” Roddy added.

“Son, I know it’s tempting t—”

“I’m not your son. Don’t call me that,” Roddy said, his tone flat and cold. “Was it a file from my mother’s car crash?”

“If it was, we would’ve alread—”

“Fetch clearly took something. I’d like to know what he took.”

The sheriff’s eyes slid toward Melinda, the two of them sharing a long glance. Another silent conversation. And once again, another victory. Tell him, Melinda said with an imperceptible shove.

The sheriff took a breath. “The file . . . It was an incident report, one of my first. From twenty-six years ago, right before your mother died.”

“Before she was killed,” Roddy corrected him.

“What was the incident?” Zig asked.

“At the time, it was utterly forgettable. I remember it was the day after Thanksgiving because . . . Black Friday and all that. A home alarm had gone off at a house on Lamberville Street, and as with most alarms, the system notified the police. But by the time we got there, the homeowner was back and all was clear—the wind had blown open a screen door or some such. False alarm. Still, as you know, we have to file a report.”

“Care to take a guess who lives on Lamberville Street?” Melinda asked.

“Vincent Koch,” Roddy said.

“The one and only,” the sheriff said.

“So when the alarm went off . . . You think that was Fetch and The Breakfast Club breaking into Koch’s house? That they stole something from him—or found something that tied him to his predecessor?” Zig asked.

“I have no idea who broke in or what they stole. But we’ve got thirty, maybe forty years of ancient police reports in that storage unit—the earliest ones typed on old mimeograph paper—all of it gathering dust,” the sheriff said, pointing to the blacked-out square on the security feed. “Yet of all the files in that shed, the only one Fetch took was the one from the break-in on Lamberville Street.”

Roddy stood there a moment, studying the black square, his jawline tightening. “With all those files, you really happen to remember the only one that’s now missing?”

“I can’t remember crap. Fetch left the file box open—and I mean purposely open—filled with all our various investigations into Koch over the years. All of them useless.”

“So you think Fetch wanted you to know what he took, in case something went wrong?” Zig asked.

Roddy thought about that, his jawbone shifting as he started grinding his teeth. “I think I need to see this Vincent Koch face-to-face,” he finally said.

“You most definitely do not,” Zig started to say, though he was interrupted when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Caller ID said Midwood ER.

Zig stared at his phone, confused. The only Midwood he knew was a few towns over. The hospital. But why would the ER—?

The phone vibrated again.

“You have Zig,” he said, picking up.

“Mr. Zigarowski, this is Beth Herthel. I’m a critical care nurse at Midwood Mercy Hospital,” she explained through the phone. “Your name was listed as an emergency contact and I was calling t—”

“By who?” Ever since his daughter died, after the divorce, he hadn’t been an emergency contact for anyone. “Tell me who—”

“Sir, we’re not allowed to discuss patient details over the phone, so if you’re nearby, it might be best . . .” She stopped, started again. “I think you need to come down here.”

“I-Is everything okay?”

It wasn’t.

27

Little Falls, New York

“Let me guess . . . bill collector or cop. Nono, reverse that. Process server or cop.”

“You must be Dmitri,” Nola said to the silver-haired man with the rosy Santa Claus cheeks, who was munching on sunflower seeds like it was a competition. He was all grin and charm, made even more disarming by the fact that he still thought it was okay to wear overalls in his seventies.

“You’re the one who called earlier—the friend of Annthea. I assume she told you I have a reputation for driving a hard bargain, but I get away with it because I’m so good looking,” he teased, flashing one of those smiles that made Nola feel like she was supposed to smile back.

She didn’t.

He didn’t seem to mind, spitting a sunflower shell into a mug with Kelly Clarkson on it.

Dmitri was the manager and owner of Cheap Fleet Pre-Owned Cars—last of the little guys, according to at least three faded bumper stickers on the walls. The small office reeked of car exhaust, garlic, and salami, most of the décor coming from Little League plaques with 1990s-era team photos and “hand-painted” signs that people used to buy at flea markets and now buy at Home Goods, with pithy phrases like:

Notice: Lack of Planning on Your Part

Does Not Constitute an Emergency on My Part.

And the one propped up on the glass display case that served as the front counter:

Life is like a box of chocolates.

Empty.

Because you have no self-control.

Nola couldn’t help but like him. “I appreciate you coming in late,” Nola offered.

“Annthea’s a friend. She said you put your hands on her ex-hubby,” he replied, cracking another shell and spitting it out—Ptoo—while sitting at his messy desk. “If you need some justification, a few years back, he adopted a Yorkie puppy, then returned it since it was too much work. Putz.”

“Annthea told me you bought her car—the Capri,” Nola said, searching for security cams. Nothing in sight. No alarm, no motion detector, not even a little bell above the door.

On the wall next to his desk was a bulletin board filled with hooks that held keys for the two dozen beat-up used cars outside. Just below it was a plaque labeled employee of the month—1993 to present—with a faded headshot of Dmitri that had to be a decade old based on the hairline. Yet what caught Nola’s eye was a key resting along the top of the plaque. It was narrow and long. An Abloy-cut key is what law enforcement called them. Not for a car; for a gun safe. Dmitri was sweet, but this far upstate and all alone, he wasn’t naive.

“I’d like to know who you sold Annthea’s car to,” Nola added.

Sliding his Kelly Clarkson mug across his desk, Dmitri grabbed his armrest like a crutch and hobbled to his feet, revealing dog hair across his lap. “Do you have any idea what our community in Little Falls calls me?”

“Last of the Little Guys?” Nola read from the wall.

“Absolutely. Trademarked and everything. You want one of my bumper stickers?”

“I do not.”

“That’s your loss,” he said, licking the last grains of salt from his fingers. “But want to know how I earned that name?”

“You just told me: you trademarked it.”

“That’s comedy, you’re funny,” he said, offering her the open bag of sunflower seeds.

She stared back at him.

“Also your loss,” he told her. He leaned his elbows on the glass counter, which was a display case for sun-faded auto accessories, including old wiper blades, outdated air fresheners, and a car wax with Jack Nicholson’s face on it that was labeled the shining. “I earned that name by living here for forty years. I take this community seriously. I take my clients—and their confidentiality—seriously.”

“I have a hundred dollars,” Nola said, pulling the cash from her pocket.

Dmitri stopped, dropping the bag of sunflower seeds. “D’you have two hundred?”

Don’t, Nola warned with a glare.

“A hundred it is. If you told me that from the start, y’know how much easier this would’ve been?” he asked, yanking the cash from her hand.

28

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“Mr. Zig, what’s—?”

“We have to go. Now,” Zig insisted, hanging up the phone and rushing for the door.

“I don’t underst—” Roddy never got the words out. He took a step to follow Zig, but something tugged at his back. It was the sheriff.

“I know you’re in a rush, but before you go after Koch . . .” Sheriff Bix began.

“Roddy, c’mon!” Zig called, already outside the room.

“Can we talk about this later?” Roddy asked the sheriff. “My friend needs to go. Also, I don’t like being touched,” he said, motioning to the sheriff’s hand and pulling hard enough to break free of his grip.

“I’m trying to save your neck,” the sheriff called out.

Roddy stopped at that.

“Y’know how long we’ve been chasing Koch?”

“This is more than a chase. If he’s the one who killed my mother—”

“Then he should face a courtroom for that. But if you rush in, cannons blazing, Vincent Koch will toss you in a woodchipper. Happily.”

“Roddy, let’s GO!” Zig shouted from what sounded like the parking lot.

Roddy darted from the room, the sheriff hobbling behind him, grabbing his hat from the desk. Melinda started to follow, but the sheriff shot her a look, hoping she’d stay back.

“You’re joking, right? I’m the prosecutor,” Melinda challenged.

Didn’t matter. Whatever he was about to tell Roddy, this was a private conversation.

As Roddy rounded the corner and passed the reception desk, he noticed a candy dish filled with bite-sized Hershey’s, Mr. Goodbar, and Krackel, reminding him of the Halloween he broke Andy Goorno’s wrist, old memories smacking into new ones, which seemed to be happening much more than usual. On his right, through the glass in the front door, Zig was already sprinting through the parking lot, toward the storage sheds where they left their car.

“Roddy, I don’t blame you,” the sheriff called, struggling to keep up as Roddy shoved open the door and plowed into the parking lot. “Hell, if it was my mother, I’d want to slice Koch to the bone—” He took a breath, already winded. “But whatever these stupid kids did all those years ago, I’ve now got three dead bodies tied to this mess.”

“You’re worried about a fourth. I understand,” Roddy called back, already a quarter way across the lot. “You think he’s going after the last name on the list—the one who disappeared all those years ago. Ivy Munn.”

“Not just her,” the sheriff insisted as something shifted in his voice. Everyone has their own war. Just from his tone, this was his. “A fourth victim would be terrible. But a fifth . . . ?” He couldn’t even say the words, pointing back to his office, back to Melinda.

“You’re worried Koch will come for your daughter,” Roddy said, slowing down, though not by much. “But if she left The Breakfast Club in eleventh grade . . . that’s before the incident with Koch happened.”

“And I’m choosing to believe that that means she’s currently safe, but if I’m wrong . . . or Koch . . . or whoever else they robbed, even thinks she might be involved . . .” The sheriff bent over, putting a hand on his knee and breathing harder than ever. “Can you wait a damn moment? I’m seventy-three, for chrissakes!”

Roddy stopped, turning around. “Please don’t go into cardiac arrest, Sheriff.”

“Piss off, I’m fine.” Bent over, he took off his hat to catch his breath. Even in the dark, thanks to the lamppost, Roddy noticed the sheriff clutching one of his toy cars in his other hand.

“Are the cars lucky? Is that why you keep them on your desk?” Roddy asked.

The sheriff looked embarrassed, like he didn’t even realize he had it with him. “I can help you with this case.”

“You already did, Sheriff—just by telling us what was in the file.”

“I don’t blame you, y’know. If it was my mom, I’d do exactly the same—but when you’re dealing with Koch . . . if you screw this up—”

“Roddy, I mean it, I’m leaving!” Zig shouted from the darkness.

“Be right there!” Roddy shouted back, his eyes still on the sheriff. “I need to go now, sir. I promise you, though, I won’t mess up the case.”

“You don’t even see it, do you? Koch may live in a small town, but he is not a small-town guy. He and his lawyers will—”

“I understand.”

“NO. YOU. DON’T!” the sheriff exploded, spit flying from his lips.

An engine started in the distance. All this time, Roddy had read the sheriff’s outbursts as something born in anger . . . or maybe as territorial, which so often happened when outside law enforcement stepped into a smaller jurisdiction. But Roddy had it wrong. This wasn’t anger or ego. It was fear.

Roddy had seen that same look on rookie cops when they arrived on their first murder scene. In training, you tell them everything will be okay, but as the sheriff clearly understood, standing there bowlegged, well past his prime, none of this was okay. These kids, this community, his job was to keep them safe. But now, with Fetch murdered . . . if these deaths were tied together . . . That’s on Sheriff Bix. All these years, he’s the guy who missed the ball.

“When you go for Koch, you need to keep that book on the table. Flat on the table,” the sheriff insisted, cop-speak for doing things legally, by the book. “Any shit cop can get an arrest. Only the best ones get an actual verdict.”

A car horn blared from the distance. Zig was leaving.

“You’re not listening, Roddy. I know it’s your mom—I respect that—but you can’t let the personal part mess with bringing this home right,” the sheriff warned. “Daniella and P.K. . . . they grew up in my house. Their funerals— The only harder days were burying my wife, then my grandson, in that order . . . and I buried my parents as well,” he added. “So you wanna poke around a little bit, I got patience for that. But cowboy policing . . . making everything emotional? You don’t get to fuck this case up. What Koch did to those kids— All that matters now is putting him in a cell and making sure he rots.”

“Absolutely,” Roddy said with a nod, pretending to agree. Yet as he darted across the lot, toward the storage sheds and back to where they parked, Roddy knew that if Koch truly was the one who killed his mother, Sheriff Bix was wrong. Zig was wrong too. By the time Roddy was done with Vincent Koch, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to put into a cell.

29

Little Falls, New York

“The guy who bought the car—the Capri,” Dmitri explained as he picked open a sunflower shell and tossed it into his mouth, “he said his name was Harry Smith.”

“That’s his fake name,” Nola said. “His real one was Andrew Fechmeier. Did you run credit on him or get a good address?”

“It wasn’t that kinda deal.”

Nola cocked an eyebrow.

Dmitri motioned around the small storefront, which wasn’t much bigger than Fechmeier’s motel room. “You understand this isn’t a Toyota dealership,” he explained, prying open another sunflower shell. “If you’re shopping here, you’ve got financial issues, credit problems, or some combination thereof—and in a town this small, I already know nearly every customer who walks through my door. So when a stranger like Harry Smith, or whatever his real name is, comes knocking, I know things are already a bit . . . sus is what my granddaughter calls it.”

“I take it he paid cash?”

Dmitri pinched a sunflower in his fingertips, tapping it on the glass display case and pointing to a handwritten sign taped inside. No credit unless I know you.

“What about a registration? Doesn’t the state require that?” Nola asked.

“You wanted to know who bought the Capri, I told you who bought the Capri. So unless you’re a cop or someone with a badge . . .”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then I think we’ve reached that point in our relationship where it’s probably best for me to stop talking, especially when it comes to client privacy,” he said, reaching for some more sunflower seeds, then deciding against it. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to help, but what you’re asking for now is—”

“Someone shot him in the head two days ago,” Nola blurted.

Dmitri stared at her, gripping the straps of his overalls like he needed them to balance. “You’re serious.”

“They found his body in Maryland.”

“He was a friend of yours?”

Nola didn’t answer.

“And you drove all the way here?” Dmitri asked, glancing over Nola’s shoulder at her gray Honda parked out front, its Pennsylvania plates clearly visible. “That’s quite a ride.”

Nola stayed silent, staring at the dog hair on Dmitri’s overalls, trying to think of her own cat, hoping it would bring some calm. It didn’t. Feeling her teeth gnash, she tried telling herself it was just another case . . . just a way to help Zig . . . but as before, her brain flipped back to Roddy, wondering what he’d found about their mother, or if this was all just a way to pull Nola in for whatever bullshit scheme he was planning.

“I don’t care about Fechmeier,” Nola finally insisted. “I never met him in my life. But whoever put that bullet in his head, there’s a—” She paused. “I have a friend who’s also searching for answers. I’d like to make sure that what happened to Fechmeier doesn’t happen to anyone el—”

“Lord Almighty, you’re really trying to guilt me into this? This is why no one likes your generation.” He said it with another of those smiles that made Nola feel like she was supposed to smile with him.

“You’re one of the last to actually talk to Fechmeier,” she explained. “If there’s anything he might’ve said . . . Where he was going or who he was seeing . . .”

“If you want a Toyota, go to Franklin’s Toyota—they’ll be happy to run your credit and give you a proper registration. But if you need a different type of service, like hypothetically paying a little extra in cash so the Mercury Capri that just came onto the lot gets marked as junk and written off, and therefore no registration needs to be filed, well, for a certain type of customer, that’s a benefit worth paying for.”

Outside, an eighteen-wheeler rumbled down the two-lane road, making the entire building shake. “So when Fechmeier came here, you let him buy a way around the rules,” she said.

Dmitri didn’t answer, which was the only answer she needed.

“Anything else that stood out about him?”

“I liked him—he had a hell of a handshake, which sounds stupid, but still matters, at least to me. I’m sad he’s dead. Though truthfully, I can’t say it’s a shock.”

“Explain.”

“Do you always talk to people like that? By barking at them?”

Nola stood there a moment. “Explain. Please.”

“He seemed sick—and not just in that old man kinda way that has me dragging my ass. Sick like real sick,” Dmitri offered.

“He told you that?”

“He didn’t need to. The hollowness in his eyes, the sallow skin . . . I remember the hospice nurses sitting with my wife. I know what the end looks like.”

Nola nodded, thinking of her brother, wondering where he and Zig were right now. “Any idea how Fechmeier knew to find you?”

“Been asking myself the same. I’d never seen him before, and in a town of four hundred and twenty-two people, that’s saying something.”

Nola wasn’t surprised. If she needed a used car to stay out of sight, this is exactly the type of place she’d be looking for. The last of the little guys. She headed to the door without another word.

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Dmitri called out. “Personally, when a stranger walks in, I just assume they’re new around here . . . unless they’re weird, in which case I assume they’re from Heavenly Meadows.”

Nola stopped, nearly at the door. “Heavenly what?”

“Y’know, a few towns over . . . with the fence and the— The place with the cult.”

Something tugged within her chest. Nola turned to the counter. “Tell me more about that.”

30

Most people don’t like hospitals.

Zig was the opposite. He didn’t mind them, even enjoyed them. Unlike the mortuary where he spent most days, hospitals were filled with . . . potential was the word he liked best.

Even now, after dropping off Roddy, as Zig stood in the elevator, swaying as it climbed to the seventh floor, he could picture somewhere in this building all the new parents cooing over their newborns and dreaming big dreams . . . or the dozens of rooms filled with patients who were getting good news and heading home. Of course, not everything was gold, but God, it was far better than the finality he saw every day in the morgue.

“You know where you’re going?” a female voice called out as the elevator doors yawned open and Zig darted out into the hallway.

“I’m good,” Zig replied, running past the nurses’ station and . . . He stopped, looked around. None of the rooms had numbers on them. “Actually, I think I’m lost.”

“Take a breath for yourself, a breath for someone you love, and a breath for someone who’s suffering,” said the nurse, a thin Black woman with moon-shaped reading glasses and a tattoo on her forearm that read Blessed in an elaborate, ornate script. “Tell me who’s lucky to have you visiting.”

“Room 727.”

“You must be Mr. Zigarowski. She’s been talking about you,” Nurse Blessed said, adding a grin, though she still didn’t point him in the right direction.

Zig took the hint. Here in the ICU, they want you to stop. He used the same trick at the mortuary—when things go bad, you don’t want families rushing into it.

“Can you please just tell me where she is?” Zig asked.

“Third door on the left. She’s quite the personality.”

Waving thanks and speedwalking up the hallway, Zig was surprised to feel his stomach start to cartwheel. When was the last time he saw her? During the pandemic? Had it been that long?

When the hospital first called, his initial thought was that it was Nola or Waggs. Or even his ex. For a moment, he wondered if that would’ve been easier.

“Oh my stars and garters—the medicine I needed has finally arrived!” a female voice sang from the hospital bed.

“Good to see you too, Jules,” Zig said to the woman in her seventies with the stunning cheekbones and the salt-and-pepper pixie cut that somehow made her appear even more regal. Tonight, though, the three pillows propped behind her made her look tiny—even frail—a word he never thought would apply to her. “You look great.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Ziggy—but I’m fine, absolutely fine,” she promised, opening her arms wide. “Now c’mon, no hug for your mother-in-law?”

31

Fallsworth, Oklahoma

Seventeen years ago

This was Nola when she was eleven.

She was sitting on the hood of a car, laughing—actually laughing—with an auburn-haired sixth grader named Kenzie McAvoy, who lived around the corner and seemed cool to Nola for several reasons. First, she didn’t wear hand-me-downs. Second, her parents had a waterbed. Third, she had a burp that could rattle windows. Fourth, she single-handedly brought the word rad to their school. And fifth, she was two grades older, the clearest sign of childhood coolness.

“. . . and then Alejandro got so nervous, he called the teacher Mom—and this was Mr. Ferguson, a boy teacher, not a girl!” Kenzie said, laughing so hard, a bit of snot shot out her nose.

Truthfully, Nola didn’t think the story was all that funny—but the burst of snot was enough for a cheap laugh, which fed Kenzie’s own giggle fit, the two of them having an actual moment.

“What’s funny?” a woodchipper of a voice barked behind them.

Nola jumped, racing to get off the car.

“No, no, stay where you are, all good, all good,” sang her new adoptive dad, Royall Barker, a Catholic man with a pitted face, greedy eyes, and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen. As the screen door slammed behind him, he flashed a wide grin.

Later tonight, Nola would kick herself for not realizing this should’ve been her warning—but she’d been living with him for only a year, when she still thought this might have a happy ending.

“You’re Cookie’s kid,” he said to Kenzie, wide grin still in place, a soft leather briefcase at his side. He only brought the briefcase when he was selling or buying something, most likely that odd lot of expensive hearing aids he’d been talking about for the past week. “Your mom still got that La-Z-Boy with the seat that goes back?”

Kenzie nodded, assuming that if he knew such a thing, he must be a friend.

“You like the car, yeah?” he added, motioning to the black convertible Oldsmobile, the first car he ever bought new, or nearly new—it had one previous owner, a smoker, so Royall was able to talk him down, closing the deal by throwing in one of the Movado watches and some teak lawn furniture that he was selling at the time. Royall loved that the car didn’t come as a convertible—it was a conversion where they cut off the roof. One of a kind, he’d tell everyone. He even gave the car a name: Bernadette.

“Can we see it with the top down?” Kenzie asked, Nola noting that Kenzie wasn’t talking to her, she was talking directly to Royall.

“You got taste, girl, but I gotta run,” Royall said, tossing his briefcase into the car, sliding inside, and turning on the ignition. As the car rumbled to life, Nola began to scootch off the hood, but Kenzie stayed put, a tiny challenge, but one nonetheless. It was the first time Nola ever saw anyone defy him.

“C’mon, flip the roof—it’ll take two secs!” Kenzie pleaded.

If Royall was annoyed, he wasn’t showing it—at least not yet. Undoing the clamps, he hit a button. The convertible roof opened like an accordion, revealing the car’s bright red leather interior.

“Raaaad,” Kenzie said as if it were a full sentence.

“Scootch, I gotta run . . .” Royall said, lightly tapping the horn, his unsubtle hint for them to hop off.

Kenzie still didn’t move. More important, for reasons even Nola couldn’t explain, neither did she. It was a decision they’d both regret.

Years from now, in the military, a Colonel would read Nola a quote from his favorite Anita Thomas book: Good things happen slowly and bad things happen fast. When she heard it, Nola knew it was right.

His playful grin still in place, Royall put the car in reverse, the door locks biting in a sharp ka-kunk.

Nola used to associate that sound—the clicking locks—with that first night Royall picked her up after the LaPointes tossed her aside, deciding to rehome her by listing her on the adoption website called Brand New Chance. The site was perfect for people like Royall, who would never make it through the adoption screening process. Yet it made Nola feel like a thing . . . something cast to the curb. Like garbage, Royall used to tell her. For the rest of her life, though, the sound of clicking locks would make her think of her and Kenzie on the hood of Royall’s convertible Oldsmobile.

“Free ride!” Kenzie shouted, finding her balance as Royall slowly, slowly, slowly eased the car backward down the driveway.

Mirroring her pose, Nola did the same, both on their stomachs, both their arms out wide like they were surfing or playing a game, and really, that’s all it was, a two-second ride to the end of the driveway.

“Blast-off in three . . . two . . . one . . .” Royall called out through his open window, now playing along as the car rolled down the final lip of the driveway. He slowly turned the wheel, angling into the street, the car now facing downhill.

As momentum took hold, Nola and Kenzie both grabbed the cowl that housed the windshield wipers. “Our own Silver Bullet!” Kenzie yelled, holding tight and referring to the loop-de-loop roller coaster at the nearby amusement park.

The car bucked to a stop, Nola assuming that was the end of the ride. Their house was at the top of a small hill. Perfect for sledding; bad for being on the hood of a car. Time to hop off. Yet before she could . . .

“Ready for the Renegade?” Royall asked, referring to an even wilder ride at the amusement park as he put the car in drive.

“Yeeeee, doggie!” Kenzie shouted.

Royall smiled—a rare, toothy grin. Yet as he lowered his chin and his eyes slid toward Nola, she saw what was actually lurking underneath. She knew that look from their first days together, when Royall asked her to make steak and eggs, then flew into a rage, pinning her to the wall by her throat after a few stray eggshells “ruined” the steak that he bought at top damn dollar.

“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . You put your right hand in . . .” Royall said, tapping the gas, picking up the slightest bit of speed.

“That’s all you got?!” Kenzie teased, gripping the wiper cowl, strands of her hair starting to blow forward, twirling in the wind.

“Six . . . five . . . four . . . You put your right hand out,” Royall added, giving it a bit more gas, hitting four, maybe five miles an hour, the car starting to head downhill.

“You put your right hand in . . . !” Kenzie sang back, sounding thrilled, though as the car picked up speed, she let out a nervous laugh, her face starting to fall. There’s a fine line between excitement and fear. Gripping tightly to the windshield wiper cowl, her hair swirled more, blowing in her face. “M-Maybe you should . . . can you please slow down?” She looked to Nola for support, but Nola was locked on Royall.

Please don’t do this, Nola begged with a glance.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . .” Royall continued to sing, eyes locked on Nola, stabbing her with a glare she’d be thinking about for years. “And you shake it all about.”

The engine revved in low gear as they went down the steepest part of the hill, the car now feeling like it was flying. Nola’s stomach bottomed out from under her.

“Please, this isn’t . . . I’m gonna fall!” Kenzie pleaded.

Nola didn’t reply. She was no longer looking at Royall . . . or Kenzie . . . or much of anything. Her chin was down, like it was taped to her chest. Silent Nola. That’s what kids at school called her, her eyes now shut, as if she were trying to will it all away, her hands clutching the wiper cowl with everything she had.

“I wanna go home . . .” Kenzie begged, tears flooding her eyes, her voice cracking.

Nola turned at the sound and noticed one of Kenzie’s teeth—her incisor—was twisted, with an overlapping tooth behind it, an ugly snaggletooth Nola never spotted before.

All this time, she thought Kenzie was so pretty and perfect.

“P-Please help me . . .” Kenzie sobbed, her hair swirling in the wind as the car neared the bottom of the hill, going faster than ever.

Nola adjusted her grip on the cowl, clutching one of the windshield wipers, which lifted slightly out of place . . . then just as quickly slapped back onto the windshield.

We’re slowing down, Nola thought.

She was right.

The car slowed to a crawl and bucked to a stop.

Kenzie scrambled off the hood, tears and snot streaming down her face. She was about to scream at Royall but quickly decided against it, turning her attention to Nola. “Laura was right—you’re psycho—both of you!” she shouted, storming up the block toward her house at the top of the hill. “You two deserve each other!”

“Kenzie, wait—!” Nola started to yell, though a new realization quickly washed over her, a more honest one. Go, Kenzie. You should go, Nola thought—and really, of all the harms Royall did, that was one of the worst: instilling in Nola a core belief that when it came to friends, or family, or really anyone . . . You’re better off getting away from me.

“Also your car sucks—those red vinyl seats look like a pimpmobile!” Kenzie shouted, disappearing up the block and holding up her middle finger.

Still on the hood of the car, Nola put her head down, not even hearing the car door slam behind her.

A hand grabbed the back of Nola’s shirt, choking her as she tried to scramble and get away.

With a brutal tug, Royall tossed Nola sideways, sending her tumbling into the street. A shard of stray glass bit her elbow, though at this moment, she barely felt it, her momentum broken when her forearm slammed into the curb with an unearthly thud, nearly cracking her ulna.

Flat on her ass and fighting to get her bearings, Nola glanced over her shoulder. She saw his shadow before she saw him. Smelled his Brut aftershave. “R-Royall, I swear, I won’t say a word—”

Stop, he said with a shove, pressing his shoe to her rib cage. He towered over her, looking down like she was a urinal.

Still in the street, Nola shut her eyes and pulled her knees to her chest, trying to make herself vanish.

“Don’t cry. You cry and it’s just the start of your problems. This is on you,” Royall growled, pressing his pointer finger to her head, pushing so hard, his fingernail turned a dark purple.

“You’re right . . . I’m sorry . . . so sorr—!”

He cleared his throat and spit in her hair. “Don’t touch. My. Car. Again.”

32

Denning, New York

Today

Cults are dumb. That was Nola’s first thought.

Was this really what it’d come to—a bunch of easily influenced hippies strolling around in Jesus cosplay? Is that why her mom was killed? For making enemies with zealots or refusing to have sex with the shaman/shyster in charge?

Such a dumb reason to die.

And yet, as Nola crouched behind a thick Linden tree and eyed the front entrance of Heavenly Meadows, maybe they weren’t as dumb as she thought.

She took her time getting the lay of the land. For obvious reasons, she avoided a flashlight. Thankfully, the blood moon was overhead, painting everything a pale crimson and lighting the way. One access road in and out. Manual metal front gate—solid steel rather than aluminum—on covered rollers to avoid rust or pinch points. Solid design, not a cheap one either.

Two hours ago, Nola ditched her car at the nearest gas station and followed Google Maps through the woods until she got to the front entrance of the 134-acre compound. In the distance, frogs croaked and argued; behind her, water gurgled from an unseen stream. It was nice out here, especially the moon, reminding her of a grade-school trip where one of her teachers, Mr. Q, broke his thumb.

Forty yards away, Heavenly Meadows’s showstopper was inside the perimeter: a tall wooden gun tower, tactically placed toward the center of the property, far from the front wall, to ensure maximum visibility and range.

Overkill for sure, especially with the faded trespassers will be shot sign that was tacked to the tall, seven-foot fieldstone wall surrounding the property. But from a strategic standpoint, it had its intended effect.

Yet as Nola learned in Iraq and Afghanistan, the larger the base, the harder it is to protect.

Crouching down and using the trees as concealment, Nola followed the stone wall around to the right. For centuries, giant stone walls have been wonderful deterrents. The problem is, they’re expensive. So when you’ve got 134 acres to protect, at some point even the biggest budgets require that your stone wall eventually becomes a . . .

There.

Nola squinted into the darkness, picking up speed.

Straight ahead, past another trespassers will be shot sign, the stone wall gave way to a set of wooden posts strung together by a far more affordable four-wire electrical fence.

danger—high voltage, a new sign warned in bright yellow letters, with a falling stick figure being struck by a bolt of lightning.

It didn’t slow her down. Still in mid-crouch, Nola followed the fence, noticing tiny holes in every wooden fencepost she passed. Termites. Or carpenter ants. Either way, same result. Go for the foundation, do the most damage.

A decade ago, while tracking an Iraqi counterfeiter to an abandoned farm in Sulaymaniyah, one of Nola’s supervisors told her team that most security was theater, a deterrent. Pulling out his compass and holding it near the fence, he explained that if the fence were electrified, the compass would vibrate.

A Peruvian soldier from Tennessee added that you could also pee on the fence, but as he learned the hard way in high school, current can travel upstream, electrifying your urine and giving you the most shocking whizz of your life.

Or make it easy on yourself, Nola thought, picking a sagging section of the fence and pulling a plastic water bottle from her pocket. With a twist, she undid the cap, snapped the bottle like a whip, and sprayed the fence with water. If the wires were electrified, it’d sound like a bug zapper. Zzt zzt.

Nola heard nothing but roaring frogs and the faint gurgle from the stream. She squinted and scanned the nearby trees. No cameras either.

All clear.

Like a boxer entering the ring, Nola ducked between the wires, took one final glance over her shoulder, and entered Heavenly Meadows.

She had no idea who was right behind her.

33

“Can you please stop fretting—I’m fine, sweetie. I took a fall.”

“From where, a plane?” Zig challenged.

On the opposite side of the bed, a male nurse with a neck that was curved like a comma couldn’t help but grin as he changed Jules’s IV.

“You’re funny, Ziggy. I forgot you were this funny,” his mother-in-law said, playing solitaire with her left hand, flipping cards on the hospital tray table, her manicure shiny and fresh—it always was—though there were chips in two of her nails, presumably from the fall. Her right arm was in a sling, with a high-tech plastic brace that ran shoulder to elbow.

Under the hospital’s fluorescent lights, her porcelain skin had lost some luster, and her high cheekbones were a bit more sunken than he remembered, but even in bed, even with the brace, she still looked beautiful, her hospital gown falling over her slender shoulders like the sling was a fashion statement. For most people, it took tons of work to look this casual, but for Jules, it was effortless. And really, that’s why men flocked to her. She never flirted. She was a spitfire—lovely and defiant, not clingy in any way, which was an aphrodisiac in itself. Zig could see it even now as the male nurse stole a stray glance at her.

“You’re watching soccer?” Zig asked, noticing a game on the overhead TV.

“The score never interests me, only the game.”

He grinned, knowing her tricks. “That’s a Mae West li—”

He never got the words out. As she turned, Zig got his first good look at her pale green eyes, the color of palm trees. Right there, he took a half step back, the kaleidoscope of emotions starting to swirl. The same eyes as . . .

“Relax, sweetie—she’s not coming.”

Zig knew who she meant. The only she who mattered: Zig’s ex-wife, Charmaine—his brain now flushed with that mix of shame and excitement. “Th-That’s not— I wasn’t . . .”

She smiled that playful smile that was never filled with judgment and somehow always felt protective. Charmaine once told him that when she was in fourth grade, a bully kept sneaking into her cubby and secretly stealing her Kit Kats from her Bionic Woman lunch box.

When Jules got word about the thief, she took a syringe, injected the Kit Kats with liqueur, and told young Charmaine that next time they were stolen, she should announce to the class that her mom had poisoned the Kit Kats . . . and if they wanted the antidote, the real thief better come forward or risk a trip to the hospital.

Later that afternoon, that’s exactly what happened. For a few minutes, no one said a word. Two minutes went by—still nothing. And then, Jimmy Antonelli, the shortest kid in the class with the biggest Napoleon complex, started sobbing, terrified the liqueur would kill him and begging to go to the hospital. A decade later, Zig saw that same protectiveness in his wife when their daughter, Maggie, was born, the pieces of the ancients lingering in the species.

“If it makes you feel better, she’s surfing in Portugal—at an eco-lodge that apparently has no cell service,” Jules said, her voice rising on the final syllables, making it sound like the absolute adventure of a lifetime.

The kaleidoscope was swirling faster now, Zig now lost in endorphins, old memories tumbling over each other, all out of order: he and Charmaine buying their first car . . . their last meal at Patton’s . . . that night in the shower after his cousin’s wedding . . . that night at her college reunion . . . the red lights of an ambulance . . . Charmaine screaming in rage, screaming in loss, screaming in agony, reminding Zig he was wrong before. He hated hospitals.

“Since when does Char surf?” Zig blurted.

“Warren,” she replied, referring to Charmaine’s fiancé.

Zig nodded, wondering if Portugal was the type of place where Warren might propose.

“Relax, Ziggy, you know he’s not proposing until Charmaine gives the word,” Jules said as she flipped a playing card from the deck. Thwap.

On a podcast last week, one of the hosts said that the people who know you best are the people who know your memories.

“Can you please take a breath, Ziggy? They’re going through their own stuff,” she explained, flipping another card. Thwap. “Not everything’s as good as it looks on social media.”

As with all things Jules, it was the exact right thing said at the exact right time, reminding him how much he missed her. In those early years of his marriage, Jules knew what’d happened with Zig’s mom, careful to never try to take her place. Eventually, they started doing the Sunday crossword together, sharing an online account to pool their answers. It even lasted a few months after the divorce, until Charmaine told her mom she had to stop. Most important, Jules was the first one there when Maggie was born, the first one to arrive the night she died, and on those hardest days that led up to the funeral—when Zig (incorrectly) told himself he could handle washing Maggie’s hair and doing the mortician work himself—it was Jules who took him aside and, without having to say a word, opened her arms and pulled him close, giving him the space to finally crumble.

No one wins in a divorce, but looking back, losing Jules was one of the most brutal blows.

“What about Deena?” Zig asked, referring to Charmaine’s sister.

“Work trip. London. And can I just state for the record that the ER never should’ve called you,” she said, flipping another playing card. Thwap.

“That’s what you get for not updating your emergency contact list. Now tell me what the doctors said.”

“I’m fine. I’m good. I’m a work of art,” she said, flipping over a three of spades. Thwap.

“You sure? I mean, playing solitaire and watching sports with no sound kinda sounds like a surrender.”

“I changed my mind. I like Warren way better than you.”

Zig laughed at that, stepping closer to fix her pillows. “I missed you, Ju—” Zig paused, squinting at the top of her chest. He’d missed it at first. Underneath her gown was a small circular protrusion, as if a few pennies were stacked up and pushing out through her skin. “When’d you get that?” he asked. He’d worked in funeral homes his whole life. He knew a medical port when he saw one.

“It’s just for the IV,” she said, turning over a seven of diamonds, like she was on vacation in the Maldives. Thwap.

Zig glanced at the nurse with the comma neck, who was just finishing changing the IV. The nurse stood there silently, not saying a word, then stepped a hair to the left, revealing another machine in the corner, a tall silver and teal contraption that looked like an ATM with wires, pumps, and clear tubes dangling from the front of it.

Zig knew that one too. A dialysis machine. “Jules, what the hell is really going on?”

“For the ninety-fifth time, I’m fine. I fell and—”

“Do not tell me this is about a broken arm. They don’t bring in dialysis machines for broken arms—and they certainly don’t start calling your emergency contact list for them either.”

“Ziggy, I know you’re a doll and you love worrying—”

“I’m counting to three. After that, I’ll grab your chart and read it myself,” he said, pointing to the file box at the foot of the bed.

“Can you just—?”

“Two . . . You got one more second, then I’m reading the chart.”

“My chart’s not even in there,” Jules said. “It’s all electronic now. Go. Look for yourself.”

Zig glanced over at Nurse Comma Neck, who nodded that Jules was right.

Annoyed, Zig stepped toward the foot of the bed and flipped open the file box.

Empty.

Slamming the cover shut, he headed for the door.

“Ziggy, where’re you even going?”

“To the nurses’ station—I’ll ask them myself,” he shot back, already at the—

“Leukemia,” she called out.

Zig stopped and turned.

“That’s what they— That’s why I’m . . .” Jules took a breath. “I’ve got leukemia.”

34

Annapolis, Maryland

Earlier today

Fish gave it a few seconds.

Just to be safe, he’d locked the door of the so-called foreign language center, then pulled out his phone, headed for the dead bald man, and snapped a photo of his ID, sending it via text. If he were a betting man, it’d take three . . . two . . . one . . .

His phone vibrated in his hands.

“What the hell is this?” a voice barked on the other line.

“Don’t say a word,” Fish replied, keeping his head down as he crossed the room, back to the dead Armenian, where a puddle of blood was seeping into the carpet, Fish’s knife still sticking out of his neck. “Meet me in an hour.”

“Same place?”

“Same place.”

Fish’s associate was silent, at least for a moment. “Did you find what Fechmeier—?”

“You’re not listening,” Fish insisted, yanking his knife from the Armenian’s neck. The blade wasn’t serrated; it came out easily, and he wiped it across the dead man’s shirt before shoving it into the sheath on his belt.

The Buck knife wasn’t expensive, but it most definitely was sentimental, from Fish’s last trip with his grandfather hunting triggerfish in Long Island Sound. That was a rare catch in those waters.

“Fechmeier . . . whatever he took . . . that needs to wait,” Fish insisted, heading for the door. So much for spending time with the blood moon tonight. “From here on in, we have a far bigger problem.”

35

Now

“Thankfully, it’s the good kind.”

“Oh, so now there’s a good type of cancer?” Zig asked his mother-in-law.

“I should really run,” the nurse whispered, excusing himself from the room.

“CLL, chronic lymphocytic leukemia,” Jules explained, glancing up at the soccer game on TV. “If you have a choice of deadly disease, I highly recommend it.”

Zig shook his head, now noticing how pale she looked . . . and how matted and messy her pixie cut was. Truth be told, he’d never seen her look worse, but he also knew there’s no surer way to flip your view of someone than to hear they have cancer.

“Ziggy, stop with your funeral home look. I’m not one of your corpses,” she scolded, flipping another playing card. Thwap. “According to the doctors, CLL tends to affect older populations, and lucky me, moves so slowly, it sometimes doesn’t even have symptoms for years. But it can also affect bone density—like when you fracture your humerus,” she said, tapping a playing card against her shoulder cast.

“So you really did fall?”

“I was leaving my kitchen, squinting at my phone, trying to read these particularly spectacular tea towels with obscenities printed on them that a friend had texted me. Don’t ask. I was so focused on those, I missed the step down into my living room and landed on . . .” She lifted her arm like a broken wing. “According to the doctors, my white blood cell count was running a bit high, so they’re testing me again to make sure my markers haven’t taken a turn.”

“You could’ve told me you were diagnosed.”

“I got lupus in my thirties, fought thyroid cancer in my fifties . . . Whatever the tests say, I can either spend the next seventy-two hours panicking, or I can make the best of it and try to enjoy finding the six of hearts that’s going to let me win this sublimely frustrating game,” she explained. “Now tell me about something that actually matters, like why you’re looking like such dreck. Usually you look so handsome.”

Zig patted his hair, then glanced at his reflection in the screen of the nearby heart monitor. “This is a good suit.”

“In 2005, maybe.”

“That hurts, Jules.”

“You’ll live. So tell me . . . how was your first day back at Dover?”

Of course she knew. Charmaine must’ve told her—though now that he thought about it, he didn’t remember telling Charmaine.

“Ziggy, can I be honest with you?” Jules added.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You’re a good person. One of the nicest on this planet, which is why I wish you and my flakey daughter could’ve worked things out. But that Dover place? It’s bad for you. I know you love the mission—and it’s a wonderful mission—but you’re forgetting what it did to you. There’s a reason most soldiers only do a six-month rotation there. It’s not healthy to be around that many dead young people.”

Zig glanced up at the soccer game, as if that would help him change the subject. “If it makes you feel better, day one was a bust.”

“Oh, you’re agreeing with me? Say it again slowly so I can enjoy the moment.”

Zig began to laugh but was interrupted when his phone started ringing. Caller ID told him it was . . .

“Roddy?” Jules asked, reading it from the home screen.

“Just a friend,” Zig said, silencing the call.

“No, I know that name,” she said, her fingernail picking at the corner of the top card in the deck, separating the card’s plastic coating, revealing the frayed cardboard inside. It reminded Zig of those last years of his marriage, when Jules knew about their marital problems before he and Charmaine did. The woman missed nothing.

“Wait, is he—?” Jules sat up in bed. “He’s the brother of that girl . . .”

“Nola,” Zig said.

“Nola,” Jules repeated as if it were a curse word. “That’s the girl who put you in the hospital.”

“That’s not— She saved my life. I’ve known her since she was twelve. She and Maggie were in Girl Scouts—”

“Ah. There it is. Maggie.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“It’s what it’s always about with you, Ziggy. I don’t blame you. Sometimes I can’t comprehend how you’re still walking around after that wrecking ball hit you. But at some point, if you keep holding on to the wrecking ball, it’ll sink you to the bottom of the ocean.”

“I’m not in the ocean.”

“So you say. But with Nola, with Dover, with all of this . . . you’re in a car that’s permanently in reverse.”

“That’s a lotta metaphors.”

“There’s no forward motion, Ziggy. Tell me who you’re dating?”

Zig rolled his eyes.

“What about your house? You still in the same place?”

“That’s not—”

“When was the last time you hit on someone in a bar? Or asked someone out? Hell, when was the last time you even thought of asking someone out?”

To Zig’s surprise, an image of Melinda filled his brain—from earlier tonight, when she was standing in the sheriff’s parking lot, her face lit by the one working lamppost.

“This isn’t about Nola, or Maggie, or anyone else,” he insisted. “I’m just helping a friend.”

“So am I, and he’s also the best son I ever had.”

The words hit like a trident in Zig’s chest. He could still remember the first time she called him that—son, not son-in-law—on that rainy afternoon Maggie was born, Zig vigilantly following the nurses as they wheeled his newborn daughter from the birthing room to the maternity ward. They told Zig he didn’t have to come, that they were just taking her for a bath. Three minutes later, Zig was the only father in the entire maternity area, peeking into the plastic bassinet to make sure newborn Maggie was okay.

“Can I be even more honest with you, Ziggy?” She flipped over a new card—a seven of clubs, thwap—staring at it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. “This case . . . these fights you keep picking . . .”

“I’m not picking fights. I’m just trying to help.”

“These fights you keep picking,” she said, her voice slowing down as she continued to stare at the seven of clubs. “I think you like them.”

Zig stood there, locked on the soccer game.

“Truth has a way of revealing itself, Ziggy. All these tragedies—spending a lifetime in mortuaries . . . missing dead soldiers so much you sign up for another round with them—these are impossible, heartbreaking fights. I’m not saying you do it consciously, but deep down, somewhere inside you, Ziggy . . . I’m starting to think you relish it. It’s the same with Roddy and Nola and whatever disaster you know this case is going to bring. Last time, you were in the hospital for weeks. I’m begging you, this is the time to walk away.”

Zig turned toward her tray table, eyeing the array of playing cards. “That seven . . . you have the red eight.”

Jules sighed, snapping the black seven on top of the nearby eight. Thwap. “You’re not giving up on this case, are you?”

He kissed her on the cheek and headed for the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to hear what the test results say.”

“Before you go, be a love and grab me my hairbrush,” Jules said, motioning to the vinyl recliner that held her black Tory Burch bag.

Rummaging through the mess, Zig pulled out a round hairbrush and handed it to her.

“It’s for you,” Jules said, pointing to Zig’s messy hair.

Zig couldn’t help but laugh as he brushed his hair.

“Ask a girl out. It won’t kill you,” she said as Zig put the brush on her tray table and again headed for the door.

“Love you, Jules!”

“And don’t get killed—it’ll really wreck my week!” she called out, picking up the brush and fixing her own hair.

36

Denning, New York

Nola didn’t need her pencils to know something was wrong.

All cults were dedicated to a lie, so what was the lie here?

Crouched down in the dark, well past midnight, she found at least one of them. She was navigating a scattering of what she thought were rocks but quickly realized were pieces of asphalt, chunks of it, from a beat-up basketball court that’d been so overrun by weeds and dandelions, you couldn’t find the outline of the court. It reminded her of something you see in a zombie movie when they flash forward to the time after the zombies win.

For a moment, she wondered if Heavenly Meadows had been abandoned—or if Dmitri’s info was somehow wrong. Maybe that was the lie, sending her here to throw her off track. It was a reasonable theory—that is, until she spotted the pinprick of red light in a nearby tree.

Even from here, Nola recognized the old CCTV camera circa the early 2010s, one of those long, rectangular ones that looked like a shoebox with a lens at the end of it.

The red light flickered, showing its age, but it was most definitely on. A chorus of crickets and frogs sang their approval. Whoever was watching, this place wasn’t nearly as abandoned as she thought.

On her right, past the basketball court, was a similarly overrun volleyball court, the net long gone, its rusty poles askew. Straight ahead, at the end of a wide, overgrown field, was an empty flagpole leaning like it was in Pisa. If she had to guess, this used to be a sleepaway camp, which meant there were probably . . .

There, Nola realized, her eyes sliding to the left, up, up, up a nearby hill, toward a squat wooden shack. No, not a shack. Someone’s bunk.

For a moment, Nola tried to imagine this place before Heavenly Meadows took over—as a camp filled with laughter and kids playing games. Today, those games were gone.

Scanning for more cameras and using the trees to stay out of sight, Nola made her way uphill. As she got closer, the bunk itself was dark, both back window screens torn and sagging outward. The siding was warped, the paint chipped and cracked. On the roof, half the shingles were gone, the whole building drooping to the right like a winking eye. Wood rot for sure. Eventually it’d take the whole structure down.

Except for some silver duct tape holding a downspout in place, the bunk hadn’t been touched since the late ’80s. A dump by any standard.

Most would wonder who lives like this—but Nola knew. People who don’t want to be found.

At the front of the bunk, a concrete path led to another cabin about thirty yards away, then another one after that, all of them equally dark. But Nola didn’t see any of that.

Squatting at the back of the bunk, she peeked around the corner, where an old air conditioner was stuffed into one of the side windows. Electricity has a sound; so does the lack of it. The crickets and frogs were singing louder than ever, but the A/C unit, like the bunk itself, was dead silent.

All clear, she told herself, taking her first step forward. She didn’t get far.

Later tonight in the hospital, she’d kick herself for missing it—she never missed anything—but there it was, directly below the A/C unit. A wide, amoeba-shaped puddle.

Plink. A pregnant waterdrop fell from the air conditioner. A shaky ripple bloomed in the pale red moonlight.

Nola studied the ripple, then looked up at the A/C unit. The bunk was dark—or at least, it looked dark—but for that puddle to be there . . .

The A/C had recently been on. Someone shut it off.

Nola reached for her gun.

There was a quick click behind her, not from a gun.

She was still in midturn as something bit her wrist, squeezing tight. A handcuff.

“I don’t believe you sufficiently thought this out. You really didn’t think we’d see you coming?” a male voice challenged. He sounded older, calm. Fully in control.

Nola was fighting now, thrashing. No one’s that fast. How the hell did he get so close? She spun toward him to put her thumbs in his eyes.

A lightning bolt gripped her wrist as he squeezed the handcuff even tighter, wielding it like a weapon, cleaving her wrist, pinning her arm behind her back. The pain was unbearable, but Nola didn’t make a sound, trying to stay focused on her attacker. She’d seen training like his before—using cuffs like a cleaver—with old-school cops when they thought someone was a flight risk. Is that what the cult did, hire some old—?

“Down. Now,” the man insisted, twisting the handcuff even further and nearly dislocating her shoulder as he forced her to her knees. With a final shove, she was facedown on the ground, his elbow pressed into her back.

“I’d prefer if you keep your voice down,” he whispered, grabbing her free wrist and clamping it with the other handcuff. “Agent Eric Kripke. FBI. I take it you’re here about Andrew Fechmeier.”

37

Dover, Delaware

The following morning

It was the bracelets that got to Zig.

He didn’t notice them at first. He was too focused on the puzzle, the twenty-two odd-shaped pieces he was meticulously threading together like a shell necklace on a wire. To an outsider taking a quick glance, as Tom Petty played from the same old cheap Bluetooth speaker, it might look fun or at least relaxing . . . if the pieces weren’t bones from someone’s shattered skull.

“There you go—almost done,” Zig whispered to Air Force Tech Sergeant Paul Masterson, whose head was turned sideways, revealing the gaping hole in his skull and the flash burns from the bullet he put in his own brain three days ago at the U.S. Navy Base in Bahrain. Fallen #2,572.

According to the files, the Dover medical examiners declared it a suicide at ten p.m. last night—a single temple to temple shot with his pistol—then moved Paul’s body to cold storage. In their notes, they said it’d be a “head wrap,” so the family wasn’t traumatized when they saw it.

“You’re way too handsome for that,” Zig said, threading the last jagged shard of bone along the wire until it clicked into place.

For hours now, Zig had been carefully drilling tiny holes in each piece of bone, threading them one by one along the wire, rebuilding the skull until all the puzzle pieces were back in place. Humpty Dumpty back together again.

“I’m sorry you had such a rough run,” he said to Paul, glancing again at the silver bracelets around the airman’s wrists.

In military terms, they’re called memorial bracelets, worn to honor a fellow soldier—usually a friend or someone from your unit—who was killed in action. Jewelry protocol in the Air Force allows one bracelet per person. Paul wore one on each wrist. Usually, the medical examiners removed them along with dog tags, wedding bands, and any other personal effects. The fact they still remained told Zig there was a story.

A search of Paul’s file filled in the rest. A decade ago in Afghanistan, Paul was scheduled for a simple late-night helicopter cargo run but at the last minute asked a buddy to switch assignments. Paul said he didn’t want to miss a scheduled call with his wife. In truth, he was just embarrassed to tell his pals that he was going to the USO to watch the movie The Revenant on the first-run DVDs that had just arrived on base.

Two hours later, as Paul munched on stale popcorn and marveled at Leonardo DiCaprio’s bear attack, his unit’s Pave Hawk helicopter was on a standard climb over the Afghan mountains when it accidentally smacked into the cliffside, killing everyone on board, including his two closest friends, whose names were on the memorial bracelets.

Blaming himself and refusing help from both the chaplain and grief counselors, Paul thought the best solution was to stay in the uniform, reenlisting three more times in hopes of burying the pain. Sadly, Zig knew how common it was. Since 9/11, military suicides were four times higher than the deaths caused by combat. For over thirty thousand soldiers, there’s only so far they could run.

“You’ve earned your rest, son,” Zig said, smoothing modeling clay along Paul’s temple, painstakingly making sure every contour was just right as Tom Petty sang about a good girl who was crazy about Elvis. For the finishing touch, Zig grabbed a fresh orange and ran it along the side of Paul’s face, pressing it gently into his cheeks to give the clay an even more realistic texture. “Isn’t that better than wrapping you in gauze?” Zig asked.

The only answer came from Tom Petty, who was warbling about gliding down Mulholland and leaving this world for a while.

Reaching for his makeup case, Zig spent the next half hour layering and contouring enough foundation to bring back Paul’s color. It made him think about what his mother-in-law said last night at the hospital. God, did she have it wrong.

Zig didn’t come back to Dover because of Maggie or some navel-gazing need to be around the dead. He came back for one reason.

He was good at it.

This was the gift God gave him. He saw every dead body as a puzzle, and no matter how gruesome the wounds, he could put each body back together so the family could say a proper goodbye. He’d done it soldier after soldier—nearly three thousand of them now.

Still, there was one thing Jules said that Zig still couldn’t shake: that when it came to Roddy . . . to Nola . . . and especially to all the danger and fighting that came along with this case . . . Zig somehow liked it.

So what was the truth here? With his fiftieth birthday approaching, was Zig really so bored with his life that this case was nothing more than some middle-aged need for thrills and danger? Is that why he leapt in so quickly when Roddy said he needed help? Zig tried it on as a theory as he circled to the other side of the gurney and caught his first glimpse of a tattoo on the fallen airman’s shoulder.

It was the Deathly Hallows symbol from Harry Potter, but each side of the triangle was labeled with different dates, around four years apart: the date of each of Paul’s reenlistments. It reminded Zig of the old military saying that some people find trouble like there’s a reward in it.

Was that what Zig was doing here?

No, he decided. It was simpler than that. Thirty years ago, Roddy and Nola’s mother, Daniella Brown, ran her car off the road and was shot in the head. A few weeks before that, her high school friend P.K. Runyon was found dead in a boating accident. Sure, they were part of some clique called The Breakfast Club—but accidents happen all the time, no reason to assume foul play. That is, until three days ago, when a third member of the club—a man named Andrew Fechmeier—came out of hiding and was quickly shot in the head.

So what was the truth there?

From what Zig could tell, back in the day, The Breakfast Club got its kicks rummaging through their friends’ closets and unearthing their parents’ secrets. One night, though, they picked the wrong closet—one that belonged to a sketchy businessman named . . .

“Vincent Koch. Ever hear that name?” Zig whispered to the young man whose lifeless body lay spread out on the gurney.

The only answer came from Tom Petty, who reminded Zig how easy it was to go free fallin’.

Was Koch the one who the so-called morticians at the funeral home worked for? Or the Armenian guy at that so-called foreign language place? Whatever was really going on . . . whatever The Breakfast Club stole from Koch that night . . . somewhere out there was a truth that could help Roddy and Nola finally put their mother’s death to rest.

And really, Zig thought, isn’t that all that matters? Forget his mother-in-law’s pseudo-Freudian theories. The real reason Zig jumped into this case was the same reason he was still running through all the facts and permutations.

Roddy needed help.

Nola needed help.

At Zig’s core, he wasn’t attracted to danger, but he was most definitely attracted to pain, even if he didn’t know it. For years now—since that day when he went through the worst horror that life can muster—when Zig saw someone suffering, the only thing he wanted to do . . . he needed to do . . . was to help make it go away. It was a beautiful idea—and a completely naïve one, of course. The first rule of being a mortician is you can never take away someone’s pain, which meant every day, Zig would fail. Didn’t matter to Zig, though. He’d still try again tomorrow. And the day after that.

“Time for you to rest,” he whispered to the dead young airman, straightening his head. “You’ve earned th—”

“What’re you doing?” a voice barked behind him.

Zig spun sideways as a woman in a blue medical cap and matching blue scrubs plowed into the mortuary suite. She moved like a meteor, all forward momentum, pushing one of the rolling carts aside rather than going around it. On her feet were bright yellow Crocs squeaking with each step, making Zig wonder if Crocs were somehow making a comeback.

“Is that the suicide from Bahrain?” she challenged, getting her first good look at Paul Masterson—most notably, his fully intact temple. “I thought the MEs said he was a head wrap.”

“The MEs say everything’s a head wrap. I just figured the family would . . . I thought they’d prefer the opportunity to say goodbye,” Zig explained.

The woman didn’t reply, still staring at the clay work along his temple, doing that thing all morticians do when they see a cleaned-up body: examine the work.

“How’d you get that texture on the skin?” she finally asked.

Zig pointed to the fresh orange on the rolling cart. “Found it in the fridge.”

“Mm,” she muttered, staring down at the dead airman. “You still shouldn’t grab people’s cases. If it’s not on the big board, check the mortuary Slack,” she said, heading for the door.

Zig was about to ask her what Slack was, but she was already gone.

For a moment, Zig stood there, taking it all in. The way she eyed his work . . . even her one-syllable response: Mm.

Just a silly noise, but Zig knew a compliment when he heard one.

It’d been so long, he forgot how good it felt.

That’s why Zig came back to his old life, his old job. It’s what his mother-in-law would never understand. That’s what Dover was all about, right? For the first time in a long time, it felt good to feel good.

It wouldn’t last.

38

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Gina Caruso’s prom party was held here. It was a rager (which, back then, was the proper term for a badass party).

Pulling into the parking lot, Ivy was surprisingly rested, her biome recharged. After hours of sticking to backroads, plus the lack of an actual map, it took most of yesterday to get here, plus another night in the car. But even in this early morning light as old memories flooded back, everything still looked the same, right down to the faded red and teal Art Deco sign of the Carousel Motel.

It wasn’t hard to find what she was looking for—Room 206—where yellow police tape was still sagging around the doorframe. It was even easier to get inside: forty bucks to the cleaning woman, who was nothing but broad shoulders, down on her knees, struggling to get the blood out of the carpet.

“Necesito mideo hora,” Ivy told her. I just need a half hour.

“Toma todo el tiempo que quieras. No me pagan lo suficiente,” the cleaning woman replied, heading for the door. Take all the time you want. They don’t pay me enough.

As the door slammed shut, Ivy was already thinking about Fetch, about their last few days here in town, about how hard and stressful it’d been for both of them. Fetch never recovered, not really.

Ivy wouldn’t have the words for it until years later, after those first few seasons trying to grow eggplants. To get a jump on spring, she’d put the seeds in little cups so they could grow inside. She’d add warm lights and fans, learning the hard way that if a plant grows with no wind, it’ll be weak. She even upgraded to an oscillating fan. In the end, she’d have two eggplants from the same soil, same light, same everything—with no markings, no insect damage—but despite all the care and concern, one thrived and one died.

Ivy glanced around the room.

Time to get to work.

39

Denning, New York

FBI agents are trained to do things a certain way.

During interviews, they start with an open-ended question, designed to get you talking.

“What’re you doing here?” Agent Kripke asked.

It was the third time he’d used that question since he got the jump on her last night.

Then of course, he’d sit in silence, at one point for a full half hour, waiting for Nola to answer. In FBI and military training, you learn that silence is golden. Stay quiet and people will eventually speak.

Nola sat there, not saying a word, her cuffs threaded around the metal leg of the table that was bolted to the floor.

Unwrapping a eucalyptus cough drop, Kripke didn’t seem to mind the quiet. “Is it bad that I enjoy these better than cherry—is that a sign of old age?”

At first glance, Kripke looked like a middle-aged professor, tall and bearded, though there was something dashing about him. That was the only word for it. Some people have faces from an older era. He had a 1920s face, a dimple in one cheek, and a hairline scar by his eye. Plastic surgery gone wrong? No. An old injury, Nola decided. A punch he never should’ve taken.

Yet what was gnawing at Nola was what he was wearing. He called himself FBI, but plainclothes Bureau agents are easy to spot, with nice shoes and golf clothes that looked like they weren’t coming from a golf course.

Kripke was wearing military boots, tactical pants, and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, like a bruiser who takes a lot of doors. Most important, he never showed a badge. Real FBI love showing off their badges.

“Sure you don’t want one?” he asked in a flat, unplaceable accent, offering another eucalyptus cough drop. “It’s good advice. When someone offers you a breath mint, take it.”

Nola stared straight at him. Above Kripke’s Adam’s apple, she spotted a tiny red stitch. He’d nicked himself shaving this morning. Sloppy? No. In a rush, she decided, studying the cut, the blood looking fresh.

Indeed, FBI agents are trained to do things a certain way—but this guy . . . ?

“Why’re you pretending to be FBI?” Nola challenged.

Now Kripke was the one who was silent, though not for long. “Y’know, at first I figured you for a cop, but now I’m guessing PI,” he finally said, motioning to Nola’s guns—the Glock 48, plus the 43 he’d pulled from her ankle holster—both of which were in the corner, on an ancient mini fridge. “By the way, nice touch not bringing ID. Whoever trained you did you right.”

They were in a dusty, freestanding wooden garage that was set up like an office—rusted metal desk, outdated swivel chairs, file cabinets stacked with old monitors and even a fax machine—though what stood out most were the garage’s windows, covered with black poster board. No visuals in or out.

Nola had seen similar setups back in Afghanistan, when the Taliban targeted U.S. soldiers and American assets, grabbing them off the streets and driving them to caves and converted garages for laser-focused interrogations. Keep a U.S. soldier too long and the whole platoon comes running. But in a place like this, you can be in and out without the victim ever knowing where they’ve been.

Is that what this was here? The cult’s version of an interrogation room? It’d certainly make sense. Yet as Nola glanced around . . . at the file cabinets, the bureaucratic metal desk . . . After years in the military, she knew GSA government-procured furniture when she saw it. Which begged the question: Had the government already infiltrated this place? Or had the founder of the cult spent some time in the government?

“You’re really missing out on these cough drops,” Kripke added, deferential in a way that made her more anxious than she was accustomed to.

Nola shifted her weight, her back starting to stiffen as the handcuffs forced her to hunch forward.

“That’s the thing about cuffs,” Kripke added. “People see them every day on all those cop shows, but they forget how truly painful they are, right? Just the simplest form of torture.”

Shifting again, Nola tilted her chair back on its hind legs, trying to get more comfortable, but as her handcuffs reached their limit, they pulled her forward, off balance, and the back legs of the chair suddenly started to slide out from under her.

She jerked hard on the cuffs to stop her fall and regain her balance, but she’d tugged so hard, there was a sharp zzzt zzzt—the cuffs biting into her wrists as the chain pulled taut. At least she was upright as the front legs of the chair hit with a thud.

“See, that’s why teachers tell you not to lean back in class,” Kripke said.

“You know impersonating a federal officer is a crime.”

“What about trespassing on private property? Think that’s smart for you and your crew?”

Another bluff, him trying to figure out if Nola was alone. He was sharper than she first thought, adept at riling her and making it harder to focus. It didn’t help that the cuffs were tighter than ever, clamping her left wrist, her fingers and palm already turning a pale purple. The pain was bad, but no way would she give him the satisfaction.

“Looks like you can use some help there,” he said.

Her hand was throbbing, but she refused to answer.

“I’m no doctor, but most people need circulation,” he added, rolling the cough drop inside his cheek.

Less than a minute later, her left palm was a deep shade of purple, her fingers now dark swollen plums.

“You know all you have to do is ask for help.”

Fuck yourself, she said with a glare, locking on the little red cut on his neck, using it as a focal point, letting it transport her back to a night years ago, after some particularly brutal cross fire in Iraq, when she spotted a second sniper that everyone else missed and put a bullet in his throat.

In no time at all, Nola couldn’t feel her fingers, her hand starting to shake, her fingernails showing a tint of blue.

“Jesus on a sled, how overdramatically stubborn can one person be?” Kripke moaned, hopping out of his seat and crossing to Nola’s side of the table. He motioned for her to turn.

She knew what he meant, raising the cuffs so he could loosen them.

Pulling out a tiny key, he slid it into the lock.

It’s not hard to loosen cuffs, but when you do, for half a second, they’re unlocked. That was all Nola needed.

Nola’s arm became a blur, shooting diagonally upward, yanking open the cuff. Her fingers were too numb to make a proper fist, so she bunched a few together and aimed for his jugular notch.

“Kuuhhh,” Kripke gasped, holding his throat at the impact, stumbling backward.

Hopping out of her seat, Nola unthreaded the cuffs from the leg of the table and went straight for her guns.

“You’re not FBI,” she insisted, grabbing her pistol and pointing it at his head. “Tell me who the hell y—”

“Hhhhhhhh,” Kripke gasped, louder than before—a wet, unnatural wheeze.

With a crash, he backed into a nearby filing cabinet, sending the receiver from the fax machine to the ground. Nola assumed he had the wind knocked out of him, but the way he was frantically pointing at his own throat, his eyes wide with panic as he pantomimed the international sign for . . .

“I can’t brea— Hhhh . . .” He started to wheeze, though now it sounded like an empty drain. His face went pale. Before Nola even realized what was happening, he was falling, his legs buckling, his whole body sagging sideways like he was filled with jelly.

A heart attack, Nola thought.

She was wrong. It was a laryngospasm of the vocal cords caused by blunt trauma, like someone stabbing their fingertips into your windpipe.

As Kripke’s head hit the linoleum, there was a burst of blood, his legs splaying at an awkward angle. Nola stood there, the single handcuff still dangling from her wrist. Thinking about this later, she’d have no regrets that her first reaction was to ignore Kripke and instead dart across the room to grab the handcuff key that’d skittered across the floor.

With a twist, she undid the other cuff. That was it. She was free. She quickly headed for the door.

“Hh,” he gasped, facedown, his body jerking, convulsing, the blood on his head smudging, his breathing labored.

She was halfway to the door. She didn’t owe him anything. He handcuffed and imprisoned her for chrissake.

“Kk-hhh . . . Kk-hh . . . Kk-hh . . .” He was wheezing in faint jagged huffs like a wounded dog that knew it was being put down.

She remembered something Royall had told her when she was little. “The world’ll try to devour you, and if you don’t make yourself top priority, it’s your own fault.” He was right, at least about that—but . . . Nothing good came from being like Royall.

Pulling out her phone, she dialed 911. No signal. This far out in the mountains, there wasn’t even SOS service.

“Kk-huh . . . kk-huh . . . kk-huhh . . .” he gasped, his breathing fading.

“Dammit,” she muttered, stuffing her gun in the back of her waistband and sliding down on her knees toward Kripke’s body.

Flipping him over, she tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and started rescue breaths.

She rolled her eyes at the taste.

Damn eucalyptus cough drops.

Thirty-five minutes later, as the sun was coming up at Ellenville Regional Hospital, an unusually tall receptionist named Cindy Thurman was scrolling through TikTok, grinning at a video of two puppies dressed as Star Wars characters, complete with little lightsabers. She looked up as the ER’s automatic doors slid open, though no one entered.

She glanced back at her phone when the doors began to slide shut, then stopped, then opened, like something was blocking them, or stuck inside.

Peering over the welcome desk, Cindy spotted the listless body of a bearded man, late fifties, lying on the sensor pad.

“S-Sir, are you—?”

He wasn’t moving.

“Kendra! Kendra, I need some help out front!” she shouted, hitting what they called the Oh Shit Button. Rushing to his side, she checked his airway. Shallow, but at least he was breathing.

It didn’t take long to get him stabilized, but they wouldn’t learn his name until he woke up.

They searched him for ID, but his wallet and phone were missing.

40

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“From back in ’96? Was Richard Berkowitz that year?”

“Ricky? Of course I know Ricky!” the woman with the flat Midwest accent sang through the phone. “Tell him Jean Becker says hi—Jean B., not Jean K.—he’ll get the joke. Now where you calling from, hon?”

“Arrow Rock DA’s Office,” Melinda said, staring at Jean B.’s LinkedIn profile. After two decades on the job, Melinda could tell how helpful someone would be by the way they answered the phone.

Jean B. picked up with a curt “Go,” which is why Melinda had already checked the staff list, finding Jean’s name and using LinkedIn to figure out the single person they had in common, her college classmate . . .

“Ricky,” Jean muttered, more to herself than anyone else, reliving a memory from an old law school after-party she’d never tell her husband about. “How can I assist you, Melinda?”

“Hopefully, it’s an easy one. Been working a death investigation here, and a name popped up—someone local to you, who passed away about fifteen years back,” Melinda explained. “Was just wondering if there was an inquiry into the death.”

“Name?”

“Margaret Zigarowski. Went by Maggie.”

As Melinda said the words, the door to her office opened and her father, Sheriff Bix, walked in, hearing the question.

“Zig’s daughter?” the sheriff whispered.

Melinda held up a single finger to keep him quiet, then hit the button for speakerphone so he could listen.

“Jean, you there?” Melinda asked.

“I’m here, hon. But Maggie Zigarowski . . . you really don’t know that story?”

“I know she died at twelve years old, but when I went to look it up in the newspaper, all I could find was an online obituary,” Melinda said as her dad shot her a look—the same look from last night, like she was overstepping her bounds, or at the very least stepping into his.

The truth was, Melinda felt bad digging through Zig’s personal life, but considering how he and Roddy were sniffing around the storage shed last night . . . with their high-tech equipment and Roddy’s obvious emotional interest in the case . . . there were clearly a few things they weren’t saying. If she and her dad wanted to find out who killed her friend Fetch—especially if it was Vincent Koch—they’d be fools not to try to find out who they were dealing with.

“Lord, I remember . . . when Maggie died . . . it was like a bomb . . . no avoiding that story,” Jean explained. “This was back when Ziggy and Charmaine were still married and . . . let’s just say their marriage had hit a rough patch.”

Melinda knew what that meant. “He was having an affair?”

Jean went quiet, not answering.

“Tell her you can put in an official request,” Sheriff Bix whispered.

“I don’t mean to put you in an awkward spot,” Melinda added. “If it’s easier, I can call your sheriff and put in an official request.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . if you knew Ziggy . . . He’d never cheat. He worshipped Charmaine, which is why it hit him so hard when he found out she was sleeping with— Y’know what, that part doesn’t matter,” Jean said. “Here’s the point: This was when their marriage was going through it, on a particularly bad night, when the yelling was getting loud. As you know, twelve-year-old girls don’t like hearing their parents fight. So without a word to anyone, young Maggie snuck out her bedroom window.”

“When did Zig realize she ran away?”

“That’s the heart of it. They had tucked her in, but at some point after midnight, they figured out her bed was empty. Needless to say, whatever fight they were in, all it did was raise the screaming to the next level.”

“Had Maggie run away before?”

“She was more a hide-and-seek type—and apparently extra good at it. I remember at the funeral, the old sheriff telling a story about how during one fight, Maggie ran nearly a mile away, into some stranger’s backyard, hiding under their trampoline. Took them hours before they found her.”

Melinda glanced at the matching silver picture frames on her desk, both with photos of her son, Nicholas, when he was three years old, before he got sick. In one, he’s at the beach sitting in the sand, squinting and smiling into the sun, holding up a bright orange shovel like it’s the Olympic torch. The other photo was a profile shot of him wearing a Superman cape on their old backyard swing set, leaning all the way back, the bright red cape fanning out behind him. Ready to take flight. If Nicholas went missing, nothing on the planet would stop her from searching.

“I’m guessing Zig went after her?” Melinda asked.

“I take it you’re a mom.”

Melinda could feel her dad’s worry—that she was opening her own old wounds, but she stayed focused on the speakerphone. “You were saying about Maggie . . .”

“It was a mess. Racing around the house, Ziggy and Charmaine were screaming at each other, screaming for Maggie, and then screaming at each other some more. Scrambling to find her, Ziggy grabbed his car keys and stormed outside. Naturally, he has no idea what’s coming,” Jean explained, her voice going slow, filling with dismay.

“You have to understand, he was just a dad trying to find his daughter—racing outside, jumping in his car,” Jean stuttered, her voice breaking. “But what Zig didn’t know—what no one could possibly know—was that on that night, Maggie’s hiding spot was below the car. To get away from her parents and all the screaming, she’d crawled underneath the car and fell asleep . . .”

“Oh no,” Melinda muttered.

Sheriff Bix froze.

“Zig was just trying to be a good dad. Frantic as could be, he threw the car in reverse, hit the gas, and peeled out of the driveway—”

Tears swelled in Melinda’s eyes, turning the world and the framed photos of her son completely blurry.

“God in heaven,” Sheriff Bix whispered, his own tears swelling.

“In twenty-five years— I’ve never seen worse,” Jean said. “They declared Maggie dead within the hour—and as a favor, kept it out of the papers. But in a town this size . . . My hand to God, I’ll never forget that funeral. Ziggy and Charmaine . . . they were doing their best . . . but you don’t recover from something like that. Not ever.”

Don’t do this to yourself. Hang up, Sheriff Bix pleaded with a glance.

Melinda didn’t move, didn’t notice—she was lodged, trapped in that memory of her own son, of the final moments that afternoon in the hospital, when his breathing became labored and he was trying to lift the juice box, but his hand wasn’t working.

M-Mommy, please . . . Mommy, what’s happening?

Within seconds, Melinda screamed and the nurses came running, then the emergency crew, then the physician who knew not to pull Melinda away, giving her a chance to hug her child one last time. But all these years later, the memory that lingered was four-year-old Nicholas begging for something she couldn’t give. As a mother, Melinda couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Until she heard about Zig.

“Mindy, hang up,” Sheriff Bix begged.

“Jean, I appreciate th-th— I’ll call if we have any questions.”

With a click, she was gone.

“What’re you even thinking?” her father asked. “Now you’re investigating Zig?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t put his and Roddy’s names into Rap Back?” she asked, referring to their database for background checks.

“Of course I did. I’m the damn sheriff. You step in this town, I put you in Rap Back. And y’know what it told me? As police, Roddy’s a reckless black cloud—both decorated and disciplined by his department, which to me is the worst kind of cop, though he somehow manages to get away with it. As for your friend Zig, in the military, he’s got one of the most respectable civilian résumés I’ve ever—”

“What’s that mean? Your friend Zig?”

“Mindy, I’m not looking for a fight. It don’t mean nothin’.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Mindy, all I’m saying is, Roddy’s mother is the one who died, yet you’re spending your time sniffing down the story behind Zig’s dead daughter? You think that makes sense?”

“I know how your brain works, Dad—I know you’re worried that someone’s hunting the old Breakfast Club and I’m somehow next. Yet at this moment, our only priority should be figuring out who did this. If Zig’s lying or hiding some other motive, I need to know. And if there’s any chance he can help us catch Fetch’s killer— If this goes back to Koch—”

“If it goes back to Koch—which we both know it does—I’ll be the first in line with handcuffs and a victory parade. But last night, Mindy, I saw the way you were looking at that Zig guy. I’m sorry you’re lonely, but—”

“Wait, that’s what you’re worried about? My sex life?”

“Don’t twist my words. I know what this case means to you—I know they were your friends—”

“Fetch was my friend—that’s it. The rest of them tossed me aside, teaching me the all-too-valuable lesson that I was better off not hanging out with burnouts. Regardless, remember the first piece of advice you gave me when I took this job?”

“‘Do the work.’”

“No.”

“‘A little escalation early can save you a lot of escalation later.’”

“Your memory is dirt, Dad.”

“‘Trust your gut,’” he insisted.

“Trust your gut,” Melinda repeated. “That’s what I’m doing. Roddy’s a clear oddball, but Zig is something different. I’m telling you, I can feel it—he’s a good person.”

Rolling his eyes, the sheriff climbed out of his seat and headed for the door. “If that’s the case, Mindy, then why were you looking him up in the first place?”

The door slammed behind him before she could answer.

41

“What about these?” asked the woman trying to hide behind the oversized Jackie O sunglasses.

“They’re fine,” replied the female budtender, a clerk at Greenspot, downtown Arrow Rock’s most popular marijuana dispensary. “You can do better.”

The woman grinned, taking it as a compliment, not even realizing it was a sales tactic.

Behind her, Fish glanced at a display case, pretending to browse. He’d never been in a dispensary before. He expected something sterile, like a doctor’s office. Instead, it was upscale—white porcelain floors, wood shelving, and trendy neutral tones, all of it bathed in natural light, giving it the air of a swanky yoga studio. There was even a suburban mom clientele dressed in the typical uniform: V-neck T-shirt, jean shorts, and Sam Edelman sandals . . . naturally with sunglasses for discretion.

“It’s a fortieth birthday, but I want it to feel more like a thirtieth . . . maybe even a twenty-fifth,” Ms. Sunglasses joked, but not really.

“Then go with these,” the budtender replied, pointing to what looked like fancy fruit snacks from Whole Foods but were actually edibles—Betty’s Eddies Smashin’ Passion. “With horny goat weed to increase libido,” the budtender explained, tapping a bright pink fingernail against the words For Pleasure on the packaging.

Ms. Sunglasses raised them up on her head, the power move of the suburban mom, so she could see you seeing her.

“Sweetie, be with you in a moment,” the budtender called out to Fish.

“No rush at all,” he replied, still pretending to eye a display case filled with vape pens that had been modified for marijuana so parents could tell their kids they had quit smoking, but were really getting high.

Of course, Fish wasn’t here for gummies or accessories. He was here for the view, the only one on the block whose storefront had tinted windows, but more important, a direct sightline of the ornate five-story building across the street—and the two people who’d turned the corner and were now walking toward it.

“What can we do to light up your day?” the budtender finally asked, turning her attention to Fish.

“Sounds like I need to hear more about the Smashin’ Passion,” Fish replied, staring through the window at Zig and Roddy, who were glancing over their shoulders and triple-checking they were alone as they entered the building.

Front door, Fish texted, quickly heading to the exit as Zig and Roddy disappeared inside. They’re going in now.

“Sir, your Smashin’ Passion . . .” the budtender called out.

Fish didn’t respond. He was already outside, casually crossing the street, giving Zig and Roddy a head start so they wouldn’t see what they were walking into.

42

“Looks like a bank.”

“What gave it away?” Zig asked as he and Roddy eyed the wide concrete building with a single word carved above the revolving door: bank.

Yet as Zig and Roddy pushed their way inside, they could see that the bank was long gone. The lobby had been gutted, and all that remained was an ’80s-era checkerboard floor, a tall black marble reception desk, and a security guard with a bright orange tie.

“Morning, morning. Welcome to The Orange Group. What can I help you with today?”

Zig was too busy looking at the bright orange chairs in the waiting room area, the bright orange welcome mat that they were standing on, and on the wall behind the reception desk, a massive sign with equally bright orange letters that read: orange you glad it’s spring?

“Do you change the sign when it’s winter?” Roddy asked.

The receptionist, a fiftysomething man with buzzed hair and a clearly dyed mustache, looked up from his crossword and forced a smile, making it clear he’d heard the joke before, though Zig knew it wasn’t a joke. Roddy really wanted to know.

“We’re here to see Vincent Koch,” Zig began.

“And you are . . . ?”

“It’s a private matter between he and I.”

“Him and me,” the guard corrected.

Zig shot him a look, noting the security camera over his shoulder in the far left-hand corner. Bulletproof sharp dome with a PTZ, meaning it could point, tilt, and zoom. That’s a four-thousand-dollar camera, usually with someone operating it from a command center.

“Mr. Koch’s calendar is rather full. Would you like to make an appointme—?”

“How about now? Would this help with his calendar?” Roddy challenged, pulling out his badge and shoving it toward the guard, then a bit higher for the camera.

Before the guard could react, his phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a few seconds, then hung up.

“Let me guess,” Zig said, “Mr. Koch just had an opening in his schedule.”

The guard offered a grin that felt like a middle finger. “Fifth floor,” he said, pointing them to the nearby elevator, which opened on cue and swallowed them with a metallic gulp.

43

It was one of those elevators where there were no buttons to press inside.

“I hate these,” Roddy said, glancing around, shifting his weight to one leg, then back again. As the elevator started to rise, he clenched his jaw like a boxer anxious to enter the ring and bit at his middle fingertip.

“Roddy, maybe you should take a breath and—”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

“That’s not wh—”

The elevator bucked to a stop. The indicator lights above the doors said they were between the third and fourth floors. Vincent Koch was on the fifth.

“You think that’s random?” Roddy asked, pushing the alarm, though nothing happened.

“Just stay calm. It’s not a Bond film death trap.”

“He’s either making a point or making a plan,” Roddy whispered, searching for a camera. As he turned back to Zig, his coat opened just enough to reveal the extra gun Roddy was now wearing in a shoulder holster.

Roddy, do not do something stupid, Zig warned with a head shake.

Roddy shot him a look right back. If he’s the one who killed my mother— Lowering his head, he couldn’t help himself and whispered through gritted teeth, “Mr. Zig, it takes a lot to keep things where they’re supposed to be— To not show you who I am.” Roddy paused. “But there are moments I don’t mind letting go.”

The elevator shook, then began to rise, coming to a stop on the fifth floor. As the doors parted, Zig and Roddy were greeted by a dog curled just outside the elevator, a wolf-gray Siberian husky with the most piercing mix of sable and blue eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Vincent Koch called out. “She’s old. She won’t bite.”

44

“What’s her name?”

“Gaea,” Koch called out from behind his desk as Zig stepped over the massive dog that was as big as a dragon.

“Gaea like the goddess of Earth?” Zig asked, clearing the dog and entering Koch’s private office, which was organized around a modern asymmetrical desk that was clearly meant to be noticed, like someone had vertically cleaved a tree and then laid it on its side. On the right was a wall of wide windows overlooking the few blocks of downtown. So many of the storefronts were now shuttered. Only the strongest remained, including the marijuana dispensary across the street and a hardware store on the corner—Construction Junction—putting the Schoolhouse Rock song on a loop in Zig’s head.

“Right—the dog was my niece’s idea,” Koch explained, using the word right to make it feel like he was agreeing with you. “She named her after someone in the Percy Jackson series. Though I’m pretty sure the books left out the part where Gaea fashions a sickle and counsels her kids to castrate her husband with it.” It wasn’t until Koch smiled, his tendons flexing around his windpipe, that Zig realized he was making a joke.

“My niece says you’re either a Harry Potter house or a Percy Jackson house. We’re Team Percy,” Koch added, leaning back in his chair and looking older than Zig expected, in his late sixties, with a narrow, oblong face, overtanned skin, and a tasteful mess of white hair that he used to hide the liver spots along his forehead. Dressed in a lime green Psycho Bunny golf shirt and an oversized $25,000 De Bethune watch, he gave off the vibe of a country club president trying to fit in at Burning Man.

The only thing even more midlife crisis were the two drumsticks Koch playfully tapped against his mouse pad. On the corner of the desk was an old bank light with a hairline crack in its green shade, Zig now wondering if in a moment of anger or maybe pure joy, Koch once used it as a cymbal.

“She really won’t bite,” Koch called to Roddy, who was still standing at the threshold, refusing to step over the Siberian husky. “That is, unless I forgot to feed her . . .” he added, letting out a chuckle and tapping the desk with his drumsticks in a rim shot. Ba-dum-tss.

Heart or no heart? Zig got the sense he was a barterer, a man who enjoys trading back and forth. Nothing given for free.

“I’ve been searching for a pet, but I don’t like big dogs. I don’t think they like me,” Roddy said, making a wide circle around the husky, who barely noticed.

“So dogs are your weakness?”

“My what?”

“Your personal weakness. Everyone has one,” Koch explained. “Some people are prone to exaggeration. Or procrastination. Others choose to be unhappy, blaming the shit parts of their life on their job or boss or the high school flame who rejected them at the prom. Mine is that I don’t like surprises.”

“Mr. Koch—”

“Excuse me, I’m talking,” he warned, speaking with his eyebrows, everything else immovable. “My father, my uncles, my whole family grew up within a few miles of Arrow Rock. My grandfather’s first job was driving a milk truck, then he drove the town’s bus. Same route every day for forty years. Can you imagine, seeing the same thing month after month, year after year? I bet he didn’t like surprises either . . . y’know, like people shoving their badges into Jeromy’s face and bullying their way onto my schedule. So let’s get into it, yes?” he said. “I take it you’re here about Andrew Fechmeier.”

45

Keenley, Pennsylvania

Fifteen years ago

This was Nola when she was thirteen.

As the last bell rang and her seventh grade classmates darted for the door, Nola stayed in her seat.

“Move, skank,” warned Archie Winfield, who was always voted Best Dressed in the yearbook superlatives solely for his sneaker collection.

“Suck me off, pissbreath,” Nola shot back.

“Nola! Language!” Mrs. Castronovo scolded, though clearly trying to suppress a laugh.

The moment Archie was out of earshot, she motioned to Nola. “Next Saturday, Nola. I mean it.”

Nola stayed silent, holding the flyer Mrs. Castronovo had given her, printed on light blue copy paper.

It was from the school’s annual “Afternoon of Art,” where every student’s artwork was displayed around the food court at Skylake Mall, so parents could ooh and aah at the mini masterpieces.

Even the most insufferable parents understood it wasn’t a big deal. Art was a required class, meaning every student at Bronson Middle had a piece selected for the show, even weirdos like Aaron Orris, who would only draw mazes with little bombs at every dead end.

Today though, art teacher Castronovo told Nola that her work was one of six that’d been entered for the Visions Award, a prize sponsored by a local ophthalmologist, which awarded fifty dollars and a free eye exam to the winner.

Nola should’ve been thrilled. Instead, zipping her jacket and following the exodus of kids outside, all she could think was . . . How’m I gonna get there?

Skylake Mall was on the far side of town, the nicer side. No way would Royall waste a Saturday for a trip like—

“Nolagirl! Hey! Nolagirl . . . !” a familiar voice shouted.

Nola spun toward the carpool lane. Two cars from the front, Royall was leaning out the passenger window of a beat-up gray 1984 Mercury Lynx, motioning excitedly for her to get inside.

She’d never seen Royall in carpool before—not when it rained or she was sick . . . not even on those first days after they’d moved to a sketchier neighborhood because Royall couldn’t afford the rent at their old house. Even then, he made Nola walk.

“C’mon, Nolagirl, don’t look so shocked. Get in!” Royall added, forcing a crooked smile.

Right there, Nola knew something was wrong. Royall was never happy. Yet her immediate reaction was something more subtle, more primal. Glancing over her shoulder, she took a quick scan around—at the bike rack . . . at the crosswalk—checking to see who might be staring at Royall’s little gray Lynx with its manual roll-down windows. Even in a crappy neighborhood, people know junk when they see it.

“I think your dad’s calling you . . .” said one of the three Kellys in her grade.

“That’s not my dad,” Nola insisted, rushing past Kelly, wishing with all her might that Royall didn’t exist, that his car didn’t exist, that he would’ve parked around the block.

Years from now, when she replayed this day in her head, it was this moment—this tiny starburst of teenage shame—that haunted her, making her feel so superficial, even into adulthood. And isn’t that how it always worked? The first way for people to think you’re nothing is for you to first think it about yourself.

Honk honk. The Lynx leapt from the carpool lane, nearly sideswiping Kelly as it raced toward Nola.

“C’mon, Nolagirl, I know you see me. Get in!” Royall said, his crooked smile wider than ever.

Knowing she didn’t have a choice, Nola slid into the passenger seat. She was still moving as Royall grabbed something from the backseat and dumped it in her lap—a massive plastic dry cleaner bag holding her green Girl Scouts uniform.

“Put it on!” he insisted, genuinely excited, which confused her even more.

“Girl Scouts aren’t till Thursdays,” she pointed out.

“Just put it on. You’re gonna love him.”

Nola turned, more confused than ever. Him?

“Mr. Ulrich. You’ll see. He loves Girl Scouts,” Royall said, punching the gas.

The car’s tired four-cylinder engine revved like an animal in pain, coughing as every nearby student turned and stared at Nola, who shrank in her seat, thinking this day couldn’t get any worse.

She was wrong.

46

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

“Right—that’s what I thought. If you want to ask me about Fechmeier, ask away.”

Koch was clearly sharp, accustomed to being in charge.

As Zig glanced around the office, there were one . . . two . . . three different finger paintings made by children, in thick mahogany frames like they were Monets. The biggest was behind his desk, a poster board with green grass, a giant yellow sun, and a tall blue stick figure holding hands with a smaller pink one, over the words Gracie and Uncle Vin-Vin on a Beyootiful Day!!

“I thought your office would have more orange,” Roddy said, taking his own scan of the room and motioning to the nearby pencil cup, which held half a dozen orange pens. “Y’know, for Orange Corp.”

Koch pointed a drumstick at Roddy, then turned to Zig. “Is he for real—or instead of good cop/bad cop, is one of you a decorator?”

Whatever type of screwup Koch had been as a kid, those days were long gone, buried beneath the wealth that bought his fancy watch and refurbished building. But like so many with new money, sharp elbows were lurking underneath.

“He’s not wrong,” Zig admitted. “The lobby’s covered with orange. Up here, it’s just . . .” Zig motioned to the pens.

“Mr. Zigarowski, yes? That’s the name you gave security downstairs.”

“My friends call me Zig.”

“Right. Well. Mr. Zigarowski, sometimes there are people who say they want to meet you for one thing, but they want to actually meet you about another. I think I know what type of visit this is.”

“We’d—”

“Excuse me, I’m not finished. Ask your questions about Andrew Fechmeier so we can get to the part where we actually try to find who killed him,” Koch said, leaning forward and sucking on his teeth, which were veneers. He’d spent money on those teeth, making Zig wonder what’d happened to the originals.

“So you knew Fechmeier?” Zig said.

“I know he died three days ago. And I know people think that at some point after high school, he and his friends broke into my house and that a couple of them showed up dead—”

“Daniella Brown,” Roddy interrupted.

“She’s the one who committed suic—?”

“She didn’t commit suicide,” Roddy shot back.

Koch stared at him but didn’t say a word, studying Roddy’s reaction like he had it on a microscope, until . . . “When she shot herself, there were kids in her car, right? Someone dropped them at the hospital.”

Roddy didn’t reply as Koch nodded to himself, making Zig realize they weren’t working Koch. Koch was working them.

“Did you know the police questioned me back then?” Koch added. “It was the most action the officers of Arrow Rock had ever seen. First, P.K. was in that boating accident . . . then they found Daniella’s body . . . and then Fechmeier ran off and disappeared with the other girl—”

“Ivy Munn,” Roddy said.

“Her. Wherever Fechmeier and Ivy went, the police thought it had something to do with that night at my house. Two officers knocked on my door around midnight and woke my first wife, who had quite a temper because, y’know . . . too much Catholic school. Point being, I know what people in this town say about me. No one likes the guy who makes a lot of cash. But whatever you think happened, you’ve been sold the wrong story.”

“So The Breakfast Club didn’t break into your home?” Roddy challenged.

“What the hell is The Breakfast Club?”

“Fechmeier and his friends . . . It was a stupid nickname,” Zig explained, glancing outside and scanning the rest of the block. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but as he eyed the empty stores and marijuana dispensary up the block, his nose started twitching. Thanks to evolution, the human body can feel when something bad is coming, but at this moment, Zig assumed it was Koch’s condescension. “I think what Roddy’s saying is, on that night, there apparently was a break-in . . . that your alarm went off and the police—”

“You spoke to Sheriff Bix. Of course you spoke to Bix,” Koch said, holding his drumstick up to his cheek and tapping it slowly like a metronome. “Did the sheriff tell you I tried to get him fired? It’s true—I admit I can be petty, but that’s not a crime. And when he ran for judge, I backed his opponent just to make sure he wouldn’t get what he wanted. I thought about doing the same to his daughter, but even I’m not that vindictive. Though I’m embarrassed to say I once asked her on a date.”

“What happened the night of the break-in?” Roddy insisted.

“Right, Black Friday,” Koch agreed, again sucking hard on his teeth. “We were out to dinner for our friend Javier’s fortieth birthday. My phone started ringing, but I didn’t pick up. This was in the early days of caller ID, so I didn’t realize it was the alarm company. Then the cops called, and of course we rushed home. By the time I got there, the only thing out of place was the back door on the screen porch, which had blown open. Case closed, right? That should’ve been the end of it—until a young deputy named Arnold Bix leaked it to the local press.”

“Why would he do that?” Zig asked.

“This was after his wife left him. She was hot stuff in high school—didn’t age as well, but isn’t that always the case? She moved to Colorado; I heard she might’ve gone gay.”

“What’s your point?”

“Right, right. What matters is, Sheriff Bix was alone—though not for long, since he decided to rebound with this woman. I actually forget her name . . . she was a reporter, puffy eyes . . . and had just started at The Current, the local newspaper. To get in good with her, Bix tipped her off.”

“And that’s considered news? That your home alarm went off?”

“You’ve never lived in a small town, have you? I paid to refurbish the fire station, the local movie theater, even that statue of the ugly horse outside city hall. If I farted in line at the salad bar, it’d earn a mention in the weekly Around Town column,” he said, waving his drumstick like a magic wand. “Once the story leaked, it turned into this . . . this thing. A source of speculation. Instead of a broken screen door . . . I was robbed! I was hiding drugs! Sex dungeons in the basement!—and when Daniella killed herself, not to mention P.K. in that boat accident . . . plus wherever Fechmeier and Ivy ran off to, well, that was just yanking the pin in the grenade. It put me on the lips of every gossipy a-hole in town. But the sheriff didn’t tell you that part, did he?”

Zig turned to Roddy, who had somehow, without Zig even noticing, moved closer to Koch’s desk, scanning one of the documents in his inbox.

“You really don’t know anything about personal space, do you?” Koch asked.

“When the break-in happened—” Roddy began.

“Right, and you clearly didn’t hear what I said. It wasn’t a break-in.”

“When the screen door flew open,” Roddy clarified, “were you in contact with Fechmeier or any of his high school friends?”

“Contact?”

“Did you know them or have any interaction with them?” Roddy asked.

“I was in my forties and building a multimillion-dollar business. They were in their twenties and flunking out of junior college. Andrew Fechmeier had moved back home. Daniella was doing people’s nails in the same strip mall as the pawnshop. Does it seem realistic that I’d be spending time with the local burnouts?”

“So no interactions or encounters with any of them?” Roddy asked.

Koch went silent, well aware what Roddy was doing. When the police can’t get a confession, sometimes a lie or even an omission can be just as helpful. “Y’know, Officer, I once read in a book that cops either get more judgmental or less judgmental as they get older. You look more so.”

“You still haven’t answered my question about interactions with them. You said it’s a small town. At the supermarket . . . this bank building you bought . . . maybe your refurbished movie theater . . . Had you ever run into Fechmeier or any of his friends?”

“Never met them; never ran into them. Didn’t even hear Fechmeier’s name until the day he and his girlfriend disappeared and the cops knocked on my door,” Koch said, his voice slowing down as he lowered his drumsticks flat on his desk. Some people get rattled when they’re questioned by the police. Koch looked composed, with just the right amount of concern.

“Here’s the problem,” Roddy said, equally calm. “If you never met Fechmeier before, why would people say he and his friends were the ones who broke in?”

“People make things up all the time,” Koch replied, offering the edge of a smile, one of those razor-sharp ones that told them they should wrap it up.

“Want to know an even more interesting part of the story?” Roddy added. “We were able to trace Fechmeier’s phone over the past few days. And from what we can tell, right before he was shot in that motel, one of the last things he did was pay a visit to the police’s storage shed for a particular old file. Care to guess what file it was?”

“The file from the supposed break-in at my house? Why would Fechmeier want that?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it, Mr. Koch?”

“It’s certainly a question,” Koch admitted, “but if I were you, I’d also think it was a pretty good question for the sheriff.”

Before they could argue, he pressed his thumb against the tip of the drumstick, making it seesaw up, then down.

“Are you saying Bix was giving us bad information? What about your predecessor, Mr. Cello?” Zig asked.

“Cello was a high-end hoodlum. And now you’re just trying to start an argument. Between me and the sheriff, all I’m saying is my name’s not the only one in that file. If memory serves—and trust me, my memory serves—Bix was the investigating deputy that night . . . on the scene before I even got there. If nothing else, that’s gotta be something you should ask him about.”

It was a fair point, delivered cordially, logically, without any animosity.

“Mr. Koch, your eleven o’clock is on the line,” a female voice announced through his intercom.

“I apologize, but I do need to take this,” Koch said, reaching for the phone.

“If I could ask one last question . . .” Roddy began.

Koch’s hand was on the receiver, about to pick it up, trying hard not to be rude.

“Roddy, we really should go,” Zig jumped in.

“Your partner’s right—I need to grab this,” Koch said, the edge of his smile curving like the tip of a knife. Translation: We’re done now, Officer.

“If you think of anything else . . .” Roddy added. Translation: I don’t believe you.

“I’ll be sure to reach out,” Koch said, smile still in place as he stood up and ushered them toward the elevator like a maître d’.

There was a ping as the elevator doors opened.

“Good luck with your investigation. If you have any other questions . . .” Koch reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Zig. “. . . feel free to contact me.”

As the elevator doors clamped shut, Zig looked down at the card. “Mothertrucker,” Zig whispered.

At the center of the card was a logo for a law firm called Brennan, Leit & Zareh. Translation: We won’t be speaking again.

“He’s a liar. We shouldn’t leave,” Roddy said.

“In case you didn’t notice, whatever we asked, he gave us nothing but that oily grin.”

“Then you keep digging!” Roddy exploded, quickly embarrassed by the outburst. “I’m sorry, Mr. Zig, but visits like this . . . as police . . . they’re not about answers. They’re about me getting to know him . . . to build rapport . . . to see what’s underneath!”

“Can you please just—?”

“I know people think I’m a bit . . . off, but that’s— I’m— That’s what makes me good police. I can find things that are off.” Roddy was speaking so fast, he didn’t even notice as the elevator passed the lobby, heading to a lower level. “Koch can pretend to be as manicured and polished as he wants, but I know garbage when I smell—”

Ping.

The elevator bounced to a halt. If they’d looked up, they would’ve seen the letter G on the digital indicator screen. Garage level.

The smell hit Zig first as the doors opened. Dust and car exhaust. On his left and right were wide concrete columns, painted yellow at their bases.

“The garage? That’s not where we—”

“Mr. Zig, don’t—!” Roddy called, darting after him, both their backs to the elevator.

Of course, that was the point. In any fight, the surest way to win is to avoid your enemy’s strengths and instead go for their weaknesses. Or in this case, don’t attack from the front if you can easily sneak behind someone.

Kllk.

“For guys who think they’re clever, you really should’ve seen this coming.”

Roddy started to turn, but the barrel of a gun was already pressed into his lower back.

Zig went for his knife.

“That’s a mistake,” warned the man with a crooked nose and beautiful blueish gray eyes. With his left hand, he shoved the tip of his fillet knife into Zig’s back, at the center of his spine. “Mr. Zigarowski, I know you understand physiology—and what happens if this goes deeper.”

Zig put his hands in the air, as did Roddy.

“You’ll both be happy with that decision,” the man known as Fish said. “Now Mr. Zigarowski, I’m a sensible man, but not when I’m ignored. So I’m only asking this once. Your answer will decide how much you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Cults are for the small-minded and easily persuaded. From what I recall, Andrew Fechmeier was neither. So tell me what’s really going on inside Heavenly Meadows?”

47

“Suddenly you hate lavender?”

“Darling, don’t get histrionic. What type of monster hates lavender?” Jules teased, popping open the cap and stealing a sniff of her get-well gift: a tube of Aveeno Stress Relief Moisturizing Lotion. Lavender scent.

Sitting up in her hospital bed, Jules faked a smile good enough to fool everyone . . . except her dearest friend.

“I can’t believe it. You have that lavender diffuser in the guest bathroom,” said Bunny Shoemaker, the seventy-year-old woman with a dyed blond layered bob.

“Mother’s Day gift. I couldn’t toss it,” Jules explained, which made the nurse with the comma-shaped neck start to laugh.

For over forty years, Jules’s and Bunny’s yards backed up to each other. They’d raised their kids together, buried their husbands together, even recently put themselves on a dating app together, though really, that was for Bunny’s benefit. Jules never had a lack of suitors.

“Mrs. Clarke, please—I need you to sit still,” the nurse pleaded, trying to use a cloth tape measure to check the size of the amoeba-shaped purple bruise on Jules’s shoulder. Especially for those with leukemia, increased swelling can indicate ongoing bleeding.

“Maybe you should rub some lavender lotion on it,” Jules suggested.

The nurse ignored the joke. “Dr. Ishoof wants to know if you’re still feeling lightheaded or short of breath?”

“I told her before, I’m fi—”

“Special delivery!” the nurse with the moon-shaped glasses called out, entering the room and holding up a bag from Target.

“You’re interrupting my gift with another gift?” Bunny challenged.

“Looks like a good one,” the nurse sang, opening the bag and handing Jules an adult coloring book featuring art masterpieces from Botticelli to van Gogh, plus a fresh set of colored pencils.

“That’s not even the best part . . .” the nurse added, pulling a final gift from the Target bag: a roll of good toilet paper. “Two ply!” she said, holding it up like it was Simba in the opening scene of The Lion King. Even Nurse Comma Neck was impressed.

“From your daughter?” Bunny asked.

Jules shook her head. She knew who it was from.

“Screw that prison toilet paper. Fight the power, Jules! Love, Zig,” the nurse read from the card.

Of course it was Zig.

“Your son-in-law, right—the one who was here last night?” the nurse asked. “Without exaggeration, he’s called the front desk fifty thousand times trying to speak to the doctors and check up on you.”

“He’s persistent like that,” Jules acknowledged.

Bunny shot Jules a look. Jules had never mentioned he was here. “Did you tell him about Charmaine and Warren?”

Jules looked up at the TV, which wasn’t on.

“You didn’t, did you? You need to do right by him, Jules.”

“I always do right by him.”

“Then tell him. When he finds out—”

“Ow,” Jules said, flinching as the nurse pressed down on her bruise. No question, the pain was getting worse, the bruise getting bigger.

Lowering the coloring book, Jules studied the nurse making notes on her iPad, studied the bruise, studied the wires and beeps and buzzes from the machines, everything singing at once.

In this hospital, she’d been woken up every few hours, a stranger poking her in the arm or reminding her to eat or use the bathroom. She could smell it, the reek of it—on Zig, on herself, in this room . . . it all had the musk of death.

“Jules . . . you hear what I said?” Bunny asked.

“Ma’am, you okay?” the nurse added, both of them staring at her.

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine . . . I’m . . .” Jules was damp with sweat, now glancing around, wondering where the last minute or two had gone and why she was so lightheaded.

“Alonso, call Dr. Ishoof! I want her on O2 and IV fluids!” the nurse with the moon glasses yelled.

Jules’s eyes drifted sideways, the room tilting, spinning. She didn’t like being afraid, but the far more unnerving part was a stray thought, a lingering thread of fear that she’d been picking at . . . about Zig and what he was doing on this case . . . the same worry that now was her own . . . the same worry of anyone in their seventies who finds themselves in an adjustable hospital bed as the room starts to swirl . . .

From this moment on, it’s not getting any better.

48

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“Heavenly what?” Zig asked.

“Heavenly Meadows,” Roddy repeated Fish’s words, pronouncing each syllable slowly, like he was trying to buy some time.

With his hands in the air, he and Zig were both using peripheral vision to get a better look at their attacker, or at least a clearer sense of the threat. Whoever he was, he was holding a knife to Zig’s back and a gun on Roddy.

Two different weapons, unconventional for sure. From a strategic standpoint a mixed bag—but the fact their attacker put the knife on Zig and the gun on Roddy . . . he saw Roddy as the bigger threat.

“No one’s looking for a fight . . . everyone take a breath,” Zig insisted, hoping to make peace. “Whatever Heavenly Meadows is, I’ve never heard of it in my—”

With a sharp poke, Fish shoved the tip of his knife into the center of Zig’s back, holding it still like a finger in a dike.

Zig stood up straight, thinking he’d been pinched. Then the snakebite of pain hit.

“Was that—? Did you just stab me?” Zig asked.

“That’s a quarter inch, Mr. Zigarowski. You’re not going to like it deeper than that.”

“Are you outta your fuc—?”

Without a word, Fish slid the knife deeper . . . delicately, elegantly, an experienced surgeon. “That’s a half inch, just shy of the sacrum nerve pairs in your spinal cord,” Fish explained, his eyes looking more gray than blue in the garage’s fluorescent light. “Your skin is already changing color, going pale.”

Roddy turned to help, but there was a click as Fish put the tip of his finger around the trigger and pressed the gun even harder into Roddy’s back.

Right there, Zig realized he had it wrong. It was the knife, not the gun, that was Fish’s weapon of choice, meaning he saw Zig as the bigger threat—or maybe the one with more information.

“I-I’m a reasonable person . . .” Zig insisted, his head and ears going numb as a high-pitched hum drowned out the universe. He could feel a teardrop of blood skate down his back. “If I knew what Heavenly Meadows was, I’d tell you.”

“What about Fechmeier? Was he with her? Does she have what they stole?”

“Y’mean the file from the police station?”

Fish went silent, though Zig couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or confused.

“Mr. Zigarowski, when you first went to the funeral home, I was outside, watching from across the street. I followed you to that foreign language school or whatever that place really is,” Fish explained. “At first, I thought you had a lead on Fechmeier, but you have no idea what this is about, do y—?”

“You’re the one who killed my mother,” Roddy interrupted.

Zig turned, recognizing that look—the flamethrower now lit in Roddy’s eyes. The last thing they needed at this point was escalation.

“My mother was Daniella Brown—”

“Roddy, not now . . .” Zig warned.

“You killed her!” Roddy added, his shoulders, his neck, his whole body vibrating, barely able to stand still.

“You don’t know the full story, kid,” Fish shot back. “Whatever anyone told you—”

“You shot her in the head!”

“Roddy, please . . .” Zig pleaded.

“You shot Fechmeier too!” Roddy insisted, spit flying from his lips, blinking over and over, his fuse getting shorter.

“You heard enough?” Fish asked, though he wasn’t talking to them. Curved around his ear was an outdated Bluetooth headset.

“Is that Koch?” Roddy asked. “How stupid can you be to attack us in your own damn building?!”

Fish stayed silent, clearly listening to whatever was being said in his earpiece. A decision being made.

For Zig, the high-pitched hum in his ears was now louder than ever. It wasn’t just the knife in his back. He could feel a shift in the garage’s dusty air, like a hinge between what already happened and what was about to.

Something clenched in Zig’s bowels, his bladder tightening, bringing on an urge to pee. His friend was right—you should never pass up a bathroom—but it made Zig more annoyed than anything else. Was his last thought really some hokey advice about middle age?

“You don’t have to do this,” Zig said, standing straight as he could, trying to relieve the pressure from the knife in his back.

Fish still didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Only a fool would let them leave.

On Zig’s right, Roddy was still yelling about his mother.

Zig’s only option was to turn, try to spin and attack. Sure, it’d put the knife deeper in his back, but at least it’d give Roddy a chance.

“I think we’re done now, yes?” Fish said into his earpiece. His grip tightened on the gun, his finger pressing on the trigger.

Time hiccupped and paused. Zig shifted his weight, about to turn.

He didn’t have a chance.

Fish’s finger was already around the trigger as he—

Blam.

Zig froze. A fine spray of blood hit him in the back of his arm, like someone had flicked water at him. It didn’t make sense . . . the angle was . . .

Zig glanced at Roddy, who stared back at him. Both looked confused, Roddy touching his own stomach to be sure. Neither was hit.

In Zig’s back, the knife shifted. No. It didn’t shift. It was gone.

Behind them, Fish had taken a half step back, staring down at his own hand. He was no longer holding his gun . . . somehow it was on the floor. In Fish’s palm, close to his pinkie, was a charred black hole with thin strips of skin that were burnt around the edges. Fish’s first thought was it reminded him of shredded paper.

He tried making a fist, but his fingers wouldn’t work, his pinkie bent in a way that fingers don’t bend. More than anything, he was aggravated, thinking this was supposed to be easy. It wasn’t until a tiny wave of blood pulsed from the hole that Fish realized . . . he’d been shot.

“Zig! Down! Get down!” a female voice shouted on their far right, from behind one of the garage’s concrete columns. It was Melinda—the sheriff’s daughter—running down the curving ramp, her gun aimed at Fish.

Zig barely heard the words. His head was still ringing, fighting to put it all together, still focusing on . . .

The knife! If Fish still had the knife . . .

Zig spun as fast as he could. It wouldn’t matter.

For Fish, it was pure instinct. His grandfather taught him never to grip a knife like a hammer. Instead, extend your thumb and pointer finger, clutching the top of the blade in a pinch grip. Gives you more control, so when you catch a big one, you strike fast and take the fight out of ’em.

Without a word, Fish thrust his knife like a knight in a joust, sending it straight at . . .

“Mr. Zig!” Roddy shouted.

Roddy, don’t—! Zig thought, unable to get the words out. It was all happening too fast.

Roddy was already moving, colliding into Zig and shoving him out of the way . . .

. . . just as Fish’s knife reached its mark, burying itself deep into Roddy’s chest.

49

As with the worst violence, it happened fast.

The knife was in Roddy’s chest, then it wasn’t.

In a quick, fluid movement, Fish had shoved the knife in, then yanked it out and geared up to stab him again.

Not that Roddy noticed.

“Y-You . . . It was you, wasn’t it? You killed my mother!” Roddy shouted, adrenaline taking over as he barreled forward, straight at Fish, driving his forearm into Fish’s throat like a nightstick.

A burst of air left Fish’s lungs. He was fighting to breathe, both of them tumbling as Fish fell backward. Roddy didn’t let up, still pressing Fish’s throat as Fish’s head hit the concrete with an unnatural thud.

“Get the knife!” Melinda shouted as the impact sent the blade flying from Fish’s hand and skittering across the garage. Zig raced for the knife; Melinda was already heading for Fish’s gun.

“You fucking killed her!” Roddy screamed, scrambling onto Fish’s chest, pressing his knee into Fish’s left biceps and his foot on the right one, pinning Fish in place.

Fish tried to yell something, but he didn’t have a chance. Roddy buried a punch into Fish’s face, sending a burst of saliva whipping sideways. As Fish’s head turned, Roddy didn’t waste a second, punching him again square in his cheek, sending Fish’s opposite cheekbone into the concrete, then winding up and punching again. Roddy knew what he was doing.

In any fight, physics dictates that when you hit someone hard enough, their head will turn, helping the force and impact dissipate. Here, the way Fish’s cheek was pressed to the ground, there was no give.

“You. Took. My. MOTHER!” Roddy exploded, his eyes going dark, pummeling Fish with another punch, then another, Fish’s cheek grinding into the concrete, a tooth cracking, bits of blood quickly covering Roddy’s fist. It wasn’t clear if the blood was from Fish’s face . . . his recently shot hand . . . or maybe from the narrow red line that was seeping through Roddy’s shirt from where Fish had stabbed him.

It didn’t slow Roddy down. Whatever switch had flipped, there was no turning it off. Across the garage, Zig wondered how Roddy was still functioning after being stabbed, but as any emergency room doctor will tell you, knife wounds are an enigma. Sometimes they’ll drop you to your knees; other times they’ll pass clean through without major damage.

Roddy was swinging wildly now, his fist a blur, moving so fast and with such ferocity, a spiderweb of his own drool dangled from his lips, whipping sideways as he landed another vicious punch.

A few feet away, Zig had finally grabbed the nearby knife. He was down on his knees, though he couldn’t help but turn at the unnerving sound of skin and bone grinding into the pavement. He’d seen Roddy enraged before . . . even out of control before . . . but he’d never seen him like this.

“YOU TOOK HER FROM ME!” Roddy roared, pummeling Fish with another punch, then another, Fish’s body now limp, Roddy unleashing yet another violent punch, his eyes swelling with tears, his nose a wet mess of snot.

“Roddy, it’s enough . . .” Zig called out.

If Roddy heard, he didn’t care. Yet as he lurched back and lifted his arm for another punch, his body jerked, like a glitch in his personal matrix. Zig assumed it was shock, or maybe exhaustion . . . until Roddy’s color went pale.

Roddy’s arm was still up in the air, arched back just enough to reveal that, diagonally below his nipple, the thin line of blood that had seeped through his shirt was now a wide amorphous blob. He was bleeding. Badly.

“Roddy, your chest . . . !”

He never heard the words.

Roddy’s arm went limp, then his neck and body, everything sagging sideways as he rag-dolled to the floor.

“RODDY!” Zig shouted, already running. If Fish’s knife hit a major organ . . .

Sliding on his knees, Zig nearly crashed into Roddy’s lifeless body. Flipping him on his back, he checked for a pulse. He looked clammy and sweaty, his face pale. Not a good sign.

“Is he breathing?” Melinda asked, racing toward them.

Zig nodded, though Roddy’s pulse was thready. Blood pressure far too low. If the knife nicked his lungs . . .

Zig tore open Roddy’s shirt, sending multiple buttons arcing through the air. Zig needed a better look at the wound.

It was a swollen red lump, lower and farther on the side of Roddy’s chest wall than Zig first thought. Closer to his lungs, which was bad. His color was fading—his face already gray. Zig knew what that meant. From the outside, it didn’t look like he lost much blood, but internally . . .

“Melinda, where are you?!” Zig shouted, looking over his shoulder.

“He’s out,” she called, looking at Fish, making sure he was still unconscious and dialing 911.

“I need you here!” Zig called. Pressing his palms to Roddy’s wound, Zig motioned with his chin to something behind Melinda . . . to the garage pillar outside the elevator, or rather, to the fire extinguisher hanging in a metal and glass case.

“Just get it! I need it!”

Stuffing Fish’s gun in her pants, Melinda rushed toward the fire extinguisher, wedged her fingers behind the Pull Here lever, and tore the door open.

“Pop out the glass—I need that too!” Zig added.

Confused, Melinda pressed her palm against the glass—it was plastic, actually—popping it out, revealing a sharp, rectangular sheet that looked like the front of a toaster oven.

“Hurry . . . hold it here . . . !” Zig told her, grabbing the plastic and guiding it into place. He pressed the plastic sheet flat onto Roddy’s wound, then put the fire extinguisher on top, pressing even harder to keep it in place. It was a trick he’d learned during Iraq and Afghanistan, when medics needed an extra hand and would use everything from books to the popped-out windows of Humvees so that untrained soldiers could help provide the solid, even pressure that works best to stop internal bleeding.

“Just like that . . . nice and tight . . . Take deep breaths yourself. I can’t have you pass out too.”

“I’m not passing out,” Melinda told him, her narrow green eyes locking on Zig, hitting him with a look that . . . He sat up straight.

When most people enter a funeral, they say they’re fine, but they’re not. It was the same in any crisis. Some start sweating, others regress, making jokes or getting fidgety. Melinda didn’t budge, holding tight to the fire extinguisher, pressing it down like it was the flag at Iwo Jima. “Zig . . .” she said, using his name like a full sentence. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve got it. We’re good,” she insisted.

He believed her.

As she held the extinguisher on the wound, Zig lowered his ear to Roddy’s chest. From what he could hear . . . Equal breaths on both sides. Good sign. That ruled out a punctured lung, which meant if he was lucky . . .

“Don’t let go. Just like that,” Zig said, crawling around her toward Roddy’s feet.

“What’re you doing?”

“Testing a theory,” Zig told her. Still on his knees, he grabbed Roddy’s ankles and lifted them up in the air, over Zig’s shoulders. Slowly, gently, Zig carefully started to stand. Once you rule out blood loss, passing out is usually a result of a sudden drop in blood pressure. Lift your legs—or have someone lift them for you—and gravity does the rest, sending blood volume back to your kidneys, lungs, and eventually your brai—

“F-Fuuh,” Roddy sputtered, his eyes opening, blinking over and over.

“You get a trophy for that—and not one of those plastic ones from the strip mall,” Melinda told Zig.

Zig barely heard the compliment, focused on the siren in the distance. Roddy was breathing, but he still got stabbed. The ambulance didn’t sound far.

“Don’t let up—hold it in place,” Zig called to Melinda, motioning to the fire extinguisher.

There was a noise, a low grumble.

“Buuuhmah . . .”

It was Roddy, his hand shaking as he tugged the front of Melinda’s shirt, pulling her close.

“Get off . . . !” she started to yell, though quickly realized he was trying to tell her something.

His eyes were wide, dancing back and forth, his face a clammy mess as he muttered it again.

“Buuuhmah . . .”

She leaned in closer, her ear nearly at his lips.

“What’s he saying?” Zig asked as the ambulance got louder.

Roddy mumbled something she couldn’t understand, but the way he was motioning, pointing over their shoulders . . .

Behind you.

Zig’s throat went dry, his bones feeling like they’d been hollowed out. They were so busy dealing with Roddy, they forgot about—

Zig and Melinda turned. The garage was empty. Fish was gone.

Before either could react, on their right, there was a metallic thunk and a hum—the elevator doors sliding open. Someone new arriving.

Zig grabbed the knife as a man in tan slacks and a pristine sheriff’s hat stormed out of the elevator.

“Hands! High! Now!” Sheriff Bix shouted, his phone in one hand and his pistol aimed at— “Mindy, are you outta your f— I told you not to follow them!”

“Not now, Dad. We need an ambulance!” Melinda shouted, still holding the extinguisher on Roddy’s chest.

The sheriff looked down at Roddy, then back to his daughter, like he couldn’t quite believe she was there. He’s who she called. Not that it helped.

Fish was still out there.

50

It was the smell. No, it was more than a smell . . . it was a stench—a bitter mix of foul eggs, fish, and swamp. Yet as Ivy took a quick scan of Room 206 in the Carousel Motel, she knew what it really was . . . stale blood and human flesh, tinged with bleach, vinegar, and whatever other cleaning products were currently failing to mask it.

The reek . . . the stink of death . . . permeated everything, like she could smell it through the pores of her skin and her eyes.

Ivy covered her nose with her shirt, like her gardening guru Putt Putt used to do in the raw summer sun, all of it taking her back to Garden #4, to its smells . . . of basil and lemon balm . . . and how much calm you can find in a deep breath full of mint leaves. None of it helped here.

She scanned the room, but it was surprisingly empty. No beds, no furniture. They’d pulled everything out, presumably to start cleaning. All that remained were two triangular pine headboards bolted to the wall, and on her left, a dark olive and neon pink 1970s abstract painting that Ivy thought wasn’t terrible, at least for motel art.

Of course, her real focus was the two mottled and brown amorphous blobs—a wide one down on the floor, plus a smaller one up on the ceiling, curved like a crescent moon. Blood . . . that’s his blood . . .

Oh, Fetchy. Her stomach started to slip . . . the room wobbled . . . This was . . . it was worse than she thought, especially as she continued to stare at the spatter on the ceiling . . . the bits of . . . brain . . . bone . . . whatever it was . . . the crescent shape, to see it this close . . .

She tried turning away, glancing down at the floor, but the carpet . . . Up on the ceiling, the spatter was crisp and defined, but down here . . . the stain was bigger and damp, a muddy brown jumble of soapsuds, dirt, and dried blood from where the cleaning woman had been scrubbing and scouring . . . all of it mixed together, forming an island, a faded auburn smudge.

In the end, that’s what sliced Ivy’s stomach to ribbons. Earlier today, the press had picked up the story, confirming that it was here at the Carousel where Fetch had been murdered. One report speculated he’d been shot and also stabbed.

But to be here in person, to see it up close . . . She didn’t have the words for it just yet, but she could feel it, like a brand-new reality had unfurled, a brutal one. Standing in this awful room, whatever else Fetch had done in his life—some good and some certainly bad—he was now simply a . . . a . . . He was a stain . . . a smear to be scrubbed away.

Later, Ivy would again wonder if this was the moment where she should’ve cried. It was the perfect place, the perfect time—but it still didn’t come, and at her core, she didn’t want it to come. Instead, as she stared down at the muddy blemish across the carpet, she let the thunder rise in her chest, let it swell and build.

For days now, deep down, she knew that when it came to Fetch’s death, what really killed him . . . it wasn’t just that he left Heavenly Meadows. It was that he came back here, to this place . . . to this fucking town.

She’d tried talking him out of it, but once he got the diagnosis, everything they’d worked for, all the precautions they took . . . nothing else mattered.

It was the same years ago, when they first went on the run, during those early days at Heavenly Meadows. Back then, Fetch called it the do-over of life . . . their second chance, like it was all a fun game. God, they were naïve in those days, Fetch especially, who was always the smartest, and certainly the kindest, in The Breakfast Club.

Even in high school, whenever he had money in his pocket, as the cashiers at Danza’s rang up his groceries, he’d ask them which chewing gum was the best. Whatever they recommended, he’d buy it and give it to them as a gift, just to see their smiles.

After that night at the drive-in . . . after what happened at Koch’s . . . Fetch never got to do his little magic trick again. The saddest part was, she didn’t think he wanted to. Heavenly Meadows was a choice they made, but it was also a loss, a clear defeat. Fetch would put on a brave face, especially in those first weeks. Determined to embrace their new outdoor life, he even carved his own walking stick.

Carve away, don’t carve toward yourself, they’d warned him. But did he listen? Two minutes later, Fetch was running for the medic after slicing his thumb to the bone.

It was his first lesson there and the one he’d never learn. The greatest wounds are always self-inflicted.

Taking one last glance at the stain in the carpet, Ivy knew what came next. She could blame Fetch, she could blame the town, and of course, she was always a pro at blaming herself. But after all these years, it was time to admit the truth. She didn’t travel all this way for Fetch, or at least just for Fetch. She came for herself—and to face the actual source—the person she’d been hiding from, who all those years ago caused them all so much pain.

It was a basic reaction. If you’re morally bankrupt, eventually, there should be a price to pay. Consequences should be unavoidable. But look around . . . all these years . . . God was she sick of people getting away with shit.

To be honest, she thought she’d be more . . . Was scared the right word? At least hesitant or even intimidated. Yet as Ivy left the room and stepped outside, squinting at the arrival of the afternoon sun, she could feel the end coming, and her only regret was that she hadn’t done this years ago.

Indeed, as she circled down the stairs, slid into her car, and hit the gas, she had one thing going for her.

The element of surprise.

51

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not. Does he look fine?” Zig challenged.

“Mr. Zig, stop. I’m good, I’m great,” Roddy insisted, sitting up in his hospital bed, his color pale. He was trying to play cool, but he couldn’t stop scratching at his nasal cannula as well as the blood pressure cuff and the double IVs the trauma folks put in his arms.

“Tell me what else you remember—did he have an accent? Birthmarks? Unusual teeth? You know this dance,” Sheriff Bix asked, scribbling in his notepad, following Roddy’s eyes to the Weather Channel on the overhead TV. “This is what you watch? Weather reports?”

“It settles my brain,” Roddy said, fiddling again with the cannula, not looking very settled. “I want to be there when you bring Koch in.”

“For the record—and as the only opinion that matters right now—you are not leaving this room, Mr. LaPointe, since you most certainly are not fine,” said Dr. Emily Ling, a fifty-four-year-old Asian woman with spiderwebs of gray hair and a girlish face. She wore a bunch of decorative silver rings that clinked every time she made a fist, which recently, had been a lot. Clink clink.

“You said my chest X-ray was clear.”

“Your X-ray was clear—and thanks to my sutures, you’re no longer bleeding, but until your CT scan comes back, we have no idea what’s going on internally. You’re staying right here.” Turning to the sheriff, she added, “We understand each other, Arnie?”

Sheriff Bix made a face, and Dr. Ling lowered her chin, hitting him with a look that made him take his own glance at the Weather Channel.

“I’ll see you Friday night?” the sheriff asked, referring to the local high school football game.

Dr. Ling rolled her eyes. She’d been the official team doctor since her own boys were little. “Football is life,” she called back. Heading for the door, she eyed Zig, who was sitting in the lone chair under the TV. “What about you, Mr. Zigarowski? How’s that wound in your back?”

“Two stitches. They gave me a Band-Aid,” Zig told her.

“They still got those Dora the Explorer ones?”

Zig shook his head. “It’s all Paw Patrol now.”

“Yeah, well . . . I prefer Dora. That bilingual girl gets the gold medal in kickassery,” Dr. Ling said, stepping out into the hallway humming the Dora theme.

It’d been nearly four hours since the ambulance rolled Roddy into the emergency room at Olgalia Community Hospital, but only a few minutes since they let Zig, Melinda, and the sheriff in to see him.

“Sheriff, you didn’t answer my question about Koch. Have you told him you’re coming to speak to him?” Roddy asked.

“I already spoke to him,” the sheriff said, glancing out the wide window where the sun was starting to fall from the sky.

“Wait— You didn’t arrest him?”

“With what evidence?”

“How about that knife his squatty little attacker put in me?!”

Lifting his hat, the sheriff scratched at his gray crew cut, then lowered his hat back into place, a move that Roddy quickly realized was his way of delivering bad news. “Roddy, you keep saying he’s connected to Koch—”

“Of course he’s connected to Koch!” Roddy shot back.

“Where’s the proof? You don’t even have a description of this guy besides that he’s short and left-handed.”

“He had a crooked nose and deep blue eyes,” Melinda jumped in.

“What about video cameras?” Roddy asked. “Koch had security everywhere.”

“Except, apparently, in the garage. They said their camera was off . . . or blocked by one of the pillars.”

“What about outdoor cameras? Or just run prints from his knife and gun. We got both of those!”

“Plus the blood from Roddy nearly taking off his head. That’s DNA,” Melinda added.

“We actually got a match on prints. Traced them back to a man named Philip Boyd, also known as Fish, whatever the hell that means. Was an EMT decades ago but lost his license after getting locked up for attacking a coworker with a box cutter. The trick is, according to Social Security, he died six years ago.”

“Didn’t Koch’s predecessor also die six years ago? Mr. Cello?” Zig asked.

“That’s your new theory? That Cello’s alive too?” Melinda asked.

“I have no idea. But Cello died six years ago, and now Fish supposedly did too—though he’s clearly not dead.”

“Roddy, can one of your counterterrorism pals put Cello and Fish into their database?” the sheriff asked. “Whoever Fish is, he’s no dope. I’m guessing a hired gun for sure.”

“I’ll ask, but I don’t think he was hired by Cello. Look whose building we were in—look at the attack. Koch brought Fish in to kill my mother,” Roddy insisted.

“Fish also mentioned a her, a woman who knew Fechmeier,” Zig pointed out.

Roddy nodded. “You think that was—?”

“Ivy Munn. Had to be,” Melinda said, checking with her dad.

The sheriff agreed, readjusting his hat, lifting it half an inch and putting it back in place, clearly unnerved. It’s one thing to theorize that the members of The Breakfast Club were slowly being picked off—P.K. . . . then Daniella . . . now Fechmeier—but if the next target was Ivy, that meant only one member was left . . . The sheriff shot a look at his daughter. “Mindy—”

“Don’t. I’m fine,” Melinda shot back. Turning to Zig, she added, “Fish also mentioned that place—Heavenly Meadows.”

“When he said it, I thought it was an old-age home,” Zig said. “Maybe that’s where they were hiding.”

“We need a deeper dive on Fish’s prints,” Roddy agreed, reaching for his phone. “I’m on it. He may’ve changed his name, but mark my words, he’s got a history with Koch.”

“We’re pulling his file now to work up the DNA and the rest, but we’d love the help,” the sheriff agreed. “Thankfully, the hardware store and some of the businesses on the block have their own security cameras, so if Fish came in a car and we can get a read on his plates, that might shed some light. But without a way to tie Fish directly to Koch—”

“I was stabbed inside his fucking building!” Roddy exploded, huffing so hard, it fogged his nasal cannula. “The only reason we were in that garage is he put us there.”

“He put you there or some assistant accidentally pushed the wrong button? Or to put it a way a judge will understand: How many landlords in this country have crimes going on in their buildings right now? It doesn’t mean I can lock them all up. Think whatever you want about Koch, we have no proof he’s the one who brought in Fish.”

“C’mon, Dad . . .” Melinda scolded. “You know it was Koch.”

“It probably was,” the sheriff agreed. “But last I checked, gut instincts don’t count as evidence when you’re—”

“Koch said you leaked the story,” Roddy interrupted. “That on that night of the break-in at Koch’s house, you were the first deputy on scene.”

“I was the only deputy. I told you that last night.”

“Then why didn’t you mention you were sleeping with the reporter who broke the story?”

“Claire Wasserman? Are you outta your f—?! I never slept with Claire!”

“You didn’t leak her the story?” Roddy challenged.

“Have you even read The Current? This isn’t Watergate—there’s a column for what new library books arrive each week. That break-in was all anyone was talking about, so when she told me Koch was full of shit and that she wanted to do an exposé on him . . .” He took a breath. “Call Claire right now, she’ll tell you. It blew up in her face, of course. Koch’s lawyers sent a threat letter to The Current, along with the first page of a lawsuit. Add that to Orange Corp. being their biggest advertiser and . . .” He shook his head. “Claire was fired three months later. Did Koch mention that, or was he too busy distracting you with nonsense accusations about me so you’d stop asking him the hard questions about what the hell is really going on?”

Roddy didn’t answer.

“Look, I’m sorry you got stabbed, but you know better than anyone, the evidence here—”

He didn’t have to say it. Roddy was a fellow cop—he knew what it took to put together a case like this, especially against someone like Koch.

“We still need to know what The Breakfast Club stole that night,” Roddy insisted.

“Agreed. And the best way to do that is to find everything we can about Fish. Zig, you mentioned a friend in the FBI . . . Maybe she can run Fish’s name and prints as well? We’ll get there,” the sheriff added, putting a hand on Roddy’s shoulder.

For half a second, Roddy froze at the sheriff’s touch—barely a flinch, a tiny dip of the shoulder—then quickly relaxed, nodding like all was well. The sheriff and Melinda didn’t even notice. But Zig did.

The whole interaction took barely a picosecond—and had nothing to do with the sheriff. Indeed, what struck Zig was it was one of the few times Roddy looked just like Nola.

Zig couldn’t help but replay that moment years ago, back in Girl Scouts, when the can of orange soda exploded, sending metal shards into Nola’s ear, blood rushing between her fingers as she tried to hold it all in place. “Get her help . . . get her to the hospital . . . !” Zig’s daughter was screaming as Zig scooped up Nola and started to run.

In the emergency room, as the doctor got ready to stitch up Nola, Zig reached out to hold her hand. She pulled away—dipping her shoulder slightly—the same as Roddy and the sheriff here, the past and present colliding. Zig felt a rush of sadness that a simple flinch brought such a resemblance. That wasn’t something Roddy and Nola were born with. That’s something earned.

You okay? Zig asked with a glance.

Roddy again scratched at his nasal cannula, his knuckles cut and bruised, staring straight through Zig like he was studying something only he could see. Whatever was going on, he was plotting t—

We got a problem, Waggs texted as Zig’s phone lit up in his hand. And by WE I mean YOU.

Need a minute, Zig texted back.

No. Now. Go to your car.

Zig added an exclamation point emoji to his first reply. Need a minute!

There was a pause and then . . .

1822, Waggs texted back, an unsubtle code that made Zig’s mouth go dry. Double 911. Last time they texted that, paramedics were zipping Zig’s daughter into a body bag.

Tell me, Zig wrote back, shooting out of his seat.

Go to your car. Now, Waggs replied. I found out about Heavenly Meadows.

52

Dover, Delaware

“Colonel Gupta, can I—?”

“Nope,” the Colonel shot back.

“But, ma’am, it’s—”

“Nope,” Gupta repeated, still locked on her computer screen as she pointed her assistant to the door, her universal sign for Get the hell out of my office, I’m busy.

That should’ve been clear. The Colonel was on a Zoom with Chaplain Steve Wells, discussing the upcoming dignified transfer for three fallen soldiers killed by a drone strike in Jordan.

“We’re sorry to interrupt,” a male voice blurted.

“Ma’am, I tried stopping them,” Olivia pleaded as two men in dark suits—a taller one with ruddy features, a shorter one with blond eyelashes—stepped around her, entering the office.

“Colonel Gupta, we need to speak with you,” Blond Eyelashes insisted, flashing a badge.

Gupta turned from her screen, her dark eyes narrowing. “That’s not how we do things here. Olivia, call the MPs. I want these two escorted out of here by their—”

“We’re looking for Jim Zigarowski,” Blond Eyelashes said.

Gupta paused. “Don’t bother my people. Go make an official request,” she challenged.

The taller agent pulled out a sheet of paper—a search warrant—and placed it on the Colonel’s desk.

Gupta leaned forward on her elbows, skimming the document. Her cheekbones shifted, her jaw tightening. “Olivia, any idea where Mr. Zigarowski is?”

“H-He should be in his office,” Olivia replied, knowing that tone.

“Wonderful,” Blond Eyelashes said. “Can you show us where that is?”

53

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“Where you going, Mr. Zig?”

“Nowhere . . . just— To the bathroom,” Zig replied.

“You can use mine,” Roddy said, pointing to the open door in the corner.

Sheriff Bix and Melinda glanced at Zig, who turned toward the bathroom. “I appreciate it, Roddy, but that’s your—”

“I can tell you’re trying to leave me, Mr. Zig.”

Zig stopped at the crack in Roddy’s voice.

Sitting in bed, propped up and dwarfed by the hospital’s oversized pillows, Roddy didn’t look like a cop anymore. He was drained, like a child trying to make sense of the world by figuring out who killed his mother. But now, as his eyes anxiously flicked back and forth . . . he also looked like a kid who didn’t want to be alone.

“Roddy, I’m not going anywhere. I swear to you. I’ll be right back.”

“I need a coffee or a Snickers—I’ll go with you,” Melinda interrupted, following Zig to the door. It was just enough of an excuse to keep Roddy from arguing.

Out in the hallway, though, Melinda just stood there, not even trying to follow Zig.

“You’re not getting Snickers, are you?” Zig asked.

“I saw your reaction. On your phone. You got news,” Melinda said, motioning for him to go. “If it’s about Daniella, we need all the help we can get. Go do what you need to.”

Zig shot her an appreciative nod, but as he turned to leave, he caught himself. “By the way, I should’ve said it earlier, but what you did in the garage, if you didn’t come when you did . . .”

“Objection. The plaintiff’s getting mushy.”

“Wow, right back to lawyering. I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t cross-ex.”

“Have you met my father? I’m genetically engineered for cross-ex. Like Predator, but with a legal pad instead of that triple-laser gun.”

“I appreciate and share your love of Predator—and you can downplay all you want—but if you didn’t rush in, that guy Fish would’ve—”

“You’re welcome. Happy now?” she asked, readjusting her ponytail, her sleeves lifting just enough that Zig spotted the edge of a small tattoo in script on her forearm: Nicholas, her son.

“Oh, and just to double back to Fish,” Melinda added, “you would’ve done the same. Roddy too, though he would’ve done it with that weird stare of his.”

Zig laughed at that, a real laugh, reminding him of how long it’d been. “Can I just ask one question. How’d you know Fish would be in the building?”

A new look took Melinda’s face, a playful one, her green eyes narrowing.

“You weren’t watching Fish, were you? You watched us,” Zig said. “Were we really that predictable?”

“Do you want an answer that maintains your masculinity or the actual truth?”

“Why not both?” Lowering his voice, he added, “Though I didn’t realize the two were so brutally at odds.”

“Huh. You’re funnier than I first thought.”

“I think I appreciate that?” Zig said, determined to get to Waggs but noticing the white enamel and pearl locket around Melinda’s neck. He’d seen similar ones before—memorial jewelry, started in the Victorian era—to mark the loss of a child, but really to remind the mourner to live life to the fullest.

“If it makes you feel better, Zig, last night, Roddy was absurdly insistent about confronting Koch. So this morning, we just watched the building. My dad didn’t want me tagging along, but it’s not like Arrow Rock has its own SWAT team. Deputy Luke had his nephew’s christening this morning, so Dad needed the extra set of eyes. He took the front; I took the back, watching the garage. When I saw Fish sneaking around, I came running.”

“They got Dr Pepper anywhere in this place?” a voice asked behind them.

They both turned as Sheriff Bix joined them in the hallway. “This a meeting I should be a part of?” he added.

“Zig got a text about the case. Didn’t want Roddy to hear . . . though now that I think about it, probably didn’t want us to hear either.”

“Then what the hell you waiting for? Go . . .” the sheriff said, motioning Zig up the hallway.

“Just keep an eye on Roddy?” Zig called back, starting to run toward the elevators. “The candy machine by the bathrooms has Pop-Tarts. You give Roddy those and you’ll have a friend for life. Chocolate or cinnamon—not those inferior fruit ones!”

“Roddy’s lucky to have you!” Melinda shouted.

The earnestness caught Zig off guard and as he reached the elevators, he threw up a peace sign, quickly kicking himself and wondering if peace signs were still considered cool—of course they weren’t cool!

You at your car yet? Waggs texted, his phone vibrating in his hand.

Two minutes, he replied, hitting the elevator call button and nodding at the nurses behind the welcome desk, all of it reminding him that he hadn’t checked in on . . .

Jules, any word from the doctors? he texted his mother-in-law.

Three gray dots hovered on his phone screen.

They said I have the ass of a fifty-year-old, she texted back as the elevator doors opened.

Stepping inside, he pushed the button for the lobby. Seriously, Jules. What’d the doctors say?

Another three gray dots and then . . .

New scan this morning. Results soon. C looking for flights.

C was Charmaine, his ex-wife—though no mention of Warren. Still, if she was flying back from Portugal, this wasn’t good.

Another three dots.

Your friend Roddy stab you in the back yet? Jules asked.

Love you, Jules, he typed, feeling the soreness from where Fish’s knife had drawn blood.

Love you more, she replied, which is what she used to write to Maggie, to Charmaine, to all of them.

Zig was starting to type something else as his phone began ringing. Waggs. No surprise.

“I’m fifty feet away,” Zig insisted as the doors opened, and he darted out into the lobby.

“How big is this damn hospital?”

“I’m in the parking lot,” he said, whizzing through the automatic doors and past the valet.

“You’re not, and I know you’re not.”

“Wait . . .” He glanced around, eyeing the upper levels of the three-story parking garage that was dead ahead across the street. It was just starting to get dark, but— “Can you see me?”

“Did you just suddenly become elderly, or are you really that much of a sucker?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t the FBI have super-tech?”

“We don’t even have two-ply toilet paper. Oh, and not to be paranoid, but you make sure Roddy’s not following?”

“Mindy’s got an eye on him,” Zig reassured her, halfway across the street.

“Mindy?”

“Melinda. The sheriff’s—”

“I know who she is . . . but if you’re calling her Mindy— Ziggy, do not fall for this woman.”

“Are you outta your—?”

“I’m not out of anything. I know what a big heart you have, especially with people who do something nice for you, like save your life. But haven’t you ever seen . . . In every TV movie, Ziggy, the bad guy is always the love interest.”

“Can you please stop for once? You’re being absurd,” he insisted as he entered the garage, glancing around and speedwalking toward his blue Mustang. Thankfully, except for a lone pigeon squatting at the top of a concrete pillar, nearly every nearby parking spot was empty.

“Tell me when you’re in the car,” Waggs said as he opened the door and slid inside.

“He’s here,” a female voice announced from the backseat.

“What in the—?!”

Zig spun around, aggravating his stab wound. In the backseat was a young woman with punishing black eyes, a pointy nose, and silvery hair with a dyed black streak. He hadn’t seen her in months.

“Nola?”

“Ziggy, relax,” Waggs said through the phone.

“You broke into my car?” Zig challenged, still focused on Nola.

“Nola, stop doing the brooding thing and tell him what you found,” Waggs insisted. “He needs to hear the truth about Heavenly Meadows.”

54

Keenley, Pennsylvania

Fifteen years ago

This was Nola when she was thirteen.

“Name?” the security guard asked.

“Royall Barker,” he replied proudly.

The guard—a young twentysomething with olive skin and a scraggly beard that ran up to the apples of his cheeks—rolled his eyes. “I meant, who’re you here to see?”

“Ah, yeah, sorry. Ulrich. Mr. Merle Ulrich,” Royall clarified as Nola stared at him from the passenger seat. She couldn’t remember the last time he apologized to anyone. Or bought wine and a fancy fruitcake, which was sitting on the seat between them.

“Driver’s license,” the guard added, extending an open hand.

Quickly handing over his license, Royall shot a grin at Nola, trying to make it look like he knew what he was doing.

Neither of them did. It was Nola’s first time in a gated community, and from what she could tell, Royall’s too. It was hard not to be impressed.

“Afternoon, sir. This is Andrew at the front gate—I have a Mr. Barker . . .” the guard said into his phone, reading Royall’s name from the license. The only time Nola heard anyone call him Mr. Barker was when those cops had come to the house asking Royall if he was there the night Rick Apseloff’s dad got jumped outside the bar. “Yes, sir. Terrific. I’ll let him know.” Hanging up the phone, the guard handed back Royall’s driver’s license, holding it with both hands, like a tiny silver platter. “Mr. Ulrich said to please pull all the way in the driveway, not on the street. We don’t park on the street in Misty Lake.”

It was a detail that made no sense to Nola, but as the red-and-white mechanical arm lifted into the air and she got her first good look at the perfectly coifed lawn and the wide man-made body of water that the Misty Lake community was centered around, Nola felt quite strongly that she and Royall were have-nots . . . while Mr. Ulrich was a have.

She wasn’t wrong. As they turned down streets with names like Sunflower Avenue and Honeycomb Lane, every house in Misty Lake was two stories tall with an attached two- or three-car garage.

“Not bad, eh?” Royall asked, though it felt like he was talking more to himself than to her. “5134. Here we go,” he eventually added, reading the address and pulling up to one of the biggest homes, a beige stucco monolith with two giant white pillars flanking the arched entryway.

“That’s real stucco too, not the synthetic stuff,” Royall said, even though he had no idea how to spot the difference.

Grabbing the fruitcake and hopping out of the car, Royall was humming the theme to The Jeffersons, though Nola barely noticed. She was too busy staring at the main entryway, where, along the left-hand wall, a steady stream of water ran down a slab of white marble. Along the top, one of the nozzles was broken, leaving a tiny gap in the stream, but even so . . . to have your own waterfall—

“Focus, dumbass,” Royall whisper-hissed, shoving the fruitcake into her hands. To his credit, he looked nice—even put on a tie and one of those tie clips that people wear on TV shows, but Nola could see the sweat behind Royall’s eyebrows, now gathering in the bags of his eyes. Just as he went to ring the bell, the door swung open, revealing . . .

“Mr. Ulrich!” Royall sang.

“Come in . . . come in,” sang a plump man in a white linen shirt, his dark eyes locked on Nola and her Girl Scout uniform.

Nola stood up straight and forced a smile, just like they’d practiced.

Bowing like a magician, Royall motioned her inside, but as she passed, the two of them locked eyes, Royall sending her a final, unmistakable message.

Don’t fuck it up.

55

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

“What happened to your wrist?” Zig asked.

Nola didn’t answer, already glancing around the dark garage. She’d clearly made a mistake coming here.

“Those from handcuffs?” Zig added, sounding genuinely concerned, his body doing that thing it always did, curving toward you, like someone in love.

Most people thought of Zig as a nice guy, but Nola knew his true expertise wasn’t kindness. It was pain. Over time, as Nola was slowly starting to realize, when you spend enough time with death, it becomes familiar. You get good at it—and even worse, as with any expertise, you start to enjoy it.

She could see it in his face. Amid the shock and concern, the moment he spotted her, his cheeks started to lift and there it was, same as always . . .

A nervous grin.

“It’s good to see you,” he blurted.

Nola didn’t reply, noticing a nearby pigeon plucking its own feathers at the top of the closest pillar. Nesting for sure, Nola decided, turning her attention back to Zig and the interior of the blue Mustang. Last year, he told her he’d bought the car from a client whose husband had passed away. Yet according to Waggs, Zig didn’t like the car—it was dinged up and the inside smelled like cat piss. But when the widow couldn’t afford even the cheapest casket, much less the funeral, she asked Zig if she could pay him with the car since she didn’t need it anymore. Naturally, Zig refused, doing the funeral for free. The next day, the car keys were on his doormat with a note: “Fair trade.”

Today, sitting in the backseat, Nola eyed the front dash, where a tiny air freshener with an image of a llama wearing sunglasses was clipped to the front vent. Next to it, a small broken analog clock was frozen at 9:37. In the center console, the cupholders were stuffed with a mess of napkins, a metal water bottle, and random receipts.

Yet here in the back, the car was pristine, like it’d never been touched. New floor mats without even a scuff. Leather seats that didn’t have a crease; plus windows, door locks, even the metal tongues on the seat belts didn’t have a fingerprint on them. Zig lived in this car, but he lived here alone.

From the backseat, the only things out of place were faint indentations on the back of the driver’s headrest—tiny crescent moons from someone’s fingernails—pressed into the leather, like someone had reached back in a moment of rage, fear, or panic. There were dozens of them, clumped together in little islands, making Nola wonder if they were from Zig or the previous owner.

“Want to tell me who put handcuffs on you?” Zig said, shifting in his seat, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable.

“What’s wrong with your back?” Nola asked.

He shifted again. She was reading it right. “I’m fine. Just a nick,” he said.

“From a knife,” Nola said. It wasn’t a question.

“Your brother got the worst of it.”

“Nola, tell him what you told me about the motel room,” Waggs insisted over speakerphone.

“It’s just a theory. I haven’t seen the body—”

“Fine. It’s a theory. Tell him.”

Nola made a noise, like a grunt, scowling at the phone. “Based on the blood spatter, Fechmeier wasn’t just shot—he was stabbed too. Knife and gun. Weapon redundancy, but same MO. Meaning the guy who ambushed you and Roddy is the same guy who killed Fechmeier.”

Zig nodded, looking unsurprised. “The sheriff ran his prints. Said his name was Philip Boyd, aka Fish. That name ring a bell?”

Nola shook her head.

“Waggs, can you—?”

“Running it now,” she announced. “Anything else stand out about him?”

“He was short.”

“Like a dwarf?” Nola asked.

“Not a dwarf. Just . . . short. Five-four. Injured too. Melinda shot him in the hand.”

“Can we tie him to Koch?” Waggs asked.

“You’re joking, right? For Fish to be in that garage at the same moment we were? It had to be coordinated by Koch.” It didn’t take long for Zig to relay the rest, including the details of the break-in years ago at Koch’s home and how the first two members of The Breakfast Club were killed soon after. “Whatever they stole from Koch that night, Koch is still looking for it. And if I’m right, I think he killed your mother for it,” Zig said, his eyes never leaving Nola. “I assume you’re here about her?”

“I don’t want anything to do with her. Or my brother,” Nola insisted.

“Then why’re you—?” Zig cut himself off as the realization hit.

For a moment, Nola glanced outside, again spotting the pigeon, then continuing to scan the garage, bracing for Zig to make some sappy, oversentimental comment, or even worse, to get nostalgic. To her surprise, he nodded a simple thank you.

“From the awkward silence, I can tell that both of your abilities to access complex feelings are still failing,” Waggs said, jumping in. “So I’m going to start talking about Heavenly Meadows, and when the oxygen hits your brain—”

“That’s the place . . . I told you Fish mentioned it, yes?” Zig asked. “We googled it. It came up as a cult.”

“It looks like a cult. And if you go there and peek around, as Nola did, it certainly acts like a cult. Even the founder, Richard P. Flowers, has the shaggy hair and beard like his Halloween costume is Charles Manson.”

“I’m sensing a but in this sentence.”

“But . . .” Waggs continued, “when you dig deeper, Richard P. Flowers doesn’t exist.”

“So, another guy who’s supposedly dead? They said the same about Fish—and maybe this guy Cello,” Zig explained, taking his own scan of the garage. It was getting darker by the minute, but he noticed the pigeon too, studying the thick nest, Nola suddenly remembering that when pigeons feel safe, they’ll build new nests on top of their old ones, finding new life in the same old space. For Nola, it was an impossible idea.

Zig looked older than Nola remembered—the bags under his eyes more pronounced, his skin a bit more papery. And as always, there were a few overgrown hairs on his eyebrows and ears. No one to pluck them for, or to do it for him. But there was something else she couldn’t quite place, or maybe was just starting to, something shifting beneath his skin like broken glass, a crook in her understanding of him.

Sometimes he was so infuriating, but even now, after all he’d been through . . . after all the running and snooping around, being held at gunpoint and sliced by a knife . . . after all he’d lost and would never get back . . . Jim Zigarowski was still in the fight.

“This is different than Fish,” Waggs explained. “Fish is a real person, but Richard P. Flowers . . . the employees in his cult . . . even the holding company, Haruspex, LLC—”

“It’s all a shell,” Nola said.

“A well-built one,” Waggs clarified. “Whoever put it together, it’s a masterwork of paperwork and corporate filings.”

“So someone who can afford expensive lawyers?” Zig asked.

“This is beyond pro level. This is gold medal. Like the guy who put the handcuffs on you, Nola.”

“Eric Kripke. Said he was FBI, but—”

“Let me guess,” Zig interrupted, “when you looked him up, Eric Kripke doesn’t exist, or died six years ago, or was a figment of everyone’s imagina—”

Nola tossed something from the backseat. In a blur, it smacked into Zig’s shoulder, then tumbled onto the car’s center console. It was square . . . black leather.

“Please don’t tell me you killed this guy Kripke.”

“She stole his wallet. His real name is Arturo Romano,” Waggs said as Zig flipped the wallet open, revealing a metal badge with a familiar five-pointed star circled by the words United States Marshal.

“Wait . . . so instead of FBI . . . this guy at the cult was actually a Marshal . . . ?”

“Not just a Marshal,” Waggs said. “SOG.”

Zig knew what it meant. Special Operations Group of the U.S. Marshals. Trained like commandos, in charge of the Marshals’ most sensitive missions.

“It wasn’t hard to track him from there,” Waggs explained. “My buddy in judicial protection said that for two decades now, this guy Romano or Kripke or whatever he calls himself . . . his bread and butter has been the one place that specializes in fake names, fake dead people, and especially top-notch, gold-medal, fake paperwork . . .”

“Witness protection,” Zig said, thinking for a moment that he’d found a piece to grip, as if things were finally starting to make sense.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

56

Keenley, Pennsylvania

Fifteen years ago

This was Nola when she was thirteen.

The day she met her match.

“It’s brie.”

“Yeah . . . no . . . I know,” Nola said, telling the worst kind of lie—an obvious one. She’d never heard of brie, much less tasted it, but no way was she giving this girl Lettie a victory like that.

Lettie was Mr. Ulrich’s fourteen-year-old daughter—a grade above Nola, which by middle school calculations was a lifetime. More important, Lettie was also in Girl Scouts. Truthfully, the only reason Royall let Nola join the Scouts was because the den mother would drive her home at least two days a week. But the fact Lettie was also in Scouts? Finally, something Royall could use to his advantage.

It’d started a few weeks back, when one of Royall’s few high-end suppliers, a man known as Sweet & Low, told him he had “something exceptional” in his inventory. Usually, Sweet & Low specialized in bootleg Chanel and Louis Vuitton bags. A few years back, he got Royall a shipping crate full of knockoff Gucci loafers. But the only other time Sweet & Low used the word exceptional was when he sold Royall an authenticated painting by Damien Hirst that Royall flipped for nearly $25,000.

“You got the Mona Lisa this time?” Royall teased.

“Better. I got two dozen of them,” Sweet & Low replied.

He wasn’t joking. A month prior, the Taiwanese entrepreneur who’d first brought fiber-optic cable to Brazil decided that the only thing he refused to split in his divorce were the contents of his legendary wine cellar. A small crew, including Sweet & Low, helped broker one of the biggest sales. As a thank-you, Mr. Wine Cellar gifted them his ex’s favorite: two cases of Maison Leroy 1973, a white burgundy that apparently went for over $24,000 a bottle.

“Is it like eggs? Twelve bottles to a case?” Royall had asked.

“Times two . . .” Sweet & Low said with a grin as Royall did the math. Over half a million dollars.

Sweet & Low offered to partner, but Royall knew this was his chance. After authenticating the bottles at a fancy Philadelphia restaurant with a sommelier who called the lot “pristine,” Royall scrounged around for every dollar he could find, paying up front (with his house and car as collateral) and convincing Sweet & Low to take $200K for all of it.

From there, all Royall needed was the right buyer, like, say, the owner of four of western Pennsylvania’s top Hyundai dealerships: Mr. Merle Ulrich.

Royall had met him a few months back at the local golf club, where Royall had traded a $2,000 generator and a personal blood pressure machine for a weekday-only membership. In the weeks that followed, Royall made small talk with Ulrich, laughing at his jokes, weaseling into his life, and pointing out how much they have in common—I got a Girl Scout at home too—let’s get ’em together!—all of it culminating tonight, with Nola and Lettie preparing snacks and hors d’oeuvres for a dinner Nola would regret for the rest of her life.

“Grab the decanter,” Lettie said.

Nola didn’t move. She had no idea what a decanter was.

“The glass . . . the funky one . . .” Lettie clarified, pointing to the odd-shaped container. “That’s the one, Scoutmaster,” Lettie teased, sounding playful—though Nola was starting to think, from the moment Lettie came downstairs and first eyed Nola’s uniform, there was that hint of amusement on her face.

“Cute,” Lettie had said, looking Nola up and down, brushing aside her long auburn bangs that were perfectly flat-ironed. Dressed in a suede skirt, a lush pink wool sweater that fell off her shoulder, and a rose gold Raymond Weil watch that slid back and forth on her dainty wrist like a bracelet, Lettie looked graceful, the perfect hostess, though Nola had no idea how much work it took to appear this effortless.

“I used to do Scouts—had to drop it for yearbook,” Lettie had told her. Her dad and Royall both grinned at the small talk, but in that moment, Nola wanted to stab Royall for making her wear the uniform. The only thing worse was the split-second glance Lettie gave to Nola’s cheap shoes.

Nola was in middle school—she felt judged on a daily basis, but never with such laser precision. Her whole life, she’d seen pain inflicted with words and fists, but this was the first time she realized how much harm can be done with silence and a well-placed stare. In another life, Nola might’ve looked up to Lettie, but right now, everything out of this girl’s mouth seemed like a trap.

“You wanna open the wine?” Lettie offered, sweeter than ever as the smell of baked chicken wafted through the kitchen.

“Yeah . . . sure . . .” Nola said hesitantly, stepping toward the marble counter, glancing around for a corkscrew. She’d never been in a kitchen like this . . . a house like this . . . the hardwood floors . . . the stainless steel appliances . . . there was art on all the walls. At Royall’s house, the laminate floor was peeling and a plastic bucket sat permanently on top of the refrigerator to catch leaks in the puckering ceiling from the bathroom upstairs. Here, out the wide bay window, was an actual trampoline, plus a swing set nicer than any park.

“You don’t look like your dad,” Lettie blurted, studying Nola’s sharp features.

Nola didn’t answer, still looking around, finally spotting the corkscrew by the sink and fumbling to get it open. A few seconds passed, then a few more as Nola studied the wine bottle and the yellow foil capsule that covered it. The cork’s under there, right?

“He’s not your dad, is he?” Lettie asked, though it didn’t sound like a question.

Nola was still staring at the yellow foil, it quickly dawning on her that, at thirteen years old, she had no idea how to open a bottle of wine . . . or was that the point, another Lettie trap?

“If you need help, just ask. I’m here. Scout’s honor,” Lettie teased, holding up two fingers.

Nola’s grip tightened around the corkscrew, the tip of it poking through her knuckles as she lifted her fist toward—

“Hey, hey, let’s not keep the customers waiting!” Mr. Ulrich sang, scratching at his mustache as he shoved his way through the kitchen’s swinging door. With his freshly starched blue button-down, a gold pinkie ring with his initials, and graying, receding hair that was overgrown and slicked back in a way that Nola would eventually come to realize was a sign of wealth but not taste, Ulrich looked like the guy they bring out at a high-end restaurant when you ask to see the manager—a cut above the rest, like he farted roses. “Oooh, the brie looks outstanding. Appetizers ready?”

“Just helping her open the wine,” Lettie said, scootching next to Nola, grabbing a nearby knife, and slicing through the foil like she’d been carving since birth.

Krrk. No cork. Just a twist-off. This wasn’t the good stuff—Royall had picked it up on their way there.

“Would you like to sniff the bottlecap?” Lettie teased, shoving it toward Nola’s face, her rose gold watch catching the light and practically glistening.

“Lettie. Rude,” Mr. Ulrich scolded, picking up the fruitcake as Lettie grabbed the wine and followed behind him.

Still gripping the corkscrew, Nola wanted to stab it into Lettie’s back, but even she knew better than—

“Don’t forget the brie, dear,” Ulrich called to Nola as she grabbed the plate of cheese.

“Everything okay? You girls getting along?” Royall asked as they arrived in the dining room, hitting Nola with a glare that let her know half a million dollars was at stake.

“Absolutely,” Nola replied, lowering the brie onto the dining room table. Without even thinking about it, she put the corkscrew next to her fork. An arm’s length away.

57

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

“Wait. Rewind. So Heavenly Meadows . . .”

“It’s not a cult,” Waggs repeated through the speakerphone.

“I got that part,” Zig said. “But for it to be connected with witness protection . . .”

“Not just connected. Bought by, designed by . . .”

“Run by,” Nola said from the backseat as the pigeon flapped its wings and disappeared into the twilight sky, suddenly startled. Two seconds later, a rumble and a screech at the far end of the lot revealed a car turning into the garage. Gray Toyota. Virginia plates. Sun visor down so she couldn’t see the driver. But what caught her eye more than anything else was instead of pulling into any of the multiple open parking spots, the car headed up the ramp to the second floor.

“So instead of a cult . . .” Zig continued, “you’re saying Heavenly Meadows is filled with mob snitches?”

“C’mon, Ziggy—this isn’t some old Sopranos episode. That’s how it started back in the seventies. Witness protection was authorized to fight organized crime. And yes, back then, the Marshals Service would get some mob informant like Sammy the Bull to testify . . . and in return, they’d find Sammy and his family a safe new place to live in the suburbs of Phoenix, Minneapolis, wherever. But guess what happened after that?”

“It worked?”

“It worked. Tremendously,” Waggs said. “Thanks to witness protection and tons of talented prosecutors, today, organized crime doesn’t have the same bite it used to.”

“What’s that have to do with a cult?”

“Nature hates a vacuum, right? So when John Gotti and his pals went to prison, a new generation of criminals—gangs like the Crips, Bloods, and MS-13—saw an opportunity. Right there, WITSEC clientele started to shift, and slowly gang members were approached to testify, which again, was devastating to business. Then as gang arrests reached their peak, 9/11 hit and the government’s top priority became hunting . . .”

“Terrorists,” Zig said, glancing over the outer wall of the parking lot, toward the hospital entrance. Nola was already doing the same. It’d been a few minutes, but still no sign of whoever was in that gray Toyota.

“Exactly. Terrorists. Billions of dollars and multiple wars, all in the name of shutting down terrorism—which brings us to today. These days, know who the number one WITSEC participants are?”

“Douchebag politicians?”

“Accountants, God help our nerdy souls. The real point being, decade by decade, as crime evolved, witness protection did too—except for one key problem . . .”

Zig looked at Nola, then back to the phone. “Waggs, you know I love a good dramatic pause, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Over the years, our world has become far more interconnected,” Waggs explained. “Back in the ’70s and ’80s, when Mr. Mobster entered the program, he’d get a new driver’s license and a fake Social Security card, and boom, there was a new resident in town, and most people were too busy to notice. But by the late ’90s and early 2000s, the internet arrived, and Google told us all how much our neighbors paid for their houses . . . and which ones had criminal records. For witness protection especially, it became far harder to make people disappear, much less reappear, without the whole neighborhood taking a closer look. It put the whole program at risk, which really wasn’t an option. So to fix the problem, guess who Uncle Sam brought in?”

“The SOG.”

“The SOG,” Waggs repeated. The Marshals Special Operations Group. “They’re the ones who expanded witness protection programs all around the world, moving informants to Japan, Australia, you name it. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, until they found out most people don’t love living the expat life.”

“Who cares what a criminal wants?”

“We do—because if a protectee leaves the program . . . which is what happens when they get miserable . . . then they get killed, and their fellow criminal pals start refusing to testify,” Waggs said. “At one point, someone suggested bringing a few informants together and building a fake town—like those ones that the Army and Secret Service use for training exercises—but no matter how high the fence was on the gated community, a random stranger would wander through or sniff around, and the whole thing would fall to pieces . . . that is, until a SOG realtor suggested—”

“Stop,” Nola said as something caught her eye.

Zig saw it too, both of them glancing out the passenger-side windows toward the far end of the lot, where a man in a baseball cap entered the garage. Outside, the sky was the color of a black eye, making it hard to see the man’s face, much less place his age. What worried Nola more was how quickly he’d appeared. She didn’t see him leave the hospital. Did he walk in off the street or come down from the second floor?

There was a chirp as he popped the locks on a white Nissan Sentra and slid inside.

“Everything okay?” Waggs asked.

“For now,” Zig said.

“Anyway, at some point, the SOG made a new suggestion,” Waggs continued. “If the problem was that people might wander into the fake town, why not create a fake town that no one would want to wander into?”

“Like a cult,” Zig said.

“Exactly like a cult,” Waggs replied. “All it took was some funding for a government pilot program. Then they found a big enough piece of land, spread a few rumors, and—praise be The Herald, in the Year of our Lord 2000-whatever, Heavenly Meadows was born. Fake name. Fake holding company. Fake religious leader—and for decades now, every local in every nearby town steered clear of it. The craziest part is, all of it was working fine . . .”

“Until a guy named Andrew Fechmeier decided to leave Heavenly Meadows and come out of hiding,” Nola said, still eyeing the Sentra and noticing its faded elliot in the morning bumper sticker.

“Hold on. Go back,” Zig said. “So all those years ago, after the break-in at Koch’s house, when the first two members of The Breakfast Club . . .”

“Nola’s mom and that guy P.K.,” Waggs said.

“. . . when they were found dead, you’re saying the final two members . . .”

“Andrew Fechmeier and Ivy Munn.”

“. . . they didn’t just go on the run from Koch . . .”

“They made a deal. In exchange for their testimony, they entered witness protection in a pilot program known as Heavenly Mea—”

“I heard that part,” Zig interrupted, still studying the Sentra. “But for Fechmeier and Ivy—to get accepted into the program—you said they testified against Koch . . .”

“I said they made a deal,” Waggs clarified.

“Then why wasn’t Koch arrested? Why’s he still walking around like he owns the entire damn town?”

“Because you keep interrupting,” Waggs shot back. “When I was searching for details on Fechmeier and Ivy, I put their names in DOJ’s Special Identities Unit. Know what that is?”

“A watchdog list,” Nola shot back. “A database of people the government has under surveillance.”

“Not just for surveillance. It’s also a list of current CIs.” Waggs let the words hang in the air. Confidential Informants.

“Again, am I supposed to gasp or something? You already said Fechmeier and Ivy were informants—”

“Ziggy, you’re not— Let me say it like this: Fechmeier and Ivy were in witness protection—but the actual informant . . . the person I found on today’s list . . . he wasn’t in The Breakfast Club.”

“He? Who’re you . . . ?”

Nola shifted in her seat. Of course. She kicked herself for not seeing it sooner. Throughout this whole fiasco, there’s only one person who was so obviously involved but somehow never got arrested . . .

“Koch,” she muttered.

58

“I don’t— Time out. So now Koch is an informant too?” Zig asked, though from the look on his face, the pieces were clicking into place.

“I bet that’s how they brought him over,” Waggs explained. “After he got robbed, the first two members of The Breakfast Club—P.K. and Nola’s mom—they tried to get away . . . but were murdered. In fact, Nola’s mom—”

“Don’t call her that,” Nola insisted.

“Daniella . . . she put you and your brother in the backseat, and according to the police report, didn’t make it across the county line. So if you’re Fechmeier and Ivy, you’re panicking, right? Koch knows what you did, and if you try to run . . . you just saw what happened to two of your best friends. To their credit, Fechmeier and Ivy got smart and actually went to the authorities, trading whatever they stole from Koch for their own safety.”

“Do we know what they stole?”

“Whatever it was, it was enough that witness protection welcomed them with open arms, eventually giving them new IDs, setting them up in Heavenly Meadows, the whole deal. And then . . . they waited for that moment that every protectee longs for . . .”

“The day Koch gets arrested,” Zig said.

“And there was the problem.”

“It never happened.”

“Can you imagine? You abandon your life, go into hiding, and say goodbye to your family and friends—all with the promise they’re gonna take down Vincent Koch. But then a few months go by . . . then a full year . . . and in the local newspaper, all you see is Orange Corp. growing, Koch buying an even fancier house, then a new building, throwing around more money than finance bros at a bachelor party.”

“Is that how Koch got the petroleum and oil military contract?” Zig asked.

“He had pieces of it, probably from some old deal he made decades earlier. But when the feds came knocking this time, Vincent Koch knew the gravy train was ending—unless he offered something bigger . . .”

“Or agreed to snitch professionally,” Zig said. “What’s Koch’s predecessor’s name? The import/export guy?”

“Cello Chiarmonte,” Waggs said. “I looked him up when you sent me the name last night. Sentenced for thirty years for helping the Albanian mob smuggle guns and weapons through Arrow Rock’s port. Wanna take a bet on who ratted him out?”

“Koch,” Zig muttered.

“That’s all it took. Within months, Cello was under indictment, Koch went straight, and Orange Corp. became the Northeast’s number one distributor of expiring petroleum and oil. A far more efficient way to move up the import/export food chain.”

“So when Fechmeier and Ivy surrendered to the feds, thinking they were putting Koch in jail . . .”

“The only thing they got was the same thing Charlie Brown gets every Halloween: a rock. They were stuck in witness protection, Koch was thriving on the outside, and even though he couldn’t find them, he knew Fetch and Ivy had something damaging enough that it was worth killing for if they ever left Heavenly Meadows. From there, they were helpless,” Waggs said as a shaft of light cut through the now-dark garage, a photocell pole light popping on in the distance. It was the first time Nola noticed the Sentra was gone.

“They should’ve gone to the press,” Nola said.

“You sure about that? They already ran that female reporter out of town.”

“Then try another. You don’t think that’s better than spending twenty years cowering in some hippie bungalow while the person you hate prospers?”

“They were poor and powerless, trying to take on Vincent Koch, who was clearly connected enough to make his own deal and sidestep whatever federal investigation they tried to unleash,” Waggs shot back. “At least this way, they were out of Koch’s reach and still breathing. Considering their situation, well . . . you can’t expect some kid to take on a full-grown monster.”

Back during Airborne training, one of Nola’s superiors told her that the body supposedly can’t remember pain. Nola used to believe that, but in the past twenty-four hours, she started to disagree. Even now, she wanted to reach for her pencils and some paper, but instead, she just sat there, staring down at the shiny new floor mats, doing her best to ignore that look Zig was shooting at her from the driver’s seat—that awful pathetic bleeding-heart look of pity that he could summon so easily. But even so . . .

“You don’t give up,” Nola insisted.

“Waggs, can I just . . . this fake cult idea . . . this is real? This whole thing actually worked?” Zig asked, taking another scan of the garage.

“It worked well enough,” Waggs said. “Over time, the Marshals Service realized that from a strategic standpoint, it probably isn’t in anyone’s best interest to group loads of witnesses in one place.”

“It looked run-down when I was there,” Nola said.

“No surprise. Back in the day, Heavenly Meadows was a first-class asset. But it’s too expensive to replicate, so whoever was there, they probably just let ’em stay. Over time, WITSEC eventually got better tech, helping them create top-notch digital backstories to hide their protectees in the modern era.”

“Meaning that foreign language place we went to . . .”

“They’re known as safe sites—local WITSEC offices hidden around the country.”

“And the two guys we followed from the funeral home . . . the guy with the dark lashes and the Peruvian bald guy . . .”

“Both U.S. Marshals. When Fetch went running, it put the whole Heavenly Meadows operation at risk. I’m guessing they gave the owner of the funeral home some cash so they could examine the body and see what they could find.”

“Fish said he was watching too,” Zig pointed out.

“I bet. Here’s the problem, though—according to the report that just hit my desk, both of those Marshals were recently found dead, Ziggy—right after their cameras caught sight of your car. They’re the ones who ran your license plate and put you in the system.”

“What’re you talking about?” Zig asked.

“They sent agents to see your boss at Dover. With a warrant. Another set went to your house.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. You have no idea how many people are now looking for you. One of those Marshals was shot in the chest, the other in the head, plus a third stabbed in the throat. Sound like any multi-weapon lunatic you know? Rhymes with dish.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t you—that’s why I made my clever dish joke. But between the attack at the foreign language place . . . and Nola sneaking in and attacking their guy at Heavenly Meadows—”

“He attacked me,” Nola blurted.

“Doesn’t matter,” Waggs said. “Y’know how much it takes to pull off an operation like Heavenly Meadows? For decades, it’s sailing beautifully below the radar—everyone there will just ride it off into the sunset—until one of their protectees goes AWOL. Suddenly, the entire place is under attack—plus Zig tracking and killing their agents—”

“I need to call the office,” Zig said.

“Don’t. Not unless you enjoy being tossed in jail.”

“You should’ve put cuffs on Koch when you were with him,” Nola interrupted.

“With what evidence?” Zig asked.

“Ms. Waggs just said it. Somewhere in the Marshals Office, there’s a file. They know what Koch did. They used it to make him an informant even though he killed our—”

“Don’t say it to Roddy,” Zig jumped in. “If he hears confirmation that Koch is the one behind this, he’ll storm in and wreck the whole case.”

“Roddy’s a cop—he knows better,” Waggs said.

“Not with this. You should’ve seen him earlier. Since the moment I picked him up, he doesn’t care about his badge, doesn’t care about anyth—”

“Slow down. You picked him up?” Nola asked.

“What’s wrong wi—?”

“He’s police. He’s got his own squad car . . .” Nola said, more to herself than anyone else. She wasn’t staring down at the floor mats or even out the window anymore. Instead, her eyes slid sideways, scanning the interior of Zig’s car, from the broken clock, to the llama air freshener, to the tiny crescent moons on the back of the headrest, like something was there she couldn’t quite see—or rather, like there was an extra piece of the puzzle that clearly didn’t match all the others.

Yesterday, when Waggs first called her, Nola assumed Roddy was setting Zig up for a fall. But if Roddy was telling the truth . . . if he needed help, or simply trusted Zig t— No. Roddy didn’t trust anyone.

“Nola, say what you’re thinking,” Zig insisted.

Nola’s hand shot upward, gripping the dome light and ripping it open, revealing the standard curled wires inside.

“What in the hell’re y—?”

“Pull the cigarette lighter,” she said.

Zig reached for the lighter.

“Check the glove box too,” she added, now down on her knees, patting the underside of Zig’s seat, then the front passenger seat, like she was looking for—

There. On the bottom right of the passenger seat.

It was cold to the touch and took a second to pry free: a thin metal rectangle the size of a stick of gum—but as Nola held it up, they both saw the magnet that kept it in place . . .

“Mothertrucker,” Zig said.

Since the moment this started, Roddy had been impatient, awkward, and, more than once, unnervingly ruthless. But he was never stupid. Indeed, as any cop knows, when you’re trying to get the truth, you need to hear what people are saying in private, even those you’re closest to.

“He bugged us?” Zig asked as Nola snapped the tiny metal listening device in half, ending its cellular broadcast.

The problem was, if Roddy was listening all along . . . he heard about witness protection . . . and that Koch was the one who . . .

“Nola, wait . . . !”

She was already out the door, darting through the garage, back toward the hospital.

“Ziggy, tell me what the hell’s going on!” Waggs shouted through the speakerphone.

“Call you back,” Zig said, shutting his phone and kicking open the driver’s-side door. As fast as he could, he raced after Nola, following her across the street as she marched through the hospital’s automatic doors.

“You need a pass!” a security guard shouted as they blew past her.

According to the digital indicator lights, both elevators were up on the high floors.

“Nola, just wait . . . !” Zig yelled as she ran for the stairs, climbing them two at a time, round and round, up to the fourth floor. With a final yank, she entered the hallway, running to Roddy’s room, where—

“Do not lose your cool!” Zig called out, turning the corner and entering the room. A cool wisp of air hit them both in the face.

Nola wasn’t surprised.

Roddy’s bed was empty, the sheets askew, decorated with a mess of tubes and wires. Along the wall, the sliding window—with a faded red-and-black sticker that read emergency egress only—do not open window—was pulled wide, its vinyl vertical blinds swaying in the night air.

It wasn’t a far drop, leading out to the roof of a connecting building—an addition that’d been put on years ago. In the dust of the rooftop, even as the final bits of sun were sucked from the sky, there was no missing the trail of footprints.

Roddy was gone. So was the plastic hospital bag that held his clothes, his badge, and his gun.

It wasn’t tough to figure out where he was going.

59

“Jumped? We’re four floors up!”

“Not four,” Zig clarified, pointing out the window to the roof of the connecting building . . . and the metal drainpipe that ran down to it.

“So he climbed down?” Melinda asked, sticking her head outside and squinting into the darkness.

“I thought you were keeping an eye on him,” Zig said.

“You told me to get him Pop-Tarts, I got him Pop-Tarts, but the second I got back, he asked for coffee,” Melinda explained, lifting up the two coffees she was still holding.

“He’s on his way to put a bullet in Vincent Koch,” Nola blurted.

“Who are you?” Melinda asked.

“Roddy’s sister. Nola,” Zig explained as Nola stood by the base of the bed studying the room. The Pop-Tarts were unopened. Roddy’s clothes gone. On the corner of a pillow were tiny flecks of blood, where Roddy had yanked out his IV.

“You let him leap out a window?!” a new female voice challenged.

All three of them turned as Dr. Ling stormed into the room, waving her iPad like a hatchet.

“He didn’t leap,” Zig clarified. “He climbed down th—”

“I’m not talking to you, Mr. Zigarowski. Mindy, do you know where my patient is?”

“No, ma’am,” Melinda said.

“I told Roddy to stay here . . .” Dr. Ling said, jabbing a finger at the bed, her rings clink clicking. “You understand why?”

“So he doesn’t rip his stitches.”

“Wrong. My stitching is solid. I was waiting for this,” she said, turning the iPad their way. “We got his CT scan back. Roddy’s probably feeling fine enough right now, but he has no idea he’s walking around with a renal injury, a retroperitoneal hematoma.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Zig said.

“Y’know how in movies, the hero gets stabbed but it’s pretty superficial, so the action just continues?” As Zig nodded, she explained, “It’s the opposite of that. That knife did damage—he’s still bleeding internally just behind the abdominal cavity. Even in the best case, I’d call it a cause of significant morbidity and mortality. Or to put it more bluntly, if you don’t find Roddy fast, it’ll kill him.”

Zig turned to Melinda. “You need to call your dad and—” He cut himself off, glancing around.

“What? What’s wrong?” Melinda asked.

He checked the bathroom, then poked his head into the quiet hallway. “Where the hell is Nola?”

60

Ivy’s first thought was to park her car up the block.

Terrible idea. They’ll see you coming.

It was the same if she parked a few blocks away, or really anywhere nearby. As the saying goes, the smaller the town, the harder to hide—especially when you’re coming through the front entrance.

As a result, Ivy parked a half mile away at the back of the elementary school, near the basketball courts where all the high school burnouts, including her, used to drink and smoke pot.

From there, she followed the dirt path down to the creek, which is where everyone would run on those rare moments when the cops or, even worse, someone’s parents would show up.

Following the creek through Applewood Orchard and ducking under dead branches, she eyed the weeds that had invaded the low stone wall at the perimeter and made a sharp left where it intersected the old hiking trail, putting her on the least-known route back into town.

As a kid, Ivy had walked and bicycled these paths. She and Daniella almost started a forest fire in the orchard on that night when they found P.K.’s dad’s cigarettes. And of course, farther down the creek, where it merged with the Chesapeake, all of them consoled Fetch when his fishing prom-posal was a bust.

A decade later, after the break-in at Koch’s, a team of Marshals transported Ivy and Fetch in an armored van with bulletproof blackout curtains, eventually resettling them at Heavenly Meadows. The “realtor” (which is what they called the person in charge of the relocation) warned them that initially, like most everyone in witness protection, they’d probably be a bit homesick.

Ivy disagreed. Heavenly Meadows was their chance to wipe it all clean, to get the do-over that Fetch had promised. Yet since the moment she returned to Arrow Rock, it was clear that was never the case.

The only thing Ivy really knew was how this would end—and not just because of the Marshals, who clearly had to be on their way, doing everything they could to keep the other Heavenly Meadows protectees under wraps.

Driving down Route 9, passing the Welcome sign, seeing the old buildings, the Carousel Motel, the basketball courts behind the elementary school . . . even just being here—the last place she ever wanted to be—Ivy took out her gun, headed to the back door of the only lit building on the block, and finally understood, some places are done with you before you’re done with them.

61

“You’re sure he’s here?” Zig asked.

“Thursday nights? He’s here,” Melinda said, shoving open the door, the smell of fresh fish and garlic wafting through the air.

“Welcome to Harlan’s,” sang the middle-aged hostess with pushed-up boobs and an even bigger helping of Botox. Her forehead barely moved as she smiled at . . . “Melinda! I didn’t see you in the reservation b—”

“We’re meeting friends,” Melinda announced, blowing past her and weaving through the small crowd nursing drinks at the dark mahogany bar with the matte-black metal linear chandelier overhead.

Forty-three years ago, Harlan Ward opened his seafood restaurant on the same night as the last episode of M*A*S*H. Since then, he’d been through three wives, four fires, and half a dozen renovations. As one of the few upscale places left in the area, the only things unchanged from that first night were the two TVs (though they were now flatscreens) that still hung behind the bar—and the Thursday-night clam special. It always brought out the locals, since Harlan had a guy who, every day, pulled them from his favorite spot along the Chesapeake.

“H-Heyyyy, Melinda . . . everything okay?” Harlan nervously asked, racing from the dining room, already knowing the answer. Melinda’s sweet sixteen was held here. So was her wedding rehearsal dinner, countless birthdays and anniversaries, as well as the private meal after her son’s memorial service, when Harlan shut the place down to give her family privacy. “Who’s your friend?” he added, eyeing Zig as Harlan limped after them with the cane he’d been using since his recent hip surgery.

“We’re meeting Vincent,” Melinda said, weaving around a waiter and picking up speed.

At just the mention of Koch’s first name, Harlan lifted his cane and rapped Zig in the shoulder, like a teacher with a ruler.

“Why’re you hitting me?” Zig asked.

“I was trying to hit her—she’s too far.” It didn’t take four decades of dealing with Arrow Rock’s most prominent resident to know that if Koch invited someone, Harlan would know. “Melinda, this is a friendly establishment . . .”

“Harlan, do you not trust me?” Melinda asked, halfway down a hallway that was lined with black-and-white photos of Harlan’s family that led to the private room in back.

“Of course I trust you. I’m trying to keep liking you!”

“C’mon, Harlan, who wants to be liked?” she asked, reaching a French door and peeking through the curtains as she yanked it open.

The first thing Zig noticed was a silver-haired woman with smoker’s lips and the most elegant hands he’d ever seen. Her pearl pendant earrings swung as she turned. Koch’s wife, Zig guessed.

“Apologies, Mr. Koch,” Harlan said as he caught up to Melinda and Zig.

“Harlan, these clams . . . We don’t know how you do it,” Vincent Koch replied, putting down the shell but not the tiny seafood fork he’d been using to wedge it open. He was talking to Harlan, but his eyes never left Zig and Melinda. “Ahh, I take it this is about that legal thing you needed my help with?” he sang, faking just enough excitement that both his wife and Harlan knew it was time to excuse themselves.

“Melinda,” Mrs. Koch said, heading for the door.

“Gloria,” she replied.

Cordial enough, but these two weren’t friends.

“Anything you need, give a shout,” Harlan added as he followed Mrs. Koch outside and closed the door behind them.

For a few seconds, Zig and Melinda just stood there.

“I can’t remember,” Koch said, using the small fork to spear another clam, “did I tell you how much I dislike surprises?”

“Where’s your friend Fish?” Zig challenged, glancing around the room. “We know you hired him t—”

“Excuse me, I’m not finished,” Koch added, dipping the clam in butter sauce. The track lighting on the ceiling shined directly on his over-tanned forehead, making his liver spots seem more pronounced. “By the way, you have any idea what a shit-ton mess you two made this morning? An actual shooting in my building? Blood all over my garage? The cleanup costs alone . . .”

“We know that Fechmeier and Ivy Munn were in witness protection—hiding from you,” Zig insisted.

“As usual, Mr. Zigarowski, I think you’re overconfident about your mastery of the facts.”

“We also know that robbery really was a robbery, despite all the bullshit you fed us earlier. Whatever The Breakfast Club stole that night, they ratted you out with it—but you made a better deal with the feds, didn’t you? Turning on your friend Cello and taking his place on the corporate ladder.”

Scraping the shell clean with his top teeth, Koch slurped down the clam, gave a hard suck to his veneers, and let out a sigh. “And that’s your grand accusation? You’re mad because I was smart enough to take advantage of an opportunity?”

Zig glanced at Melinda, confused. It wasn’t just Koch’s admission—it was how utterly unbothered he was by it. Zig could feel the shift in the air. Whatever wall Koch previously had up was now gone. After all this time, all these years of hiding the truth and keeping his deal with the feds a secret, the genie was out of the bottle. As the realization hit, Vincent Koch almost looked relieved, exhaling, like this was his choice all along.

“Vincent, I know you think being a cocky ass somehow projects power,” Melinda warned, “but among the many reasons you should turn yourself in, Roddy and his sister are looking for you right now . . . and if they find you, which they will . . . they won’t hold back.”

“Ms. Bix, last I checked, you don’t have a badge, much less any actual authority, so I suggest you call my lawyer—”

“I’m trying to save your damn life, though God knows why!”

“It’ll get you votes. Judge Bix, right?”

“Are you even listening? You think you’re dealing with rational people, but Roddy and Nola . . . They know you killed their mother!”

“Their m—?” Koch tipped his chair back and started to laugh, a deep guttural taunt. “You don’t have any idea what your friends stole from me that night, do you?” Koch challenged. Pointing the tines of his miniature fork at his own face, he explained, “I didn’t kill Fechmeier . . . I didn’t kill P.K. . . . and I certainly didn’t kill their mother, much less hire a shitbag like Fish.”

Zig and Melinda glanced at each other. It’d been their constant—their one unassailable fact: By hiring Fish, Koch was the one responsible for killing the members of The Breakfast Club. But if Koch didn’t hire him . . .

“Who did?” Zig asked.

62

Roddy had his hand on his gun, checking his side holster, making sure the pistol was still there.

Of course it was—he’d been through this dozens of times before—though as he peeked out from behind the honey locust tree, Roddy was still doing that thing a friend on the hostage team once taught him: squeezing that little web of skin between his thumb and pointer finger.

In anatomical terms, it was known as the purlicue; in tai chi, it was called the Hegu point or joining valley—an acupuncture spot that for centuries provided pain and stress relief.

The name never mattered to Roddy. All he knew was that for years now, in those tension-filled police moments when he was about to rush in and take a door, the lack of pain receptors in that web of skin made it the best way to “remove the extras” so he could focus.

Right now, it wasn’t working.

He blamed it on the blood he’d lost and the anesthetics, which certainly had him feeling fuzzy. His peripheral vision blurred at the edges, but he blinked it away. Thankfully, he wasn’t in pain, just sore, an unnerving tug like a thread being pulled below his skin, stretching across his rib cage.

Roddy lifted his shirt for a better look. No blood seeping through the gauze—the stitches were holding—but he didn’t need a medical degree to know he wasn’t at his best.

Didn’t matter, Roddy decided.

Ten minutes ago, he’d dumped the car he’d stolen from the hospital valet, parking it around the corner and walking the rest of the way here. Thankfully, there were no neighbors in sight, which made him think things were going his way.

Using the honey locust tree as cover, Roddy studied the streetlight at the far end of the block, making sure he had the timing just right since a green light might send a car in his direction.

In a blink, the light went red. The street was silent. This was Roddy’s chance. He turned toward his destination, a modest brick building across the street, eyeing its single lit window.

Once again, he reached for his gun, unsnapping then resnapping the button on his holster, now doing that thing he’d been doing for weeks now . . . months, really . . .

Thinking of his mother, Daniella Brown.

According to the death certificate, she’d lived barely three miles from here. She’d grown up in this town, and now, just being here, he could envision her driving on this block, laughing at the sign for Butt Road, walking past this honey locust tree—like a ghost still vibrating through time.

This was the moment Roddy thought he was ready for. For months, he knew it was coming, that when he finally figured out who’d killed his mom, he’d be ready to rush in and pull the trigger.

That was the goal, right? Find who did this and make them disappear? But to actually be here . . .

Roddy blinked hard, wiping away the vision of his mom, cursing the drugs in his system.

Up the block, the light turned green. The street stayed silent. Still no cars coming. But as Roddy again eyed the lit window, he felt a tug in reality, like something had him in its grasp. For so long now, anger held tight to him, but now . . . he’d crossed a border, to a point he’d never been before. This was different from rage or revenge, something more desperate and primal.

Roddy emptied his head, fighting to make room for the new thought . . . trying on the contours of it. It was the one thing more important than finding the killer, or revenge, or even getting answers about his mom. He just wanted someone to tell him what would make his pain go away.

For a moment, Roddy stood there, but was it really a question? There was only one way to make it all go away.

At the far end of the block, the light blinked red. Across the street, Roddy studied the lit window and the man framed inside it . . . the man who’d killed his mother—the one person besides Vincent Koch who’d been there all along, from the very first Breakfast Club robbery, to the murders all those years ago, to Fechmeier’s death three days ago. Besides Koch, the only other person who’d actually benefitted back then when he was promoted from junior deputy to the one in charge.

Sheriff Arnold Bix.

In the small lit window, he was at his desk, taking a sip of a Dr Pepper, his face lit by the glow of a laptop.

Roddy unsnapped his holster about to cross the street, then stopped himself.

“How long you been there?” Roddy asked.

There was no answer.

“Nola, I see you,” he hissed.

Diagonally behind him, Nola stepped out from an alleyway, her gun aimed at Roddy’s chest.

“Y’know,” Roddy said, a thin grin lifting his cheeks, “part of me would’ve been disappointed if you didn’t at least try to stop me.”

63

“Take a breath, Nola, lower the gun,” Roddy said, not in his cop voice but in a softer tone. Her gun didn’t move. His gun was still holstered. Same with his baton.

As Nola stepped closer, she spotted the swollen purple gashes across his knuckles, the bits of blood across his shirt.

“You look frightened,” he told her.

“Stop talking.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, suddenly squinting, staring her way. “You know you never look me in the eye, Nola.”

She took another scan of the block.

“I thought it’d feel better,” he continued, “y’know, figuring out who killed her . . . who caused all this pain. But to be this close . . . it just makes me feel worse.” He paused again. “I didn’t realize how much it’d hurt.”

If it were anyone else, she’d jab her thumb into his esophagus just so she didn’t have to listen to his emo poetry bullshit. Instead, she stayed locked on the sheriff, on his building. Clear front entrance. Single access point. Metal door, but with a glass cutout. She’d need more visibility to assess rear exit points.

“You’re not even here for me, are you, Nola? This case . . . all your running around . . . You didn’t come for our mom either.”

Nola’s eyes narrowed on the corner of the building. Single camera there. Plus a second . . . and a third . . . on lampposts in the parking lot. Overkill for sure.

“You didn’t even come to find out what really happened,” Roddy continued. “You came for Mr. Zig, didn’t you? To protect him.”

She raised her gun, pointing it at Roddy’s face. He looked tired, thinner than she remembered, his cheeks gaunt like he’d lost weight. But even in the dark, there was no mistaking those black eyes, mirrors to her own.

She hated being a twin. When they were little, Roddy would call her the cheaper version, a crappier copy. It made her feel like a forgery of herself.

Last time she saw Roddy, it was with judgment, with fury. Actually, that’s how she usually saw him. Though as she studied him now . . . the way he was standing, swaying, like he so badly wanted to touch his stomach—something was wrong.

This was a new version of Roddy, one she’d never seen. It stood out, this truth in him. For once, he wasn’t lying or holding back. At the far end of the block as the traffic light blinked red, Nola saw her brother for who he was.

“You look terrible,” Nola said.

He blinked twice, as if he were experimenting with an expression, trying it on. “I’m fine,” he said with an awkward smile, trying to downplay, but the closer she looked . . . He was pale, sweating above his eyebrows. His shoulders were rigid, his neck too, like it hurt to move. Injured for sure. His clothes were a wrinkled mess—and as he turned, the blood wasn’t just on his jacket but across his shirt, a blob along his torso. Zig said he’d been stabbed then stitched up, like all was fine. But this . . .

“You need a doctor,” she told him.

“After,” Roddy said with a nod. It was more than just agreement . . . there was acceptance in his voice, or at least—for the first time between them—brutal honesty. A crack in the mortar of their relationship.

Later, she’d look back and say this was the moment where she should’ve stopped him from going in. Yet as it was playing out in front of her, Nola didn’t want to believe it because, well . . . Roddy lies. And once there’s a lie, there’s always another lie.

Up the block, the traffic light blinked green. Across the street, through the window, Sheriff Bix was still lit by his computer screen.

“Nola, I’ve been thinking of getting a pet—”

“I don’t care about your stupid pet.”

“You need to hear why,” Roddy insisted. “Growing up, when we were little, didn’t you ever feel—?” He stopped, started again, looking like he wanted to reach for his stomach. “When we were little, Nola, I know I wasn’t a good person. I caused you pain . . . I’m sorry for that. I wish I told you that earlier. But this pet idea . . . I get that people leave you in life, but it’s just . . . sometimes it’s hard to tell which ones I’ve chased away. I don’t know how else to say it . . . I’m just so tired of being lonely.”

Nola didn’t answer, stealing another glance at her brother. The sweat above his eyebrows was getting worse. His jaw shifted. He was clenching his teeth behind his lips. Definitely in pain.

“It’s from being back here, right?” Roddy asked. “This town . . . this street, even . . . I keep thinking about our mom . . . she had a life here—”

“I told you, stop talking,” Nola insisted, though she had to admit, she couldn’t help doing the same. For as long as she could remember, Nola’s mother had been a mystery, something that couldn’t be understood. But since the moment Nola arrived in town, she’d been picturing her mom’s old life, her likes and dislikes. It made Nola feel like a lost thing, or worse, something discarded.

“She had blond hair,” Roddy said. “And her laugh—I remember a deep warm laugh that somehow rolled over you—though I’m not sure that’s real.”

She did have blond hair, Nola thought, cursing herself for letting that memory return, stinging like a scorpion. She glanced at the driveway on her left, spotting half a dozen football-shaped cracks along the ground. Most cracks in concrete are from expansion or the ground settling. These were reflection cracks, from excessive weight on the slab. Probably an RV or dumpster. Total overload.

“Nola, don’t you ever wonder . . . if Mom . . . if our mom . . . if she’d lived, and they never sent us away, we could’ve— We would’ve had a chance. But instead, look at my life. Look at your life. Like lotto tickets that never paid out. We got nothing. One man did that!” Roddy insisted, pointing across the street.

Through the lit window, Sheriff Bix was still studying his computer.

Since she was little, Nola could find the flaw in anything, but even she had to admit, there wasn’t one in Roddy’s argument.

“You sure it’s him?” she asked, motioning across the street.

“Only one way to find out.”

Her eyes slid sideways, back at her brother, as both of them stood in the dark. Usually, her own stare and a long enough silence was enough to elicit a response. But Roddy knew how to use silence as well. He stared straight back.

“You should go to the hospital,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere, and if you try and stop me—”

Nola racked her gun and chambered a round. “I never said I was stopping you,” she told him, heading across the street, her pistol in low ready position.

Roddy followed behind her, amazed and a bit confused that she was finally on his side, but not really.

64

“They got us on a flight—connecting through Paris.”

“For the ninety-fifth time, the doctors said I’m fine,” Jules insisted, sitting up in her hospital bed, talking to the screen of her cell phone like every old person who doesn’t understand where the microphone is.

“Mom, I went to high school with Dr. Ishoof. You think I didn’t call her?” Charmaine shot back, her voice echoing through the speakerphone. “She said you passed out—that your platelet count is low and your hemoglobin keeps dropping.”

“So instead of a linguistics professor who runs a yoga studio, you’re suddenly a doctor who understands the complexities of hemoglobin?”

“She said normal hemoglobin is 12. When they brought you into the ER, you were at 9.4 . . . and now, however many hours later, you’re at 7.3. They think that’s why you’re short of breath.”

“I’m not short of breath,” Jules shot back, though from the limp in her voice, it was clearly a lie. “Oh, and just so we’re clear, the nurses are violating my HIPAA rights—I told them not to call you.”

“They didn’t. Zig did. Last night. That’s how I knew Ishoof was your doctor. He tracked her down. Apparently, he’s been texting her like a teenager since you were admitted. Also, I heard you look pale. Like a ghost.”

“The doctor said that?”

“Zig did.”

Jules paused, staring down at the bowl of quinoa, chicken thigh, and cauliflower puree on her tray table. An Honest Bowl is what the orderly called it, whatever the hell that meant. “I told him not to worry you!”

“He’s family.”

“Then I guess it’s fine to tell him that instead of being at your Portugal eco-lodge with Warren, you’re actually there with DeeDee?”

“You know she hates when you call her that,” Charmaine said, referring to her sister, Deena.

“Why didn’t you tell Zig that you and Warren broke up?”

“Mom . . .”

“The worst part is, Charmaine, you know what you’re doing. You know Zig thinks you’re there with Warren, and instead of telling him that you’re traveling with your sister and crying every night in your margarita, you let him twist, knowing how much he pines for you.”

“He doesn’t pine for me—and no one says pine anymore. Not even old people.”

“You’re treating him like garbage, Char. I raised you better than that.”

“Maybe you’re not the delivery device for a lecture about love lives.”

“Then listen for once. If these are my last words—”

“Can you please not say that?”

“Y’know what? Now I want them to be my last words. If I drop dead before you get on your flight . . .”

“Mom!”

“. . . at least I’ll leave you something of worth, which is this: When your plane lands tomorrow, tell Zig you’re single. He’ll want to know. And the fact you haven’t told him? I hate to break it to you, Char, but you’re pining for him too.”

A second passed, then another.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charmaine insisted.

Jules stabbed her fork into her Honest Bowl and didn’t reply. She didn’t have to.

65

Stay low, move fast, shoot first.

That’s how the military taught Nola to clear a building, which explained why she was moving quickly as she raced past the sheriff’s car, toward the front of the brick structure, and gave the metal door a strong shove.

To her surprise, the door gave way easily.

Unlocked. No, not unlocked. On the floor in the threshold was a stone, no bigger than a quarter. Like the sheriff left the door open—or someone else propped it open to make it easier to get in.

No question, the whole thing smelled.

With her gun still in low ready position, she took a quick glance around, dividing the dark reception area into scannable sections. Single desk. Rolling chair with an orthopedic pillow. Two walkie-talkies sitting in a charger. And yet another high-tech security camera, same as the one outside. Big spend for a small town.

The only other signs of life were a national parks wall calendar, an array of framed grandkid photos, and a candy dish filled with tiny Hershey treats.

Back in Afghanistan, Nola understood the benefits of moving as a group, fluidly in one unit, which reminded her she was currently breaking the single most vital rule for entering a building: Never go in alone.

Unless, of course, you don’t trust the person who’s got your six.

ETA three mikes, Roddy texted, police slang for three minutes.

It was a simple plan. Nola would go through the front; Roddy would sweep the back, checking for rear exit points. She told him she’d wait until he was ready.

It was a lie, of course. Passing through reception, Nola headed deeper into the building, leaving her brother behind.

When they were kids, Roddy was a nightmare. Today, at best, he was a wild card . . . and in no shape for a fistfight. Only a fool would put their life in his hands.

With a sharp left, Nola darted down a hallway that had all the charm of a penitentiary, its cinder block walls lined with thick red, black, and yellow stripes—colors of the Maryland flag.

On her left and right, every office she passed . . . the copy room . . . a break room that smelled like coffee, soup, and old people . . . even the bathroom . . . everything was empty and dark—except for a vertical sliver of light peeking out from the barely open door at the far end of the hall.

She didn’t need the sheriff arnold j. bix plaque to know who was waiting for her.

With her gun still low and barely breaking stride, Nola hit the door shoulder-first, sending it crashing into the wall. Half a dozen framed awards and citations jumped at the impact.

“Who the hell’re you?” barked a man with a shock of silver hair as he looked up from his computer screen.

Sheriff Bix had never seen Nola, never met her. It’d buy her a few vital seconds.

“I want to know about Andrew Fechmeier . . . and Daniella Brown,” Nola told him calmly, sticking to the doorway, straddling the threshold, her gun carefully hidden behind her leg. Don’t present as a threat, not until you get what you need.

“Tell me your name,” the sheriff said, his voice unusually flat, though Nola hadn’t registered that yet. She was too busy studying his hands, marked with thick veins and sunspots, waiting to see if he’d pull or even motion toward his gun.

Instead, he sat there, palms flat on his metal desk, which held a framed photo of him and his daughter, an American flag pencil cup, and half a dozen toy cars lined up a bit too preciously. One of them, a black convertible Impala, reminded Nola of Royall.

On her right, the bookcase next to the window that faced the street was packed with various manuals, three-ring binders, even a Brad Thor paperback. Yet what caught her eye was on the bottom shelf, a set of ancient phone books, sagging like crooked teeth. The last time Nola saw a phone book was after one of Royall’s drinking nights, when she couldn’t find the TV remote, and he held up their yellow pages like a bat, threatening that if she didn’t find it right fucking now, this wouldn’t leave a bruise.

In Nola’s pocket, her phone vibrated—Roddy telling her he’d be there in two minutes.

“How do you know Andrew and Daniella?” the sheriff asked, though before the words left his lips, Nola noticed something on the floor along the side of the sheriff’s desk: his leather holster, flaccid on the carpet, discarded like trash.

Nola glanced back at the bookcase, then the credenza behind his desk, with the three-panel sliding-glass window above it. Years ago, she’d worked with military police who’d hang their holsters on a coat rack or nearby hook. No one tossed them on the floor. Not unless they had to.

Time froze and Nola locked on Sheriff Bix, his hands still palms down on his desk. She felt that tingle you get when you’re at the center of something bad. Since she separated from the Army, there were moments Nola missed that feeling. This wasn’t one of them.

He blinked.

She blinked.

Barely half a second went by.

When Nola first arrived and the sheriff didn’t move, she took it as arrogance, a way to establish control. But now . . . that lack of focus in his eyes . . . like he was looking through her . . . or, rather, looking at someone else . . .

In one quick movement, Nola lifted her gun and spun to her left, to the back corner of the room, where a closet—

“Do not,” a female voice warned as the closet door opened, revealing an older woman with short gray hair and eyes like a stitch.

In her hand was a gun already pointed at Nola’s face, then at the sheriff, then back at Nola. “Put the pistol down, darling. Put it down. You got no choice.”

Nola stood there, holding tight to her gun and staring at the woman, who had a formalness about her. Eyes brown as burnt wood. She looked older than the photo Nola had seen—but doesn’t everyone look older than their yearbook photo?

Nola kicked herself for not seeing it coming.

“You must be Ivy Munn,” Nola said.

66

“I’m not repeating myself, darling. Drop the gun.”

Nola didn’t budge.

Neither did Ivy, her pistol aimed at Nola’s face, her finger already clenching the trigger.

On any other night Nola would’ve been impressed. Ivy was fast. Solid training too, Nola thought, eyeing Ivy’s shooting posture. Center axis relock stance. Strong back leg. Her upper body turned sideways enough to give a thin profile. More important, she kept her pistol in tight, close to her chest. Handy when you’re shooting from a car—or in this case, close to a target. Plus, smart enough to shut the wall of cameras in the corner. No witnesses. Well trained for sure. And clearly comfortable with that little .25-caliber Beretta. But she wasn’t bending her knees. Out of practice—or maybe just arthritic and—

“Wait. Stop. I know you,” Ivy blurted, cocking her head. “Y-You . . . Daniella . . . You’re Daniella’s kid, aren’t you? Nola.”

Nola froze, stung by— At first, she thought it was shame, but no. She felt stupid—and Nola really didn’t like that. The worst part was that look in Ivy’s eyes . . . the pity . . . and also something that dug deeper, like she saw Nola completely, her latitudes and longitudes.

At just the word . . . Daniella . . . to hear her mom’s name, the air felt magnetized, electrified—and something ancient rose, reminding Nola that no matter how far you run from your past, there are pieces of you that never escape. They just sit there, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to suck you back in their undertow.

“Drop the gun—I’m not your enemy here,” Ivy warned.

“That’s a lie,” Sheriff Bix called out from his desk. “You drop that gun, she’s putting a bullet in your head.”

“Sheriff, shut your mouth . . .” Ivy scolded, still locked on Nola. “I’m sorry, Nola. I should’ve done better by you . . . for Daniella.”

“Another lie,” the sheriff said, glancing down at his holster and gun, which were still on the floor.

“Both of you, quiet,” Nola shot back, staying focused on Ivy, keeping her gun at low ready. Bring her back to calm. “I went to Heavenly Meadows. I know it was witness protection.”

Ivy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again, like a metronome. She had sharp features, though life had scraped them down, her eyelids puffy and sagging . . . same with her posture. Nola knew exhaustion when she saw it, but there was no weakness about her. In fact, her voice was so hoarse, she sounded like a man, making Nola wonder if it was from cigarettes or screaming. What stood out most were Ivy’s fingers, covered in nicks and scratches . . . filth in her cuticles. Carpenter? Gardener? Either way. Unafraid of dirty work.

With a deep breath through her nose, the metronome continued to tick—and now Nola knew what the movement reminded her of: a boxer. To get here . . . to survive all these years . . . Ivy Munn had taken her share of punches. And she was still on her feet. The last Breakfast Club member still standing.

“I swear to you, Nola, in the beginning, I wanted to help . . . for Daniella . . . I tried to help,” Ivy insisted, though Nola was having a hard time reading if it was anger or regret. “When you were in foster care, this older woman, she worked at Heavenly Meadows . . . used to do the weekly deliveries, toilet paper and stuff like that. I paid her to track you down, to send me a photo. But the Marshals . . . they found out and said if I blew our cover . . .” She was no longer swaying, clearly pissed at herself. “I know it’s a crap excuse, but I was young and—” She stood there, planted like an electric pole. “We were scared for our lives.”

“I don’t care,” Nola said, her phone vibrating in her pocket. One minute to go. Sixty seconds until Roddy turned this shitshow into a full-on shit circus. “I know about The Breakfast Club. I know you were stealing things. And if my math is right, you went into hiding just as he got promoted,” she said, motioning to the sheriff. “That can’t be coincidence, can it? He’s the one who did this.”

“Nola . . . That’s your name, right?” the sheriff blurted. “Ivy’s a manipulator—do not fall for her bullshit sob story. If you’re buying that, I got some magic beans to sell you.”

“Maybe she needs a good beanstalk,” Ivy challenged.

“See what she’s doing? Never a straight answer. You get in with her, you’ll get squashed by a giant,” the sheriff said, his voice picking up speed, losing its calm. His palms were still flat on the desk, but Nola saw how his middle fingers tapped the desk with every accentuated point. “C’mon, Nola, she’s still aiming the gun at your damn face! Does that seem normal to you? Ivy . . . Fechmeier . . . all of them . . . they’re criminals! The moment she gets you to drop your weapon, she’ll kill me . . . and then she’ll kill you.”

“If she wanted to kill me, I’d be dead,” Nola said, lowering her gun.

“Nola, you’re not listening . . . Listen!” the sheriff shouted, his middle fingers tapping so hard, two of the toy cars rolled across his desk. “This is my office! I’m the damn police here!”

Back in the hallway, she heard a faint noise. Roddy was inside. At best, she had thirty seconds.

“Ivy, we’re out of time,” Nola explained. “All those years ago, with The Breakfast Club . . . I don’t care that you broke into Koch’s house. I know you found something, but it wasn’t money or jewelry, was it?”

Ivy’s shoulders shifted.

A decision made.

“I really wish you didn’t ask that question,” Ivy said, her eyes going dark, the metronome starting to tick as she pointed her gun at Nola’s chest.

Nola was about to raise her own gun, but before she could, in one smooth movement, Ivy pivoted to her right, her pistol still moving, straight toward Sheriff Bix. “You hear what she asked, Sheriff? Y’know how many years I prayed no one would find out about what we grabbed that night? But maybe it’s time, right? Here we are. Why don’t you tell her?”

67

Koch’s House

Twenty-six years ago

It used to be fun.

Back in eleventh grade, Ivy remembered her cheeks hurting from laughing so hard during that party at Neil Pardo’s, when they snuck into his parents’ bedroom searching for something valuable.

The only thing they found was an old photo of Mrs. Pardo in a neon pink string bikini. The Pardos hadn’t hidden it. It was framed, hanging on the bedroom wall, on Mr. Pardo’s side of the bed. In the photo, Mrs. Pardo was in her prime—early twenties—hands on her hips, nastiness in her eyes, leaning toward the camera, her breasts barely contained by the swimsuit.

Immediately, Fetch imitated the pose, hands on his own hips, leaning forward and pouting, his fellow Breakfast Club members—Ivy, P.K., and Daniella—laughing uncontrollably at his perfect imitation.

It was a running joke that stayed with them through twelfth grade, one of them putting their hands on their hips and pouting every time Neil Pardo passed them in the hallway.

Those were good days.

But at twenty-three years old, Ivy felt very far from her prime.

“I bet he has a safe!” Fetch called out.

“No one keeps gifts in a safe!” P.K. shot back, annoyed as he turned the key, which they’d found in a fake rock.

The door to the back porch swung open and P.K. rushed inside, always the fastest. It was the same in high school, where at every red light, he’d stomp the gas the moment it turned green, thinking everything’s a race.

“Anyone home?!” Fetch shouted, lingering by the door, taking on his old role as well, their personal safety patrol.

P.K.’s eyes were still adjusting to the dark as he zigzagged through the pastel southwestern-themed living room. Tribal prints on the wall, plus a sponge-painted, marbled built-in with a projection TV and a rack stereo system with a multiple-CD changer. Yamaha, of course.

Back when they were seventeen, P.K. would’ve stopped to make fun of the owner’s musical tastes or messed with the buttons on the equalizer. Tonight, though, he was chasing something far bigger than a fancy stereo.

“They got a door sensor . . . !” Fetch called out from the porch, too superstitious to step inside, eyeing the little plastic device above the doorframe.

No one cared, Daniella already rushing past him, following P.K. toward the master bedroom.

This was back before everyone could afford cheap security cameras. The alarm hadn’t gone off, so even if it was silent, it’d still take the police . . .

“Four minutes! Y’hear me, Ivy? That’s it!” Fetch called out.

Strolling inside, Ivy barely heard the words, the world still gauzy from the Dilaudid and whatever other pain medication and bootlegged prescriptions she used to make the world melt away.

At this point, she didn’t even know how she got to the drive-in that night, but she remembered P.K. telling them the story. Some neighbor of his worked at Canton Jewelers . . . and Koch had just bought some fancy emerald earrings, bragging about it on the phone to some mistress he had in D.C.

That’s what started it—the idea that if those emeralds went missing, he’d be stuck between his wife finding out . . . and his mistress’s wrath.

“Three and a half minutes . . . !” Fetch called, still at the back door, their loyal lookout.

The hardest to convince was Daniella. She was a mother now, her concert tees replaced by velour sweatsuits. Most important, she had three-year-old twins to care for . . . and all the expenses that went with them. So when P.K. heard she just lost her job at the nail salon, he simply reminded her how much it cost for preschool. The trip to Koch’s place would pay for the year.

That’s all it took.

She’d told herself that she’d only tagged along to make sure things didn’t get too out of control, but she couldn’t deny how good it felt just to be back with her old crew.

“Daniella! Nightstand!” P.K. called out, pointing her to the side of the bed as he headed for the walk-in closet, quickly pulling open all of Koch’s drawers.

“It’s not in a drawer,” Ivy told him, ambling inside and joining him in the closet.

“What’re you talking about?” P.K. asked.

“If these earrings are as nice as you say . . . if they’re really for his mistress, he’s not putting them somewhere his wife can stumble onto them,” she said, eyeing the shelves, especially the ones packed with cashmere sweaters.

“Three minutes!” Fetch shouted.

Palm down, Ivy slid her hand under a stack of sweaters, then a stack of sweatshirts on the shelf above.

Nothing. And nothing again.

“Check the hamper,” P.K. insisted, rummaging through a drawer filled with cuff links, pocket squares, and for some reason, a ton of jockstraps.

“Two minutes!” Fetch shouted.

Ivy didn’t react, lost in her high as she stood there in the corner of the closet, glancing around at the—

There.

On the floor, next to multiple pairs of New Balance sneakers, was a leather briefcase—one of those old messenger bags that looked like it belonged to Indiana Jones: big buckle down the middle, two small pockets with their own buckles as well. A beat-up heirloom that, from the layer of dust, was easy to overlook.

The perfect hiding spot.

As Ivy kneeled down, the shift in weight made the world buzz louder than ever. Undoing the main strap, she reached inside . . .

Fttt.

There was a noise, a flutter of paper. No, not paper. A ribbon.

“X never, ever marks the spot,” Ivy muttered, a line from her favorite movie as she pulled out a blue velvet box tied with a gold bow.

“Girl, you’re like a metal detector!” P.K. shouted, grabbing the box.

“She found it?” Daniella asked, racing into the closet.

With a flick, Ivy tore off the ribbon and opened the velvet box, revealing massive emerald stud earrings surrounded in a diamond halo.

As P.K. and Daniella oohed and aahed, Ivy was down on her knees, still rummaging through the old satchel. To her surprise, the earrings weren’t the only thing in there.

With a tug, she pulled out a black leather notebook.

“Anything good?” P.K. asked, holding tight to the earrings as he read over her shoulder.

From what they could tell, it looked like a ledger. “Items . . . Quantity . . . Weight . . .” Ivy read across the various columns, clearly confused. “Plus a bill for something called . . . Cello Distributors?”

P.K. froze. So did Daniella, who looked up from the emeralds.

Cello Chiarmonte. The wealthiest businessman in Arrow Creek—and the last person you wanted to pick a fight with.

“What the hell is Koch doing with Cello’s business receipts?” P.K. asked.

“Thirty seconds!” Fetch screamed from the other room.

“We should get outta here,” Daniella insisted, already starting to run.

P.K. nodded, holding tight to the earrings, following behind her.

But Ivy was still on her knees, like she was hypnotized by the satchel.

“Ivy, what’re you doing? Let’s go . . . !”

She didn’t move; she didn’t react. She was too busy staring down at the final item she’d pulled from the satchel. An old videotape.

With her name written on it.

68

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

The sheriff sat there clenching his jaw, his fingernails digging into the desk.

“Oh, now you’re all shy?” Ivy asked. “C’mon, Sheriff. Tell the story. We found those gaudy earrings in Koch’s closet—and that black book with Cello’s shipments. But don’t leave out the main course. Nola came all this way. Tell her what else was in there.”

Bix stared down at his desk, refusing to answer.

“Sheriff, the cat’s not just out of the bag—it’s in the living room taking a dump on your sofa. Tell her what was in the closet,” she added, her voice more insistent, her finger sliding around the trigger.

“Ivy, don’t do this,” the sheriff warned.

“Arnie, the only reason I came here was to do this.” She started to say something else, then rolled her eyes, annoyed she was even explaining it. “You’re a cancer and always have been. I hope this fucking hurts,” she said, squeezing the trig—

“A tape! It was a damn tape, okay? Dontshoot! Dontshoot!” the sheriff pleaded, shutting his eyes, raising both hands. “In Koch’s closet! That’s what it was . . . a videotape!”

At that, Ivy pulled an old MiniDV cassette tape from her pocket and tossed it on the sheriff’s desk, where it skidded and collided with his red, white, and blue pencil cup.

“Don’t leave out the juiciest bit, Sheriff. Remember? That drizzly night when you were just starting as a young deputy? C’mon, sound out the hard parts. You pulled over that local high school girl who just got her license . . . but when you found some weed in her purse, you told her that the only way she wasn’t going to jail is if she got down on her knees.” As the statement hung in the air, Ivy hit him with a glare that stabbed like a spear. “What’s so absurd is that until we found the tape, I didn’t even know you had your little camcorder set up on your dash. Such a creepy kink—and point-blank dumb when you think about it. But I guess you liked replaying your favorite bits, huh?”

The sheriff shifted in his seat.

Behind Nola, the hallway . . . the building . . . the entire universe went silent. Wherever Roddy was, he was quiet. For once.

Nola glanced down at the MiniDV tape, putting the final pieces into place. When you’re sick enough to make a tape like that, you protect it with your life. Yet all those years ago, Sheriff Bix somehow lost control of the tape. And Koch got it. Though if that were the case . . . for Koch to get his hands on something that powerful—that incriminating—over someone who was police . . .

“Koch was blackmailing you,” Nola said to the sheriff.

Bix looked away.

“Is that how he got you to turn a blind eye on whatever Cello was smuggling?” Nola asked. “Then you and Koch teamed up and turned on Cello for your own benefit?”

Bix again glanced down at his holster and gun on the carpet. “Nola, notice how Ivy’s not talking about them breaking into Koch’s house? Ask her what she and her friends were really searching for.”

“You think we went looking for that?!” Ivy shot back. “That tape . . . that night . . . you know what it did to me? I was in eleventh grade. My biggest worry should’ve been about who was taking me to junior prom, and then he—he— You destroyed that version of me!” she exploded, swaying faster, the metronome picking up speed, her gun still locked on the sheriff. “Y’know how many years I carried you in my head? You turned me into an impossible person to be around, pushing everyone outta my life! That was you!” she shouted.

“Another manipulation,” the sheriff said to Nola. “Unless you think innocent people regularly sneak into people’s hou—”

“You think I wanted to break into Koch’s?!” Ivy challenged. “My life was a hurricane back then . . . hooked on every pain medication I could get my hands on. We just thought if we got those emeralds, we could . . .” Ivy closed her eyes, as if she still couldn’t believe they were that stupid. “Can you imagine? When we saw Koch was mixed up with Cello, we knew we were screwed, but the videotapes . . . P.K. thought we might be in luck when he saw those—I mean, you find videos hidden that well, there’s gotta be something important on them, right, Sheriff?”

Bix didn’t answer, telling Nola everything she needed. All this time, they thought Koch had been the one to hire Fish. But instead . . . On that night, when Koch’s alarm went off, the police came running, but no one ran faster than the junior deputy being blackmailed at the time, a young Arnold Bix. He knew what would happen if those tapes got out.

From there, he and Fish went after them one by one, every member of The Breakfast Club: first P.K., then Nola’s mom . . . but when they came for Ivy and Fechmeier . . . “You took the videos—and that black book—to the feds,” Nola said, turning to Ivy. “That’s how they figured out Cello was smuggling guns. That’s how you got in witness protection.”

“We did the right thing. We thought we’d be safe,” Ivy insisted. “We signed away our lives . . . got new names and IDs. And then for months we sat there, waiting for when they’d drag Koch and the sheriff from their homes as they try to hide their faces from the local news crews. Instead . . .”

“They both cut deals and became federal informants,” Nola said, glancing over her shoulder, listening again for Roddy. When they were little . . . even now, even here . . . things moved between them, brother and sister. But at this moment, she couldn’t feel him out there. Something was wrong. She glanced down the hallway. She had no idea where he was.

On her left, Ivy’s posture shifted, her gun on target at the sheriff. Back leg planted. Shooting stance.

“When we asked WITSEC about it, they said nabbing Cello . . . they called it the greater good. The greater good! Can you imagine?” Ivy asked, her finger now on the trigger. “But want to know the most galling part for me, Arnie? All these years, you knew Fetch and I were out there . . . you knew we were alive. But whatever deal you made with Uncle Sam to rat on Cello—once you got your promotion from deputy to full sheriff . . . once Koch took Cello’s place and unlocked the mother lode of government contracts, you both—” Ivy cut herself off. “Nola, what’re you looking for?”

Nola turned back from the hallway, but Ivy wasn’t stupid.

“Is someone—?” Ivy took her own glance up the hallway, like she heard or spotted something. “You didn’t come alone, did you?”

Before Nola could react, Ivy took a half step toward the door—

Fttt.

A black burn mark appeared below Ivy’s collarbone, a single shot that hit her in the chest. The pain still hadn’t registered as she stumbled backward, off balance, crashing into the back wall. It happened in less than a second. At the impact, her elbow hit first and—

There was a loud pop and a flash from Ivy’s gun. A misfire.

“Nuhhhh!” the sheriff screamed, slapping his own face like he was swatting a mosquito. Blood pumped like a heartbeat from between his fingers—the bullet had already torn through his cheek.

Roddy. Has to be Roddy, Nola thought still in midturn, following the trajectory of the first bullet, the one that hit Ivy. To knock her backward, it didn’t come from the hallway, it came from . . . her gaze slid past the desk, toward the credenza behind the sheriff . . . There. The wide three-panel window.

Sure enough, the far left windowpane had a perfect hole surrounded by fractured glass.

Of course. This whole time, she thought Roddy was lurking inside, listening in. Instead, he was out back, lying in wait until he had a better angle on—

“Nola, I heard shots! Are y—? What in the f—? You shot him?!” a familiar voice called out behind her, from the hallway.

Nola turned as Roddy burst into the room, gun in hand. His color was paler, his face still slick with sweat, though now his eyes looked glassy. Nola couldn’t tell if it was panic or something worse, but he was clearly confused as he eyed Ivy, then the sheriff . . . all the blood . . .

“Y-You said you’d wait. Why didn’t you wait?” Roddy asked Nola, pointing to the sheriff.

“M-My face! She shot me in the face!” the sheriff shouted.

On Nola’s left, Ivy was leaning against the wall, staring down at her wound, her pointer finger touching the small black hole in her chest, still in shock.

It didn’t make sense. Nola looked at the broken window, then back at Roddy. To take the shot from the backyard . . . then run all the way around through the front . . . No one’s that fast. Which meant she had it wrong. Roddy hadn’t been around back; he was inside the entire time. But if that’s the case, then someone else—

“Down! Now!” Nola shouted, dropping to the floor, yanking Roddy with her as another two shots—Ftttt. Ftttt.—sliced through the window, bits of glass cartwheeling above them.

Whoever shot Ivy was still in the backyard.

“You said you’d wait!” Roddy hissed, his face flushing. “The sheriff— He was supposed to be mine! Why didn’t you w—”

Nola clamped her hand on his mouth, his top lip a river of sweat. Quiet or they’ll—

Ftttt. Another shot whizzed past, this one closer. A final scan told Nola the rest. There was a desk . . . a bookcase . . . beyond that, minimal cover. And thanks to the lights, concealment was gone. Even for a poor shot, it was only a matter of time. When you’re pinned like this and there’s nowhere to go . . .

Nola scrambled to her knees.

“What’re you doing?” Roddy hissed. “You’re gonna get us both—!”

She was already gone, sprinting toward the bookcase.

In a blur, she snatched a phone book from the bottom shelf, pressed it to her forehead and, in one quick movement, leapt shoulder-first toward the side glass window.

There was a loud CRRRACK. Bits of glass flew through the air, then a thud.

Just like that, Nola was gone.

69

The sheriff was the first to react.

The glass had shattered and was still raining down. Nola had disappeared through the window. And Sheriff Bix was eyeing his holster and gun lying on the carpet. He didn’t care about Nola. His cheek was on fire, and another pulse of blood pumped between his fingers. He was in midturn. If he was fast enough—

Behind him, there was a click.

“Do. Not,” Ivy warned, raising her gun, her arm shaking from her injury.

“I disagree,” Roddy said, climbing to his knees and pointing his own pistol at the sheriff’s chest. “Do us both a favor, Sheriff—please—go for your weapon.”

The sheriff froze, putting one hand in the air, the other still holding his cheek. Given the choice between Ivy and Roddy . . . It was no choice who the bigger threat was.

“R-Roddy, I know how this looks . . . but think back . . . in the parking garage . . . I saved your lives—”

“Your daughter saved my life.”

“In the hospital . . . I sat with you. My friend the doctor—”

“Stop. I don’t believe your lies anymore,” Roddy said, motioning again for the sheriff to go for his gun.

“Roddy, I’m on your side. Y’hear me? Just listen . . . wh-when . . . when you pull that trigger, she’s—” He motioned to Ivy. “The moment you shoot me, she’ll put a bullet in your head.”

“Does that seem logical to you, kid?” Ivy asked Roddy, her hand now steady, her gun still pointed at the sheriff.

Roddy didn’t answer.

“Roddy, you hear what I said?” she added.

“I wasn’t joking about your holster, Sheriff. Please,” Roddy said flatly, blinking slowly, like his wires were crossed. “I need you to go for your weapon.”

A swell of tears pushed out from the sheriff’s eyes, mixing with the blood on his cheek. He shook his head, his jowls waggling. He knew what was coming. “Roddy, please. I looked you up—we’re both police. I can—”

“PICK UP THE FUCKING GUN!” Roddy exploded, rushing forward to kick it closer and—

He never made contact.

The medical examiner would eventually conclude that Roddy had a retroperitoneal hematoma, a direct result of Fish stabbing him in the parking garage. Internal bleeding would cause him to lose a full liter of blood, all of it collecting in the space behind his kidneys. And since blood volume affects blood pressure, he wasn’t getting enough oxygen to his brain, his heart, to any major organ. At this moment, though, Roddy’s shoulder started to spasm—a myoclonic jerk—like a dancer in the “Thriller” video.

“Kid . . . you okay?” Ivy asked.

Stumbling, Roddy reached to his left for a banister that wasn’t there. His shoulder jerked again. Then again. His head sagged, his eyelids falling, like he was nodding off but still struggling to stay awake.

“Kid . . . !”

Roddy grasped again for the imaginary banister, rag-dolling and sagging as momentum took over, and he fell diagonally toward the desk.

He hit face-first with an unsettling thud, then bounced, arms at his side, in a way bodies aren’t meant to bounce. Toy cars scattered. The sheriff’s laptop crashed to the floor.

“Roddy . . . !” Ivy shouted, racing forward.

She was fast.

But not nearly as fast as Sheriff Bix, who crawled, scrambling on his knees, grabbing his holster, and pulling his gun from it.

70

Keenley, Pennsylvania

Fifteen years ago

This was Nola when she was thirteen.

Dinner was fine, the small talk was fine, even Royall was fine. Most important, the food was surprisingly good. Nola was wrong about it being chicken—Ulrich instead served something called Cornish hens, which were juicy and extra salty, just how Nola liked it. They even poured her Coca-Cola—from a can!—which was fifty times better than that ass American Fare brand that Royall bought every week at Kmart.

When they first sat down, Mr. Ulrich pantomimed for Nola to put her napkin in her lap, but not like a judgy a-hole. He had a way about him, explaining things without making you feel stupid. Indeed, the more Nola watched Ulrich—the way he cut his food, maneuvering his fork and knife in tandem . . . or the way he used the word huh to end a conversation—she knew: this was a place to learn. Watch and learn.

No surprise, Lettie was awful, the little skankbag touching and adjusting her bangs over and over every time she spoke. It hit new heights when she was quizzing Nola on her favorite TV shows—Do you watch Victorious? (touch) Shake It Up? (touch) What about Mike & Molly? (touchtouchtouch)—shocked to hear that Nola hadn’t seen any of them. Royall didn’t allow TV in the house, saying it was killing Catholicism and turning girls into sluts.

“I’m with you, Royall. I wish Lettie watched less TV too,” Mr. Unrich admitted, tearing off the thigh of his Cornish hen while smiling playfully at his daughter, who smiled right back. Even Royall got in on it, tossing a smirk toward Nola—not as a threat . . . an actual warm grin. Like any work event, everyone was on best behavior.

Indeed, for Nola, that’s what really stood out—how utterly . . . normal dinner was. At home, even when she cooked, she and Royall never ate together, much less sat at the same table or spoke to each other.

So to be sitting here now, enjoying her perfectly cooked hen in this perfectly decorated dining room with this perfectly ironed napkin in her lap, Nola kept glancing around—at the polished silver . . . the shiny glassware—looking for something out of place. A smudge, a fingerprint, even a nick in the mahogany table or a blemish in the paint on the walls. On any given day, Nola could find the flaw easily, but at this moment . . . ? She couldn’t find a molecule that was out of—

“Nola, are you okay?” Mr. Ulrich asked.

Royall and Lettie turned her way. Ulrich stared too, though not in that bad way like most of Royall’s friends. He was genuinely trying to be helpful, which only made it worse.

“Yeah, no, I was— I gotta pee,” Nola insisted, starting to stand.

Ever the gentleman, Mr. Ulrich shot out of his seat.

Nola froze, confused by the courtesy.

Across the table, Lettie pretended to stare down at her rose gold watch, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Relax, dear. Restroom is around the corner . . .” Ulrich said, pointing her toward the living room.

Nola nodded awkwardly, rushing from the table.

Between Royall and the kids at school, Nola was accustomed to feeling like an outsider, but never before had she so quickly felt out of her league.

It got worse as she reached the ornate living room, which was centered around a chocolate-brown leather sofa with clawed feet, a pair of Grosfeld House wing chairs, and a maroon and beige tapestry rug. Nola had no idea that the décor was French country, but you don’t need an art degree to know beauty when you see it. For a moment, she just stood there frozen, taking it all in . . . the Chicago brick fireplace, the built-in bookshelves filled with lavish volumes, picture frames with baby photos of Lettie, and a ton of crystal figurines shaped like animals: turtles, owls, elephants, hummingbirds . . . there were dozens of them, sparkling in the overhead lights. All Nola could think was that Royall didn’t have a single photo of her in their house.

“To the right . . . !” Mr. Ulrich called out from the other room.

Darting into the bathroom, Nola quickly locked the door. She didn’t need to pee—she just wanted to get away . . . from Lettie, from this dinner, from— God, even the bathroom’s breathtaking. Glancing around, she eyed the marble sink with its clawed feet, which she’d forevermore associate with fanciness, the floral show towels, plus the dish filled with tiny soaps molded like seashells.

Without even thinking, she started rummaging through the seashell soaps, looking for one that might be— There. She found a chipped one, then another at the bottom that was cracked at the edge. Up toward the ceiling, just below the crown molding, a frayed piece of wallpaper had come unglued, dangling like the tongue of a shoe.

It didn’t make her feel any better. And really, of all the damage Royall did, one of the cruelest was that norm he’d built within her, that thing in her head that told her squalor and daily defects were so standard, so commonplace. It took a visit like this to remind her that people weren’t supposed to live with buckets on top of their refrigerators.

Tucking the broken seashell back under the pristine ones, Nola felt something new rise in her chest, a heated, primal question that she’d carry for days: Why did Lettie get this life, while I got mine? And God, did Nola hate herself for such pathetic self-pity.

With a fake flush of the toilet, she left the bathroom but turned the corner so fast, she tripped on the tapestry rug, stumbling, her shin smacking into the oval cherry coffee table. On impact, three more crystal figurines—a butterfly, hippo, and penguin—slid sideways into a stack of granite coasters.

In a blur, Nola reset the figures, picking up the penguin like a chess piece and glancing back at the dining room, checking to make sure Lettie wasn’t laughing at her clumsiness.

Back at the dinner table, Royall was gesturing wildly, telling that lame joke he always told about how he once convinced a flight attendant to bring him the business class snacks—Rice Krispies Treats!—when he was sitting in first class. It was a bullshit lie, made up so people would think he could afford first class, much less fly at all.

Yet as Nola spotted Lettie’s reaction . . . her eyes wide and excited . . . her mouth open mid-laugh . . . At just the sight of Lettie’s joy, Nola did something that years from now, she still wouldn’t be able to explain.

Cupping the crystal penguin, Nola tucked it into the waistband of her skirt and quickly darted back to the dining room. A tiny treat, just for herself.

“Everything okay?” Royall asked as she slid into her seat.

Nola nodded, taking a sip of Coke and stealing a glance at Lettie, who was picking at her food, barely acknowledging that Nola was there.

The rest of the meal went great.

Royall continued telling jokes. Mr. Ulrich continued to laugh. Even Lettie wasn’t so terrible once they realized their mutual hate for Tori Sanderson, the insufferable little shittail who was always the first to raise her hand in Mrs. Manapul’s class.

“So when do I get to taste this great wine you’ve been bragging about?” Mr. Ulrich asked toward the end of the meal, rapping his gold signet ring against the table like a tiny door-knocker.

“I’m actually booked all next week, but maybe . . .” Royall squinted, like he was examining an imaginary calendar. “How’s the following Tuesday?” he asked, sounding almost sad. “You’ll see . . . Our sommelier called it pristine.”

Nola couldn’t help but be impressed. Usually, Royall was a battering ram, shoving whatever he was selling straight down your throat until he wore you down. Tonight, though . . . she knew he had no appointments. Well done, playing hard to get.

“Tuesday sounds great. Call Dottie, and have her put you and that Maison Leroy on the calendar,” Ulrich teased, rapping his ring once again against the table.

Forty-five minutes later, everyone headed to the door.

“See you tomorrow. Hope Tori’s sick,” Lettie joked, shaking Nola’s hand like they were actual friends.

The cherry on top came as they left the house and walked down the front steps. Royall put his hand on Nola’s shoulder and then opened the car door for her. Even Hallmark would be jealous.

As they pulled out of the driveway and back through the neighborhood, neither said a word until the first stop sign, where the car bucked to a halt.

“Put that Maison on the fucking calendar! Let’s GOOOOOO!” Royall shouted, punching the steering wheel like a boxer working a speed bag. “Money money money money . . . monnneeeey!” he sang, matching the high pitch of the old O’Jays song.

Even Nola started to smi—

Whap!

Royall’s hand shot out like a cobra, straight at Nola, his open hand colliding, palming her left temple, shoving her sideways. The right side of her head hit the passenger window with a thump as he pinned her in place.

“Where is it?” he growled.

“R-Royall, y-y-you’re . . . that hurts . . .” she begged.

“Tell me what you took. I saw you in the living room. Was it jewelry?”

“Royall, I swear on m—”

He pressed harder, still palming her head, jamming the right side of her face into the ledge of the passenger window, then pressing even harder, the pin of the popped lock drilling into her cheek. Royall was smart. All these years, he knew better than to hit her. Use the right amount of pressure. It never leaves a mark.

“R-Royall, please . . . I’m sorry, it was . . . ! Here . . . here . . . !” she insisted, pulling the crystal penguin from her waistband.

He yanked it from her hand as a car horn honked behind them at the stop sign.

“Go around, assface!” Royall shouted, rolling down his window, pantomiming for the car to pass. With his right hand, he was pressing Nola’s head to the door. With his left, he studied the tiny penguin, bits of light reflecting and casting disco ball prisms across his face.

“This real crystal? Swarvowski or whatever it’s called?” Royall asked.

“I-I have no ide—”

“Yeah . . . this is Swarvowski,” Royall said, letting go of Nola’s head and eyeing the penguin even closer. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. I can sell this—Sweet & Low loves this crap.”

Curled in the passenger seat, Nola stared at the prisms that swirled across Royall’s face. Her head was throbbing from being smacked into the door. So was her palm from when he ripped the crystal from her hand. Yet what was far more painful was the sudden realization that Royall—someone she didn’t want to know her at all—knew her way better than she wanted to admit. And even worse, to steal from the Ulrichs . . . to take something from their house . . . his influence was undeniable.

“Next time keep your back to the room,” Royall said as he hit the gas. “And don’t say I never taught you nothin’.”

71

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

Nola landed exactly how Airborne school trained her to, knees together and executing a dynamic PLF—parachute landing fall—or as her instructor used to put it, on your ass. Even on impact, she was still holding tight to the phone book.

It wasn’t just to protect her when she jumped through the window. Years ago, when a deal on stolen copy machines fell through, Royall dragged all the outdated instruction manuals into their backyard, lined them up, and told Nola to get his gun. Those six-inch binders stopped a 9mm—and even Royall’s .38.

Pulling her own gun and rolling onto her stomach, Nola propped the phone book in front of her head like a tiny tombstone and peeked out behind it, looking for muzzle flash.

It didn’t come.

If she’d leapt out the back window, she’d be jumping directly into gunfire. By leaping out the side, it’d take a moment for the shooter to adjust, to shift his sight . . .

That’d buy her a few seconds . . . enough to find cover as she elbow-crawled to the nearest tree on her right, a thin, beat-up hickory that was starting to curve like a parenthesis.

Still no muzzle flash.

Whoever the shooter was, they were patient. Instead of taking a bad shot and revealing their location, they were quiet, waiting for the right shot.

C’mon, asshole—I know you’re there, Nola thought, still on her stomach, her gun out front in a two-handed grip as she tried to ignore the fire in her arm. When Nola burst through the window, her left forearm took the brunt of it. Unless it’s safety glass and designed to break away, no one leaps through a window unscathed.

Was she losing blood? Absolutely. But thanks to adrenaline, she didn’t feel it.

In the distance, a choir of crickets sang their nightly song, along with some herons, who argued and squawked. The worst of it was a high-pitched clicking, fluttering, and scratching that was coming from . . . it sounded like it was coming from above her, in the tree . . . but also all around her.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she realized her left elbow was leaning in what looked like rat droppings, but more dried and crumbled.

Crap. Literally. Only one thing squeaked and scratched like that.

Bats.

Nola quickly brushed the droppings aside. Wherever the roost was, it was nearby. She blinked a few times, her eyes still adjusting. There were no lights out back, just the full moon bathing the wide grass and the few surrounding trees in pale yellow.

The open field was bigger and far deeper than Nola first thought. Scanning left to right, she spotted an old rusted metal picnic table, a few scattered and clearly untrimmed shrubs, and a metal hammock stand with no hammock.

What caught her eye, though, were the bales of hay to her left, dotted with random bowling pins, some standing upright, some on their sides, some shattered and sprinkled along the ground. Nola had seen them before on sandbags at bases in Afghanistan: target practice. There was another bale, a single one, on her right, then another in the distance. This whole area . . . It was the police squad’s homemade shooting gallery.

“PICK UP THE FUCKING GUN!” Roddy shouted behind her, from inside the building, screaming at the sheriff.

Nola didn’t turn. Whatever was happening inside, Roddy would have t—

There was another sound. A twig snapping, someone moving.

Nola’s gun slid sideways, toward the bales of hay. On one of them, a bowling pin lay on its side, dangling over the front edge, casting a shadow that reminded her of a childhood toy she couldn’t quite place. But more than that . . . from this angle, she could finally see . . .

She glanced back toward the sheriff’s office, to the bullet holes in the window. It didn’t make sense. The shots that hit Ivy had come from high ground. But the bales of hay were too short—the angle all wrong—meaning the shooter was actually . . .

There.

She’d missed it before. Farther up on her left, past the picnic table, a narrow dirt path carved diagonally through the grass toward—

She squinted to see it. Half a football field away was an arched wooden footbridge, at least thirty feet long, with thick rails along the sides.

Something flapped and swirled above it, a single bat quarreling with a high-pitched squeal. That’s where the roost was, under the bridge. There was water down there, Catoctin Creek, a twenty-seven-mile-long tributary that ran all the way to the Potomac. For the shooter, perfect for entry and escape.

From there, Nola didn’t hesitate. Climbing to her knees, she squatted like a runner, counting to herself. Three . . . two . . .

72

Sprinting into the open field, Nola raised her gun and fired a quick shot toward the bridge, into the darkness. She had no idea where the shooter was, but that’s the point of suppressive fire. When bullets start flying, smart snipers keep their heads down.

She counted three more seconds and squeezed the trigger again.

Pop.

Another bullet whizzed through the night. A flurry of bats panicked, flapping and shrieking louder than ever.

Cutting left, then right, Nola zigzagged deeper into the field. The only cover was dead ahead near the bridge, the few trees that ran along the creek. If she could get there—

Krrk.

Another gunshot. But not one of hers. Behind her, back at the station . . . where her brother and the sheriff—

Stay on mission, she told herself.

It was good advice, but as she fired another shot and picked up speed, it didn’t stop her from trying to listen behind her.

Nothing but silence, bringing an old memory to the front of her brain, from when she and her brother were little, back in the group home, when Roddy bit himself, breaking his own skin, then blamed it on Nola to help him get adopted first.

Straight ahead, closer to the creek, dozens of bats let out trilling chirps, trying to attract a female.

Nola squeezed the trigger again, firing another shot, then cutting to her right, ducking behind a narrow hickory tree. She was starting to breathe heavy, which caught her off guard. Years ago, in Kabul, she’d regularly make her way up and down the mountains without breaking a sweat. To be huffing now . . . she blamed it on the cut in her arm and the swampy night air . . . spring suddenly feeling like summer. Then another old memory blinked in her brain: their mother’s blond hair whipping in the wind, a single tangle of gold hovering, waving at Nola in the sunlight. And that name . . . Daniella.

Something skittered overhead, scurrying through the branches. More bats for sure, though Nola was too busy studying the one . . . two . . . three . . . four shattered bowling pins scattered along the ground. On the broken belly of one of the pins was a sticker: a blue-and-red target with a yellow bull’s-eye. Perfect hit, every time.

You’re still here, aren’t you, shooter? she thought, peeking her head out to study the empty bridge, which was still at least thirty feet away. Close enough to hear the rush of the creek, but still too far from the steep embankment that led down to the water. If it were her, that’s where she’d hide.

The crickets were howling now, their concert deafening.

Nola glanced back toward the sheriff’s office. If that was Roddy pulling the trigger on the sheriff, shouldn’t she’ve heard something from him by now?

From what she could tell, the lights in the office were still on, but at this angle . . . she couldn’t see any movement.

He’s fine. Roddy’s always fine, she told herself, darting forward and squeezing off another shot, then quickly ducking behind one of the last trees before the bridge, another hickory, though this one was thicker. More leaves, better cover.

Just ahead, above the bridge, the bats were swirling in their own ballet.

Down low, Nola spotted a few stray pebbles, the grass getting patchy. From here, she’d be able to get her first good look down the embankment, but as she peeked out from behind the tree—

There was a crack, like a wishbone snapping.

Above her. In the tree.

Nola had just started to lift her chin as a new noise sliced through the air. A pop—at an octave higher than usual. Shooter at close range.

When most people hear a gunshot, they scatter . . . run . . . Nola leapt backward, an instinct built into her years ago, from all the mines and trip wires in Iraq.

It’s the only thing that saved her life.

The bullet whizzed just above her head, burrowing diagonally into the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt.

Nola fell backward, off balance, pebbles and rocks biting into her ass and back. Her head slammed with a thud.

She knew what was coming. Same thing she would do.

The shadow appeared from up in the tree, Fish’s arms spread wide as he leapt down from his hiding spot.

Straight at Nola.

73

“Police! Don’t move!” the sheriff started to shout.

They were ancient words, taught to him a half century ago back in training—quick commands that were so vital to police life, there were name tag–sized stickers with the phrase—Police! Don’t move!—on every locker at the state police academy.

The goal was to beat it into your brain, make it second nature, so during a firefight, when panic kicks in, you don’t yell something conflicting like Freeze! Hands in the air!

It’d been over a decade since Sheriff Bix had to pull on someone—back during a traffic stop, when Benjy Tarlow was flying so high on ketamine, he accidentally hit the gear shift, and the sheriff thought Benjy was trying to run him over.

As Roddy crashed to the floor, his body spasming, the sheriff dove for his holster to pull his gun and the words came right back. “Police! Don’t mov—!”

Pop.

The single shot drilled into the sheriff’s leg, shattering his kneecap, which, really, was Ivy’s goal. Maximum pain.

“Ahuuuhhhh— Are you outta your—? Y-You shoulda killed me. Y-You think you can just punish me and walk away, you fucking psycho?!” the sheriff screamed, his hand shaking, still trying to pull his gun from the holster.

“I highly recommend against that,” Ivy said, taking a step toward him, chambering another round. The flames in her eyes told him everything that was about to happen.

“Ivy, wait . . . just wait . . .” the sheriff begged, dropping the holster. He was a bloody mess, one hand clutching his knee, the other holding his face. “Back then, I was . . . I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”

Between them, Roddy was facedown, his shoulder spasming with another jerk.

“Roddy, you okay?” Ivy called out, though her gun was still aimed at the sheriff.

Roddy didn’t respond. He wasn’t moving.

“Ivy, I really am sorry . . .” the sheriff pleaded, down on his stomach, his eyes flooding with tears, snot dripping from his nose into a waterfall of blood at his chin. “On my daughter’s life . . . I-I swear, Ivy . . . what I did that night . . . I was young and stupid, and the divorce . . . I’ve regretted it every day since!” he insisted, his voice cracking.

Ivy took two more steps toward him but didn’t say a word.

“Ivy, you hear me? If I could take it back . . . I-I never should’ve done that to you.”

Standing over him, Ivy raised her gun and pointed it at his head. “C’mon, Sheriff, we both know you didn’t just do it to me.”

Without a word, she pulled the trigger.

A clean burn mark appeared in his left temple.

The sheriff’s lifeless body slumped to the floor.

74

Nola was on her back at the foot of the tree as Fish drove his knee into her stomach.

He was older and even shorter than she expected, but clearly well trained to take the wind—and fight—out of her.

It would’ve worked . . . if Nola hadn’t pulled the trigger on her gun.

The muzzle flash lit up like a firework between them, sending a bullet into Fish.

“Gaaah!” he screamed, reeling and dropping his own gun to grab his belly. His other hand was wrapped in gauze, though she couldn’t tell which hand he favored. Ambidextrous? Regardless, he’s the one Zig told her about—Fish—the sheriff’s hired gun . . . the one who shot and stabbed Fechmeier. And all those years ago, when they were little and the sheriff gave the order, pulled the trigger on her and Roddy’s mother.

Still down on the ground and catching her own breath, Nola didn’t waste another second. She raised her gun and pointed it at Fish’s throat.

She wasn’t nearly fast enough.

Fish’s good hand sprang out in a blur, snatching the gun from Nola’s hands and swinging it like a bowling ball—a brutal uppercut—ramming the butt of the gun into Nola’s chin.

Her head snapped back, and the world exploded with stars. According to boxing experts, a knockout punch is technically a mini-stroke—a minor one, but still a stroke. When your head swivels at such a high rate of speed, it compresses your carotid arteries. It’s even worse with an uppercut, which constricts the blood flow at the back of your brain.

Fish knew what he was doing. As Nola’s eyes rolled up into her head, he reared back for another blow, unleashing the butt of the gun in a second ferocious uppercut.

On impact, the stars were so bright, reality went white, then black. No . . . don’t pass out!

Twisting sideways, trying to crawl away, Nola was blinking over and over. She couldn’t stop the world from tipping sideways. Then she felt it—something cold and metal pressing into the corner of her forehead.

She froze on all fours.

“Down. Now,” Fish warned, jamming the barrel of the gun into Nola’s left temple and forcing her down to her stomach, pressing even harder until her cheek was in the dirt. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re Daniella’s kids?”

Nola didn’t answer, pressing her head toward the gun, like she just wanted him to get it over with.

Fish rolled his eyes, his finger gripping the trigger. “And here I thought your brother would be the bigger pain in the ass.”

The bats were still chirping as he pulled the trigger.

75

Click.

Out of bullets.

“What in the f—?” Fish blurted.

Nola grinned, her cheek still in the dirt. She knew the count of her own gun as she eyed Fish’s ankle holster. In one quick movement, she yanked the fillet blade from its sheath and plunged it with everything she had into Fish’s foot, just above the leather laces of his deck shoes to make sure she’d hit bone.

Based on his scream, mission accomplished.

“You’re fucking dead!” he exploded.

Nola scrambled to her feet, a constellation of stars still floating in front of her. For that reason, as Fish frantically hopped backward fighting to pull the knife from his foot, Nola didn’t see his heel come down on a stray rock, turning his ankle with a brutal snap.

Fish let out a yelp like an injured dog.

A swirl of bats went wild as he stumbled sideways and lost his balance on the edge of the embankment, sending him tumbling and rolling down the dirt hill.

It wasn’t far to fall, about fifteen feet, his momentum broken by a rotted log not far from the creek.

Blinking away the last of the stars, Nola glanced down the hill.

“Raaaaaaaah!” Fish exploded, frantically yanking the knife from his foot and letting out a scream she’d think about for years. His hand was shaking, and he was breathing heavy as he dropped the knife, clearly in pain, his age finally showing.

“Fish, it’s over!” she called out.

Refusing to look back, he climbed to his feet, limping like a zombie. At this point, his only focus was on survival, on escape.

If he got to the water, he’d get exactly that.

Nola glanced around for his gun. Nowhere in sight.

If she wanted, she could let him go . . .

No. She couldn’t.

A few scattered bats swirled from above as Nola stepped off the edge of the embankment, surfing down the loose rocks and backfill, her shoes filling with dirt.

“Hh-hh-hh . . . !” Fish was panting and out of breath as he hobbled through the mud near the edge of the creek. “St-stay away—!”

Nola tackled him from behind, the momentum sending them both tumbling into the creek. The water was warm, swampy, and far deeper than either expected.

Nola tried standing up, her feet kicking around for purchase, but the ground wasn’t there. She was fighting to hold on to Fish, but he was thrashing too hard. She had no choice but to take a deep breath as the water covered them. In the weightlessness, Fish pulled away, and she lost him for a moment.

Spreading her arms in a series of breaststrokes, she glanced around to get a better look. A whirlwind of silt started to settle, but at this time of night, the water was ink, making it impossible to see more than a few inches in front of her—

Fish’s hands appeared from nowhere, grabbing Nola’s throat, gripping tight, the bandage on his hand unraveling and floating between them underwater. As he pulled her close, the silt parted like a curtain, revealing his face. He was made of sharp bones and angles, with a dead look in his eyes that told her where this was going.

Fish didn’t care about his injuries . . . or getting away . . . He didn’t care about anything.

Her first reaction was to backpedal and kick, but just as quickly, a mix of training and evolutionary instinct took over. Lunging for Fish’s throat, she gripped his windpipe just as hard, burrowing her thumbs into his Adam’s apple. For most, this pain was so crippling, they’d let go. Fish barely reacted, his eyes narrowing, his grip an unrelenting vise.

All it did was make Nola squeeze harder.

A flurry of tiny bubbles escaped from his nose—from hers too—the two of them hovering underwater like it was outer space, their bodies tipping, bubbles circling upward, each holding tight to the other’s throat.

Another old memory came back to Nola, that night in sixth grade during Girl Scouts, when Royall burst into the YMCA rec room that had a permanent smell of crayons, glitter, and Play-Doh. He was raging at Ms. Konnikova, the troop mom, screaming why didn’t they have any respect for his time, and why would the damn meetings run so long, even though they’d only gone four minutes past schedule.

Grabbing young Nola by the biceps, Royall dragged her from the room, Nola clawing, struggling to pull free but never telling him that the reason she wanted to stay was that she’d earned a Movers Try-It badge for a well-made whirlybird paper helicopter.

“Please, Mr. Barker . . . wait!” Ms. Konnikova shouted, chasing after them in the hallway. In Nola’s free hand was a colored pencil—dark purple like a bruise—and even in sixth grade, Nola wanted to stab it into Royall’s wrist . . . into his leg . . . anything to get him to let go. Instead, on that night, she did nothing. As Royall jerked her into the parking lot, his grip was so tight, she thought her skin might burst.

It was the same grip Fish was using on her now—and she on him—each convinced they were stronger than the other.

She again tried kicking free, but all it did was burn her own oxygen.

In a battle of wills, Nola knew who would win, especially as she eyed Fish’s ears. They were starting to flush. It was hard to see underwater, but as close as he was . . . His face shifted in color, already going purple. That’s all Nola needed. At fiftysomething, he was almost double her age. He’ll let go.

But he didn’t.

Gritting his teeth and holding tight, he squeezed her trachea harder than ever.

Barely five seconds had passed. Her heart began to gallop, the blood rushing to her face. Nola knew that the key was to find calm. Conserve oxygen. Already underwater, they weren’t choking the air from each other’s lungs; they were simply causing each other pain. She had enough air in her lungs. Just calm yourself and limit exertion.

Mongol . . . Faber . . . Staedtler . . . Ticonderoga . . . Swan. Nola ran through the mental list the psychiatrists had given her—her favorite pencils . . . the repetition—to find calm during chaos.

Sure enough, Fish’s hands started to quiver. His eyelids looked heavy, like they were starting to swell. But he still didn’t let go, his thumb drilling into her trachea.

She did the same with his Adam’s apple, pinching it with her thumbs, like a pimple ready to pop. Three more seconds passed. His face shifted from purple to a shade of blue.

Hers too; she could feel it. The blood flushing her face, the pressure building behind her eyes, pushing into her forehead. Mongol . . . Faber . . . Staedtler . . . She tried remembering the fourth, but it disappeared.

Another three seconds.

Fish was a foot and a half from her face. A blood vessel popped, bleeding into the whites of his eye.

He barely noticed, locked on Nola.

He made his decision.

And Nola made hers. She may not win, she decided, but she certainly wasn’t going to lose. No way was she letting go. Not now. Not ever. To her, the seesaw was already tipping her way. As strong as Fish was, he was injured—shot and bleeding. She had the advantage—she was younger, in better shape, and exponentially more stubborn. No way could he outlast her . . .

Until.

It started with a stitch in her stomach, a knife slice that cut upward, sawing through her ribs, rising to her throat, the agony expanding and . . . She’d been through pain before, but . . . nothing like this. It was too much. Mongol . . . Faber . . .

The world went blurry, the seesaw wobbling, starting to shift.

Mongol . . .

The average person—when someone’s not choking them—can hold their breath for a little over a minute. It’d been ninety seconds.

Across from her, Fish’s face was a frightening shade of green and blue, his sharp cheekbones poking through his skin, his eyes shut tight. What stood out most was his posture—the shift in it—his shoulders going slack. A man who’d made peace . . . or at least looked content . . . with what was coming. Fish was no longer holding on for dear life. With his injuries, there was only one outcome. He was ready to welcome death. For both of them.

No! Nola said, though she hadn’t said it at all.

She again tried to kick, but she was too off balance. Shutting her eyes, she squeezed tighter, clenching Fish’s throat, her fingers so numb she couldn’t feel them.

It wasn’t enough. The seesaw tipped, both of them sinking, Fish’s bandage waving like a flag, hovering above them as they sank. It made another old memory appear—a lost one—from when she and Roddy were little, a social worker at the group home describing them as ruined. That’s the word she used. A ruined life.

Fish was calmer now, calmer than before, his grip contracting around her neck, the vise squeezing shut, and now Nola was thinking of the start . . . the cause of all this . . . The Breakfast Club . . . Fetch . . . and P.K. . . . and the young woman killed all those years ago—Daniella. If Daniella really was Nola’s mother, who was her father . . . ?

A burst of tiny bubbles took the last bits of air from their lungs. Nola and Fish . . . they were anchors, the two of them still holding tight to each other, arms outstretched like Frankenstein monsters, eyes clenched as they sank down down down . . .

In the darkness, a burst of silver floaters filled Nola’s vision. She was mesmerized as they swirled and knit together like cobwebs, blinking, dancing, twirling silver threads, like hair blown back in a convertible. She wanted to paint it . . . capture it . . . but it was so beautiful, Nola realized, she just wanted to look at it. And maybe this was what peace felt like.

In that space between holding on and letting go, she emptied her head, focusing on the peace, trying to secure it, but all it did was make her think of Zig. Him finding her body and doing what she knew Zig would always do—race in with his need to be the hero mortician, to prep her body, dress her in her old uniform, and make sure the service was just right. Same thing he did with his daughter.

She didn’t want to think of Zig, didn’t want to think about him doing her funeral.

But as the world went dark, Nola had no choice.

76

Keenley, Pennsylvania

Fifteen years ago

This was Nola when she was thirteen.

She was drawing, copying really, sitting at their dining room table, which was a folding card table and two chairs—studying an Easter card her teacher had given her with a painting of an angel on the front. Nola hated angels, thought they were saccharine and oversentimental, but she liked this one in upward flight.

At this moment in her life, Nola was too young to consider herself an artist. She liked to doodle and draw—and sure, she understood that when her pencil was moving . . . when she got into that mental space . . . art could be a shield—though she still hadn’t realized it could also be a door. Something to protect you and help you escape.

“Get the confetti ready, baby!” a deep voice exploded as the front door flew open. “Everyone doubted, and everyone was wrong!”

Nola turned at the outburst, doing that thing she always did when Royall arrived home. Years from now, an Army lieutenant would say that Nola, like so many enlisted kids from unstable homes, had a gift for threat assessment. When someone entered a room, they’d sense things on an almost molecular level. On this night, though, Nola didn’t need a microscope.

“Guess how much he offered?” Royall asked, his voice slightly slurred, his gait off balance. Usually Thursday was drinking night, when he’d come home reeking of Miller Light. This was Tuesday, the night of his meeting with Mr. Ulrich. He smelled like scotch or something fancier. It clearly had gone better than expected.

“For the wine?” Nola asked.

“Of course for th— Are you a damn moron? Obviously for the wine!” Royall rolled his eyes, tossing his briefcase on their sagging fake leather sofa. “Just fucking guess. Both cases. He’s taking all of it.”

“I dunno . . . a million dollars?”

“You really are a moron.”

“You said to guess.”

“That’s a terrible guess. Even an auction doesn’t get that kinda money,” he explained. “And why the hell’re you sitting on your ass? Get up and celebrate!” he barked as Nola scrambled from her seat, knowing what that usually meant. She raced toward the liquor cabinet.

“No, dipshit—I don’t need a drink. Get the camera . . . I want a photo of me wi—” He cut himself off, noticing the colored pencils on the card table. “Wait. Forget the camera. Your crayons, get those. I need you to draw something.”

Nola turned, confused. Royall had never—not once—ever mentioned her art or even acknowledged it. And sure, it was hardly a compliment. But it still felt good.

“C’mon, get the damn crayons,” he insisted.

They’re colored pencils, she almost said, though he was clearly in a good mood. No reason to wreck it.

“I want you to draw . . .” He pointed to his own chest.

“You? Okay . . . yeah . . . I-I guess I can draw you,” Nola said, flipping to a new sheet in her sketchpad.

“Nonono, don’t draw me. Instead draw like, like . . .” His eyes narrowed, the idea still swirling in his brain. “. . . like bottles of wine . . . big ones . . . popping open and spraying . . . and then, then, and then . . .” He was pacing now, clearly excited. “Between the bottles—all around them—are huge dollar signs . . . tons of them!” he blurted, smiling wide, bouncing on his toes with an excitement that was— Happy. That was the only word. She’d never seen Royall actually happy.

“That sounds cool, right?” he asked.

Nola grabbed the nearest pencil, a midnight blue one, and got to work. During her first weeks of school, her art teacher, a chubby woman who wore a Michigan T-shirt every Friday, told Nola that instead of drawing what she saw, she should draw what she felt. At the time, it made no sense.

It wouldn’t for years.

“Yeah, girl . . . like that . . .” Royall said, watching over Nola’s shoulder as she sketched the cylindrical shape of the first bottle.

“Whoa,” Royall said as she added another, then another bottle on the opposite side, tilted toward each other so they formed an aisle down the center. As the picture bloomed to life, she even sketched a red carpet.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got actual skills?!” he asked, bouncing higher now, clutching the back of her chair as she added a massive 3-D dollar sign coming down the center. It was hardly her best work—and really, just a hot mess of Royall’s ego—but the bottles looked real, with solid shading and some rudimentary crosshatching.

“Motherf— That’s like exactly what I saw in my head!” Royall said, yanking the pad from the table, then grabbing Nola’s wrist and pulling her to her feet.

She hopped up so fast, her folding chair flew backward, crashing to the floor.

“Leave it—screw the chair . . . we’ll buy a new one . . . new table . . . new all of it . . . I mean it, Nola—I’m going shopping. What’re we buying?!”

He paused, looking her way. She didn’t realize the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“We definitely need a new doorbell,” she offered.

“Not for the house, moron. For you. You can buy one thing—what’s it gonna be?”

Nola glanced up at the mottled amoeba-shaped stain in the corner of the ceiling. She’d love to repair that leak.

“Pick something good. A real thing . . .” Royall insisted.

“Maybe a paint set?”

“A paint—?! Can you not ruin everything? That’s ten fucking dollars,” he scolded, clearly annoyed. “Pick something good. What about that—that—did you see that swanky watch Mr. Ulrich’s daughter was wearing? What about a watch like that?”

A small, crooked smile took Nola’s face. Lettie’s rose gold watch. “Yeah . . . that’d be nice.”

“Then we’re buying a damn watch!” Royall said, pulling Nola close, wrapping his arms around her, still holding her notepad so tight, the paper started to wrinkle.

As she crashed into his chest, she barely had time to react. Instead, she just stood there frozen, arms at her side. She’d never been hugged by Royall before and still wasn’t sure whether to hug him back.

“This is it, Nola! This is it!” He was laughing now, jumping like they were in a mosh pit, squeezing her tight, the energy, the elation, the glory radiating off him.

For years, Nola had suffered through plenty of Royall’s bad nights. But right now, as he danced around the room . . . this was a good night.

“You can feel it, can’t you, Nola? It’s coming! Pick out your fancy watch . . . hell, pick out a new car while you’re at it! Something nice too, with a sunroof!” he sang, holding up her drawing like it was a fine work of art. “It’s finally here, baby . . . the dollar signs are coming our way!”

77

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

The world was quiet. It was black, then a pulse of red, then black again.

Nola woke up mid-cough, down on her stomach, her ankles wet, still in the water. She was on the edge of the creek in the mud, not far from the bridge.

How’d I—? Did someone pull me from—? Wait. What happened t—?

Fish.

She took a quick look around, coughing, still blinking awake. Another flash of red hit, but it barely registered. She was still searching for—

There. On her left. Facedown in the water, his foot wedged between two large rocks, Fish’s head was submerged. Even from here, she could see . . . His hands were blue and starting to swell.

One threat gone.

Another red pulse hit, and Nola looked up the embankment. The bright red lights continued to swirl—a siren, up by the sheriff’s office—police . . . or an ambulance.

Then a new thought.

She scrambled to her knees, racing out of the mud. Nonono . . .

Roddy . . .

78

“Ma’am . . . you can’t—the crime scene—!”

“He’s my brother. Move,” Nola growled, shoving past the slender deputy who looked as spontaneous as his side part.

Plowing into the office, Nola ignored the puddle of blood at the foot of the desk where the sheriff’s lifeless body lay twisted and askew. His head was tilted awkwardly, like an abandoned marionette. Messy gash in his cheek plus a burn mark in his left temple. That’s the one that did him in.

“I called paramedics . . . they’re on their way,” Deputy Side Part told her.

Nola barely heard it, too focused on the second body, the one at the center of the room. Roddy was flat on his back as Nola slid onto her knees, nearly crashing into him.

His chest was moving, but his breathing was shallow and ragged. His mouth sagged open like a melted horseshoe, his coloring pale gray. She lifted his shirt to get a look at his waist. The underside of his body was dark, his skin mottled. She’d seen it too many times—blood circulation decreasing at his extremities and being reserved for only the most vital organs. Gravity doing the rest. She didn’t need Zig’s mortician skills to know what came next.

“Roddy . . .” she blurted, not even realizing she’d said it.

He turned her way, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He started to say something but couldn’t get the words out.

“Ambulance should be here any minute,” the deputy called out behind them.

“N-Nola, y-you look . . . hhuuh . . . I can see it on your face,” Roddy said, his breathing labored. “You think I’m gonna die, don’t you?”

Nola stayed silent, noticing the way his lower teeth slanted slightly, same as hers, like a civilization starting to crumble.

“Y-Your . . . our mother . . . you remember . . . hhuuh . . . you remember her hair as blond, don’t you? I could see . . . hhuuh . . . I knew you were lying before.” His voice was a whisper, his breathing getting worse.

“Where the hell’s the ambulance?!” Nola called to the deputy.

“Omigod . . . Nola! You’re okay!” Zig shouted behind her, racing into the room. “I heard— They said Roddy and the sheriff were—”

“Get out,” Nola insisted.

Zig froze as he got his first good look at the sheriff’s lifeless body. He took a half step back. “Melinda . . . don’t go in there . . .” Zig warned, spinning around, blocking the door.

“Dad . . . ?! Daddy . . . ?” Melinda called out, trying to peek inside. “I need to see my father!”

“Not like this,” Zig pleaded, and of course he was right. “We need that ambulance!”

“Everyone, GET OUT!” Nola exploded as the room again went silent.

“T-Tell Mr. Zigarowski . . . it’s . . . hhu-uuh . . . it’s okay,” Roddy whispered, his eyes lighting up like a torch, searching for Zig. “I’m . . . hhu-uuh . . .” A grin took his cheeks, and he stared up at the ceiling. “I-I’m glad he came. I-I-I’m glad you did too,” he insisted.

For a moment, Nola sat there in the quiet, just watching Roddy breathe. His chest rose, then tottered and lurched, each inhale and exhale a tiny earthquake.

She’d seen plenty of people at the end—the military made sure of that—and each time, she had that feeling she had now. A tug, or really an urge, to paint it—to see if she could capture it. Everyone knows a dead body when they see it; it’s the same when someone’s in the midst of death. Nola wanted to reach for her pencils, to see if she could render the sudden stillness, the loss of energy.

“N-Nola, is . . . hhu-uuh . . . is it true that . . . hhu-uuh . . . ?” Roddy stared at the ceiling, tears squeezing out behind his eyes. “D-D-Do you . . . hhu-uuh . . . do you have a pet?”

Nola paused, but not for long. “A cat.”

Roddy started to laugh, started to cough, tried to tell her, Cats really don’t like me . . . then he started laughing even harder, wanting to tell her an even better joke, the one about Butt Road, but all that came out was a wet gurgle that slid into a final high-pitched wheeze.

Roddy reached for her hand, his spidery fingers grabbing the tips of her own.

Handholding? Really? Nola thought.

His grip was clammy and frigid.

But for once, as she stared down at her brother, Nola didn’t pull away.

79

Dover, Delaware

Six days later

“You know they can hire someone to do it,” Waggs said through the phone.

“I’m fine,” Zig said.

“That’s not the question, Ziggy. And by the way, y’know who says I’m fine? People who aren’t fine. I know Roddy’s death has been—”

“Waggs . . . please. Not now,” Zig pleaded, approaching the closed door with the bright yellow-and-black sign.

danger!

formaldehyde irritant
and potential cancer hazard
authorized personnel only

“Lemme run,” Zig said, shutting the phone and shoving his way inside.

It took some convincing to bring the body here, but when Colonel Gupta realized the press was showing interest, she was happy to oblige.

“Told ya I’d be quick,” Zig whispered to the skinny, motionless man lying on the stainless steel embalming table.

Andrew Fechmeier. Fallen #2,573.

“By the way, nice choice—double-breasted is back,” Zig added, holding up the wire hanger that held the navy blue suit Fetch would be buried in.

It was just dumb luck, really. The embalming was already done, but Zig had graciously offered to take another look at the head wound and dress the body, which led to him talking to the original funeral director about clothing options. Right there, Generaux mentioned that before Fetch died, he’d dropped off a gold-buttoned, double-breasted suit that was still hanging in the closet.

By Dover standards, it wasn’t tough to finish the job—the makeup easy to do, the bullet holes surprisingly clean. Just took some minor clay work to get rid of the burn marks, though Zig did spend an extra three hours plucking dark hairs from the back of Fetch’s head and reattaching them with tweezers and glue to cover the exit wound at the top of his skull.

“I think I wore a suit like this to my high school graduation. Wait, this is good,” Zig said, hanging the suit on a nearby hook and pulling out his phone.

With a few taps onscreen, the familiar synth-drumbeat cocktail vibrated from the old Bluetooth speaker. Simple Minds shouted Hey, hey, hey, hey, and the room was filled with the defining theme song of the ’80s, “Don’t You (Forget About Me).”

For a moment, Zig considered shutting it off—it felt too on-the-nose. But it also felt right.

Fetch wasn’t just the brain. He was the troublemaker—the one who refused to be confined.

“There you go . . . now you’re looking good,” Zig said, pulling Fetch’s slacks on and tucking in his shirt.

For a flourish, Zig looped Fetch’s tie into a double Windsor, the same knot Roddy was wearing when they first went to the funeral home. And now Zig was replaying his own Roddy highlights, taking a moment to do the one thing he’d been too busy to do over the past week. Miss him.

It made Zig think of a book he’d read when he first started at Dover. The author, named Dale Maharidge, tried to find out what really happened to his father in World War II. In the end, Maharidge realized that wars never end—even when the guns stop firing. The broken parts—the hardest parts—continue to fester and linger. It was the same with Nola, same with Roddy, same with their mother, and of course, the same thing that made Zig bring Fetch here. Nothing ends—everything lingers.

Shirt, tie, pants, belt, socks . . . all of it was done.

The only thing left was the double-breasted jacket.

Yet the moment Zig pulled it from the hanger, something felt funny, like the weight was off.

What in the . . . ?

Holding the jacket high with one hand, he used the other to check each pocket. All empty.

Confused, Zig laid the jacket across the nearby countertop, patting it down, feeling for . . .

There. In the back vent.

A lump . . . something stitched inside.

The ultimate hiding spot, Zig realized, Simple Minds telling him don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t . . .

80

Arrow Rock, Maryland

“Scud, get your toy!”

The little dog, a fluffy white bichon with a Q-tip tail, didn’t move, just continued to beg. “Nn nn nn.”

“Go—get it!—your toy!” Melinda said, pretending to throw it again, a plushie shaped like a box of Eggo waffles that was Scud’s favorite because he liked the smell or the squeaker inside. It’s hard to tell with dogs.

The pup still didn’t take the bait, begging even harder as Melinda leaned back in her favorite seat on the screened-in porch, an old gift from her dad—a hand-carved rocking chair with a tiger-print pillow that he’d velcroed to the headrest.

“Don’t give me the stink eye. If you want it, get it yourself,” Melinda insisted, her white wine still in her hand as Hall & Oates sang about Sara’s smile on a nearby Bluetooth speaker while a neighbor buzzed their lawn.

“Nnnn nnnn . . .”

“You really are the worst listener,” Melinda said, hopping out of the rocking chair, though as she reached down for the Eggo plushie . . .

“Rrr,” the dog growled, then began to bark, jumping wildly as someone—a woman with spiky gray hair—appeared in the backyard.

Melinda turned, nearly dropping her wine, her eyes welling with tears at that moment of recognition. She hadn’t seen the woman since—it’d been decades—but there was no mistaking her fellow founding member of The Breakfast Club. “Ivy,” she muttered.

“It’s okay, doggie . . . it’s okay,” Ivy offered, squatting and raising her palm toward the screen door, though she was clearly in pain. Her left arm was in a sling from where she was shot below the collarbone.

“Scud, c’mere . . . Don’t— Scud, enough!” Melinda scolded, trying to scoop him up as he jumped wildly against the screen door.

“Scud? That’s a weird name for a fluffy white dog.”

“My son loved— It’s a Toy Story reference.”

“You think I missed Toy Story? It’s witness protection, not prison,” Ivy said, forcing a smile, though it didn’t come out as a joke.

“Listen, Ivy, before y— I heard—” Melinda stopped, then began again. “I’m sorry. How’s your arm?”

“Please don’t apologize. I didn’t come for an apology.”

“I know . . . I was— I’m just gonna start over, okay?” Melinda asked, cradling her dog as the lawn mower buzzed loudly in the distance. “What happened to Fetch . . . I know you were close . . . I’m sorry that happened,” she said, opening the screen door.

Ivy stayed where she was, refusing to come inside. “Do me a favor, Mindy? Don’t say his name.”

“What’re y—?”

With her good arm, Ivy pulled a small silver flip phone from her pocket and tossed it at Melinda, who had to let go of the screen door to catch it.

The door slapped with a thunderclap. The dog squirmed at the sound.

“I appreciate the high drama, but I’ve seen this before, in the police report. This is Fetch’s phone,” Melinda said. “The one they found—”

“At the Carousel Motel. Where Fish stabbed and shot him,” Ivy confirmed, staring at the phone like a totem. “They just released his personal effects. I assume your dad let you read the report?”

“According to investigators, Fetch bought it at a gas station in upstate New York. They didn’t find much on it.”

“Correct,” Ivy said. “An online booking at the Carousel Motel to reserve a room. Plus a few online orders at restaurants for takeout, so he wouldn’t be spotted. Other than that, the only thing on there was some social media, including Instagram, which I can tell you he was using to communicate with me, to let me know he was safe,” Ivy explained, glancing over her shoulder and scanning the backyard, a permanent habit she wasn’t about to break.

“If you have a point, I’d appreciate you getting to it,” Melinda said.

“I’m trying, but I wasn’t actually prepared for how uncomfortable you suddenly look. You know where this is headed, don’t you? By following the pings on the phone, that’s how Zig and Roddy made their way to the storage unit behind your building—the one that Fetch supposedly broke into. That’s how they found you, right? You and your dad were dealing with that break-in,” Ivy said. “But here’s the part that never made sense: When they went through Fetch’s phone? There wasn’t a single call on it—incoming or outgoing.”

“You said Fetch communicated through Instagram.”

“He most certainly did. With me. That’s why I didn’t think twice about it—that is, until a few days back when we finally held Fetch’s funeral. By the way, did you know your buddy Zig was kind enough to dress the body?” Ivy asked, her voice slowing down. “Told me the full story when I went to ID Fetch to make sure it was really him. According to Zig, he found Fetch’s favorite double-breasted suit, complete with the gold buttons. And then you’ll never guess what happened . . . As he picks up the suit . . . looky there—he realizes Fetch stitched something into the back vent of the jacket. A final secret hiding spot that holds . . .”

Ivy reached into her back pocket and pulled out a second silver flip phone, identical to the first. This time, though, she didn’t toss it to Melinda.

“Fetch didn’t have Instagram or any social media on this phone. Didn’t use it to book motels or order food or even email a doctor’s office. Instead, this phone,” Ivy said, holding it in her open palm like it was on a platter, “was used to dial only one number. One person. Care to guess who it was?”

Melinda stood there, refusing to answer as the lawn mower buzzed and Hall & Oates continued to sing.

“I have to tell you, when Fetch first said he was leaving Heavenly Meadows,” Ivy continued, “I tried talking him out of it. But with his health—the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease—to see him deteriorating like that . . . who could blame him for wanting to go explore the world one last time? Go catch some sunsets, right?” Ivy asked. “But I didn’t have the full picture, did I? No, that didn’t come until Zig found this second phone. And then, the fog finally started lifting. Sure, Fetch wanted one last adventure. And he was worried about being spotted and tracked. But his real priority—his top priority for coming back home—was something far more personal. Or to put it more directly, someone far more personal.”

Behind the closed screen door, Melinda scratched the top of her dog’s head, glaring at Ivy, still not saying a word.

“Melinda, I just need to know . . . did Fetch reach out to you after he got sick, or had this been going on far longer than I thought?”

“It’s easy to stand there and judge, isn’t it?” Melinda shot back.

“Y’know, it’d been so long, I almost forgot you used to date him in junior high. I think in tenth grade too, before you stopped hanging out with us.”

“Y’know what I almost forgot?” Melinda replied. “After ballistics did their testing on the gun that killed my father, they said he was shot with a little .25-caliber Beretta—the same gun they found in Roddy’s hands after he had his stroke or whatever the hell took him out. That was their evidence that Roddy pulled the trigger,” she explained. “But did you know that in the very first James Bond book, Ian Fleming armed Bond with that same .25 Beretta—until someone wrote him a letter and said that sort of gun is really a lady’s gun?”

“Make your point,” Ivy said.

“I would if you’d stop talking. On that night I first met Zig and Roddy back by the storage lockers, I made Roddy hand over his gun. Back then, he was carrying a Glock 19, standard issue for most police along the East Coast. It’s weird, right? Like someone switched guns and put the murder weapon that killed my father into Roddy’s dead hand.”

Now Ivy was the one who was silent.

“I know you shot my dad.”

“And I know that once Fetch was killed—when you realized his phone might be traced—you faked that break-in at the storage unit. That wasn’t for your dad or Fish’s benefit. That was to cover up why Fetch was really there. On that night Fetch came back to town, it wasn’t to steal some files. He left Heavenly Meadows to see you—the sad and divorced high school girlfriend he was dying to reconnect with. I’ve seen the texts that he was clearly saving,” Ivy said, holding up the phone. “Middle-aged sexting is creepy for everyone.”

“That wasn’t yours to read!”

“And he wasn’t yours to play with. Did you know he had your old yearbook photo in his wallet? Or brought his old Paco Rabanne cologne? For whatever damn reason, that man cared for you!”

“You think I didn’t care about him?!”

“Then why weren’t you at his funeral?”

“Don’t you dare. When I heard he was sick . . . that he wanted to come here to see me . . . I told him not to come!”

“Nonono, I read the texts. You did worse. You told him not to come until after your damn election! That was your priority! Not him!” Ivy exploded, catching herself, surprised by her own outburst.

Hall & Oates had gotten to the part at the end where they beg Sara to smile awhile for me, though based on the look on Melinda’s face, it wasn’t working.

“It’s a hell of a compliment, though, isn’t it?” Ivy added. “I mean, to know how sick he was—how few days he had left—and he’s insisting that he wants to spend them with you? That’s why, after he died, you had to knock out the cameras and stage that bullshit break-in at the storage shed—so if any investigators showed up . . . like Zig and Roddy . . . or those Marshals who beelined for the funeral home looking for their Heavenly Meadows escapee—you could hide your meetings with him. You didn’t even tell your father, did you? You just needed a file with Fetch’s name on it, so you stupidly picked that old break-in, not even realizing what old land mines you were setting off.”

Melinda didn’t reply.

“I feel like I gotta be getting warmer, right?” Ivy asked. “Poor Fetch arrives back in town, and Fish or your dad accidentally spot him. I’ll wager that’s when Fetch panics, and well . . . that’s what sets everything in motion again, doesn’t it? With Fetch’s death . . . Roddy gets a ping and pulls in Zig . . . and your dad has Fish stake out the local funeral home to see who else might come running. Maybe they think it’ll lead them to me.

“But Fetch is such a sweet-hearted sap, even as he’s dying and risking his life, he’s still so sentimental . . . so protective really,” Ivy continued, “he made sure that if he was wrong about being followed, and just being paranoid, he could easily ask for his suit back—pick up right where he left off. But if he was right . . . if everything came out, they’d never find the evidence—the other phone—that would tie him to the one person he came all this way to see. The one person he was clearly trying so hard to reconnect with: you.”

Hall & Oates were no longer asking for Sara to smile awhile. The lawn mower continued to buzz in the distance. “God, I forgot how smug you were,” Melinda finally said. “And just FYI, Fetch was rotting at Heavenly Meadows. For years. You did him no favors bringing him there.”

“I kept him alive.”

“No. You locked him away—sealed in a life that was good for you. Not him,” Melinda shot back. “So can we please stop with the fake concern and tell me the real reason you’re actually here? Or was it solely to gloat?”

“Truthfully, I came to shoot you,” Ivy admitted, squinting up at a bird gliding and arcing across the sky. “But if I did, then I’ve gotta go back on the run—and really, do I need that headache anymore? I mean, then I’m just the cold-blooded psycho your scumbag father tried to paint me as.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you were the one robbing Koch that night.”

Reaching into her pocket, Ivy pulled out a blue velvet box and tossed it toward the screen door. It bounced off the steps and landed in the grass.

“Are those—?”

“Three-and-a-half-carat emeralds. Beautiful cut and color—our biggest score by far,” Ivy explained. “Koch was enraged, immediately putting the word out, wanting to know who did it. Fetch, as always, was the smart one. Said the only way to move merchandise like that was to keep quiet—for at least a year. People would forget about it by then. We all voted and decided Fetch should hold on to the earrings,” she added, still staring at the tiny jewelry box sitting like a turd in the grass.

“None of us knew that P.K. had taken a picture of them—and of course, two months later, he couldn’t help himself. He showed the photo to some friend of his uncle, who ran a jewelry shop a few towns over, just to get a price. That friend told your dad, who knew what else we found and decided to handle it himself. Fish was his old military buddy. But thanks to P.K., they figured out it was us. I’m sure they came for me first, but I was couch surfing a few towns away and too strung out to even notice.”

Melinda nodded as if it all made sense. The murders were never about Koch or Cello or some import/export smuggling through the local port. They were about the sheriff—and those videotapes The Breakfast Club had found that night.

The dog was squirming so much, Melinda put him down and opened the screen door so he could pee. “Ivy, I know you may not believe it, but I never knew.”

“Pardon?”

“Fetch told me the story—about how you used the ledger to make your deal with the Marshals. He even told me you found a videotape, but I swear on my life, I didn’t know my dad was— That he was on there.”

“I appreciate that,” Ivy said with a shrug, “but c’mon, you still knew.”

“I just told you—”

“You knew, Melinda. This whole damn town knew. Or are we supposed to keep ignoring the real reason you left The Breakfast Club?” Ivy let the question hang in the air. In the backyard, Scud lifted a leg to pee. “I was at every one of your childhood birthday parties, Mindy—even that Chuck E. Cheese one where Peter Bussy broke his arm. You think I ever believed you were scared of us smoking cigarettes or swiping some random parents’ weed? That night your dad pulled me over . . . I knew I couldn’t call my mom, so I called Daniella. I told her what he did to me. I know she told you.”

“And that’s my crime? That I didn’t what . . . turn in my own father? Write him up in the school newspaper? I was sixteen, and you were accusing him of—”

“Accusing? He held my head down and shoved his dick in my mouth! And it wasn’t just me! He did the same to Shari Caudell . . . to Leslie Hahn . . . We were teenagers for fucksake! He was using the school zone for his own personal sleaze-fests—and recording them!”

“And you were the innocent victim—the pure, virtuous teen we were all supposed to believe because you sang alto in the church choir? Please, Ivy—everyone knew you were blowing half the football team.”

In one quick movement, Ivy pulled her gun from her pocket, pointed it at Melinda, and squeezed the trigger.

“Ivy, n-no don’t—”

Pop.

Out in the yard, the dog hunched down and froze.

The screen door slapped shut.

Inside the porch, a burst of blood sprayed across the rocking chair, bits of Melinda’s skull piercing the tiger-print pillow.

As Melinda’s body crumpled to the floor, Ivy knew she’d lost her temper. She felt bad about that.

But not that bad.

According to the local paper, in the upcoming election, even after everything came out about her dad, Melinda was still leading in the damn polls.

And sure, she wasn’t the one who’d killed Fetch or the other members of The Breakfast Club all those years ago, but for all that time, Melinda was far from innocent. She knew her father was a predator—and she did nothing. Even worse, she rode his coattails into office, first as a prosecutor and almost as a judge. The last thing this town needed was another Bix with a roost in the courthouse.

And c’mon, how much longer are we going to keep letting powerful a-holes get away with stuff?

“Sorry, Fetch, but you had crap taste in women,” Ivy whispered to herself, grabbing the blue velvet box from the grass. As she turned to leave and slid the earrings and her gun back into her pockets, something crashed into her left leg.

“Nn nn nn.”

The little white dog was shaking, clearly scared by the gunshot.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Ivy said, reaching down with her good arm, sliding it under the dog’s belly, and scooping him up. For a moment, she headed back to the porch to put him inside so he wouldn’t run away.

Clearly excited, the dog licked her face, then licked it again.

“God, you have terrible brea—”

The dog licked her once more—a messy, wet kiss that revealed the very last thing Ivy anticipated ending her day with. A new frien—

Click.

The noise came from behind her, back by the house. Ivy started to turn, but between her sling and the dog—

“Hands. Now,” Nola insisted, stepping out from around the corner, her gun aimed at the center of Ivy’s chest.

81

“Put the dog on the ground.”

“Nope, I like this dog,” Ivy said, calm as could be, still cradling and scratching the little white pup. “C’mon, Nola, if you wanted to shoot me, you would’ve done it already.”

Nola didn’t move, her gun still aimed at Ivy’s chest—center mass—like she was trained. Ivy was sharp, and from the looks of it, still tired, though her eyelids weren’t nearly as puffy as they were that night in the sheriff’s office. It’s amazing what a few nights’ sleep can do.

“Can you even see okay, much less aim?” Ivy asked, motioning to Nola’s double black eyes, the most visible remnants of Fish’s attack, which came with a skull fracture and a stitched-up laceration across her bandaged forearm.

“You shouldn’t have shot her. That was stupid,” Nola said, eyeing Melinda’s body on the porch.

“I didn’t plan on shooting her, but then she—” Ivy cut herself off, knowing the explanation wouldn’t help. “Nola, be smart here. In a neighborhood like this, someone probably heard that gunshot and dialed 911—which means we’ve currently got . . . I’d say four or five minutes before we hear sirens. So ask your questions. With Roddy dead and everyone gone . . . I assume you’re here to talk about your mother?”

82

“I don’t care about her.”

Ivy cocked her head, studying Nola, picking her apart—her height, her eyes, her stance.

Nola didn’t like being on the receiving end of the scrutiny, her gun still aimed at Ivy’s chest.

“You’re telling me you’re not here about your mom?” Ivy challenged.

“I don’t care about her. I care about this . . .” Nola said, pulling something from the back of her waistband: a faded manila file folder. Along the top was an array of multicolored stickers like you’d see on files in a doctor’s office or at the dentist. A peeling name tag read:

Brown, Daniella

“Her police report?” Ivy asked as Nola finally lowered her gun and handed her the folder.

“Whatever’s in that police report, it’s worthless. Bix was the deputy who wrote it up as a suicide. He’s probably why there was no autopsy either. Thankfully, though, Daniella’s aunt had a funeral, which meant the local mortician did his own paperwork,” Nola explained, motioning to the folder. “It’s not very technical—just documenting the state of the body so the family can’t sue and blame them for messing up the corpse. But what the funeral home noted was that Daniella had a pretty significant scar across her abdomen. He listed it as a C-section, which is pretty standard with twins. Though after a look through the records room at the local hospital . . .”

“You broke into their records room?”

“I couldn’t find any files, tests, or even a bill for my mom’s C-section. In fact, I couldn’t find birth certificates that Roddy and I were born there—or at Valley Children’s . . . or any hospital within a hundred miles of Arrow Rock.

“But the file I did find?” Nola said as Ivy looked down at the folder. “Decades ago, when Daniella was fifteen—just a kid—she was rushed to Olgalia Community Hospital for significant, prolonged bleeding. She thought it was something with her period. Instead, they found fibrous tumors, which they’d usually take out with surgery. But these were so substantial, they had no choice but to do a hysterectomy, removing her uterus.”

Ivy didn’t react. Last time they were together, she was swaying back and forth like a boxer. Now she was planted—like a steel I-beam—staring straight at Nola rather than the file folder she was holding.

“Pretty miraculous when you think about it,” Nola continued. “Carrying twins with no uterus.”

Ivy knew what she was getting at. Without a uterus, it’s impossible to get pregnant, meaning Daniella Brown—without question—was not Nola and Roddy’s mother.

For a solid thirty seconds, neither said a word, Nola staring, studying, waiting for Ivy to shift her weight or start swaying. Instead, she tightened her stance. Unafraid. Or maybe just resigned.

“How long have you known?” Ivy asked.

83

TAKOMA Park, Maryland

Thirty years ago

“And the bleeding . . . would you describe it as heavy or light?”

The thin paper on the exam table crinkled as Ivy Munn shifted her weight, her bare legs dangling between the empty stirrups. Even at the age of twenty, she knew she’d said something wrong.

“Relax, love. Breathe,” said the nurse, a Moroccan woman with thick black hair, crowded eyebrows, and a soft tut-tut laugh that reminded Ivy of the elementary school librarian who first gave her Judy Blume books. “It’s just for medical history,” she added, motioning to her clipboard.

The paper crinkled again as Ivy glanced at her best friend since second grade, Daniella Brown, who was trying to look brave but couldn’t stop swiveling side to side in the exam room’s only chair. For the past half hour, she’d barely said a word, staring at a large poster next to the door—a generic sunset that reminded her of the view from Ollie’s Pier, off the Chesapeake.

Truthfully, Ivy didn’t want to bring her—didn’t want to tell anyone—but the clinic wouldn’t see her unless she had a ride home.

“Were you bleeding from your mouth or nose?” the nurse continued.

“I-I . . . it was just once, at the dentist. They pulled my tooth,” Ivy explained, pointing at her own jaw.

“I remember,” Daniella said, “the night Roger White’s mom went out of—” She cut herself off as Ivy glared her way.

“They had to take me to the emergency room . . . to stop the bleeding,” Ivy said.

The nurse looked up from her clipboard, no longer writing.

“Is that bad?” Ivy asked.

“No, I just—” The nurse pulled out her beeper, studying it even though it hadn’t vibrated. “I need to take this. Gimme two minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Nabil Bhatt at the Takoma Family Planning Clinic entered the room, explaining to Ivy that because of the issues with her blood, especially with twins, she was too high risk for an abortion at their facility.

Instead, he recommended a hospital in Washington, D.C., that dealt with more at-risk cases—though for Ivy, the extra expense—having to put this on insurance—if her father found out . . .

No. They were a church family. Her dad was the pastor. If word got out . . .

“I need to leave. I have to get dressed,” Ivy insisted, the world starting to spin as she pulled off her paper gown and fought back into her clothes.

“Ivy, wait . . . !” Daniella shouted, chasing behind her through the lobby and out to the parking lot.

As the door swung open, the sun was blinding, making the spinning that much worse. And of course, the tears came. For years, Ivy’s father had told her if she ignored God’s presence, she’d have only herself to blame. He was right about the last part. “This is on me, I did it!” she sobbed, tripping, crumbling to the curb, her keys falling from her hand.

Even back in high school, she was always acting out—the entitled first alto who proudly christened herself Claire from The Breakfast Club because she was the pretty one, right? But wasn’t that the real lesson of the movie? Especially with Claire—she’s not pristine, she’s just filled with self-loathing.

“You okay? C’mere . . .” Daniella said, trying to help Ivy to her feet.

Ivy shook her head, still down on all fours. For years, she’d been drinking, smoking, pushing every boundary she could find, building a dungeon around herself, thinking the bad stuff couldn’t touch her. But when you’re a single, twenty-year-old interior design major at the community college three towns over because the one in Arrow Rock wouldn’t take you, the bad stuff . . . it’ll eventually find you.

“You know my dad. You know what he’ll do!” Ivy insisted.

It was at that moment that a counselor there, Catherine—they’d eventually call her Saint Catherine—offered to take Ivy to Heart House in Virginia, a Catholic charity for girls, well . . . just like her.

“They’ll let you stay. For free,” Catherine explained. “They’ll find a home for the babies too.”

“And you think my family won’t notice if I disappear for months?” Ivy asked.

“I can stay with you. We’ll go together,” Daniella blurted, unaware it would be the second most life-changing decision she ever made.

That night, they told their families they’d found summer jobs volunteering at a camp on the Eastern Shore. It was the one benefit of an August due date, though they were still unconvinced the lie would work.

But it did.

“Congratulations—we have a boy!” the doctor announced four months later.

“A boy! You got a boy!” Daniella repeated, leaning down, clutching Ivy’s hand, knowing how hard this moment was for her friend.

“He’s beautiful,” one of the nurses said, offering to put young Roddy on Ivy’s chest.

“Don’t . . . please don’t . . . I can’t,” Ivy pleaded, waving the baby away, still pushing, screaming, shaking her head over and over as if she were trying to sink down through the birthing table and disappear.

“One more push . . . almost there . . .” the doctor said.

“C’mon, girl! You’re my strong bitch!” Daniella added.

“Gaaaaaaah!” Ivy screamed as Nola entered the world without crying, barely making a noise.

“And a twin girl!” the doctor announced, the baby still not making a sound.

“I-Is she . . . is everything okay?” Ivy asked, craning her neck, confused by the silence.

“She’s fine—probably just has some fluid in her lungs,” a lanky nurse explained, taking a step toward Ivy to show her the now-crying baby.

“Nono . . . please don’t . . .” Ivy begged.

What happened next would change their lives forever.

Ivy shooed the nurse away—and Daniella instinctively opened her arms.

“You got her?” the nurse asked, seeing the emotional look on her face.

“For sure. I got her,” Daniella replied.

Months from now, when Daniella looked back at this moment, it would defy logical explanation. Was it just the rush of emotion? Or the fact that babies melt everyone? Or was it something more primal, since she couldn’t have kids of her own? Yes, sure, all of it.

“You’re positive about this?” Ivy asked when they were back in the room.

“Nope,” Daniella said, staring at the sleeping twins in their plastic bassinets. “I’m absurdly terrified. I spend most days doing hair and nails at Xanadu, and I actually think I’m pretty good at it. But I’m equally irrationally convinced that we’re all here for a reason, and maybe this is mine.”

“You know the town will—”

“The town can bite me. You think I don’t know what they say—calling me a slut, a burnout, the viper—because why? In eleventh grade, I used to wear black, overdid my eyeliner, and loved Guns N’ Roses? Does high school ever end?”

Ivy nodded at that. “Just know . . . Heart House already identified a family, so if you want to back out—”

“Ivy, listen to me. Remember when I was little, how I used to carry all that confetti in my pockets? I never got to throw it. But here with these kids . . . What if this is my one confetti moment—the one thing I’m actually great at?”

Ivy thought about that, turning it through her mind. And then a new thought, a harsher truth: Her whole life, Ivy had been trying to leave Arrow Rock behind, to kick the small-town dirt off her shoes and make her own plans. Bigger plans. Having kids would wreck that. But Ivy had to admit that was only part of it. The reality was, she wasn’t ready to be a mom, didn’t want the responsibility.

At some point, everyone hits a bad patch. For the past few years, though, Arrow Rock itself felt like the bad patch. Maybe this was Ivy’s chance to find her footing, to change things. And the fact that Daniella couldn’t have kids of her own . . . what a gift this would be for her. Take the bad patch and turn it into a blessing. Nola and Roddy would be in the best of hands. And Ivy, when she was home from college, she’d still be able to visit . . . to keep an eye on them . . . maybe even pitch in and be a hellion auntie when they needed it.

“I’ll love ’em like my own—and guard ’em with my life,” Daniella insisted.

Those were the truest words.

Two weeks later, at summer’s end, Ivy and new mom Daniella drove back to Arrow Rock with newborn twins, Nola and Roddy.

Daniella’s own mother was a bipolar mess. She barely asked questions. As for the rest of the town, including Ivy’s father, the local pastor, they just rolled their eyes at another mistake by the trashy Breakfast Club basket case no one looked twice at.

That is, until three years later, when Daniella was found dead in her car, gun in her hand. A clear-cut suicide, according to the police—the sad, predictable end for the viper.

84

Arrow Rock, Maryland

Today

“Nola, before you say anything—”

“I told you,” Nola said, “I don’t care about your excuses.”

In the far distance, the faint wail of a siren nibbled at the air. It wouldn’t be long before the police arrived.

“Nola, please . . . just listen,” Ivy pleaded, keeping her voice low, less confrontational, like she’d smoothed off the edges of herself. Though you can’t hide what’s underneath. “I know it’s easy to make every assumption you’re now making, but back then— My life, in church, I was the—”

“The alto in the choir. I’ve heard it five times already. It’s irrelevant.”

“You keep saying that, but— To give up my kids . . . You have no idea how hard that decision w—”

“Stop talking,” Nola snapped. Her gun was at low ready, though she inched it higher. On her right, inside the porch, was Melinda’s dead body. From this angle, there wasn’t much to see: Melinda’s head turned sideways, her nose touching the base of the rocking chair.

“I don’t need you to forgive me,” Ivy added. “But I can still— I’m sorry about what happened to Roddy—”

“This isn’t about Roddy.”

“It is to me. When you were born, we were— My only goal was to keep you both safe . . . to give you the best life I could. Daniella was a beautiful, generous—”

“She was a child, completely unprepared f—”

“She gave her life protecting you!” Ivy blurted, the dog squirming in her arms at the outburst.

The sirens were getting louder, though they were still a few blocks away.

“You done?” Nola asked.

Ivy shook her head, exasperated. “Nola, I know life is far easier when you pretend to have all the answers. But I’m wagering if you really knew everything about Daniella and your adoption, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. So tell me the real reason you’re here.”

Glancing again at Melinda’s lifeless body, Nola studied the pitch of the porch and the small pool of blood, wondering how long it’d take to seep toward the screen door. Only a matter of time.

“When you were younger, with The Breakfast Club . . .” Nola began, “why’d you rob Koch?”

“Pardon?”

“I heard you in the sheriff’s office . . . saying that on that night you broke into Koch’s, you and The Breakfast Club were looking for emerald earrings. That that’s when you found that old video of you and—”

“What’re you asking me?”

“Did you know?” Nola blurted. She let the question hang in the air. “Daniella, P.K., Fetch—they went for the jewelry. I want to know what you went for.”

“If you’re referring to the videotape of me and the sheriff, I had no idea it existed, much less that Koch had it.”

Nola studied her a moment, looking for a tell, but suddenly distracted by the sharpness of Ivy’s nose, the arch of her eyebrows, the same as Nola’s . . . and yes, the same as Roddy’s. But there was something else, something off-putting and familiar in Ivy’s stance, like a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed. Years ago, Nola read in a book that if you don’t wear armor, it’s usually because you’ve never been in battle. Ivy was well accustomed to armor. And it was never coming off.

“So that’s true?” Nola asked. “Stealing the emerald earrings . . . that’s why you went to his house?”

“We went because we were young and stupid—and life was kicking our asses,” Ivy said as the sirens grew louder, the dog glancing around, panicking at the sound. Two minutes, tops. “On that night, I remember, it was the day after Thanksgiving, though none of us were doing much Black Friday shopping. The beauty parlor where your m— where Daniella was working—it had just shut down. Fetch’s father was dying from emphysema. And me and P.K., despite our illustrious junior college degrees, were doing whip-its, collecting unemployment, and stealing Xanax from his mom.”

“Get to the point.”

“The point is, we hadn’t been together in years—not all of us. But we were home for the holidays, and the drive-in was doing a special throwback night, showing one of our favorite classic movies . . .”

“The Breakfast Club,” Nola said.

“We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.”

Nola glanced back toward Melinda’s body, where a thin stream of blood had broken away from the widening pool, seeping under the screen door and into the grass. The sirens were impossible to ignore. One minute to go.

“That’s a line from The Breakfast Club,” Ivy explained.

“Never saw it,” Nola said, tucking her gun in the back of her waistband and heading for the fence that connected to the yard on their left.

“Don’t you want to hear the rest?” Ivy asked. “On that night at the drive-in, Daniella was complaining that the cost of diapers was killing her . . . P.K. mentioned the earrings Koch just bought . . . and Fetch and I went along because we suddenly felt eighteen again, and when you’re eighteen, what could possibly go wrong?”

Nola studied her birth mom one last time to see if she was telling the truth. Did it even matter?

Not really, though to be around this woman, this person she used to imagine . . . Sometimes, when you look at an old photo or old video, you spot pieces of yourself that are no longer there. Now, seeing Ivy face-to-face, Nola didn’t like these new pieces. They were a scar on Nola’s heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ivy insisted. “We were kids, just trying our best. On that night of the break-in, the moment I saw that videotape, I knew what was on it. That’s why I held tight to it, like it was a force field, thinking it would protect us. But when everything went south—when P.K. died and Daniella turned up with a bullet in her head—we knew what was coming. They weren’t gonna stop, not until we were all dead. That’s why we—”

“I get it,” Nola said.

“You don’t. You never will until you have your own kid.”

Nola stood there, her anger rising. She had no expression, just a thought: that some truths can’t be seen.

“Believe me, Nola, the last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. But if they found out I was your—” Ivy stopped, started again, feeling the full weight of a lifetime of miscalculations. “Nola, I take full responsibility for flushing my life down the toilet, but God above, you were the first good thing that ever happened to me. I wasn’t flushing you or your brother. To keep you safe . . . the only way to guarantee they’d leave you alone was to stay as far away from you as possible.”

The sirens were screaming, coming around the corner.

Nola still didn’t say a word, her eyes locked on the porch and Melinda’s lifeless body.

“So was my father—?”

“The sheriff wasn’t your father. I promise you that. Your dad . . . he was my TA—for a history class in college.”

“What about her?” Nola asked, motioning to Melinda. “You thought she knew what her own father did. That’s why you shot her?”

“My problem, not yours,” Ivy said, glancing at the body. “Speaking of which, I should probably disappear—just for a bit. When everything calms down, I’ll find you.”

Nola knew it was a lie.

“Nn-nn-nnn,” the dog whimpered, the sirens louder than ever.

Ivy started to run toward the opposite fence, away from Nola. “Nola, I hope you know . . . all those years I was away, I’d still— I’d google you online but I could never f—”

“Roddy’s funeral is tomorrow. Don’t come.”

At the front of the house, a set of car doors slammed—police arriving. Ivy turned, following the sound, then glanced back at the yard.

Nola was already gone.

And seconds later, so was her mother.

85

Dover, Delaware

Zig had been avoiding this part.

Or at least this room.

Since returning to Dover, he’d been to Gupta’s office, Colonel Harden’s office, over to Legal, to Olivia P. in Benefits, to Veterans Affairs, even to the gym in back, which they’d built hoping the morticians would use to work off some steam, but really was used more for gossiping and naps.

This spot, though—Room 127, at the end of the main hallway, not far from Embalming—was the one place he hadn’t been. By choice.

His old office. The big one.

There used to be a plastic door hanger that read: c’mon in—i’m already disturbed.

It was long gone.

For a solid ten seconds, Zig stood there, staring at the familiar nicks in the wood laminate door with its familiar curved handle, realizing he still thought of this place as his own.

It was time to think of it as something else.

That’s it.

Instead of knocking, Zig turned and followed the carpet back to his current office—in the old storage room.

On his desk was the framed photo of Maggie, her freckles glowing, holding an ice cream cone as she mugged for the camera. Next to it was a black leather wallet, propped open so it could stand, revealing an official gold and silver police badge on one side, plus a Camden, New Jersey, work ID with a familiar photo on the other.

LaPointe, Roddy.

Like all things Roddy, it was an awkward photo, a terrible smile that made Zig laugh.

He was still staring at it as his phone pinged, a notification from Slack.

A new case.

A new fallen soldier.

Time to get to work.

86

Keenley, Pennsylvania

Fifteen years ago

This was Nola when she was thirteen.

The front door slammed, and she didn’t think much of it. Looking back, she should’ve. On most nights when Royall arrived home, he headed straight to the kitchen for a beer, or at least to complain about what she was making for dinner. Tonight, judging by the pounding on the stairs, he was going straight to his room.

Again, Nola didn’t give it a thought. Standing on a kitchen chair, one knee up on the stove, she was scrubbing the buttery grease and spatter that stained the peeling linoleum above the stove. She wasn’t cleaning it for Royall—like most men, he was an animal. Instead, Nola was cleaning it for herself, so she didn’t have to stare at such grossness.

Thirty seconds later, a second slam upstairs told her Royall was in the bathroom. Then came the hum of the shower. Again, she didn’t care. For the next few minutes, still kneeling between the burners, she scoured at some particularly stubborn bacon grease that had—

Thud.

There are some sounds you know are bad the moment you hear them.

Nola cocked her head, listening for a creak of floorboards or other familiar shifts in weight.

All she got were the nearby soap suds popping and dripping on the stove.

“Royall . . . ? Everything okay?” she called out.

No reply. Just the faint buzz of running water.

“Royall . . . you hear me?” she added, raising her voice.

Still nothing—and now, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she headed into the living room, still holding tight to the Brillo pad, trying to get closer, to hear better, hoping she had it wrong.

The plumbing continued to hum, and as she glanced upstairs, there was no mistaking the familiar pale yellow stain in the corner of the ceiling, though now there were three pregnant drops of water puckering and peeking through the paint.

Years from now, Nola would look back and remember that sudden feeling like a flare had been shot through the ceiling. The thud . . . if he fell . . .

“Royall . . . ?” she called out, heading upstairs in their split-level home—up the first short staircase, then rushing around the other, confused, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

She gave the bathroom door a light knock, knowing what Royall would do if she had it wrong and barged in.

Still no answer, though now it was clear—the running water was from the bath, not the shower.

“Royall, if you can hear me . . . just answer . . . !” She was shouting now, banging, trying the doorknob.

Locked.

“Royall, please, you’re scaring me . . .” she started to say, though as the words came out, she noticed a puddle of water starting to seep under the door.

“Royall, open the door!” she exploded, gripping the knob, frantically trying to twist it. She knew she should call 911, but if he was in the bath, or even worse, already underwater . . . There wasn’t time.

Backing away from the door and up the hallway, Nola took a deep breath and set her feet like a sprinter in the starting blocks. One . . . two . . .

Darting full speed, she lowered her shoulder and shut her eyes. As she’d learned on that first night Royall shoved open her door, all the locks in the house were cheap and flimsy. But to her surprise, as her full weight rammed into the door, it wasn’t the locks that gave way. It was the frame.

On impact, the wood cracked and splintered, spraying tiny shards through the air, stabbing at Nola’s arms and face.

She was moving so fast, she nearly tripped over Royall, his body splayed facedown on the linoleum in a shallow puddle that blossomed pale red by his head.

Bleeding. His head was bleeding above his eyebrow, from where he fell.

“Royall . . . !” Nola screamed, shutting the bath faucets and dropping to her knees in one of those moments where you remember how to pray.

His left foot was hooked on the edge of the built-in tub. His right hand was still clutching the plastic shower curtain he’d clearly yanked from its hooks as he tumbled.

Behind her, the door was hanging at a weird angle. A numbness pounded her chest. She assumed it was fear, but as Army psychologists would tell her years from now, it was actually something called primal panic, a jolt to the nervous system that kicks in when your primary attachment bond gets threatened.

“Royall, look at me!” she shouted, flipping him over to check his breathing. As he turned, she accidentally got a half-second glance at his penis, an image that filled her with shame and regret as she frantically covered him with the shower curtain.

“Royall, wake up! I need you up!” she added, feeling for a pulse.

Breathing. Thank God he was breathing, but in his mouth . . .

He coughed, his lips parting just enough for her to spot three orange pills.

“What did you take—?! Are you insane?!”

Without even thinking, she jammed her fingers into his mouth, scraping out more than half a dozen pills.

The gag reflex was instantaneous, Royall coughing, sputtering, spitting pills across the floor. A few stray ones settled at the foot of the sink, blooming into tiny islands of orange across the puddle. Just to see it . . . she felt guilty thinking it, but it was beautiful, something she wanted to draw or even paint.

“Whaizzit . . . how’d you? . . .” He was groggy, his words slurred. “. . . oh, God, it didn’t— Why didn’t—? I couldn’t even get this right, could I . . . ?” Royall asked, still coughing, trying to turn away. “Please . . . go . . . it’s over . . .”

“What’s over? What’re you talking about?”

“Nola, please . . . go . . .”

“Just tell me what—”

“The same as always . . . what always happens. The damn wine . . . Ulrich was . . .” Royall was sobbing now, curled naked toward the base of the shower. He had an old scar across his gut, one she’d never seen before. “We were trying to celebrate . . . Ulrich asked me to open one of the bottles . . . to celebrate . . . and then . . . and then . . . ahuuuh . . . oh God . . . it was skunked . . .” he sobbed, his voice cracking, clearly groggy from whatever he took.

Grabbing the empty pill vial from under the sink, Nola read the prescription label. Amitry-something.

“Th-th-the expert we went to in Philly . . .” he continued, “. . . the damn sommelier who called it pristine? He’s Sweet & Low’s cousin! And they . . . and they knew I’d get greedy and put up my— Oh, God, I put up our house . . . and the car . . . He called the wine pristine! . . . and . . . and . . . and they knew it, didn’t they, Ma?” he asked, his eyes closed, clearly confused, hammering his fingertips into his forehead. “They knew it was skunked, and just like you said . . . ahuuuh . . . they knew I’d fall for it!”

Was Nola surprised? Of course not, but that didn’t stop her eyes from welling with tears, her skin feeling like it was being pulled from her bones. In the nearly half decade she’d lived with Royall, he was selfish and cruel. He’d screamed in her face, shoved her into walls, nearly broke her arm, and on one occasion, after a rough night at the bar, ripped a clump of hair from her head dragging her out of his favorite spot on the couch.

Years from now, when Nola reached high school and things deteriorated even further, she’d look back at this moment and wonder if her greatest mistake was pulling the pills from Royall’s mouth. Maybe if she didn’t, he would’ve died.

That would be Nola at sixteen.

Right now, she was thirteen, staring down at the only person—the only adult—who hadn’t thrown her away. From there, it wasn’t a difficult equation. Nola’s mother was dead . . . her brother had stopped writing her back . . . there were no aunts, uncles, neighbors, teachers, Girl Scout moms, or really anyone who showed a hint of interest in taking care of her. It’s simple math: without Royall, Nola had nothing.

“It’s okay, we’ll be okay,” she whispered, leaning close, about to touch his head, then flinching, starting again, giving herself permission to tuck a few locks of his hair behind his ear.

It’s amazing how much you can love someone you hate.

“Y-Y-You warned me, didn’t you, Ma? You always said I ruin things . . . and here I am . . . doing it again,” Royall stuttered, sobbing harder, his head in Nola’s lap, his words slurring so bad, they were barely a whisper. “But you always take me back, don’t you? I love you for it, Ma.”

Nola didn’t reply, listening to him breathe, but really listening to him sob.

When the EMTs and police arrived, they’d pump Royall’s stomach and tell Nola she likely saved his life. But as one of the officers took Nola’s statement, as she stared at the bathroom door still teetering at its weird angle, all she could think was that was the very first time she ever heard Royall say I love you.

87

Today

“Now you believe me?”

“Jules, I always believed you,” Zig said at the foot of his mother-in-law’s hospital bed. “I just believe actual doctors more.”

“That’s sexist,” Jules scolded as she played a game on her phone.

Zig rolled his eyes, shooting a look at Dr. Ishoof—a woman—who was doing her best not to laugh. “Doc, can you please—?”

“No sir, no ma’am, no thank you. Eating a grenade is safer than jumping in the middle of family bickering,” Dr. Ishoof said, heading for the door. “Mr. Zigarowski, I’d say it’s been a treat, but, well . . . no one’s bothered my nurses more. Mrs. Clarke, you trained him well. You two make a wonderful match.”

Before they could react, the doctor was gone.

“Wait, was she insulting us?” Zig asked.

“She was definitely insulting you,” Jules said, scootching to her left, leaving just enough room on the side of her bed. “C’mere, I need your brain.”

As Zig sat next to her, Jules showed him her screen—the game Spelling Bee, where you create words using the seven letters they give you.

“Meet,” Zig said.

“Already found.”

“Women.”

“You really think I didn’t find women?”

“Tenement,” Zig added.

“Tenement. Good word,” Jules said, typing it in with her good hand, her other arm still in the high-tech plastic brace. In the last hour, she’d replaced her hospital gown with normal clothes—a long denim skirt and a pale purple blouse that hugged her slender shoulders. Today was discharge day and even now, even here, she looked as elegant as ever, her pixie cut styled, her two chipped nails somehow repaired and polished. Most important, her color had finally returned after her transfusion a few days back.

“The doctor say anything about chemo and radiation?” Zig asked.

“Is it hard being in charge of everyone’s well-being?”

“Jules . . .”

“You heard her. They’re keeping an eye on it.”

“Hope is not a strategy.”

“Thankfully, science is. They want me back in thirty days for more blood work, but as long as I’m stable and don’t have symptoms, at my age, I’m more likely to die from something else before I die from this leukemia. So maybe skydiving next weekend?”

“Jules, no jokes. Not with this. When you get home, if you have symptoms, like feeling lightheaded or short of breath—”

“What about that wound in your back?” Jules countered, referring to where Fish had stabbed him. “Any swelling or redness there?”

Zig didn’t answer, feeling the tug from the stitches.

“Exactly,” Jules said. “Less lecturing, more puzzle-solving.”

For the next few minutes, they did exactly that, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, working Spelling Bee and finding words like meme, emote, and memento as the overhead TV played an infomercial for a fire-suppression blanket that’ll protect your family if there’s a sudden blaze where you least expect it.

Years ago, Jules and Zig would work crosswords and puzzles like this, shoulder to shoulder at the dining room table. Those days were gone, but for Zig—for both of them—this new puzzle was a rare moment of peace . . . until Jules’s phone vibrated and a text appeared onscreen.

In the car. Ten minutes away.

Jules swiped it away, but Zig needed only a half second to catch his ex’s name. Charmaine.

“I should get running,” Zig said, hopping off the bed.

“Ziggy . . .” Jules shot back in that tone that Zig knew so well. He knew all her tones.

“I’m fine. I’m glad you’ll see her—you need time together,” Zig said, trying to be encouraging.

“You know the engagement’s off, right? Her and Warren . . .” She pantomimed snapping a stick.

“Did Char ask you to relay that, or will she just be mad at you for it later?”

“She’s my daughter—she’s always mad at me. But not at you. Trust me, she wants to see you,” Jules said, her voice slowing down, her pale green eyes going wide with that same conniving, charming look as Charmaine, all of it tossing Zig back into the kaleidoscope, back to those easy days at the beginning of his marriage . . . and those merciless nights at the end.

In those first few years after Maggie’s death, Zig lived in the future, imagining the high school and college she’d never attend, the jobs she’d never have, the father-daughter wedding dance she’d never have to sway through.

On the worst days, he lived in the past, like that night before her dance recital in fifth grade, when Maggie was so worried about people seeing her, Zig took her to Home Depot, where he knew the manager, who gave her the big open space in the plywood department to practice her solo.

Those memories anchored Zig to his daughter. But it was time to admit, some anchors hold you steady, while others hold you down. It depends how you see them. And how you see yourself.

“I love you, Jules, but I should go.”

She went to say something, but decided against it, reading his resolve. And reading something else as well. “I’m sorry about your friend Roddy. He sounded peculiar, but I know you liked him.”

Zig was still staring at the TV, studying the infomercial for the fire blanket.

“I heard about the sheriff’s daughter too,” Jules added. “The one Waggs said you were flirting with.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“I heard she got shot. Even for a mortician, it’s a lot of death.”

“Jules, I adore you, but if I need help, you really think I wouldn’t ask for it?”

She smiled at that, a sympathetic grin completely free of judgment. “Ziggy, I understand we’re all in our own hells—but at seventy-seven years old, I can tell you, you don’t have to be. You sure you don’t want to see Charmaine?”

“I’m not.”

“You miss her.”

Charmaine was his wife. He’d always miss her—or at least the idealized version of her. But whether Roddy’s death had opened old wounds or his ex-wife was simply in rebound mode . . . “I’m not sure this is the best time for either of us to make emotional decisions,” Zig said, still locked on the TV.

Jules studied him for a few seconds, her eyes narrowing like she spotted something new. “You’re getting wise in your old age.”

“Can I tell you one thing I’m positive of, though? I missed this. I missed you,” he said, finally turning to her. “All these years, with or without the divorce . . . I’m sorry I stayed so far away.”

“Darling, I’m glad you’re finally seeing reality. I am pretty alluring, bordering on irresistible.”

“I mean it,” Zig said. “Years ago, when Charmaine and I . . .” His voice trailed off, something catching in his throat. “I didn’t fight for something back then. That’s why I lost it. I’m not doing that again.”

“Wonderful. Then we’re agreed. Pick a night for dinner. Whatever night works best.”

“Jules, you don’t have t—”

“Next Sunday it is. It’s settled. That way I can hear about your dates and judge them,” she said as Zig started to laugh—a real laugh, down to his core. “By the way, Ziggy—before you go, you should hear this . . .”

Lifting her phone, she swiped at the screen like she was scrolling through old emails. “I know it’s here—the Verizon guy had me send it to myself . . .”

“Jules, I really should run—”

“Hiya, Nana!” a high-pitched voice announced, freezing Zig in his tracks.

He knew that voice . . . that little girl.

“Maggie . . .” he whispered, not even realizing he said it out loud.

“Sorry about your Phillies. When you get this, gimme a call and maybe we can go to Carmichael’s,” Maggie continued, referring to the old beauty shop where they used to get their nails done. The message warbled in one spot like an overplayed cassette. “Anyway, as you wish, jellyfish!”

With a click, she was gone.

Zig clenched his jaw to stop his chin from quivering. That lasted a full two seconds, his body vibrating, tears swelling in his eyes as the full emotional hurricane hit. He took a half step backward, then locked his knees just to stay on his feet.

To be honest, Jules expected worse.

“Wh-What was . . . ? How’d you get that?” Zig blurted.

“It’s from my old answering machine. Two days before she died.”

Zig’s synapses were still firing, bringing a surge of old memories. As you wish, jellyfish. That was from a cartoon . . . or an old play Jules took her to . . . that’s how they used to say goodbye.

“Every time I get a new phone, it’s the first thing I forward to myself,” Jules explained.

“I-I don’t understand. Why’d you—? H-How could you not send me that?”

“Divorce or no divorce, my job was to protect you. You’re still my son,” she said, the words piercing Zig’s chest like a harpoon. “Years ago, that tape would’ve wrecked you. It certainly wrecked me,” she admitted, looking down at her phone like there were secrets onscreen. “You know how the blast radius works. For months, I kept thinking, If I took her to Carmichael’s, would that’ve . . . ?” Her voice trailed off, clearly wishing for something she didn’t have words for.

“Jules, you know that wouldn’t’ve changed anything.”

“I didn’t want you hurt—though I’m gonna kill you now for making me cry and ruining my damn makeup,” she warned as Zig started to laugh.

“I still don’t understand—why play the tape now?” Zig asked.

Jules took a breath through her nose, lifting her chin, centering herself, looking as regal as ever. “Because this is the first time in a decade I thought you might be able to enjoy it.” Swiping and tapping at her phone, she added, “I’m emailing it to you now.”

There was a little bloop and a whoosh—then Zig’s phone vibrated. For years, the mere mention of Maggie dragged him back to his darkest moments—to the sirens, the screaming, and that cleaving . . . that slash in his existence, the before and after that dismantled and reshaped his timeline. In the small community of people who’ve buried a child, they describe it as a smothering, a flat, numbing pain where you no longer know where you hurt anymore—as someone said, “just a dry dull ache of the soul.”

In years past, when a friend surprised him with an old video of Maggie—even an old photo, like when the head of the Girl Scouts spotted Zig at the DMV and reached for her phone—the pain would tear through him like a hot knife.

Today though, in those first moments when he heard Maggie’s voice, yes, the pain was there—it’s always there—but not at the forefront. Instead, it was lurking, a passenger rather than the driver. Indeed, to his own surprise, instead of gutting him, it felt . . . good to hear his little girl again.

Maybe it was Jules and her cheap jokes, or the fact she got good news about her cancer. Or maybe it was just his way of dealing with Roddy’s death, Zig’s brain simply starving for some normalcy.

Maybe after so many defeats, it felt good to not be defeated. Or maybe it was just a good day. Wasn’t that Robert Frost’s three-word secret for everything he learned about life? It goes on.

“Get outta here before my daughter comes and screws you up,” Jules scolded, eyeing his goofy grin. “I’ll see you for dinner next Sunday. Bring me sunflowers—I’ll act surprised that you got my favorites.”

Zig’s grin expanded, stretching so wide, it hurt his cheeks. “As you wish, jellyfish,” he said, blinking back his own tears. Not bad tears, though. For the first time in a long time, good ones. “Love you too, Mom.” He said the word without thinking. Mom. He hadn’t called her that since . . . It didn’t matter when.

Zig thought that saying it would be a gift for her, yet as he turned and headed to the door, he quickly realized, it was a gift for him.

“Sunflowers! Not dandelions! Those are two different things!” Jules shouted as the door closed behind Zig, and he headed for the elevators.

88

Twin Falls, Pennsylvania

“What if they have peanut allergies?”

“They don’t. They won’t,” Reverend Ned reassured her, spreading a wad of Jif peanut butter across a slice of white bread and passing it to his left.

“But how d’you know?” asked the teenage girl wearing a wrist full of beaded bracelets and a nuclear bomb of Bath & Body Works perfume. In one quick movement, she combined the peanut-butter-covered slice with a slice she’d just slathered with jelly.

“Because they’re homeless and don’t care. Who else would eat a cheese and jelly sandwich?” asked a boy two tables over, where instead of cheap Jif, they were putting together slices with even cheaper bright yellow American cheese and jelly. As he stuffed each sandwich into a plastic baggie, he kept licking jelly from his fingers before grabbing the next sandwich.

“Carter, gross. And untrue,” Reverend Ned scolded. “The head of the shelter told me firsthand, the cheese and jelly sandwiches are a hit.”

It was a lie, and not the last to be told today in church.

In the back row of pews, Zig barely registered the infighting among the teenage volunteers making “blessing bags” for their monthly service hours. Instead, he was focused on the table closest to the door, where a quiet twelve-year-old girl with a bird’s nest of black hair and a vintage Purple Rain concert T-shirt sat by herself, rolling her doubting eyes at every dumb comment the other kids made.

Zig liked her immediately—the girl who avoided the sandwiches and instead assembled baggies with toothbrushes, toothpaste, travel-sized soap, and—

“What the hell’re you doing?” a sharp voice challenged.

Zig didn’t turn. Truthfully, he was surprised it took her this long.

“Mr. Zigarowski, I’m not asking again,” Nola warned. “Why’re y—?”

“I looked for you. At Roddy’s funeral. Except for work folks, I was the only friend there.”

Nola didn’t reply, but she didn’t turn away, which told him what he needed. She’d attended, probably tucked behind some tree.

“I’m glad you went,” Zig said. “He would’ve liked that.”

“Ms. Waggs sent you, didn’t she? I warned her—”

“Can you please stop threatening everyone and just sit?” he said, motioning to the seat next to him.

Nola didn’t move, standing in the aisle, a sketchpad tucked under her arm. Her raccoon black eyes had mostly healed. Her long sleeves covered the laceration that still hadn’t.

“So the art museum pays you to draw these volunteers? That’s your job now?” Zig asked, pointing with his chin to the front of the church, where the dozen or so teenagers were still buzzing around the folding tables, their assembly line adding more blessing bags for the homeless shelter.

“The police were here weeks ago. I answered all their questions—same with the feds,” Nola insisted. “If I knew where Ivy was—”

“You really think I care about Ivy? I came for you,” Zig said earnestly. “To see how you’re doing.”

Nola turned at the words, her expression unreadable.

“If it helps, I know the real reason you took this job,” Zig added, still staring at the front of the church at Purple Rain girl, with her bird’s nest of black hair, scabs on her elbows, and those black doubtful eyes. Same as her mother.

Violet. That’s the name her adoptive family gave her.

To this day, there were only half a dozen people who knew that back when Nola was a teenager, after saying yes to a boy she should’ve never said yes to, she found herself pregnant. Determined to give her newborn daughter a better life—and certainly a safer one far away from Royall—she made the impossible decision to put the baby up for adoption. As a result, Violet got the one thing Nola never had herself: a loving family . . . and an actual chance.

Years later, Army psychiatrists determined that Sergeant First Class Nola Brown was incapable of forming attachments, incapable of loving herself or anyone else—because of the neglect in her early life. They were wrong.

For years, usually on Violet’s birthday, Nola would google the young girl or drive past her house. More recently, thanks to the museum job, she’d found an easy excuse to come by the church where Violet volunteered.

A few months back, Waggs found out about Violet’s existence. Clearly, Zig did too. But to his credit, he never said a word or lectured her about it. Even now.

“I’m pretty sure she hates that girl with all the bracelets,” Zig said. “And if I’m being honest, I feel a strong dislike as well—major queen bee vibes, like Claire at the beginning of The Breakfast Club rather than Claire at the end.”

Nola rolled her eyes and motioned for Zig to slide over in the pew.

“You’ve never seen the movie, have you? The Breakfast Club?” Zig asked, reading her in a way that surprised even her.

Sliding next to him and flipping to a new page in her sketchpad, Nola didn’t answer. Instead, pencil in hand, she started sketching in round gestural motions, bringing the high archways at the front of the church to life.

“He was using you, y’know. Roddy was,” she finally blurted.

Zig nodded. “Maybe at the start, maybe to get you involved.”

“Definitely to get me involved.”

“And is that so bad? While you were here painting, I spent a good deal of time with him. Your brother was a complicated guy. And a lonely one. Just because he wanted you in his life doesn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely trying to find out what happened to Fetch and your mom.”

Nola thought about that, sketching the rest of the pulpit along with the tables at the front of the church and a few of the teenagers, including—

“Carter, more working, less eating!” Reverend Ned scolded as the other kids laughed.

Nola continued to draw, adding an outline of Violet and her mess of black hair.

“I can feel you staring, Mr. Zigarowski. If you want to say something, just say it.”

“I’m trying, but I know if I get it wrong, you’ll get annoyed.”

“I’m already annoyed. Tell me what Waggs found about my mother.”

Zig turned, wondering how she knew—but of course she knew.

“After a breach like this, I know they’re closing Heavenly Meadows,” Nola added. “Apparently, there were only half a dozen protectees left, but their files— I don’t need a protector, Mr. Zigarowski.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Tell me what she found.”

Zig mentally replayed the conversation, Waggs finally digging into Ivy’s files and decades of reports from Heavenly Meadows. That when Nola was little, her mother was caught multiple times—apparently when she was drunk—walking to a pay phone to call Royall’s house. Ivy had somehow tracked him down and would pretend to be a family friend . . . just to see how young Nola was doing, sensitive enough to keep her distance. The same thing Nola was doing with her own daughter.

“She actually didn’t find anything. The files were pretty unremarkable.”

Turning to Zig, Nola studied his face, his features, his body language, the dilation of his pupils, like she could see the sweat in the pores of his skin, picking him apart with that blazing, piercing gaze that made him want to turn away. Did she believe him?

Not really, Zig thought, but she was done arguing about it.

“Nola, can I say one last thing?”

She shot him a look that would leave a bruise. “Stop asking permission.”

“Just back to your brother for a moment—whatever Roddy’s intentions were for jumping on this case . . . whether he was using me to ambush you or just get to know you . . . what matters most is, well . . . I know why you jumped into it. To help m—”

“Don’t.”

“No. I need to say this, and you need to hear it. You thought I was in trouble and you came to help. I appreciate th—”

“Mr. Zigarowski, don’t,” she warned again.

“And by the way, in case no one ever told you, when you were younger, what happened to you and Roddy—that wasn’t right—”

“I said DON’T,” Nola hissed, loud enough that the students at the front of the church turned her way.

Zig smiled at the crowd and waved back, like it was innocent fun. Whether the students believed it or not, they turned back to their assembly line, including Violet, who was still sitting by herself, stuffing shampoos and soaps into Ziploc bags.

“I’m not my mother,” Nola finally muttered, staring down at her sketchpad, picking at the pew’s wooden armrest, wedging her nail under a raised fragment of oak, letting the splinter press into her flesh.

“Oh, Nola, that’s not— I know you’re not her. I know that,” Zig insisted. “I was just trying to say thank you, okay? When everything went sideways, thank you for stepping in and making sure I was okay.”

Zig expected her to roll her eyes or shake her head. Instead, she continued picking at the splinter, letting it dig deeper under her nail, like she used to do with paper clips, an old high school habit suddenly back again.

“Mr. Zigarowski, is it hard for you when you’re with me?”

“Why would—?”

“It’s not a criticism. You just— I see how people do things,” she explained as she again started sketching. “With strangers or even Roddy, you’re usually the one in charge and, I don’t know, relatively put-together. But the moment it’s just us, you . . . it’s like you can never find the right words.”

“I believe I call that talking,” he said with a laugh.

“I’m serious. Does being around me—?” It looked like she was sketching, but really, she was just darkening the same lines again and again. “Do I remind you of the bad things that happened to your daughter?”

The question burrowed into Zig’s chest, as if someone hit him with a rake and was scraping everything out.

On his right, Nola wouldn’t look at him, still working the same dark line.

“Oh God, Nola . . . how could—? You got it all wrong,” he insisted. “You remind me of the best parts.”

As the words floated between them, he was already wishing he could snatch them back. He figured Nola would be mad or annoyed, her usual default whenever he got sentimental. Instead, he spotted a new reaction, one he’d never seen on her before. Her shoulders, her body . . . everything tensed and went stiff, the strain showing on her face as she rigidly hunched forward, folding down into herself, like she was trying to will the world to disappear or block out the entire universe.

Zig had seen the same reaction with soldiers who survive mass fatalities when they came back from Iraq and Afghanistan, everyone thanking them, pinning medals on their chest and calling them heroes. Those young men and women want so badly to believe all the accolades, but deep in their hearts, as they stand there with their forced smiles and faraway gazes, they’re adamant they don’t deserve them.

Zig knew it was a mix of survivor’s guilt and shame. But it wasn’t until he went through it himself that he finally grasped the far more destructive missing ingredient that was mixed in there with it. The anguish of self-hatred.

“Nola, have you ever heard of pentimento?”

“Mr. Zigarowski, if this is where you try to change the subject or force some trite metaphor on me—”

“Just listen. Pentimento.”

“It’s a painting term for when paint gets old and ages on a canvas. It starts becoming transparent,” Nola said.

“Exactly. I learned about it from a writer, Lillian Hellman, who explained that when the paint fades away, you can see the artist’s original pencil lines underneath—the sketches of a boat that didn’t make the final draft, or the sway of a woman’s dress that shifted completely. Basically, a change made by the artist during the painting t—”

“Get to the point.”

“I see the way you do your drawings,” Zig explained, motioning to her sketchpad. “You change your mind all the time—fixing things, choosing better perspectives, your old choices replaced by newer ones. But the paint itself? It’ll always eventually fade, won’t it? We can cover it up all we want, but over time, those old parts of ourselves get revealed—”

“Mr. Zigarowski, I don’t have time for this.”

“Then your blind spot is even bigger than you realize, because this is the only thing to make time for. I know you see Roddy, Royall, even your mom as some Ghosts of Christmas Past—early sketches that you can just keep erasing and lock away. I used to do the same with Maggie and my marriage. On hard days, I still do—”

“You’re rambling—”

“And you’re not listening. Those old versions of us—those pencil sketches—when we’re weak, scared, anxious, helpless . . . They’re not meant to be ashamed of and hidden away, Nola. They’re meant to be cherished. Those lines are who you were. But they also made you who you are. In life as in art, the rough draft is littered with regrets and flaws—but you can’t make a masterpiece without them.”

Nola didn’t react, but Zig could see something shifting behind her eyes.

“Are you done with your sloppy metaphor yet?” she finally asked.

“That’s your—?”

“You should play new music,” Nola insisted.

“Wha?”

“I had to sit through your advice. Here’s mine, Mr. Zigarowski. If you really want to avoid being stuck in the past, change your music. Stop playing your old songs and find new ones.”

“You’re talking to someone who saw Nirvana and the Chili Peppers—together—at a racetrack in Del Mar, before any of them were big!”

“Gimme your phone.”

“What’re y—?”

“Give me. Your phone.”

“You can’t make fun of me.”

Nola opened her palm. “Show me the last song you played.”

Reluctantly, Zig unlocked his phone and handed it to her.

Swiping through his apps with one hand, she used her other to reach into her pocket, pulling out her AirPods. With a flick of her thumb, she offered one to him and put the other in her own ear. “No Spotify?”

“I own my music. That’s how you support artists.”

“You’re truly the oldest man alive,” she said, swiping to Apple Music and seeing his current song.

Kim Carnes’s “Bette Davis Eyes.”1982’s Song of the Year.

“Don’t judge. You’ll see,” Zig challenged. “Play it.”

With the push of a button, the synthesizers started thrumming.

Zig nodded to the music, slightly off beat and oddly nervous as he tried to read Nola’s reaction.

The music was loud in their ears, the two of them sitting in the back row of the relatively quiet church as Kim Carnes’s smoky voice warned that she’ll tease you and unease you.

Nola gave the song a full fifty-one seconds.

“It’s terrible,” she insisted. “But I like it.”

“I knew it! Such a banger, right?”

“Do not say anything is a banger.”

“C’mon, that part where all the boys think she’s a spy?!” Zig shot back, doing the clap-clap . . . clap part.

At the front of the church, Reverend Ned and a few kids again turned.

Zig waved at them again, the song still playing in his ear. For the next few minutes, the two of them sat there side by side, letting the synthesizers and that unforgettable hook wash over them.

“Y’know, Nola—now that I’m back at Dover, I was talking to my supervisor, who said that to help with the budget, they’ve let go of some of the old investigators, and . . . well . . . on certain cases, we’re apparently going to be bringing in outside contractors, people who’re trained with good eyes, to help go through evidence.”

“Not interested,” she insisted, turning back to her drawing.

Zig nodded, unsurprised.

Another few seconds passed.

“Send it to me, though,” she added.

A quick grin took Zig’s face, though he buried it fast, trying to play it cool.

“You do realize I can see you, Mr. Zigarowski.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, furrowing his brow, serious as could be.

Next to him, Nola continued to sketch, adding some blending and stippling to the vaulted ceiling and its arch—a pointed, trifoliated one, far more complex than she initially noticed. Though as she thought about it now, maybe it was time to acknowledge that when it comes to small towns, you shouldn’t be surprised when they surprise you.

“Nola, if you want to send some new music for me to listen t—”

“Can you ever stop talking and just enjoy the song?”

Zig thought about that, glancing over at Violet, then back to Nola, who still refused to look at him, focused on her drawing, the two of them sitting in the pew as “Bette Davis Eyes” played in their ears.

Could he enjoy it?

He could, he decided as the final chorus hit, taking him back to that night at—

No. Zig had spent enough time visiting the past.

For once, as he admired the archway’s intricate shadows and Nola’s ability to capture them as her pencil skittered across the page, Zig instead planted himself squarely, firmly, in the present.

Acknowledgments

This is a book about the past—and how, no matter how hard you try to hide it away, it rarely cooperates. When I was younger and first started writing, I thought that was a bad thing. Today, I’m older (and clearly wiser—can’t you tell?), so I understand that it’s far more complicated than my old black-and-white thinking. As Zig says in the end, no matter how hard the struggle is in your rough drafts, you can’t make a masterpiece without it.

To that end, let me start by acknowledging the loss of Jill Kneerim, my wise soul and treasured agent, who was the first one to say yes. She died as I was building this book, making it the first I’ve had to complete without her. You’ll still feel her in these pages (one of our last conversations was about Zig’s mother-in-law, whom Jill adored and helped improve, even on her deathbed). For decades, Jill taught me to have faith in growth—and to have faith in myself. Especially as I pushed to be a better writer. That’s why this book is dedicated in her memory.

I also owe tremendous thank-yous to the following: My first lady, Cori, who sat next to me in that first showing of The Breakfast Club, and whom I’ve loved since ninth grade. C, thanks for picking the nerdy, (somewhat) sporty, and complicated one. Jonas, Lila, and Theo—you have no idea how much I adore being your Dad. Jennifer Rudolph Walsh brought me back to my original publisher, and the astute Jay Mandel has been a master navigating all waters. Special thanks to Hope Denekamp, Lucy Cleland, and all our friends at the Kneerim & Williams Agency.

In these pages, the connection between brother and sister comes from the love I have for my own sister, Bari. Also thanks to Bobby, Ami, Adam, Gilda, and Will, who stand so strongly by our side.

Nearly three decades in, and I’ve still got the same Breakfast Club reading my early drafts: Noah Kuttler goes first, adding wise insight, then Ethan Kline dissects the motivations and makes me look smarter. Then Dale Flam, Matt Kuttler, and Chris Weiss tell me what they love and hate, taking out all the jokes that aren’t funny (not realizing that I put so many of them back because, c’mon . . . I’m super funny, right?).

It’s been over a decade since I met the great William “Zig” Zwicharowski, who spent his life taking care of our fallen troops and making sure they were treated with honor, dignity, and respect. To every person at Dover, thank you for what you do for Gold Star families. The same goes for former Dover man and funeral home expert Matt Generaux, who helps me with all the details, as well as Sergeant Major Amy L. M. Brown, the real Army Artist-in-Residence, for sharing her insights. Zig, Matt, and Amy are always my moral compasses. (Heart!) I also need to thank everyone at Dover, including Christin Michaud, Lieutenant Colonel Ray Geoffroy, Nelson Delgado, Chaplain Matt Knight, Matt Metschke, Nicole McMinamin, Crystal Seymore, and Danielle Wilk.

In a book about old friends, let me thank a few of my best ones: Military expert Scott Deutsch, who sat next to me at Michael Jackson’s Victory tour (If you remember that, you’re old!); police expert Jimmy West, who read the same comics as me growing up; and finally, medical expert Dr. Lee Benjamin, who was at dinner with me on my twenty-first birthday. Every book, I ask them hundreds of absurd questions. They put up with me and give me the correct answers. All mistakes are mine.

I also leaned on Art and Sue Roderick, who gave me the best details for Heavenly Meadows and helped me navigate the impressive world of the U.S. Marshals. Additional help came from Michael Green, Scott Rolle, Paul Castronovo, Jim Coady, Dr. Tracey Flum, Garrett Graff, Mike Hayes, Becky Kanis Margiotta, Matt Olin, Larry Portnoy’s green thumb, Dr. Ronald K. Wright, the legendary team at DPAA: Linda A. Read, Col. Philip Berran, Dr. John Byrd, William Oliver, Dr. Edward Reedy, Col. Rachelle Retoma, and amazing readers Jackie Clair, Jessica Gardner, Neil Kaplan, and Ryan Stegman for their input.

Special thanks to everyone else who anonymously added details to these pages. You know who you are.

The book Hollywood Park by my friend Mikel Jollett was especially helpful, as well as Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by Caitlin Doughty, A Three Dog Life by Abigail Thomas, articles including “What Makes a Cult a Cult?” by Zoë Heller, “How Evolution Designed Your Fear” by Mathias Clasen, “I Was a Mob Enforcer and Somehow Got Out Alive” by Seth Ferranti, “Who Are the Enforcers?” by Mohammed Rahman, Robert McLean, Ross Deuchar, and James Densley, and some of the best confession stories on Reddit. Special love to Master of the Book, who sadly passed away, but who still deserves to be acknowledged with the coolest code name.

Heartfelt thanks to the rest of my inner circle, whom I bother for every book: Jim Day, Chris Eliopoulos, Katy Greene, Marie Grunbeck, Denise Jaeger, Katriela Knight, Nick Marell, Pansy and Rob Price, Staci Schecter, Jason Sherry, Jordyn Shapiro, Skylar Hart, Sheri Winderman, and Judd Winick; everyone at the USO and HISTORY, including Nancy Dubuc, Paul Cabana, Mike Stiller, and Russ McCarroll, for helping me find Zig and Nola; and of course, my family and friends, whose names forever inhabit these pages. Finally, thank you to everyone in the military and veterans community, especially their family members. If you need help or are thinking about suicide, please call the Veterans Crisis Line by dialing 988, then pressing 1. Someone will answer. You’re never alone.

Nearly three decades ago, my publishing life started at William Morrow and Rob Weisbach Books. I owe you forever, Rob Weisbach, for bringing it to life. Special thanks to my Morrow family: Liate Stehlik, whose commitment and wisdom inhabit every project (you are truly amazing), Jennifer Hart, Kaitlin Harri, Paige Meintzer, Kelly Rudolph, Allison Carney, Jillian Perez, Lillie Walsh, Kelly Roberts, Stefanie Lindner, Jessica Montany, Hope Ellis, David Palmer, Joe Jasko, Rachelle Mandik, Andrew DiCecco, Nancy Singer, dear old friends David Highfill, Andy LeCount, Sharyn Rosenblum, Ian Doherty, as well as the kindest and hardest-working sales force in show business. I’ll never stop saying it: They’re the real reason this book is in your hands. This was my first book with Emily Krump as editor. I couldn’t be more thankful for her insight and dedication. She improved this book profoundly. Thank you, Emily, for your faith.

About the Author

BRAD MELTZER is the Emmy-nominated, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Lightning Rod and twelve other bestselling thrillers. He also writes nonfiction books like The JFK Conspiracy, and the Ordinary People Change the World children’s book series.

Brad is also the host of Brad Meltzer’s Decoded on the History Channel and is responsible for helping find the missing 9/11 flag with his show Brad Meltzer’s Lost History.

He also recently gave the commencement address at his alma mater, the University of Michigan, when his son graduated. Trust us—go give it a listen at BradMeltzer.com.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Also by Brad Meltzer

Fiction

- The Lightning Rod
- The Escape Artist
- The House of Secrets
- The President’s Shadow
- The Fifth Assassin
- The Inner Circle
- The Book of Lies
- The Book of Fate
- The Zero Game
- The Millionaires
- The First Counsel
- Dead Even
- The Tenth Justice

Nonfiction

- Make Magic
- The JFK Conspiracy
- The Nazi Conspiracy
- The Lincoln Conspiracy
- The First Conspiracy
- Heroes for My Daughter
- Heroes for My Son
- The Ordinary People Change the World series

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

the viper. Copyright © 2026 by Forty-Four Steps, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

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Digital Edition JANUARY 2026 ISBN: 978-0-06-289245-4

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-289243-0

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