“Don’t overthink this,” she said.

“It’s tempting,” he said, “but no. I don’t plan to.”

“You’re welcome here anytime. Standing invitation.”

“Standing, as in the shower?”

“Don’t get fresh.”

“Please?”

She laughed.

“I’ve heard you laugh more tonight than in two years of knowing you.”

“Maybe you haven’t known me.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted. “Although in the Biblical sense-”

“Shut up! If I had another spoon to throw, I would.”

He passed her the spoon. Her eyes shone brightly as she teased a second throw, and she set it down.

He sighed contentedly.

They stared.

“I want you to know,” she said, “I’m serious about this. But it doesn’t mean you have to be. This is your free pass out of jail. Tonight. Right now. No harm. No foul. But if you don’t take the pass, if you stay in jail and decide to roll the dice, that’s something else entirely.”

“Understood,” he said. He didn’t want a pass. He wanted to sleep here. He wanted to tell her he’d dreamed of this, fantasized about it and that it had exceeded all he’d imagined because one couldn’t imagine how at ease he felt with her. He felt transformed. If not for the kids, he’d run away with her if she’d have him, and it struck him that she would have him, that she’d have agreed, and he nearly laughed.

“Go home,” she said.

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Only when I’m afraid of losing something.”

“Not going to happen.”

He placed down the cold teacup, crossed to kiss her on the cheek, but she offered him her lips and they kissed until the cat climbed off her lap in disgust.

11

Walt received Wynn’s handgun the following afternoon and spent thirty minutes with the man’s attorney arranging the terms for a Boldt interview. He impounded the handgun, pending Wynn’s voluntary completion of a one-day weapons course the following week.

He reached Boldt by Skype that night, explaining he’d heard back from NFL owner Marty Boatwright, and that both interviews were now arranged. Boldt said he’d make travel plans and get back to him.

He watched the Disney Channel with his daughters, read with them at bedtime, and caught up with e-mails while Beatrice licked herself at his feet. It was the first normal evening he’d had in a while and he promised himself to make more of them. He’d quickly come to see that Fiona was right about his intolerance of silence, though dared not test it. He kept himself busy with simple tasks until utterly fatigued and fell asleep in a bed he’d once shared with Gail. Beatrice snored before he did. He slept without any recollection of dreaming.

The following day, a Tuesday in July, Terry Hogue was announced from the front desk. He complimented Walt on the decorated 1867 rolling block Remington rifle hung in a glass box on the wall. They discussed firearms for ten minutes, Walt feeling no need to push the attorney.

Finally, Hogue withdrew a sealed plastic bag and pushed it across Walt’s desk. Inside was a pair of black lace underwear.

“They belong to Dionne Fancelli.”

“Not exactly what I’d expected,” Walt said.

Hogue slid a signed and notarized document to Walt. “His statement as to how this undergarment came into his possession and that it was passed directly to you.”

Walt read the letter carefully. “A love souvenir.”

“Their second, and last time,” Hogue said. “I questioned the boy repeatedly, Walt. They’ve had sexual intercourse twice. Other stuff along the way, sure. But only twice, the last time eight months ago. He’s willing to cooperate fully. It’s not him. I happen to believe him, in case you care.”

“I care.”

“I thought you might.”

“What I told you before-that was straight. I’m not after him.”

Hogue produced a second plastic bag. This one contained a cotton swab.

“So that completes our end of the deal,” Hogue said. “I guess I should wish you good luck. My client would welcome the dismissal of him as a person of interest.”

“Has she said anything to him about problems at home?”

“He knew there were problems,” Hogue said. “The two times they attempted sexual intercourse failed miserably. And it wasn’t him, it was her. She became so overwhelmed emotionally that he withdrew, despite protection.”

“And they didn’t try after that.”

“No. And they didn’t talk about it. He brought it up only once. She blew up at him. They didn’t speak for days. He doesn’t know enough to have spotted the warning signs. He just thought she was too young and that he was stupid for having tried.”

“He was right.”

“Indeed.”

“Okay,” Walt said, accepting a second letter pertaining to the swab.

“If we can help you get the bastard, Walt…”

“Thank you. My guess is, you already have.”

Walt had the two bags packaged and shipped to the Meridian lab, knowing it would be several weeks, if he was lucky, before getting the reports.

The prenatal sample from the mother would have to be done in the next few weeks-between the tenth and thirteenth week-and would be more problematic. Past the fourteenth week an amniocentesis was the only option, a procedure that would put the fetus at some degree of risk and one he therefore wouldn’t push for. He had to work quickly with the courts.

He attended a Rotary Club lunch, met with his two investigating deputies to review cases, and answered a dozen e-mails before heading home to Lisa and the girls.

He was in the Cherokee when he overheard a radio call from his dispatcher. A prowler had been reported at the Roger Hillabrand residence. Hillabrand, a defense contractor, continued to hold an interest in Fiona, and had for a time been a suspect in another of Walt’s cases. More important, he lived within a mile-as the crow flies-of the Engleton ranch; less than a mile from the wilderness campground Guillermo Menquez was keeping an eye on.

Deputy Chalmers responded to the dispatcher’s call, and a moment later, Walt announced that he would oversee the complaint. Chalmers would respond ASAP, bypassing the gate to keep it closed and climbing the two-mile driveway on foot, alert for the intruder. If she reached the house before Walt, she was to inform Hillabrand Walt was en route.

He called Lisa and let her know he was going to be late. Nikki took the phone.

“Why do our faces look backwards in the mirror?” she asked.

“It’s bedtime, sweetheart. I can try to explain it in the morning.”

“But how come?”

“It has to do with the way light reflects.”

“Like when the doctor hits your knee?”

“No, that’s ‘reflex.’ ”

“But that’s what you said.”

“Spelled different. Different word.”

“Sounds the same.”

“Yes, it does. Like hear and here-one’s listening, one’s a place.”

“Reflects is a place?”

“I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

There it was, that word that had impacted his life more than any other. Bobby. Gail. His badge. His father. He heard his own breathing through the phone’s earpiece. He said good night, a lump forming in his throat for reasons unknown. Was this the silence about which Fiona had warned? From which he ran? Was he supposed to call her?

Ten minutes later he reached the reinforced entry gate at the base of the Hillabrand estate-two hundred acres of private property contiguous with the Cold Springs run of the Sun Valley ski mountain. Perched atop an 8,000-foot-high mountaintop, two miles up a gravel road, stood Hillabrand’s 10,000-square-foot log “cabin,” a monument to a bachelor with too much money and just enough sense to hire a tasteful architect.

“It’s my fault,” Hillabrand said. He wore a crisply pressed, sky-blue polo shirt, creased blue jeans, and forest green Keens. With his leathery tan, blue eyes, and wry smile, he had to fight off comparisons to Robert Redford. “I got absorbed with work. I’d left all the lights off, so the place was dark as a graveyard-an open invitation, I’m afraid. I heard something… and had a look…” He led Walt down a confusing set of hallways and reached a hotel-sized kitchen. He pulled back a curtain on the kitchen’s Dutch split door.