When I came around the last bend, the sky had gone from gray to pale blue, the sun hidden behind the high hills in the distance. Even in the dimness, the patrol cars up ahead were impossible to miss. Three were sticking out into the road and a fourth was parked up against the trees, as if it had rolled to a stop there on its own. I had been preparing myself to arrive and find nothing, for it to have been a false alarm, as Erik had warned. But there were the police, and here was the bridge. And down below was Cedar Creek and, apparently, a body.

There wasn’t a person in sight when I got out of the car, just the flashing of the blue and red lights between all those leafless trees. It was quiet, too, the only sound my feet on the pavement. It wasn’t until I’d walked up to the car at the front of the line that I heard some voices floating up from the woods. I paused, noticing for the first time that my fists were clenched.

Tread lightly, like Erik had said, that was all I had to do. And yet that had seemed so much easier to execute before I’d gotten out of the car.

Hello, I’m Molly Sanderson from the Ridgedale Reader. Would someone maybe have a minute to answer a couple questions?

No, much too tentative. Not being obnoxiously overbearing made sense. Presenting my questions as though they were optional? Decidedly ill advised. I didn’t need to be a seasoned reporter to know that.

Hello, I’m Molly Sanderson of the Ridgedale Reader. I’d like to verify some facts.

Much better. A little pushy but not appalling. It was also accurate: I did have the fact of a body I wanted to confirm. Facts, plural, was a bit of an overstatement. But I knew from being a lawyer that feigning a position of strength could be a prerequisite to success.

When I’d inched up close enough to see the water, I could tell right away what all those nervous weathermen had been worried about when they’d talked about late-winter snow followed by early-March rain. Flash flooding wasn’t something you really considered in New York City. They mentioned it, but big dirty puddles were usually how it manifested. As I looked at the creek, though—more like a river as it bounced dark and fast over stones and swept up broken branches—the potential for destruction was clear. Already, a big chunk of the near bank was gone, caved in like the ragged edge of a cliff.

On the far side of the rushing water were half a dozen uniforms near the water’s edge. A handful of others fanned out in the woods beyond, searching for something, though their procedure didn’t seem particularly methodical. They were crisscrossing back and forth, kicking at leaves, poking with sticks, half seeming like they were merely pretending to be doing something useful.

There was something blue on the far bank, too, a plastic tarp cordoned off with yellow police tape. My breath caught—all that nervous energy sucked into the ether. Because there it was, down in those wet, rotting leaves, between all those skinny, leafless trees: the body. Somebody’s dead body.

“If you ask me, they should flip the switch when they find the bastard,” came a voice next to me. “And I don’t even believe in the death penalty.”

When I turned, I saw a young guy in a snug, bright yellow fleece and fitted black shorts. He had a radio strapped around his chest and a Campus Safety officer emblem on his shoulder. He smoothed a gloved hand over his fluffy blond hair and rested it on the back of his neck. He should have been good-looking. He had all the makings of it—cute face, muscular body. But he looked like an oversize child, as if he had gotten larger without actually maturing. It wasn’t the least bit appealing.

“What happened?” I asked, opting not to identify myself, which probably violated all sorts of reporterly ethics. But then I wasn’t technically interviewing him. He was the one who’d started talking to me.

He looked me up and down, eyes lingering on the expensive brand-new Sorel hiking boots I was wearing. A gift from Justin meant to get me excited for our new life in the “country.” They presented an inaccurate, outdoorsy picture of me, but one that might be helpful in context.

Finally, the man looked back up, his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Molly Sanderson.” I held out a hand. He hesitated before shaking it, squinted eyes locked on mine. “And you are?”

“Deckler,” he said with annoying brevity. “You’re not with the Ridgedale Police. I’ve never seen you.”

“I’m a writer.” It was more neutral than “reporter.” “Someone from the police department contacted us.”

Shit, why had I said that? Erik’s contact was surely not public knowledge. It was probably the only thing more important than treading lightly: not exposing my boss’s critical confidential relationships.

“Someone from the police department contacted you? To come here?”

“Us, I should have said. I don’t personally know the details,” I said, hoping he’d drop it. “You found the body?”

Deckler held up a hand and shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he said. “You want an official comment, you’ll have to talk to Steve.”

“And Steve is?”

“Down there.” Deckler nodded toward the water. Standing in the middle of the creek in thigh-high rubber fishing pants was a huge man in a sharply pressed shirt. He had his muscular arms crossed, strong square jaw set as he stared upstream, glaring at the current as if willing a suspect to float down his way. “It’s in his hands now.”

“His hands?” I asked.

“Ridgedale Chief of Police,” Deckler said, but with an edge. Like he didn’t think much of him. “Campus Safety’s here for support.”

“They just come in and take over?” That had been his implication, and there was no telling what might pop out if I stirred the pot.

His jaw tightened. “Only on something like this.” He exhaled in a puff of disgust. “Most campus crime stays on campus. There’s a whole disciplinary process, with hearings, evidence, all that. We handle it all ourselves, confidentially. You know, to protect the students.”

“To protect the students, right,” I said, trying not to sound snide. Because all I could think was: or protect the perpetrators. “But not with something like this?”

He shook his head and looked back out over the water. “No, I guess not.”

“And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”

Deckler shook his head and huffed again, seeming insulted that I’d asked the same question twice. “Like I said, you want details, you’ll have to talk to Steve.”

“Okay.”

I smiled as I took a step toward the creek, already imagining myself at the edge, waving like an idiot to get Steve’s attention. Even from this distance, he did not look like he’d appreciate that kind of thing.

“Whoa, hold up!” Deckler barked before I’d gotten very far. “You can’t just go down there. I’ll have to call him up.”

“Oh, no, that’s—”

Before I could get my objection out, Deckler had whistled loudly through his fingers, right next to my ear, as if calling a dog. When Steve swiveled his head in our direction, he did not look happy.

“Really, I can wait,” I offered meekly, though it was already too late.

“Not here next to me, you can’t.”

Steve looked even more aggravated as he stalked to the side of the river. Don’t you think we’ve got more important things to do than waste our time talking to reporters? I could already imagine him saying that as I watched him take the time to climb out of the water, put on his police hat, which he’d left on the bank for safekeeping, and start up the hill. It took an excruciatingly long time for Steve to climb in those boots that should have looked ridiculous on him but somehow didn’t. It helped that he moved with a slow, strong surety. Like he already knew how things were going to turn out.

At the top of the hill, Steve nodded briskly in my direction before turning to Deckler. He was better-looking up close, the lines of his strong face offset enough to make his square features interesting instead of odd. Nothing like Justin’s fine bone structure, of course. Justin was the kind of man women openly ogled. Steve was the kind they counted on for a rescue.