He stared at Pilcher—couldn’t tell what book he held. The man was dressed in jeans, a white oxford, gray sweater-vest. The same gentle, unassuming style Pilcher always sported around town where people believed he was a resident psychologist. He and Pam were probably seeing patients today.

Ethan said, “I was driving back to Pines after Peter McCall. Assume you heard what happened there?”

“Pam briefed me. So tragic.”

“I glanced into the pasture for a split second, and when I looked back, there was something in the middle of the road. I hit it, swerved, overcorrected, flipped my Bronco.”

“The damage was severe. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah.”

“What was in the road, Ethan? My men didn’t find anything except debris from the Bronco.”

Ethan wondered if Pilcher really didn’t know. Was it possible that the woman in the road had been a Wanderer? There was rumored to be a group of residents who had discovered their microchips and cut them out. Who had knowledge of the camera placements and blind spots. People who kept their chips with them during the day, but on occasion, would extract them and leave them in bed to wander undetected in the night. Word was they always wore hooded jackets or sweatshirts to hide their faces from the cameras.

“It makes me nervous,” Pilcher said, rising to his feet, “when I see you wrestling with a simple question that should require no thought at all to answer. Or perhaps your head is still cloudy from the wreck. Does that explain the delay? Why, when I look in your eyes, I see the wheels turning?”

He knows. He’s testing me. Or maybe he only knows that she was there, but not where I put her.

“Ethan?”

“There was a woman lying in the road.”

Pilcher reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet-sized photo.

Held it up to Ethan’s face.

It was her. A candid shot. Smiling or laughing at something off-camera. Vibrant. The backdrop was blurred, but from the color, Ethan guessed that the photo had been taken in the community gardens.

He said, “That’s her.”

Pilcher’s face went dark. He returned the photograph to his pocket.

“She’s dead?” He asked it like all the air had gone out of him.

“She’d been stabbed.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“She was tortured?”

“Looked that way.”

“Where is she?”

“I moved her out of the road,” Ethan said.

“Why?”

“Because it didn’t seem right to leave her naked out in the open for anyone to see.”

“Where is her body right now?”

“Across the road from the billboard in a grove of scrub oak.”

Pilcher sat down on the bed.

“So you tucked her away, came home, went to bed.”

“I took a hot bath first.”

“Interesting choice.”

“As opposed to?”

“Calling me immediately.”

“I’d been up for twenty-four hours. I was in agony. I just wanted several hours of sleep first. I was going to call you first thing.”

“Of course, of course. Sorry to doubt you. The thing is, Ethan, this is kind of a big deal. We’ve never had a murder in Wayward Pines.”

“You mean an unsanctioned murder.”

“Did you know this woman?” Pilcher asked.

“I’d seen her around. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to her though.”

“Read her file?”

“Actually, no.”

“That’s because she doesn’t have a file. At least not one that you have access to. She worked for me. She was due back in the mountain late last night from a mission. Never showed.”

“She worked for you as what? A spy?”

“I have a number of my people living in town among the residents. It’s the only way to keep a finger on the true pulse of Wayward Pines.”

“How many?”

“It’s not important.” Pilcher patted Ethan’s leg. “Don’t look so offended, boy. You’re one of them. Get dressed, come downstairs, we’ll continue this over coffee.”

Ethan walked downstairs in a clean, newly starched sheriff’s uniform into the smell of brewing coffee. He took a seat on a stool at the kitchen island as Pilcher pulled the carafe out of the coffeemaker and poured into a pair of ceramic mugs.

“You take it black, right?”

“Yeah.”

Pilcher carried the mugs over and set them on the butcher block.

He said, “A surveillance report came across my desk this morning.”

“Who was the subject?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Your little temper tantrum upstairs yesterday caught the attention of one of my analysts.”

Pilcher raised his middle finger.

“You got a report on that?”

“I get a report anytime anyone does anything strange.”

“You think it’s strange it pisses me off when your peeping toms watch me with my wife?”

“Watching intimate moments is strictly forbidden. You know this.”

“The only way an analyst would know that it was no longer an intimate moment was if he had been watching during the intimate moment. Right?”

“You acknowledged the camera.”

“Theresa didn’t see.”

“But what if she had?”

“You think there’s anyone in town who’s been here longer than fifteen minutes who doesn’t know they’re under constant surveillance?”

“Whether they know or suspect, I don’t care. As long as they keep it to themselves. As long as they walk the line. That includes not ever acknowledging the cameras.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to fuck your wife with a camera over your bed?”

“I don’t care.”

“David—”

“It’s against the rules and you know it.” For the first time, anger laced his words.

“Fine.”

“Say it won’t happen again, Ethan.”

“It won’t happen again. But don’t ever let me find out that your analysts are watching. I’ll leave them where I find them.”

Ethan took a big, hot swallow that burned his throat.

“How you feeling, Ethan? You seem cranky.”

“I feel rough.”

“First thing, we’re taking you to the hospital.”

“Last time I was in your hospital, everyone tried to kill me. I think I’ll just tough this one out.”

“Suit yourself.” Pilcher took a sip and made a face. “It’s not terrible, but sometimes I could kill to sit outside a cafй in a European city and drink a proper shot of espresso.”

“Oh, come on, you love this.”

“Love what, Ethan?”

“What you’ve created here.”

“Sure, it’s my life’s work. Doesn’t mean there aren’t parts of the old world I still miss.”

They drank coffee and the mood lightened just a touch.

Pilcher finally said, “She was a good woman. A great woman.”

“What was her name?”

“Alyssa.”

“You didn’t know where she was until I told you. Does that mean she wasn’t chipped?”

“We allowed her to take it out.”

“You must’ve trusted her.”

“Implicitly. Remember the group I told you about?”

“The Wanderers?”

“I’d sent her to infiltrate. These people—they’ve all managed to remove their chips. They meet at night. We don’t know where. We don’t know how many. We don’t know how they communicate. I couldn’t send her in with a microchip. They’d have killed her outright.”

“So she got in?”

“Last night was supposed to be her first meeting. She’d have seen all the players.”

“They have meetings? How’s that possible?”

“We don’t know how, but they understand the weaknesses in our surveillance. They’ve gamed the system.”

“And you’re saying these people are responsible for her death?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

“You want me to investigate this group?”

“I want you to pick up where Alyssa left off.”

“I’m sheriff. They’d never let me get within a thousand miles.”

“After your tumultuous integration, I’m thinking the jury is still out on where your loyalties lie. You sell yourself right, they might consider you a prized asset.”