It made her so happy.

Standing in the dark between the pines with the burning specks of green falling all around her, she couldn’t make herself stop smiling.

18

Ethan stood on the corner of Main and Eighth in front of the double doors that opened into the four-hundred-seat opera house. The building had been locked up for the night, and through the glass, the lobby was dark, none of the framed movie or Broadway posters visible. Performances were held on a semi-regular basis—music recitals, community theater, town hall meetings. Classic movies were shown on Friday nights, and every two years, mayoral and city council elections were held here.

Ethan checked his watch—3:08 a.m.

It wasn’t like Kate to be eight minutes late to anything.

He buried his hands deep in his pocket.

The snow had stopped. The cold was merciless.

He shifted his weight between his feet, but the movement did little to warm him.

A shadow appeared around the corner of the building and moved straight toward him, footsteps squeaking in the snow.

He straightened—not Kate.

She didn’t move like this and wasn’t nearly as big.

Ethan clutched the Harpy in his pocket, thinking, I should’ve left when she was five minutes late. That was a sign something was wrong.

A man in a black hoodie stepped in front of him.

He was taller than Ethan and wide through the shoulders. Wore stubble on his face and reeked of the dairy.

Ethan slowly tugged the folder out of his pocket, working the tip of his thumb into the hole in the blade.

One flick, he’d have the knife open.

One swipe, he’d have the man open.

“That is a very bad idea,” the man said.

“Where’s Kate?”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. First. Knife goes back in your pocket.”

Ethan slid his hand into his pocket, but he didn’t let go of the knife.

He recognized the man from his file photo, but he’d never seen him in town, and in this moment, outside in the cold and his nerves beginning to fray, he couldn’t recall his name.

“Second. See that bush?” The man pointed across the intersection of Main and Eighth toward a large juniper. It loomed behind a wooden bench—a bus stop that had never seen a bus. Just one more artificial detail of this place. Once a week, an old woman who was losing her mind sat all day long on that bench, waiting for a bus that would never come.

“I’m going across the street now,” the man said. “Meet me behind that bush in three minutes.”

Before Ethan could respond, the man had turned away.

Ethan watched him trudge across the empty intersection as the overhead traffic light changed from yellow to red.

He waited.

Part of him screaming that something had come off the rails—should’ve been Kate here to meet him.

That he needed to go home right now.

The man reached the other side of the street and disappeared behind the bush.

Ethan waited until the traffic light had passed through three cycles. Then he stepped out from under the awning and started into the street.

Crossing, he finally remembered the man’s name—Bradley Imming.

Up and down Main, all was quiet.

It unnerved him—the stark emptiness of the street. The dark buildings. The single traffic signal humming above him as it cast alternating swaths of green, yellow, and red onto the snow.

He arrived at the bench, moved around the bush.

Something bad was going to happen.

He could feel it.

A premonitory thrumming behind his eyes like a warning bell.

He never heard the footsteps, just felt a warm push of breath against the back of his neck a half second before the world went black.

His first instinct was to fight, his hand digging back into his pocket, probing for the knife.

The ground hit him hard, the side of his face shoved into snow, the weight of what must have been several men crushing down on his spine.

He smelled the sweet, rich funk of the dairy again.

Bradley’s voice whispered in his left ear, “You just settle right on down.”

“The fuck are you doing?”

“You didn’t strike me as a man who would willingly wear a hood. I read you right?”

“Yep.”

Ethan strained, one last-ditch effort to force his arm out from under his chest, but it was no use. He was thoroughly immobilized.

“We’re gonna take a little walk around town,” Imming said. “Get you good and disoriented.”

“Kate didn’t say anything about this.”

“You wanna see her tonight or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is how it has to be. These are what you call nonnegotiable terms. Or we could just call the whole thing off right now.”

“No. I need to see her.”

“We’re gonna get up now. Then we’ll help you up. You aren’t gonna take a swing at me or anything, are you?”

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

The weight lifted.

Ethan caught a desperately needed breath.

Hands grabbed him under his arms, hauled him onto his feet, but didn’t let go.

They led him out into the intersection of Main and Eighth, Ethan clinging to the sense that he was facing north.

Imming said, “Remember Pin the Tail on the Donkey? We’re gonna spin your ass around, partner, but don’t worry—we won’t let you fall.”

They spun him for a good twenty seconds, fast enough that the world went on spinning even after they had stopped.

Imming said to the men, “Let’s take him that way.”

Ethan was dizzy on his feet, swerving like a drunk stumbling home after last call, but they kept him upright.

They walked a long time, far past the point of Ethan having the foggiest idea of where he was.

Nobody spoke.

There was only the sound of their breathing and their footsteps in the snow.

Finally, they stopped.

Ethan heard a creaking sound, like something opening on a rusty hinge.

Imming said, “Just a heads-up, this part’s a little tricky. Turn him around, boys. I’ll go down first. And check the knot on the back of his hood again.”

When they’d turned him a hundred and eighty degrees, Imming said, “We’re going to lower you onto your knees.” The location of his voice had changed, almost like he was underneath Ethan’s feet now.

Ethan’s knees hit the snow.

He felt the cold bleed through the denim.

Imming said, “I’m taking hold of your boot, putting it on a step. You feel that?” The sole of Ethan’s right boot touched the narrow side of a one-by-four. “Now put your other boot beside it. Good. Boys, hold his arms. Sheriff, go on and take another step down.”

Even though he couldn’t see, Ethan felt as if he were perched over a great height.

He stepped down onto the next rung.

“Boys, put his hands on the top rung.”

“How far of a drop is it?” Ethan asked. “Or do I even want to know?”

“You got about twenty more steps to go.”

Imming’s voice sounded distant, far below him now, and it echoed.

Ethan ran his hands across the rung to gauge its width.

The ladder was rickety.

It shifted and groaned and shuddered with each descending step.

When his boots finally reached the hard, broken surface below, Imming grabbed him by the arm and dragged him several steps away.

Ethan heard the ladder rattling, the other men starting down, and again the grind of that rusty hinge.

Somewhere above, a door banged shut.

Imming moved around behind him and untied the knot.

Off came the hood.

Ethan stood on the most rotten-looking concrete he’d ever laid eyes on. He looked at Imming. The man held a kerosene lantern that muddied his face in a collage of light and shadow.

Ethan said, “What is this place, Bradley?”