Her grip tightened. Her pulse raced.

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know…late. About midnight here. Why?”

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, for cryin‘ out loud. That asshole didn’t give you the message, did he?”

“Greg, what did you tell him?” Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

“What kind of incompetent hicks are you working with, Maggie?”

“Greg.” She tried to stay calm, to keep the scream from clawing its way out of her throat. “I lost my cellular phone last night when I was chasing the killer. There’s a good chance he was the one you talked to.”

Silence. Even the paper shuffling had come to a stop.

“For God’s sake, Maggie. How was I supposed to know?” His tone was subdued.

“There’s no way you could have known. I’m not blaming you, Greg. Just please, try to remember what you told him.”

“Nothing really…just to call me and that your mother wasn’t doing too well.”

She leaned back on the bed, sinking her head into the pillows and closing her eyes.

“Maggie, when you get home we need to talk.”

Yes, they would talk on a beach somewhere, sipping fruity drinks, the ones with little umbrellas stuffed in them. They’d talk about what was really important, rekindle their lost love, rediscover the mutual respect and goals that had brought them together in the first place.

“I want you to quit the Bureau,” he said, and then she knew there would never be a sunny beach for them.

Chapter 48

The snow exploded into flying white powder as his feet came down with heavy thuds, smashing through drifts. Snow clung to his pant legs and leaked inside his shoes, turning his feet to ice. His body wasn’t his own, propelling him through branches and down the side of the hill at a speed that would surely send him tumbling headfirst at any moment.

Then he heard them, squealing and giggling. He slid to a halt, crashing into shrubs and snow-laced prairie grass that prevented him from rolling into the sledders’ path. He lay there, pressed into the snow, the white death sucking the heat from his body. He hid, trying to control his rapid breathing, inhaling through his mouth and creating a vapor each time he exhaled.

They should have gone home while the throbbing in his head was silent. Why hadn’t they gone home? It would be getting dark soon. Would there be plates set on a dinner table waiting for them or only a note and a microwave dinner? Would their parents be there to make sure they took off their wet clothing? Would anyone be there to tuck them into bed?

He couldn’t stop the memories, and he no longer tried. He laid his face into the snow hoping it would stop the pounding. He could see himself at twelve, wearing a green army jacket with little lining to keep out the cold. His patched jeans allowed drafts to assault his body. He hadn’t owned a pair of boots. The snowfall had been over ten inches and the entire town ground to a stop, leaving his stepfather with nowhere to go except his mother’s bedroom. He had been told to leave the house, to “go play in the snow with his friends.” Only he had no friends. The kids had only paid attention to him to make fun of his shabby clothes and his scrawny build.

After hours of sitting in the cold backyard watching the other kids sledding, he had gone back to the house only to find the door locked. Through the thin wood and fragile glass, he had listened to his mother’s screams and moans-pain and pleasure indistinguishable. Did sex have to hurt? He couldn’t imagine growing to enjoy such pain. And he remembered feeling ashamed because he had been relieved. He knew as long as his stepfather slammed into his mother, he wouldn’t slam into his small body.

It was while he sat in the bitter white cold that day that he had plotted, a plot so simple it required only a ball of string. The next morning when his stepfather retreated to his basement workshop, he would come back up on a stretcher. He and his mother would never feel ashamed or scared again. How could he have known that his mother would go down to the basement first that morning? That morning when his life had ended; when that horrible wicked, little boy had ended his mother’s life.

Suddenly, he felt someone above him, breathing and sniffing. He slowly looked up to find a black dog within inches of his face. The dog bared his teeth, emitting a low growl. Without warning, his hands shot out at the dog’s throat and the growl became a quiet whine, a stifled gurgle, then silence.

He watched the boys dressed in thick parkas running and jumping with stiff legs and arms. Finally, they gathered up their sledding contraptions and said their goodbyes. One boy called for the dog several times but gave up easily to catch up with his friends. They separated and headed in different directions, three one way, two another while one crossed the church’s parking lot alone.

The sky changed from light gray to slate. Streetlights blinked on one at a time. A jet thundered overhead, the sound amplified by the white, silent town. There wasn’t a single vehicle or pedestrian when he climbed into his own car. He pulled the ski mask back on despite the perspiration gathering on his forehead and upper lip. On the seat next to him, he laid out a fresh handkerchief, carefully and meticulously as though it were already a part of the ceremony. He brought a vial out of his coat pocket, cracked it and anointed the white linen. Then he kept the headlights off and the engine soft as he slowly followed the boy who dragged his bright orange plastic sled behind him.

Chapter 49

The sheriff’s department could afford only five fully equipped squad cars, and four were parked outside the courthouse when Nick returned. Immediately, the fury burned in his stomach. What would it take to get these people to listen to him, to take his orders seriously? Yet, he knew it was his own fault.

He had treated his position as sheriff with the same reckless disregard that had ruled the rest of his life-to simply kick back and take nothing too seriously. That was before. Before he had fallen into Danny Alverez’s blood. Now he couldn’t help wondering whether a real sheriff could have saved Matthew Tanner. But Platte City had a skirt-chasing college quarterback with a law degree, absolutely no experience and only his father’s name and reputation to win him the right to call himself sheriff and to carry a badge and a gun. A gun, by the way, that he hadn’t fired since target practice to get the job nearly two years ago.

Michelle Tanner’s ex-husband had knocked more than just his jaw out of whack. Too bad it had taken a fist to knock some sense of responsibility into him. And now that Maggie was leaving, it was up to him to take control. He just wished he knew how the hell to do that.

He entered the courthouse and immediately wanted to flee in the other direction. The huge marble lobby echoed with the chatter of reporters. Cords and cables snaked over the floor. Bright lights blinded him and a dozen microphones were shoved into his face while reporters assaulted him with questions.

Darcy McManus-an ex-beauty queen turned TV anchor-barricaded the staircase with her tall, lean body. It was hard to ignore the long legs she showed off in the short skirts she pretended were part of a suit. She offered him a spot beside her in front of Channel Five’s camera. He shoved his way to the staircase but purposely kept his distance. In the past, he would have flirted with her and taken advantage of the attention. Maybe he would have even gotten her phone number. Now he just wanted to get past her and escape to his office.

“Sheriff, do you have any suspects yet?” She looked older than she did on TV. Up close he saw the caked makeup concealing the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.