Ryan’s hands slowly went up in the air. He tried to glance over his shoulder and winced at the beam from the flashlight.

“Don’t move!” she ordered.

He froze.

Where’s Truman?

“I didn’t do anything,” Ryan called to her.

She wanted to laugh. “We found your brother today.”

His immediate shudder pleased something deep inside her.

“We also found a binder devoted to Britta and her family. I assume that belonged to you?”

No answer.

“Grady Baldwin didn’t kill those families years ago, did he?” she asked. “Did you help your father with those tasks?”

“No!” he shot back. “I had nothing to do with him.”

“Put your left hand on your head.” He obeyed, and Mercy mentally ran through the best steps to safely get the rifle away from him. The sounds of faint sirens reached her.

Finally.

“With one finger of your right hand, I want you to slowly lift the strap of the rifle off your shoulder and bring it all the way out to your right.”

She took a few steps closer, concentrating on his movements. “Slower!” He finally dangled the rifle with his outstretched hand. “Slowly lower it until it touches the ground, then drop the strap.”

Again he obeyed.

“Right hand on your head, lace your fingers. Take four big steps to your left and then two backward toward me.”

When he was far enough away from the rifle she exhaled. “You killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. Why?”

He muttered something.

“Kneel. Keep your hands on your head. And I didn’t hear what you said.” She stepped closer, her weapon and flashlight still trained on his back.

“I needed him out of my head!” he exclaimed after he was on his knees. “I needed him to stop talking to me!”

“Who?”

“My father! His work needed to be finished!”

Britta. He means Britta needed to be finished.

“I’m pretty sure the death of those two families had nothing to do with your father. And I bet your brother’s murder didn’t either.”

He lowered his head. “It kept his voice quiet for a while,” he said in a softer tone.

“On your stomach,” she ordered.

“It’s wet.”

“Lie down!”

He moved one hand to the dirt for balance and slowly started to lower his body into the mud. The sirens drew closer.

“Where’s Truman?” she asked, impatient with Ryan’s turtle-speed movements.

“I don’t know. I think he went in the water.”

The roar of the wide creek intensified in Mercy’s ears. The water? Horror turned her hands to ice. Did Ryan’s shot hit him?

I’ve got to get down there.

Transferring her flashlight and gun to one hand, Mercy slipped cuffs out of her pocket.

At the clank of the metal cuffs, Ryan spun toward her on his knees, whipping a gun from his waistband.

Time slowed.

Ryan’s smug gaze met hers as he came around. He grinned, and she saw the muzzle of his weapon.

I didn’t search him.

Mercy fired until he toppled over.

FORTY-SIX

Ryan was dead.

Mercy couldn’t hear, her ears ringing from her shots. And stress.

She knelt in the mud next to Ryan Moody and shone her flashlight on him as she felt his neck with a trembling hand. No pulse.

Of course not. Look at the holes in his chest.

He would have shot me.

Truman.

She jumped to her feet and lunged at the fence where Ryan had been standing when she first spotted him. Her flashlight showed her an angry rushing creek ten feet below the fence. The water appeared manageable for a strong swimmer, but what about a man with a broken arm? And a possible gunshot wound?

“Truman!” she shouted at the water. She ducked between the rails and stepped carefully to where the ground dropped off down to the water.

The ground gave way under her boot, and she leaped back.

She shouted his name again and started running downstream, projecting her light back and forth over the water.

Close sirens penetrated her hearing, and the rapid flashing of red and blue lights made her path harder to see. Backup had arrived.

I’m not stopping.

“Truman!”

She wouldn’t consider that he was gone. She wouldn’t. He was somewhere out here in the dark.

She combed the river and its narrow banks with her light. There were no trees or shrubs. Just big rocks that at one time water or ice had deposited in the wash. Her ankle twisted in a hollow, and she went down on one knee. Her bad leg. “Fuck!” She pulled to her feet and pushed on, not trusting her leg. But it didn’t matter.

He’s not gone. He’s not gone.

I forbid it.

He’d just come back to her.

There. She slammed to a halt and squinted at the water. Her flashlight’s glow picked up his white face against the black water. He had both arms wrapped around a good-size rock as the water tried to pull him farther downstream. He looked up at the light.

He’s almost done.

Ignoring the police shouting for her to stop, Mercy shuffled down the steep bank sideways, her leg threatening to collapse with every step. Reaching the water, she plunged in and quickly found herself up to her waist. The water wasn’t deep, but it was fast and strong.

It’s so cold.

She pushed through the water to Truman and grabbed his right hand, bracing herself against the rock with her other. She didn’t have the strength to get him out, but dammit, she would hang on to him until help arrived.

“Hey.” His teeth chattered, and his gaze struggled to hold hers.

“Hey yourself,” she managed to choke out. His hand was freezing. “We’re going to get you out of here. There’s help right behind me. Are you shot?”

“No.”

Thank you, God.

“Ryan?” he blurted.

“Dead.”

“I heard the shots. I didn’t know if he shot . . .” He trailed off.

“He drew on me.” She was numb from her twenty seconds in the water; Truman had to feel worse. She rearranged her grip on the rock and clutched him more securely.

He pressed his cheek against the rock and closed his eyes, still clinging with both arms. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

Hurry up! She squeezed his hand tighter. “It doesn’t matter as long as you hold on to me.” I won’t lose him this time.

His eyes barely opened. “Always.”

Her heart melted as she met his fatigued gaze. Splashing sounded behind her. The police had entered the water, their shouts intelligible, but Mercy knew their rescue was minutes away, and she leaned her forehead against Truman in relief.

Never letting go again.

FORTY-SEVEN

For the first time in two days, his home was quiet.

Truman lay back in his easy chair, relishing the silence. He loved his parents and sister but preferred them in small quantities. They’d left for good that morning, and the house had seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The home was cleaner than it’d ever been, but he’d been unable to relax with them fussing over him. Mercy fussed a little but knew when to step back.

He ran a hand over Simon, who was curled up on his lap. The cat had stuck close since Truman had returned. He’d had to shut the door to his bedroom to keep her from sleeping on his pillow and keeping him awake. She’d meowed her protest and stuck her paw under the door for fifteen minutes before giving up.

Ollie peeked into Truman’s study, and Truman waved him in. In the few days he’d been at Truman’s house, the teenager had settled into a routine. Kaylie had spent several afternoons with him, catching him up on what a teenager needed to know—cell phones, apps, and clothing. And she had introduced him to the internet, horrified by the thought of him learning from dated textbooks when the world could be at his fingertips. He’d caught on quickly to computers—after several lectures on how to avoid viruses and not to believe everything he read.

Truman wondered if he’d discovered porn yet.

“Mercy asked me to bring you some coffee,” Ollie said as he stepped in. At first glance Ollie could blend in with a group of teenagers. The clothes and haircut had done away with the mountain boy. But there was still something that set him apart. A watchfulness in his eyes, an intense studying of his surroundings that was different from the carefree attitudes of most teens. He seemed comfortable under Truman’s roof, and Truman wondered how long it would last. Ollie was fiercely independent. Truman liked having the boy around because Ollie made him see the world differently and appreciate everything from dental floss to the flick of a light switch.

Truman took the mug. “Sit down for a minute.”

Ollie planted himself on an ottoman, gangly legs akimbo, and Simon abandoned Truman for the new arrival.

Traitor.

“I wanted to tell you what happened the night I went in the water,” Truman said. He’d been putting this off until the two of them were alone.

“I’ve heard.” The teen shifted on the ottoman, keeping his gaze and hand on Simon.

“I haven’t told anyone about this particular thing.”

Ollie looked up, his eyes skeptical. “Even Mercy?”

“Even Mercy.” But I will. “I was already beat to hell, you know. My arm, my head was still giving me problems, my stamina sucked. I shouldn’t have been back on the job.”

“You were going crazy doing nothing here. You needed to get back for your sanity.”

“True. But physically I wasn’t ready.” Truman sipped the coffee, appreciating the heat and taste as it hit his tongue. How many days did I crave coffee while I was in the woods? “When I fell down the bank and into that creek, the first thing that happened was I banged my head on more rocks. Several times.”

Ollie gazed at him in sympathy. Truman knew he looked like shit. The rushing water had tumbled him hard, giving him a bruised cheekbone and scraped chin. And those were only the visible contusions. He had plenty of others hidden by his clothing and hair.