The heat cranked, Michael sat in his rented four-wheel drive and studied his map. He wanted to get in and get out of this part of the state as fast as possible. He hadn’t liked leaving Lacey alone with Jack Harper. Michael shouldn’t care whom Lacey kissed, but this guy was different. Harper had inserted himself in her circle and extended an overprotective shield that was Michael’s by right. No doubt Jack was going to look out for her and do his damndest to keep her safe, but that didn’t mean he had to like the guy.

Damn it, he was getting distracted. “Concentrate,” Michael muttered. Get it done and get back to her.

Lacey wasn’t his anymore. Michael knew that. But that hadn’t changed all the dynamics of their relationship. She still fussed at him like a worried sister and he looked out for her like an older brother. But if she ever showed signs of wanting to go back to the way things had once been…he’d be ready. Their short time as a couple had been the most important relationship in his life. There’d been fireworks. In bed and out. It was the fireworks outside of bed that had caused her to put an end to their dating. He’d been steamed, but he’d gotten over it. He’d learned to bite his tongue and wait. But this thing with Harper was different, and it was causing a stir in the pit of his stomach.

Michael shook the map and exhaled hard. Focus.

He’d found a willing contact with the local police who’d agreed to dig up the official report on the accidental death of Amy Smith, the Mount Junction gymnast who’d driven her car into a river. Michael had done his own research on the accident, but had run into a problem trying to dig into her background. Too many damn Smiths in Oregon. The source had promised to e-mail him everything on the case and what pieces he could find of the girl’s personal history. Michael especially wanted to see the autopsy report.

He couldn’t get those broken femurs out of his mind. Amy’s, Suzanne’s, and now three men in the Portland area. All with breaks in the same places.

Michael was searching the map for the site where Amy’s car had been found. According to newspaper reports, she’d driven into the river and had been washed out of her car into the rough, rocky river. The car had remained, half stuck in the muddy bank until boaters had spotted it the next day. Three weeks later, the body had turned up a mile down the river. The young couple who’d stumbled over Amy’s remains at a riverside campsite hadn’t realized it was human at first.

Michael wanted to stand on the ground where Amy had vanished and try to imagine what could have happened that day. The campsite where her remains had been found would be next. Relying on photos and hearsay wasn’t good enough for him. He preferred going straight to the source, seeing it for himself.

The map led him three miles out of Mount Junction on a winding, snow-packed road to the spot where her vehicle had been found. He could have used directions off the GPS, but he wanted to study the topography of the area and get a feel for the surrounding landscape. Nothing felt better than a real map in his hands.

He parked his truck along the old road and hiked the quarter mile to the river. The snow was a foot and a half deep and he was sweating by the time he reached the bank. He cursed. The accident had occurred in the spring. How was he supposed to picture it accurately at this time of year? Everything was blanketed.

Slowly, he turned in a full circle, taking in the beauty of the site. He eyed the narrow trail he’d plowed from the road and frowned. Amy Smith drove a quarter mile off the road and into the river? Large boulders and clumps of evergreens edged his trail as it meandered to the river. Apparently she’d avoided hitting those but couldn’t avoid the water. Had she been drunk? No one remembered seeing her earlier in the day. No one had realized she was missing until her little Corolla had been spotted in the water.

The bank of the river sloped down steeply from where he stood. He estimated the distance from the bank crest to the water as twenty feet. No way could she have gotten her car back up the hill. Maybe she’d tried to get out of the car and gotten caught in the current. Could she have waded to shore if she wasn’t hurt too badly?

Looking up at the snowy mountains around him, he realized the water had to be near-freezing temperatures, even in the spring. Plunging into icy water could shock the breath out of anyone. An icy shiver shot down his legs and into his frozen hiking boots. He’d been swept into freezing water before. His body clenched as he remembered his plunge into liquid ice. He’d stupidly hung on to a crab pot as it’d swung from the crab boat deck back over the ocean and then lost his grip. If it hadn’t been for the fast-acting crew and captain, he’d be a human iceberg in the Bering Sea. Almost no one survived a tumble into those waters.

He pulled his gaze from the dark water, rubbed his hands together, and fought to slow his heart rate, channeling his thoughts in a different direction. Was this public land or privately owned? On the opposite bank, about a mile away, a barn stood cold and lifeless. A fence had once stood between the barn and river but was now a spotty line of crumbling, rotted wood. He needed to do a property search.

Pulling up the warm collar of his heavy jacket to protect his neck, he trudged back to his truck. Snow started to lightly fall, creating a hazy Christmas card out of the dreary landscape. Stopping, he turned for one last view of the deadly gray river and wondered if he was chasing a ghost.

Michael downed the scalding coffee as he paged through a property search. The heat in his hotel room was turned to the maximum, but he still had icy toes. The trip to the campsite where Amy’s remains had been found was a bust. The grounds had been closed and the access road gated for the winter. He’d debated parking and hiking the road to the campsite, but it was nearly two miles to the river from the gate. Besides, the snowfall had surged into heavy curtains of winter white, and he’d been hungry. He made a mental note to check Google Earth. Maybe he could find some bird’s-eye photos of the area.