She stumbled to her feet. Her legs were like melted wax, but she clutched her purse and headed for the courtroom doors, her head held high. A weariness crept through her, as the adrenaline rush from her anticipation of the verdict fizzled into oblivion.

People quickly moved out of her way as if avoiding a communicable disease. Some of them watched her, their eyes narrowed in contempt, acting like she was the reason for the crime in their once secure and sleepy little community.

A tall, thin man observed her from the other side of the room. His dark brown hair curling about his shoulders, the angular planes of his narrow face, the way his shoulders stooped forward, made him seem somehow familiar. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced at the exit. But when his gaze zeroed in on her again, this time she caught his eye. He quickly looked away as if he couldn’t decide what to do—approach and offer condolences or scowl at her, too.

Another of Bethany’s relatives? He might have been. She’d been dark-haired, too, and tall and willowy. Plus tons of her cousins from back east were here for the trial.

Bethany’s parents hesitated at the entryway as if wanting to say something to Tessa, but then, maybe thinking better of it, Mr. Wade quickly escorted his teary-eyed wife outside.

Tessa blinked back her own tears. But as soon as she left the courthouse, a lone newspaper reporter targeted her with a photographer in tow.

She groaned inwardly. Rourke Thornburg. Once an on-again/off-again boyfriend in high school who had tried to renew their relationship after she’d finished college and returned to the coast, now just an annoying waste of time.

As usual, his dark gray suit was impeccable and his manicured hair had not a strand out of place—making him appear like a big-time-news-reporter wannabe. From the high-school paper to this—his first big story in the coastal town—other than reporting the weather, new storm rolling onto the coast, or crab season’s arrival.

She hurried down the courthouse steps and headed for her Ford Escape, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

Like a used car salesman with the deal of a lifetime, Rourke dove in front of Tessa. “Any statements, Miss Anderson, now that the jury found your brother guilty of first-degree murder?”

Taking a stand, she drew taller and looked Rourke squarely in the eye. “My brother is innocent. He loved Bethany. The murderer thinks he got away with the crime, but I won’t give up until he or she has been brought to justice.”

She shouldn’t have said anything to the press. She knew it, but she couldn’t stop the words.

“Do you think the sheriff’s department is guilty of a cover-up?”

Out of the corner of her vision, she saw Sheriff Wellington watching her, his blue eyes hard as ice. “I think the sheriff only saw Michael’s involvement with Bethany, overlooking the possibility someone else was the killer. I wouldn’t say it was intentional.”

“How do you propose to find the real killer, supposing Michael is innocent?”

“You’ll be the first to know.” She squelched the tears, unable to offer anything close to the truth.

Rourke knew her better. However, she also realized he wouldn’t let go of the story. So what would he do? Report on her progress, sensationalizing her failures to bring the true murderer to justice to make a name for himself? She could see the report now: Sister Seeks Killer to Free Her Brother. When Will She Recognize the Truth?

Rourke motioned to the cameraman to quit taking pictures and walked Tessa to her car, his hand supporting her elbow.

She wanted to jerk away from him, to show she wouldn’t allow his attempt at placating her, but too many people were watching. For now, she had to be the proverbial pillar of strength for her brother. Anything less would show defeat.

“I know how upsetting this has to be, as much as you care for your brother, but the jurors were right.”

Without responding to Rourke’s remark, she unlocked her car door and climbed in. But then she reconsidered. Maybe, just maybe, she could solicit his help. Who else did she have? Nobody.

“If you really want to be a reporter, you might investigate this case yourself. Look at the guys who dug into the Watergate mess and how much dirt they uncovered. No one else did. Ever think you could put your talents to good use?”

A spark of interest flickered in his gray eyes, but he was far from being convinced. Like everyone else, Rourke believed Michael was guilty of the crime. End of story.

He leaned against her door and sighed. “All right. Here’s the deal. You and I can get together over dinner, and you can tell me what makes you believe Michael didn’t do it, other than the fact he’s your brother.”

“How about you look into it, and when you discover some other leads, you give me a call. Then we’ll do dinner.”

“Shrewd.” Rourke offered a coy smile. “Not one person could verify Bethany was seeing some other guy. Michael made up the whole story. No evidence points to anyone else.”

“Not if you don’t bother looking for it. Gotta go, Rourke. Later.”

Nearby, Sheriff Wellington gave her a warning look as if to say she had better not stir up any more trouble. Nevertheless, to prove her brother’s innocence, she’d do whatever it took.

Mist covered the winding coastal road on the long drive home, and although Tessa usually felt comforted by it, late this afternoon it seemed gloomy, warning of impending disaster. The last time she felt an overwhelming sense of doom, she had learned her parents had died in a car accident earlier on a day just like this one, her last year at high school. She shuddered, despite telling herself the disquieting feeling didn’t mean anything.

When she finally pulled into the curved driveway at her redwood home overlooking the rugged coastline, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. A winter-chilled breeze played music on her wind chimes as the contorted pines stretching next to her house stirred. She glanced at the gray clouds. As cold as it was, if it rained, it would turn to sleet or snow or a mixture of the two soon.

She climbed out of her car, shivered, and locked the doors. The place looked foreboding now that her brother was gone. Not the welcome refuge it had always been.

She hurried into the house, the air as chilly inside as it was out, and rushed to change in the bedroom.

After laying her wool coat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, she turned on the floor heater, and pulled off her black dress. Black as if she were in mourning. Which she was all over again. The house seemed so empty without her brother’s presence, his laughter, the sound of his video games playing in the background as he fought another epic fantasy battle before he settled down to paint.

Now, except for the howling wind and the waves crashing on the beach down below the cliffs, everything was quiet. Too quiet in the isolated cottage. For the first time ever, she felt—spooked.

There wasn’t any other way to explain the reason goose bumps rose and the hair stood on end on her arms.

She kicked off her pumps, slipped out of her panty hose, threw on a pair of heavy socks, black denims, and a turtleneck. If she didn’t quit imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, she would lock herself in the house until the storm passed. She wasn’t normally a cowardly person, but she had never felt so alone before, like she’d fallen into a parallel world where she had no family or friends. And now even her good friend Uncle Basil was gone. But she couldn’t believe he’d leave so suddenly without a word. First chance she got, she was checking further into the matter.

An animal howled in the distance. A shudder stole down her back. A wolf. Had to be.

She peeked out the window, but didn’t see anything except tree branches swaying briskly in the growing wind.

She wanted to believe it was just a dog. But she knew better. Wolves from Idaho’s reserve had crossed the Snake River and were roaming the northeastern part of the state. Visitors to the Wallowa Mountains and the Eagle Cap Wilderness area had also reported sightings of wolves. She’d even snapped a picture of one near La Grande and more recently, a hunter killed a wild wolf there. So why couldn’t a wolf have made it to the Oregon coast?

Despite there not having been any sightings, she was certain a wolf had been roaming the area. Worse, she couldn’t explain how she felt compelled to discover the truth, but on the other hand was afraid of learning any were living here. Neither her underlying fear of them or compulsion to seek them out made any sense to her. Except as she stalked them, she was sure they stalked her. Which was plain crazy. Or was it? She’d had more than one experience like when she’d been taking pictures of the California wildfire. A phantom gray watching her, waiting, an unnatural standoff between man and beast. And then the sudden unprovoked attacks.

She yanked on her snow boots. After slipping her favorite pink ski cap on her head, covering her hair, still pinned up in a bun, she threw on her parka and grabbed her gloves.

She had nothing to fear. Nothing—except the fact someone had murdered Bethany Wade, her brother was going to prison for it, and the real murderer was on the loose.

But worse than that?

She had challenged him—which would now be in the local newspaper, no less—that she would uncover who he was and clear her brother’s name.

She glanced at the bedside table where she kept her gun and took a deep breath. “Firewood, or else you’ll go without.”

If an ice storm knocked out the electricity, she would be in a world of hurt. A quick walk on the beach to gather driftwood for a fire would have to suffice. She shouldn’t have put it off so long, but all she had thought of lately was how to get her brother cleared of the charges. She needed a new lawyer. Someone who was a lot more determined. And a new private eye, someone who would find something that would help Michael, instead of just running up a bill.

After locking the back door—although normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching the place—she traversed the narrow and steep path through the woods and boulders down to the small sandy beach below.

From one of the mills up north, lumber floating on the current piled up on the beach, littering it. No sense letting the wood go to waste. She shoved some over on its side and considered how wet it was. Very wet. All of it would take too long to dry. But if she didn’t hurry and the rain began, it wouldn’t matter what she gathered—the wood would all be too wet to burn.