For a professional killer, the line between caution and paranoia can be hard to find. One could argue that it doesn't exist at all. Every hint of threat is worthy of investigation.

It's not like robbing the corner store or dealing drugs behind the lodge. If I'm caught, I'll never see the outside of a prison. That's the cost of a job that pays the equivalent of a constable's annual salary for a couple of four-day stints in New York every year.

Jack thought Emma's initial reaction – that it was some guy who'd visited with his buddies and now was coming back to see me – was a possibility. I didn't. You don't express interest in a woman by driving from God-knows-where and checking into her hotel for the night. That kind of thing only happens in movies… and to other women.

It could be the first scenario Emma had raised – a private investigator looking into Sammi's disappearance, hired by the Draytons. He'd want to question me, as Sammi's employer, but I'd publicly expressed concern, so I'd be a willing source, meaning there was no need to check into the lodge. Maybe he didn't know that. Or maybe he thought my concern was actually ass-covering.

If he knew about my background, that could make me a suspect. Yes, there's a huge difference between killing a lowlife who raped and tortured a teen, and killing a teen employee with a bad attitude, but to some people murder is murder.

Jack insisted on driving. On my own roads, I instinctively regulate my speed. As Jack had proven the night I found Sammi, if he wasn't on a job, he had no such compunctions.

He pushed the truck up over 130, which wouldn't be so bad on a four-lane highway. On a winding dirt road barely wide enough for two cars? It was a struggle to keep my eyes open.

I knew the service station Emma would have sent him to, and their "full service" was far from "fast service." Sure enough, about two kilometers past it, as we neared the highway turnoff, I spotted a silver compact.

I didn't get a chance to open my mouth before Jack stomped on the accelerator, slamming the words back down my throat. The truck roared forward, engine shrieking, tires hydroplaning over the dirt, and I decided that, target in view, I could safely close my eyes.

When the truck went into a skid, my eyes flew open, certain we were heading for a tree. Instead I saw the silver car. Jack swerved into the car's path and slammed on the brakes, forcing it to stop. He wrestled out of his seat belt, cursing under his breath. When he got it free, he ducked for a look at the other car and went completely still, one hand still holding the seat belt. Then he spat a string of oaths with a venom that made the others sounds like endearments.

"Gonna kill him. Swear I'm gonna fucking kill him." He swung toward me. "Stay here."

"What's -?"

He was already out the door, slamming it so hard the truck rattled. I wasn't letting him confront anyone without backup. I waited until he'd stumped off without his crutch. Then I got out.

The other man was getting out of his car. His head was down as he unfolded himself from the too-small vehicle, and I saw only the top of his head, dark blond hair cut military-short. He wore slacks and a sports coat, nothing fancy, but a cut above the department store wear my dad and his colleagues bought. His white dress shirt was open at the collar, tie probably stuffed in a pocket.

Leaves dancing in the wind overhead cast moving shadows over the man's face, leaving me with only fleeting glimpses. But it was enough to recognize him.

"Quinn," I whispered.

I broke into a grin and started forward. Then I stopped, hand going to the truck bed, gripping it, the chill of the metal creeping up my arm.

Quinn. At my lodge. Looking at my picture.

Is this Nadia Stafford? The owner?

Seemed like he already knew the answer, Emma had said.

Quinn. Who'd seen my police college nightshirt. Who'd caught a glimpse of me out of disguise. Who'd sworn he'd never use that information, never try to find out anything about me.

My heart thudded so loud I could barely hear Jack, his voice so harsh he sounded like a stranger, words coming as fast and hard as blows. He stood a few inches from Quinn, who'd backed up against the car. Quinn, who never backed down from Jack, who always pulled himself up to his full height, making use of those extra inches in every confrontation.

I took another step.

Seeing me, Jack wheeled. "I've got it. Get back in."

Quinn turned. "Nadia…"

He barely breathed my name, but it floated over as clear as Jack's sharp words.

I turned back to the truck.

"I can explain."

Jack snorted. "Or sure as hell gonna try."

I glanced over as Quinn straightened, jaw tensing with a flare of that old antagonism as he pulled himself straight.

"I screwed up, okay? I admit – "

"You do? Fucking wonderful. You admit it. Apologize. Everything'll be fine."

"You condescending – " Quinn bit the sentence short and turned to me. "I – "

" – fucked up," Jack said. "Yeah. You did. I warned you. Use what you saw? Deal with me."

"I didn't use anything. I meant I screwed up by coming here. Look, can I just talk to Nadia – Dee -?"

"Here it's Nadia," I said. "This is my home."

His chin dipped. "I know, and I'm sorry. I thought – well, I guess I wasn't thinking – " He looked at Jack. "Can you give us a minute -?"

"No."

Quinn paused, as if struggling not to be drawn into a fight. He sidestepped toward the front of the car, closer to me. I stayed where I was, tucked in the open doorway of the truck.

"This is what I wanted to tell you in Toronto," Quinn said. "That I know."

"How?" Jack said.

A brief glower at the interruption. Then Quinn continued. "A couple months ago, some of us were talking in the office about a case in Tennessee. A detective shot a dealer point-blank. I guess he'd had a few run-ins with the guy, and nothing would stick, so he just… had enough. Anyway, we were talking about that, and what makes cops snap, and one of the guys said it's always men, that you never see a woman doing that."

The hairs on my neck rose.

"Then someone says no, he remembers this case in Toronto with a woman cop, and the other guy says bullshit, and he says come here and I'll look it up. He Googles it and…"

"Finds me."

Quinn nodded. "He called us over to read the article. I saw the name, the particulars, but it didn't mean anything until he scrolled down and there was a picture."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down. "I didn't know what to do, Dee… Nadia. I thought maybe I should act like I'd never seen it. But what if, later, you found out I knew all along? You'd never forgive me and I wouldn't blame you. I knew I had to tell you. I started with the ski trip idea, then thought, great, I treat you to a nice getaway and hit you with that. No way. Then the Toronto job came along. Professional setting, close to home if you wanted to walk away. But then…"

"You got called back."

"And I couldn't just drop that bomb and leave. But all week, it's been driving me nuts, so when I had to be in Montreal tomorrow, I decided to take an early flight, make the drive… And when I got there, I realized it was my worst idea yet."

"So you left."

He nodded.

"That's your story?" Jack said.

A muscle in Quinn's cheek twitched as he pivoted Jack's way. "Yes, Jack, that's my story"'

I headed toward them. "Jack…"

"Can you prove it?" he said.

"No, Jack, I can't fucking prove it and you know that. You want to hook me up to a polygraph? Or better yet, put a gun to my head and see if I'll crack." Quinn…