The tiny town of West Priest grew on both sides of the highway, two blocks in either direction from the intersection with Main Street, which, as its name implied, was the primary thoroughfare, with one bank and three churches. A post office shared a white clapboard building with an insurance agent and a flower shop. Next door a sign advertised guns and ammunition, and across the street was a general store with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window.

Annie parked in front of the post office and, as she’d done in Priest, asked directions from the sixtysomething man behind the counter.

“I’m looking for Big Creek Road,” Annie told the postal clerk.

“South or North?” the man asked.

“I don’t know.” Annie frowned and searched her pockets for the paper upon which Will had written Melissa’s address. “It only says Big Creek Road.”

“Who you looking for?”

“Mel-” She corrected herself: “Mariana Gray.”

“She’s out on East Big Creek.”

“I thought you said South or North.” Annie frowned again. “How could it be East, too?”

“Different creek.” He returned to whatever it was he’d been doing when she came in. To Annie, it looked as if he’d been counting stamps.

“Could I get directions?”

“Not from me.” He shook his head. “We’re not allowed to give out anyone’s address.”

“You’re not giving me the address,” Annie said patiently. “I have the address. You only have to tell me how to get there.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to do that. You could probably get directions from Sullivan’s, though. Someone there will know.”

“Sullivan’s?”

“Little restaurant around the corner. Only restaurant in town.”

“Thanks.”

Sullivan’s was, as promised, just around the corner. Set in a little building made of ugly rough stone, it had a tinny bell that rang when the door was opened and a chalkboard right inside listing the day’s specials. Annie took a table and ordered the soup of the day-black bean-and a small salad. The waitress appeared to be assessing her-hair to clothes to jewelry-even as she took the order.

“By the way, the man at the post office told me you might know how I could get to Mariana Gray’s place,” Annie said when the waitress returned with her salad, an uninspired pile of lettuce adorned with three ragged slices of cucumber and some anemic-looking tomatoes.

“You a friend of hers?”

“Friend of a friend. I know she’s on Big Creek Road, but I don’t know the address.”

“Out there, there are no addresses, not like we have here in town.”

“How do I know which house is hers?”

The waitress continued her silent evaluation, and apparently decided Annie looked harmless enough.

“To get to Mariana’s place, you just go straight back there at the intersection, then go right at the bridge, then straight for about four, five miles. Mariana’s is the house you come to on the left side of the road.”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome. You ready for your soup?”

Annie nodded, and checked her voice mail for messages while she waited for the soup to arrive. She hoped it would prove to be tastier than the salad had been.

It was excellent, a rich spicy broth filled with dark beans, tomatoes, small pieces of beef, and topped with a dollop of sour cream. After three days of hotel food, Annie savored every spoonful.

She bought a Diet Coke in a to-go container and a brownie to take with her in the car. On the way out of town, she passed the motel where she’d made reservations for that night. She debated whether or not to stop, then decided against it. She was anxious to meet Melissa, curious to see what the woman remembered and what light, if any, she could shed on Dylan’s death.

Melissa Lowery’s mailbox stood at the end of a wide driveway that cut through a dusty front lawn and bore the name GRAY in blue letters that looked hand-painted. Wavy green vines bearing yellow flowers wrapped around the white metal box. A double garage sat off to the left by itself, and Annie walked over to peek through the windows. A dark blue Ford Explorer was parked inside next to a John Deere riding mower and a workbench upon which rested some garden tools. A hoe stood next to the bench, and a collection of various shovels leaned against the side wall. Behind the garage was a barn that appeared to have seen better days, and a small empty paddock. Across the back of the property ran a dense hedgerow, and Annie wondered as she walked back to the house if it marked the back boundary. If so, depending on how far to either side the property stretched, this would give Melissa several acres.

The house itself had once been painted yellow, but over the years had faded to a pale dull ivory. There were no plants around the foundation, but a pot of dark pink begonias stood on the bottom step of the concrete porch that led to the front door. Annie looked for a doorbell, but there was none, so she knocked instead. When there was no response, she knocked again, louder.

Leaning her ear to the door, she listened for sounds of life. All she could hear was a faint sort of humming. It took a moment before the sound registered with her. She stepped back from the door, then peered into the nearest window. Inside, the glass was covered with flies.

“Oh God, no…”

She reached for her phone and dialed 911.

The sheriff arrived in less than ten minutes. It wasn’t every day he got a phone call from someone identifying themselves as an FBI agent who was standing on the front porch of a house that appeared to be filled with blowflies. They both knew what that most likely meant.

“I take it you didn’t go inside,” Sheriff Al Brody said as he got out of his car.

“No. If there’s a body in there, as I suspect there might be, it could be a crime scene.”

“Do you mind showing me some identification?” he asked.

Annie dug in her purse and pulled out her badge as he reached for the doorknob. “You must suspect it, too, or you wouldn’t have gotten out here so quickly.”

“Let’s just say I was intrigued.” He glanced at her credential, appeared satisfied, then turned the knob.

The door did not open. “Let me run around back, see if something’s open back there…”

A minute or two later, Brody opened the front door from the inside, holding a hand over his mouth.

“Do you have something to cover my shoes with? Paper boots, maybe?” she asked.

“Not with me. You sure you want to come in? This ain’t pretty,” he told Annie, and blocked her entry into the house.

“It never is.” She stepped inside, careful to watch where she walked lest she step on evidence.

“Well, I guess this won’t be the first time you’ve seen a body after the maggots have gotten to it.” Brody moved to the left to permit her to pass.

“Not by a long shot.”

“She’s in there, between the living room and the dining room.” He followed her, his hand still covering his nose and mouth. “At least, I’m assuming it’s a she, going by all that hair. It can be tough to tell sometimes. I’ve known men with long hair, but none who wore pretty little flower barrettes. You know whose place this is?”

“She was going by the name Mariana Gray.” Annie knelt a foot from the body and studied it carefully, looking past the writhing mass that was the second generation of maggots and focusing on searching for an obvious cause of death.

“Going by?”

“Her real name is Melissa Lowery. She’s a former FBI agent. At least, I’m assuming that’s who she is. You’re going to need to confirm that.” Annie looked up at him. “What do you think, two weeks, give or take?”

“Judging by the condition of the body, yeah, I’d say she’s been dead around two weeks.”

The body was dressed in jeans and a red sweatshirt worn over a white cotton turtleneck. A thin gold bracelet circled what was left of her right wrist, and about her neck hung a small bezel-set diamond on a gold chain. On the third finger of her left hand was a wide gold ring. As the sheriff had noted, her long brown hair was held up on one side in a barrette fashioned out of a yellow silk flower.