He tried to remember the last night he’d slept, but could not. The week behind him was a colored string of blurred images. Digging in the dirt. Walking.

That thing he done…

That thing.

Levi closed his eyes, so tired; and when his foot went out from under him, he fell on the slick clay. He landed on his back and slid down the bank, over stones that tore deep and cut. He struck his head on something hard, saw a burst of light, and felt pain explode in his side. It stabbed through him, horrible and jagged and raw. He felt something break, a violent tug, and realized that his box was gone. His arms flailed, touched plastic once and felt it glide away.

It was in the river.

God almighty, it was gone in the dark.

Levi stared out at black water and pinprick lights. His big hands clenched.

Levi couldn’t swim.

He worried about that for a second, but was in the water even before God told him to jump. He landed, legs spread, arms out, and felt dirty water push into his mouth. He came up spitting, then went down again, his hands loud on the river, water fast and cold between his fingers. He struggled and choked and feared he would die, then found that he could stand in water that rose to his chest. So he stood and beat his way downriver, tore through bits of light until he found his package spinning idly behind a fallen tree.

He fought it to shore, crawled up the bank, and ignored the pain that tried to cripple him. He thought again of his wife.

She shouldn’t have done the things she done.

He wrapped himself around the package. Pain all in him. Something not right in his body.

She shouldn’t have done it.

Eventually, Levi slept, still curled around the package, moaning as his giant limbs twitched.

“Nothing.” Hunt stood in the low basement at David Wilson’s house. John Yoakum slouched beside him. Two bulbs hung from rust-stained sockets screwed into bare floor joists; a black furnace sat cold and still in the far corner. Hunt scuffed one foot on the floor and a puff of mold and dust rose and then settled. The room smelled of earth and damp concrete.

“What did you expect?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt looked into the crawl space that ran under the living room at the back of the house. “A lucky break. For once.”

“No such thing as luck, good or bad.”

“Tell that to Tiffany.”

Fifteen hours had now passed since some unknown individual had jerked the girl into his car, and they were no closer to finding her. They’d been over every inch of the house and grounds with nothing to show for it. Hunt beat one palm on the bare wood of the basement stairs, and dust drifted down. “I have to check on my son,” Hunt said. “I forgot to tell him I’d be late.”

“Just call him.”

Hunt shook his head. “He won’t answer.”

“That bad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What do you want me to do?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt gestured up the stairs. “Clean it up. Close it down. I’ll meet you at the station in half an hour.”

“And when we’re there?”

“We work the angles. We pray for some luck.” Hunt put a finger in Yoakum’s face. “And don’t you say it.”

Yoakum raised his hands. “What?”

“Not one damn word.”

Outside, Hunt found a crowd of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk. Two uniformed officers kept them at bay, but he had to push through to get to his car. He was almost there when a thin, angry-looking man asked: “Is this about Tiffany Shore?” He raised his voice. “No one will tell us anything.” Hunt moved past him, and the man pointed at Wilson ’s house, spoke even louder. “Is that man involved?”

Hunt almost stopped, then didn’t.

Nothing he could say would make it better.

In the car, he turned the air on high and eased away from the crowd. He needed to go home, check on his son, throw some water on his face, but he found himself skirting the edge of town, then looking down the long, fast drop to Katherine Merrimon’s house. Officer Taylor opened the door before he could knock. Her features were drawn, lips pressed tight. Hunt noticed that her hand rested on the holstered weapon. She relaxed when she saw who it was, then stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

Hunt nodded. “Any sign?”

“Of the kid? No. Of that asshole, Ken Holloway, yes.”

“Problem?”

“He showed up looking for Johnny. He was so pissed, he was red, kept going on about a ruined piano. A Steinman, Steinbeck.”

“Steinway.”

“Yeah, that’s it. The rock that went through the window hit the piano, too.” Taylor smiled. “I think maybe it’s expensive.”

Something tugged at Hunt’s mouth. “Maybe. Did he give you any trouble?”

“Oh, yeah. Starts screaming for the kid’s mother when I refuse to let him inside. I tell him to calm down, he starts telling me that he can get me fired.” Hunt sensed her anger. “I’ll tell you, if that boy had been here, I think he’d have been hurt.”

“How long ago?” Hunt glanced at the street.

“An hour, maybe. He said he’d be back with his lawyer.”

“Are you serious?”

She shrugged. “He wanted in the house and he wanted in bad.”

“If he comes back,” Hunt said, “and if he gives you any excuse, lock him up.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not going to have him scaring off my witness or messing up my investigation.”

“And that’s the only reason?”

Hunt bit down, looked at the house behind him. He smelled rot from the soffits and low clapboards, saw tears in the screens, cracks in the windowpanes. He remembered the house that Katherine lived in when Alyssa was torn from her, saw her dark eyes and heart-wrenching faith that God would return her child to her. She often prayed by a south-facing window, the light so pure on her perfect skin that she’d looked like an angel herself. And Ken Holloway had been there all along, offering a smile, money, support. That lasted a month. Once she was ground to dust, he’d dropped on her like a vulture. Now, she was strung out. Hunt was pretty sure he knew who was doing the stringing.

“I hate the guy,” Hunt said, and his gaze went distant. “I hate him like I could kill him.”

Taylor glanced away. “No way did I just hear that.”

Hunt felt his shoulders rise, the blood in his face. “Forget it.”

Taylor stared at him. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re solid?”

“Yeah. Solid.”

“That’s good.” She nodded.

Hunt looked up the road and said, “You have to be kidding me.”

Ken Holloway’s white Escalade slowed on the street, then dropped a tire into the ditch as it turned into the drive. For a second, the car stalled; then the engine gunned and the tire clawed free. A raw gash gleamed black at the edge of the ditch. Clumps of mud and grass hung from the chassis on the right side. Through the window, Hunt could see Holloway’s face: jaw set, flushed. Next to him sat a resigned-looking man that Hunt remembered seeing around the courthouse once or twice, a lawyer of some skill. His face shone pale and damp. He levered the door open, then looked with distaste at everything outside the vehicle: the house, the mud, the cops. His exit from the vehicle was the most dainty that Hunt had ever witnessed.

Hunt stepped down into the yard and Officer Taylor moved down with him. Holloway wore a pink shirt tucked into new jeans, boots that cost more than Hunt’s service weapon. He was big, well over two hundred pounds. In his anger, he looked tall and threatening as he dragged his attorney through the mud. “Tell them.” He aimed a finger, copper bracelet dancing on his wrist. “Tell them how it works.”

The lawyer straightened his jacket. He had polished skin, perfect nails, and a voice to match. “I’m not even sure why I’m here,” the lawyer said. “I’ve already explained to you-”