She couldn’t imagine that. But without the use of her limbs, or even her mouth, she couldn’t get free. Her wrists were already raw from trying. She wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the rope but it was the worst kind, so scratchy it hurt even before she’d rubbed the skin away. At this point, the slightest movement brought pain. There was nothing she could do except lie on the backseat of his car in a sideways crouch with her cheek pressed against the fabric of his seat, which smelled like dirty socks. She tried to brace herself against the jostling of the car, but even that became impossible once he turned off the highway.

The suspension in his old car wasn’t the best for such rough terrain. The vehicle bounced as he drove through potholes and rocks and ruts. He seemed to be taking her up into the mountains on one of the many fire roads that led to remote hunting or fishing destinations. She couldn’t tell if he’d chosen it at random or he’d been here before, but he rarely left home so she doubted he knew what he was doing or where he was going. She also had no idea how anyone would ever find her out here—or how, if she managed to get free, she’d reach the highway.

As the minutes dragged on, tears slipped from her eyes, but they weren’t tears of sadness or fear as much as anger and frustration. She’d tried to be so good to Jeremy. For years she’d put up with him and endured the teasing his devotion had inspired among her friends, the discomfort of his inappropriate remarks, the awkwardness of his constant and invasive staring, the lecturing from her parents about the less fortunate. And this was how he repaid her?

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” he said at length.

He was crazy. She was beginning to understand how crazy. She’d thought he was just slow and rather sweet. Someone who’d always been bullied. That was the whole reason she’d been willing to tolerate him. But he’d been telling her how his father had shot himself the night of the fire, and instead of calling the police, he washed the blood and brains off the wall and buried him under the house.

She didn’t know whether or not to believe him, especially when he insisted that her mother was down there, too. How could that be? Jeremy claimed his father had murdered her, but Don Salter had no connection to her mother. Except for the fact that he was seen burning the files, and the fact that Don had once been her father’s friend.

If what Jeremy said was true, Tug had to be behind her mother’s death.

She wanted to ask for details, proof, but she couldn’t even talk.

“You believe me, don’t you?” he asked.

He sounded childlike again. Harmless. And that made her angriest of all. He’d taken everyone in—everyone but his own father, perhaps. She now realized that the whole town had probably misjudged Don, at least when it came to his son. It was a miracle that he’d cared for Jeremy all those years. They’d all been so afraid Jeremy would end up in a sanatorium, but she was pretty sure that was exactly where he belonged.

He slowed to a stop, but she got the impression that they hadn’t yet reached their destination. “You can grunt if you believe me.”

She did nothing. She was beginning to hate him. If he’d known where her mother was all these years, why hadn’t he told someone? Maybe he wasn’t the smartest person in town, but he’d been fully aware of how long she’d been searching for the truth and how much it would mean to her to finally know. He’d mentioned the situation quite often.

I hope you find her, Claire…?. He used to say that all the time. If he loved her like he claimed, why hadn’t he taken pity on her and told her the truth years ago?

“You’re not being very nice,” he said when she maintained her silence.

That statement alone proved he was unbalanced. She wasn’t being nice?

He started driving again, but slowly. He was obviously more interested in talking to her. “I hope you’re not mad. You’ll be fine. I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to take care of you. Just like David did.”

He didn’t have the ability to take care of anyone, even himself. But that wasn’t what she focused on. She was thinking about David. She had so many questions. If Don had killed her mother, was he also the one who’d hired Les Weaver to shoot David? Or had Tug handled that?

Fresh tears slipped from Claire’s eyes. Dad, could you really have done this to me? Taken away two of the most important people in my life?

Her heart said no. But everything else said yes. It had to be him or Roni. Jeremy had told her they’d been seeing each other well before her mother went missing, just as April had said. He’d been watching her for so long, he knew almost as much about her family as he did about her. Isaac believed her stepfather was behind it; she could tell by the way he’d approached their talk about forgiveness.

Dad, how could you? Those words went through her mind again and again, but she supposed that anyone who’d had a loved one do something like this felt the same. As horrible and unfair and unthinkable as it was, it happened. There was no way of understanding it. There was only the bitter taste of betrayal—by Tug, the man she’d accepted as her father, and by Jeremy, the boy she’d stood up for all her life.

Soon the jostling took its toll. Her body ached from being unable to change positions. Her head pounded from lack of sleep, a surfeit of emotion and the gag cutting into her jaw. Yet Jeremy drove on.

Did he even know where he was going? Did he have any kind of plan?

He’d said his father had killed himself. Was that true, or had Jeremy shot him? He had a gun…?.

Either way, Jeremy had nothing to go back to. No family, no friends. After this he wouldn’t even have his job at Hank’s.

So what could he have in mind? They couldn’t survive out here, not for any length of time. She doubted they had enough food or water for twenty-four hours. They hadn’t stopped anywhere; nothing was open this late. And she wasn’t sure Jeremy had come prepared.

Maybe survival wasn’t what he had in mind. Maybe he only wanted to escape the consequences of what he’d done long enough to spend some time with her, after which he might let her go.

Or he might kill himself and take her with him.

“Isaac?”

Isaac released his breath and stuck his gun back in his waistband. He’d been sure it was Les Weaver, coming to finish what he’d failed to do when he started the fire. But this was a much more familiar voice. It didn’t belong to someone he particularly liked, but running into a man he didn’t like was better than running into a contract killer. “In here.”

Rusty Clegg came around the corner and eyed him from head to foot.

Isaac didn’t appreciate his condescending expression. “Did you have something you wanted to say to me?”

“I thought that was your truck parked off in the trees.” He clicked his tongue as he shook his head. “You just don’t know how to stay out of trouble, do ya?”

“Excuse me?”

He hooked his thumbs in his utility belt and puffed out his chest—to show off the badge on his uniform or make himself seem bigger and tougher, or both. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Probably the same thing you are. I’m looking for Don.”

“By going through his stuff?”

“I’m hoping to find something that can tell me why he hasn’t been seen for two days. And whether or not he’s had contact with someone in Idaho.”

“That’s not your place! You’re not a deputy!”

Isaac raised his eyebrows. “Maybe if you were doing your job I wouldn’t have to be doing it for you.”

His eyes glittered. “You could be arrested for interfering with a police investigation.”

“Last I heard, this wasn’t an official investigation.”

“But if Don’s missing—”

Isaac broke in. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Don’s not just missing, Deputy Clegg. He’s dead.”