Slowly the shock had ebbed and he thought in terms of his own survival. What if someone had heard her rant? His heart thrumming in his chest, he’d quickly released her body and climbed out of the pool. He’d gone to his room, stripped, and toweled off. Dressing, he took his wet clothes and tossed them in the laundry hamper.

He slid behind the wheel of his car and drove. It was all he could think to do. Later he’d try to recall what had led to his rage, but he couldn’t. As hard as he tried to imagine the moment he’d snapped, he couldn’t summon it.

When he’d arrived home, he’d wanted to retreat to his room and hide under the quilts on his bed. But his father had been waiting for him, his face white and angry. Behind him his younger sister had stood teary-eyed and quaking. As he studied his little sister’s face, he’d had the idea she somehow knew what he’d done to their other sister. But with his father standing there staring at him, he feigned shock when he heard of Meg’s death.

For an instant, Jack thought he could convince the old man of his innocence. He had always been good at pretending and making people believe. Then he noticed the videotapes from the security cameras. His father had seen. He knew.

He had been terrified.

“Dad was so mad at you,” she said, pleased. “And the more you denied it, the madder he got.”

As his little sister had stared at him from behind their father, the old man had backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip in two.

The moment Jack had stopped talking to his father, Meg had begun talking to him. She’d spoken only in whispers at first and for many years he’d been able to ignore her. But in recent years, her voice had grown louder and louder. There were days when he thought her talking would drive him insane.

The old man’s edict had been clear and strangely unavoidable. Jack would go to the Shady Grove treatment facility for therapy until the old man decided he should be released. They’d concocted a story so no one knew the truth . . . that Jack had murdered his sister during an attempted rape.

Jack had refused. He declared that he wasn’t sick or broken like the poor losers dumped at Shady Grove. He had no desire to die or hurt himself. Sure he’d lost his temper and Meg had paid a price, but he was fine. It wouldn’t happen again. He promised. He swore.

However, his father had moved with lightning speed, wrapping long smooth fingers around his neck and pinning him to the wall. In a quiet whisper the old man told him that there’d be no public accusations or trial. He would lock Jack, his only son, in the basement of the house, where he’d stay for the rest of his life. Go to Shady Grove and get help or go to hell.

Jack choked, struggling to draw in air, staring into old eyes filled with sadistic satisfaction. Unable to draw in a breath, he’d simply nodded. He’d agreed to a stay at Shady Grove and to get better.

The coming weeks and months had been a string of endless boring days. He met with a counselor, talked about his feelings, and learned what he needed to say to gain freedom. He’d not changed but had been biding his time.

And then he had seen Elizabeth for the first time at camp. He’d known in that instant he’d found a kindred spirit.

Though she was broken and damaged he learned quickly she was a healer and a caregiver. The other broken birds at the camp flocked to her and fluttered around her hoping she would say the right word to erase their pain.

He’d kept his distance but he too hadn’t been immune to Elizabeth. He’d stayed on the fringe, but he always made a point to linger close. The others had little time for him. Wrapped up in their own sorrows, they ignored him. But not Elizabeth. She’d brought him into the circle.

That last night at the campfire he’d known he was half in love with her. He’d taken the group picture not so he could remember the others, but so he could remember her. The next day the others began to leave. After they’d left Elizabeth had drawn back into herself. She didn’t have a smile or a kind word for him. She’d gotten lost again. And then she’d left. And he was alone and left to languish in the camp intended to make him better.

“I rotted in that camp for a year.”

“But you’re a clever boy. You finally won Father over.” No missing the anger rumbling under her laugh. “But your sweet Elizabeth was gone. And you never could find her.”

He hated the sound of her voice. “My suffering gives you pleasure.”

“Poor, poor baby boy.”

He had had no choice but to go on with his life. He’d gotten an education, married, divorced, and lived like any other man. And then eight months ago he’d seen Greer Templeton on television. His Elizabeth.

In that moment he’d known what it would take to make her truly happy: re-create the old group and ensure none of them ever abandoned her again.

The others were dead.

They’d been granted their dying wish.

Now it was time for Greer.

Chapter Twenty

Monday, June 9, 9 P.M.

The drive up Route 12 took Winchester deep into the Hill Country and it was pitch black dark when he arrived. Despite the late hour, heat rose up off the stone driveway.

Sycamore’s home was a modest one-story ranch with a wide wraparound porch stocked with a couple of rockers. Chipped white paint on the house suggested the home had weathered too many summers without attention. Not surprising. From what he’d heard about Michael, the guy traveled a lot for business. He worked for an accounting firm in East Texas and now only retreated up here when he needed a few days off. It had been five years since Michael had been here last.

Michael had not reported into work for seven days, but no one had expected him to return to work. The word was he had stolen client money.

Winchester got out of the car and, jangling his keys in his hand, surveyed the property. A black Range Rover was parked by the weathered ranch house. No flowers or knickknacks to show a woman’s touch, this place was plain and simple, a suitable getaway for a man. Thirty, engaged, and by all accounts a success until he’d been caught embezzling.

Winchester walked around the house. The grass had browned and dried up in the heat making it more like the bristles of a brush. A rusted weather vane squeaked in gentle hot wind.

According to Greer, Michael had threatened to shoot himself with his daddy’s shotgun when he was eighteen. His mother had persuaded him to give her the weapon and when he’d complied, the parents had shipped the troubled boy to Shady Grove. There the family had learned he had been crumbling under the weight of his father’s need for perfection in his only son. By all accounts Shady Grove had helped the boy grow into a successful man.

Winchester’s boots thudded against the porch steps as he moved toward the front door. Hand on his gun, he stood to the side of the door, poised to knock. Before he could wrap his knuckles against the door, he saw that it was ajar.

Winchester drew his gun and stepped to the side as he pounded a fist on the doorjamb. “Michael Sycamore! Texas Rangers.” No answer. “Mr. Sycamore, are you in the house?”

When he received no answer he pushed on the door with his boot. The rusted hinges squeaked and groaned, as it swung open.

Winchester spotted Michael Sycamore immediately.

He sat on the center couch. A shotgun lay on the floor at his feet. And his face had been obliterated by a shotgun blast.

The blood staining Sycamore’s chest and splattering the wall behind him was fresh. He’d been shot within the last hour.

Winchester backed out of the house and reached for his phone. Two rings and he heard Bragg’s curt reply. “This is Winchester. I found what’s left of Sycamore.”