Wyatt had given the matter a lot of thought, mostly because it was his thought to give. Given the unique laws of New Hampshire, county cops had the power to prosecute all misdemeanor cases. Meaning Wyatt didn’t just build a case; he got to present it, too. Factoring in the driver’s injuries, this crash could end up being a felony DWI, in which case the county attorney would take over, but Wyatt would still be responsible for the arraignment bail hearing and probable cause hearing. He liked to joke he was half cop, half lawyer. Though given the way the legal system worked these days, you had to be more like 90 percent lawyer just to survive.

“Interesting,” Tessa was saying now. “So you have an unimpaired, impaired driver.”

“It’s possible. Now, booze in question came from an eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch—”

“Expensive.”

“Please, you should see the car. Guys traced the purchase of the bottle to a liquor store ten miles from the accident scene, purchased on a credit card. We’re going through security footage now to see if we have actual film of her making the purchase. But so far, not bad for a morning’s work.”

“And yet you’re bothered by . . . ,” Tessa pushed.

“Liquor store closed at eleven. Accident happened around five A.M. So what was the driver doing between those hours? Because if she was sitting around drinking, her blood alcohol level should obliterate .06.”

“Friend, associate, to help her out?”

“Possible.”

“Husband?”

“Claims he was occupied in a work shed. Apparently hadn’t even realized his concussed wife was missing.”

“No card for him on Valentine’s Day. Where’d the car go off? Busy area? Plenty of shops, restaurants, bars, to keep your driver entertained?”

“Nada. I’ve counted two gas stations between the liquor store and scene of the crash; that’s it. So again, what was she up to for six hours?”

“Maybe . . .” He could hear Tessa thinking about it. “Maybe she wasn’t doing anything. Maybe she was just . . . hanging out. Trying to collect her thoughts. When I was patrolling, you’d be amazed how many parked cars I came across in the middle of the night, occupied by lonely souls. If your driver is concussed, suffering from a TBI, maybe she’s confused, too. Another lost soul looking for the light.”

“So she buys a bottle of scotch. Drowns her sorrows . . .”

“Sips her sorrows. Only .06.”

“Then hits the road. Searching for a little girl who doesn’t exist.”

“Little girl?” Tessa’s voice picked up.

Wyatt winced. He hadn’t intended to mention that part. “When the first officer arrived at the scene, the woman claimed she couldn’t find her daughter, Vero. Only her husband of twenty-two years claims there are no kids. Not now, not ever.”

“So she’s delusional?”

“Apparently, her brain has been compromised by multiple TBIs. She fell down the stairs doing laundry, then another fall outside, then, of course, the car accident. Long story short, her memory is shot, and she has ongoing problems with headaches, light sensitivity, and extreme mood swings.”

“With all due respect, forgetting things isn’t the same as making things up.”

“What do you mean?” Wyatt asked.

“Did you confirm with the doctors that this woman is indeed delusional?”

“Physicians don’t talk. HIPAA and all that. What we know we got from the husband.”

“Please. Wouldn’t be the first time the husband was the last to know.”

“But they obviously don’t have a child—”

“And yet she’s looking. I mean, even if she’s delusional, why that delusion? Of all the short circuits running through her head, why this one? I’d check the odometer, too. Because maybe that’s what she was doing for the six hours. Driving around searching for her lost girl.”

“Who doesn’t exist,” Wyatt repeated.

“And yet is clearly important to her. First time she’s done this?”

Wyatt hesitated. “Didn’t think to ask that question.”

“Friends, support system?”

“New to the area.”

“Job?”

“Self-employed. Husband and wife work together making props for Hollywood.”

“Meaning her only family, only contact, is her husband.” Tessa’s voice picked up. “The one telling you they don’t have kids. The one reporting his wife has had three ‘accidents’ in six months.”

Wyatt got her point. Same thought had crossed his mind, too. And in a cop’s world, where there was paranoia, there was often probable cause.

“You suspect domestic violence. Which, I have to say, is what worries me, too.” Wyatt thought again of the bruise that had discolored Thomas Frank’s jaw. From an impaired wife, lashing out in agitation? Or from a terrified woman acting in self-defense?

“Fits the profile,” Tessa was saying, “not to mention a man who beats his wife . . .”

“Might also beat his kids. Leading to what, the death of a girl who doesn’t exist? Let’s not get completely lost in the land of wild conjecture. I already spent the morning, not to mention significant county and state resources, on a wild-goose chase. At this point, my boss, the sheriff, would appreciate a lot more facts and a lot less fiction.”

“Have you even talked to the woman—”

“All in good time.”

“You haven’t interviewed the driver?” Tessa sounded dumbfounded.

“She’d just been sedated! Woman’s having medical issues, thought we covered that.”

“So you haven’t even questioned her directly—”

“First thing tomorrow. Doc says she needs more time to recover. Which gives us the rest of today to get our ducks in a row: Single-car accident. Lone driver. Possible aggravated DWI.”

He could feel Tessa rolling her eyes at him again. Crazy part was, her daughter rolled them exactly the same way.

“Fine. I’ll play by your county-cop rules,” she granted him. “So looking at just the accident . . . If your driver’s blood alcohol level was only .06, why’d she crash?”

“Inclement weather. Impairment from her brain injury combined with said blood alcohol level. Either way, she went off the edge of a steep road; car flew down an embankment.”

“Went off or drove off?”

“Waiting for the state police to help us with that one; we need the info from the vehicle’s electronic data recorder.”

“Suicide?”

“She had her seat belt on, which is one vote in the no column. Then again, open bottle of scotch could be taken as a vote in the yes department. However, and probably most interesting, after the accident, the driver clawed her way up a two-hundred-foot ravine in the pouring rain to flag down help.”

“Certainly sounds like a woman with a will to live,” Tessa commented.

“Except.” Wyatt couldn’t help himself. He paused uncomfortably. “She didn’t seem to think she needed help for herself. Instead, she begged for assistance to help find her missing girl. She pleaded for Vero.”

“The little girl who doesn’t exist?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“Some delusion,” Tessa said knowingly.

“Don’t you have a lunch to attend?” Wyatt asked her irritably. “You know, with your favorite detective, D. D. Warren.”

“The one and only.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Luck? Please, I need more like heavy armor.”

Which made Wyatt roll his eyes at her, before ending the call.

*   *   *

THE STATE POLICE were good guys. In New Hampshire, all members of law enforcement attended the same training academy, from city to county to Fish and Game. Kept everyone on the same page and helped build bridges in an area long on mountains and short on people. Especially north of Concord, where law enforcement resources were particularly scarce, the various agencies relied upon one another for backup. And not just for manpower, but also for equipment. Contrary to those TV cop shows where crime labs looked like space stations and SWAT teams started out with a hundred grand in equipment per officer, real-world policing required more cooperation . . . and at times, sheer inventiveness. Wyatt had run undercover drug stings with surveillance equipment that had been pieced together from three different towns. Sometimes it felt less like policing and more like passing a collection plate.