More evidence: a dislodged rock, trampled grass, a scrap of torn fabric. Wyatt flagged each item for future collection. They’d have to map this trail, sketch it up, then retrieve all evidence for testing.

Two-thirds of the way up, they came upon a large boulder, streaked on one side with a reddish-brown substance. Blood, Wyatt realized. Heavy enough not even the rain had been able to wash it away. They paused as Annie worked the base of the boulder, whining anxiously. The girl had been injured, then. Maybe, as they’d discussed, she’d regained consciousness before the mother and gone in search of help.

A lone child, standing roadside in the middle of the night . . .

They didn’t talk anymore. Annie moved forward. Wordlessly, the three men followed.

Cresting the hill, Annie began to bark. Now she dashed into the road, racing straight ahead, then right, then left, then around and around in a twenty-foot circle, nearly frantic. She crossed the road, darted back. Headed back down the ravine ten feet, came leaping back.

“Track!” Frechette commanded, frowning at his charge. “Told you she was young,” he muttered under his breath, half excuse, half explanation.

Annie didn’t look at him anymore. She continued running in circles with growing frustration.

Abruptly, the dog sat. She stared at Frechette, barked twice, then lowered her head and lay on the ground. She was no longer a friendly, eager canine. In fact, she wouldn’t look at them at all.

“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked.

“She’s done. Not only lost the trail, but she’s worked herself into a state over it. She’ll have to rest before we can try again. Give us thirty minutes.”

Wyatt nodded at the handler, who stepped forward to tend his despondent charge.

“Dogs don’t take failure well,” Kevin commented.

“Neither do I.” Wyatt headed back to the edge of the ravine, peering down at the meandering trail they’d just followed. So someone—the missing child?—had made it this far, and then . . .

“Sir.”

Wyatt turned to see Officer Todd Reynes standing by him. “Todd,” Wyatt greeted him. “Heard you were the first responder. Thanks for taking the lead in looking for the missing kid.”

“Not a problem. Sir, that’s the search dog, right?”

“Yep. Her name’s Annie. Young, we’re told, but did a good job tracking the trail this far. Now, however, you can tell she’s a little frustrated.”

“She’s lost the scent?”

“Apparently.”

“I think I might know why.”

Wyatt arched a brow. “By all means, Officer,” he said, indicating for the man to explain.

“See that sign there?”

Wyatt turned toward the roadside. Sure enough, fifteen feet down was a yellow caution sign warning of the sharp turn ahead.

“When I first arrived on scene, I noticed the caution sign because Daniel Ledo, the man who placed the initial call, was standing beside it. While right about there”—Reynes pointed to Annie, still lying on the ground, gazing up at her handler mutinously—“was the ambulance.”

Wyatt straightened. “You’re saying—”

“That’s where the EMTs loaded the driver onto the stretcher.”

Wyatt closed his eyes. He got it now. The scent the dog had picked up, the trail they had just followed up the ravine. Not the missing child’s after all, but the driver’s.

“Always the risk,” he muttered. “I mean, you can tell the dog to track, but you can’t tell her who to follow.”

He crossed to Frechette to break the news. Frechette reiterated that his dog needed a break, but in twenty or thirty minutes, they could try again.

Which they did. Twice, with the same results.

According to Annie, one scent came out of the vehicle. One scent trailed up to the road. They circled her around the wreck. They brought her to the fast-flowing stream.

Annie grew increasingly sullen and resentful. She’d done her job.

One scent. One trail. One person, who mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the paved road.

That was Annie’s story, and she was sticking to it.

“Houston,” Wyatt declared shortly after 10 A.M., “we have a problem.”

Chapter 5

WHAT DID YOU dream of when you were little? Did you plan on growing up to be an astronaut or a ballerina or maybe even a superhero with a red cape and the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Maybe you were going to be a lawyer like your mother or a fireman like your father. Or perhaps you couldn’t identify with your family at all. You mostly dreamed about getting the hell out and never looking back.

But you dreamed.

Everyone dreams. Little boys, little girls, ghetto-born, white-picket raised. Everyone aspires to be someone, do something.

I should have dreams, I think, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what they are.

The doctor is in the room. She stands near the door, talking to the man who claims to be my husband. Their heads are together and they speak in hushed tones, like lovers, I think, but don’t know why.

“Before the accident, was she sleeping any better?” the doctor asks.

“No, few hours a night at best.”

“How about her headaches?”

“Still bad. She doesn’t say anything anymore. I just find her lying on the sofa, an ice pack across her forehead.”

“Mood?”

The man gives a short bark of laughter. “On a good day, merely depressed. On a bad day, fit to kill.”

The doctor nods. Her name tag reads DR. SARE CELIK. She is beautiful, with dark coloring and exotic features. I wonder once again about her relationship with my husband. “Emotional lability is a common side effect of post-concussive syndrome,” she is explaining. “Often for loved ones, it’s the most difficult. How about her memory? Short-term recollections better?”

“When she first regained consciousness, she claimed not to recognize me at all.”

Dr. Celik arches a brow, finally appearing surprised. She flips through a chart in her hand. “Needless to say, I ordered a head CT, not to mention an emergency MRI upon admittance. Both came back clear, but given her past history of TBIs, I’ll order follow-ups in the next twenty-four hours. How did she handle the situation? Agitation? Rage? Tears?”

“Nothing. It was like . . . She claimed to not know I was her husband, yet the news didn’t surprise her.”

“She’d been drinking before the accident.”

My husband flushes guiltily, as if somehow this is his fault. “I thought I got all the bottles out of the house,” he mutters.

“Please remember what I told you before: Alcohol directly impedes the brain’s ability to heal. Meaning for someone with her condition, any alcoholic drink at all is counterproductive to her recovery.”

“I know.”

“Is this the first incident?”

He hesitates and even I know that means it isn’t.

Dr. Celik regards him sternly. “There is a strong corollary between brain injuries and alcohol misuse, particularly in patients with a history of alcohol dependency. And given not one, but three concussions in a matter of months, your wife is vulnerable. Even a single glass of wine will affect her more strongly in the short term, while putting her at long-term risk for substance abuse.”

“I know.”

“This latest accident will most certainly set her back. It’s not uncommon to see an almost exponential effect from multiple TBIs in a short time frame. I’m not surprised her amnesia has returned. Most likely, she’ll also experience intense headaches, difficulty focusing, severe exhaustion. She may also report sensitivity to light or some other heightened sensation—smell, sound, sight. Conversely, she might describe feeling as if she’s ‘under water’—can’t quite make the world come into focus. Of course, such episodes may spike her anxiety and lead to increased mood swings.”

“Great.” The man’s voice is grim.