“Three hours,” his mother signed. “But this is a mistake. Austin doesn’t smoke.”

“The dorm RA smelled smoke this morning,” Oaks signed, “after the smoke alarm started flashing. When he went in Austin ’s room, Austin had the lit cigarette in his hand.”

His mother’s face went pale. “Why, Austin? Just tell me why.”

Because I took Tracey to that condo. I wanted to take care of her.

Now she’s dead. And it’s my fault. The stairwell had been full of smoke. She was behind me. I know she was behind me. He’d made it outside, but Tracey hadn’t.

“Sorry,” Austin signed. But it wouldn’t bring Tracey back. She was gone.

Oaks frowned. “ Austin is suspended for five days. He can return next Monday.”

Austin closed his eyes. He hated this, lying to his mother. But if he told her… He remembered the man in the boat. He’d shot that guard. If he knew I saw…

Austin had been ready to tell the truth so many times. But as the shock over losing Tracey had worn off, he started remembering the way the guard’s face looked as he fell. And the way the shooter’s teeth had gleamed in the moonlight as he’d smiled.

And every detail of the shooter’s face when he’d pulled off his ski mask.

He’d been ready to tell. But if he did, the man might kill him, too.

People who get involved, who tell the truth, get hurt. What do I do?

His mother stood up, her back hunched over. “Get your backpack,” she signed.

His backpack. He’d left it behind, in the fire. It had some of his books, his papers. Tracey’s things. My hearing aid. He only hoped the fire had been hot enough to burn all the papers up. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d been there. But he needed his hearing aid. His mom didn’t have the money to buy a new one and they’d lost their insurance a long time ago. What am I going to do? For now, nothing.

He stood. “Lost it,” he signed back carelessly.

His mother looked at him, defeated. Not again. He knew she wanted to say it, to scream it. But she just shook her head, her signing weary. “Let’s go home.”

Monday, September 20, 3:25 p.m.

Brie stopped at Barlow’s car where Olivia, Barlow, and Kane read personnel files. “He must have escaped,” Brie said. “There were no human remains in the structure.”

“Then we have a witness to the fire at least,” Olivia said. It was more than they had after reading through Rankin’s personnel files. There were a few performance reviews. One or two drug tests. Nothing popped. So knowing Tracey’s partner hadn’t died with her was the best news they’d had all day.

Barlow handed Brie the bag containing Tracey’s clothing. “Can we track the girl?”

“Of course,” Brie said formally.

Olivia put the file she’d been reading in the box in Barlow’s car. “Can I watch?”

Brie smiled at her. “Of course,” she said, her voice substantially warmer.

Kane dropped his file in the box. “I’m in.”

Brie pulled Tracey’s shirt from the bag and let GusGus sniff it. “GusGus, it’s time to work.” The two set out, the dog’s nose to the ground.

Olivia and Kane followed, Barlow a few paces behind them, video camera in his hand. GusGus led them to the other side of the condo, where Weems’s body had been found. He picked up the scent, winding through the trees, stopping at the chain-link fence. It was another one of the three slices in the chain link that CSU had found.

“We can keep going,” Brie said.

“Please do,” Barlow said. “I’d like to see how they accessed the property. From here, you can’t get to the dock. Lots of thorns.”

Brie nodded. “If you pull back the fence, Liv, we can move through.”

Olivia did and GusGus and Brie kept going and they followed. A few times the dog lost the scent, but Brie would let him sniff the shirt again. Finally the dog sat, abruptly.

They stood on a bank of the lake. A deep crease in the mud ran into the water.

“They had a boat,” Kane said, crouching to examine the track in the mud. “Small. Wider than a canoe. Probably a small rowboat.”

“Somebody had to know about this little stretch of beach,” Olivia said. “The shoreline between here and the dock is covered in thorn bushes, just like you said, Barlow. This is the closest place to land a boat, other than the dock.”

“Tracey wasn’t local,” Kane said, “but the guy she was with might have been.”

“Or at least has stayed at one of these cabins at some point.” Olivia strained to see across the lake. “For now, let’s assume Tracey’s guy is local. If we can’t find him, we can broaden the search to cabin renters-permanent and the holiday crowd.”

Brie was staring at the mud. “He pushed this boat into the water, but I don’t see any footprints. We got a good crease of the boat’s keel. We also should have a shoe impression. Unless he came”-she handed the dog’s lead to Olivia and walked a wide half-circle around them-“from this way,” she finished. Gingerly she moved the thick bushes aside. Then looked up with a grin. “Shoeprint. Score.”

Kane followed her path and looked over her shoulder. “Size ten shoe. Nice.”

The single word was high praise from Kane. Brie turned to search the area. “See the path, the trampled twigs and leaves that stop ten feet farther than he wanted to be?”

“He was scared,” Olivia said quietly. “Running from a burning building. I wonder if he knew Tracey hadn’t made it out.”

“Oh.” Barlow put down his camera and stared at Brie’s profile. “I know what else he was.” He walked to Brie’s side and bent slightly, his gaze focused on her ear.

Stiffening, Brie pulled away and glared at him. “What?”

Barlow straightened and looked at Olivia. “Cochlear processors worn behind the ear don’t have ear molds,” he said. “I can’t believe I forgot that.”

Olivia frowned. Then understood. “Oh. God. You’re right. As many times as I’ve seen you hook that on your ear, Brie… I can’t believe I forgot, too.” She glanced up at Kane. “Brie’s processor is held in place by a little hook that grabs here,” she explained, touching the topmost fold of her ear. “Not a pink mold like David found in the rubble.”

“Molds are used by hearing aids, not implants,” Brie said. “You found a pink mold?”

“In the rubble,” Barlow told her. “The ear mold was still recognizable.”

“She wouldn’t have a hearing aid and an implant at the same time?” Kane asked.

“Perhaps,” Brie said, understanding now as well. “Some people use both, depending on the kind of hearing loss they have. What kind did the victim have?”

“According to mom, Tracey was profoundly deaf, but her father refused to consider the cochlear implant. They’d tried hearing aids with Tracey, without any benefit.”

“He’s deaf, the father?” Brie asked. “The controversy against implanting kids isn’t as hot as it used to be, but it still exists. Many deaf people don’t see their deafness as something that needs to be ‘fixed.’ They’re protective of their culture, their language, and many see implants as a threat.”

“I got that when I talked to the dad,” Kane said, “even through the relay operator we had to use. He was angry, especially at his wife. Of course he was grieving, too, and it was almost impossible to get any nuance over the phone.”

Brie’s mouth curved ruefully. “It gets easier, with practice. Next time, use a videophone operator if you can. If the father has a videophone, he can sign to the operator instead of typing into the TTY. That way the interpreter’s voice can give you some of the emotion, because they’re seeing the signer’s face. I’ll show you how to connect.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Kane said.

“Getting back to the mold?” Barlow asked impatiently. “Was it the girl’s or not?”

“If she was born profoundly deaf,” Brie said, “and wasn’t wearing it before the surgery, chances are good it didn’t belong to her. You’ll have to confirm that.”

“If it wasn’t hers, the backpack we found may not have been hers either,” Kane said. “And the hearing aid may belong to whoever she was with before the fire.”


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