“Six thirty a.m., and it’s a direct flight back to L.A. We do not want to miss it.” Few things irritated him more than the time suck of having to fly to Washington State to sit two hours in an airport when their ultimate destination was Oregon—and they’d had a lot of it these last months, tasked with the unpleasant job of determining which of the dead bodies periodically discovered along the I-5 Corridor belonged to the Ripper.

But that’s the kind of plum assignment you landed when you screwed up as spectacularly as Adam had four months earlier.

“Tell it to Dumb and Dumber. Although, frankly, I think they can’t wait to get us out of here.”

Adam said, “Oh, I don’t know. I think you made quite an impression there.”

Jonnie laughed. “I think anything in a skirt makes an impression there. See you at oh-dark-thirty.” She headed for the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Like eat dinner?” His smile faded as the door closed behind her. He really did hate eating alone. It gave him too much time to think about things he didn’t like to remember. Which was kind of ironic when he remembered how once upon a time he had monopolized breakfast, lunch, and dinner with discussion of his cases.

Granted, back then he hadn’t been on morgue patrol.

He checked out the cabin and was forced to accept the fact that the only source of heat was a potbelly stove that used pellets for fuel. By the time he got that thing going, it would be time for dinner, and rather than leave it burning and take a chance on burning down the entire resort, maybe the simplest thing was to take a hot shower and save waiting to deal with the stove until he got back that evening.

A hot shower helped, although two minutes in, the water started to cool. A lot. Adam toweled off, dressed, and combed his hair into place.

He grimaced at the effect. Good enough for government work? He would have thought that was funny once. But after all, it wasn’t like he was headed for a night on the town.

In fact, he couldn’t think of the last time he’d had a night on the town.

He pulled shut the cabin curtains, dragged back the bedding to let it air. In the lamplight, the cabin looked almost cozy: Pendleton blankets, myrtlewood oil lamps, and the old-fashioned paintings created the impression of stepping back in time. The furnishings reminded him of something. Maybe the one and only time his father had taken him camping?

Anyway, it was just one night, and then back to central heating and plentiful hot water. Civilization.

He gave the cabin a final appraisal, picked up his coat, and headed out to dinner.

The rain had stopped again. It was a dark and dripping world of towering pines and deep shadows. A few yards away he could see light in Jonnie’s cabin. They seemed to be the resort’s only guests. That was probably normal for October. Besides pretty scenery, this area didn’t have a lot to offer visitors between water sports and winter sports.

The pine needles cushioned his footsteps as he made his way toward the restaurant by the lake. Through the trees he could see shining windows and smell the appetizing scent of roasting meat.

It was very quiet out here. So quiet he could hear the lap of lake water and the rustle of grass. Every drip seemed magnified.

He was not nervous. Not by inclination and certainly not given his training. He knew how to take care of himself, had every confidence in his ability to take care of himself. But something about this place made him uneasy.

Or maybe he was picking up Sheriff McLellan’s unease. Because she was…troubled. Not alarmed exactly. Whatever was bothering her wasn’t something she had identified; she couldn’t—or maybe wasn’t ready—to put it into words. But Adam didn’t think what she was feeling was dismay about a twenty-year-old murder. She wasn’t happy about it—and she hadn’t been expecting it—but that wasn’t what was worrying her.

No, she had been expecting something a lot worse.

And, maybe he was wrong, but he didn’t think she had been particularly relieved by the outcome of that autopsy.

The breath of the lake misted up and drifted toward the shoreline. This would be one spooky place at Halloween.

He walked on. It was farther to the restaurant than he’d thought. Distances were deceiving at night.

He couldn’t shake his feeling of disquiet. But maybe he was mistaking what he was feeling for something more sinister. Maybe what was really bothering him was the realization of how much he was going to miss Jonnie. She was still planning to resign after her wedding. The big day was four months away, but that no longer seemed like a safe distance. He did not want to lose their partnership. Not just because Jonnie was such a good agent, although that was certainly part of it. And not because she was a friend, although it was true he wasn’t always the easiest person to get along with. He hadn’t joined the Bureau to win popularity contests. But Jonnie was the first partner he’d had that he’d really clicked with. They had only been together four months, but they made a good team. They didn’t have to speak to know what the other was thinking, and there was none of the antagonism or rivalry he’d experienced with other partners. He liked her, he respected her, he trusted her.

But he didn’t get a vote. Jonnie said one FBI agent per family was enough, so she was resigning in February.

A white and rambling two-story building fronted by a ramshackle porch came into view. The boathouse sat on the edge of the water next to a long, low deck that gleamed like bones in the porch lights. The lack of moonlight made it difficult to discern more than a shingle roof and a lot of what guidebooks usually described as “rustic charm.”

The Lakehouse Restaurant and Bar was open. That was all Adam cared about. Lights shone behind windows, and silvery smoke drifted into the black night sky.

He walked up a short flight of steps. The sign on the window of the front door read We will be closed October 15th through March 15th. Happy Holidays. See you soon!

Judging from the sounds inside, the locals were bidding the place a noisy and affectionate goodbye. He hesitated. He had been thinking quiet meal and a couple of drinks. According to Sheriff McLellan, his only other options were a hole in the wall pizza shop and a bar about the size of a tackle box, optimistically named Marina Grill—though if they grilled anything besides cheese and bread, he’d be surprised.

Adam opened the door and walked into warmth and loud voices.

A petite girl with a wild head of pale green hair greeted him and asked how many for dinner.

“Just one,” Adam said.

The girl with the mermaid-colored hair gave him a look of pity, consulted a clipboard, and beckoned him to follow. He trailed her past the long and crowded bar—a lot of flannel shirts, down vests, hunting caps. There were a few women, but the grim, curious gazes meeting his own were mostly male.

A burly, big guy with a black beard and piercing blue eyes sized him up—and turned his back.

He got that a lot.

In a village the size of Nearby there would be no mystery as to who he was and why he was there. In fact, any one of these men boozing and laughing with their neighbors might be the unsub responsible for the logging road John Doe. The silver-haired man wearing a fringe jacket and flirting with the waitress? He ought to be arrested simply on the grounds of wearing fringe at fifty.

That was the problem with this job. You couldn’t walk into a bar without wondering who was skipping out on their child support payments, who was knocking their wife around, who was dumping bodies on back roads. Was it easier or harder to live with the people you were policing?

Adam spotted Deputy Haskell and almost tripped over the first step of a small transition stairway leading into the dining room.