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  The police officer’s eyes were unreadable behind his mirrored sunglasses, but he swung his head, scanning the interior of the pickup truck’s cab.

  What if he asked to search the truck? The thought was a panicky, knee-jerk reaction. But she chastised herself for it instantly. You’ll tell him no. Unless he has probable cause to believe you’re involved in criminal activity, a warrantless search wouldn’t hold up in court.

  She flashed him what she hoped was a casual smile, even as her argument with herself continued.

  Well, you are breaking the law—remember? Driving without a license? False registration? And who knew how Carole had gotten her hands on the Iowa license place—might as well assume it was stolen.

  Oblivious to her internal monologue, the officer turned his attention away from the inside of the truck and back to her. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  She literally had no idea. “Um … no, sir.”

  “You’re driving too slow for conditions, ma’am. The minimum speed on this stretch of road is forty-five miles per hour.”

  She stifled a groan. It would be her luck to get a ticket for not driving fast enough. She’d made it all the way from Pennsylvania through most of Ohio without incident, and now this.

  She let out a shaky breath and swallowed, reluctant to say the words. She forced them out with difficulty, with a tongue that had suddenly turned to lead. “I’m sorry, officer. My husband died in a car accident … I’m probably a little bit skittish.”

  A wave of hot shame washed over her. She felt dirty using Joe’s death to elicit sympathy, even though it was undoubtedly going to work. Fat tears spilled from her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  The officer handed her back the fake driver’s license, registration card, and insurance card in a hurry.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am. Now, I’m not gonna cite you, but either pick it up or detour off the highway and take the back roads. Slow driving can be as dangerous as speeding. You might prefer the state route. Very scenic.”

  “Thanks,” she managed.

  He nodded and walked away. She waited, watching in the rearview mirror, until he slid back into the driver’s seat of his car and deactivated his rooftop light.

  She exhaled, shifted the pickup into gear and eased back into the right travel lane. As desperately as she wanted to take the state trooper’s advice and take the scenic route, she couldn’t spare the time. Not to mention, she knew how small towns could be. The sight of a stranger was always noteworthy in a town like Walnut Bottom. And she didn’t need to be remembered. No, the interstate was her best shot at anonymity and the most direct route to the last place Dahlia had been seen.

  She shoved her foot down on the gas pedal and watched the speedometer jerk to the right.

  “Keep up with the flow of traffic,” she muttered under her breath.

  Then she managed a shaky laugh because the sum total of visible traffic was two other vehicles, both creeping along in the right lane. One a battered sedan and another a pickup like hers—this one hauling a horse trailer—with its flashers blinking.

  She signaled to move into the left lane and passed both vehicles at a respectable sixty-five miles per hour. She hoped to be out of sight by the time Officer Friendly pulled one of them over for driving too slowly.

  Only a few more hours.

  She’d mapped out all the state and national parks with overnight camping that were closest to highway exits along her route. When possible she wanted campgrounds near urban areas—more travelers passing through, fewer long-time campers who might want to strike up a conversation. Before the sun set, she’d pull off and set up camp.

  One night in Indiana, and then on through Illinois and Wisconsin with a stop in Minnesota for the night. A four-hour drive to Sioux Falls the next day. Two-and-a-half days of driving to cover twelve hundred miles.

  And then? And then, she’d have to pick up the girl’s scent.

  10

  Friday evening

  Indiana

  Pokagon State Park was pretty fancy, as far as state parks went, with log and stone buildings scattered throughout the dense woods, meadowlands, and rolling hills. Signs pointed to everything from an inn with a restaurant to an amphitheater to a gift shop, a nature center, and seasonal toboggan rentals. According to the brochure the helpful ranger had pressed into her hand when she checked in, the park was named for a father and son—leaders of the Potawatomi tribe. She’d chosen the park because it was less than a mile from the interstate; the connection to a local tribe was a comforting side benefit.

  As she maneuvered the truck into her assigned spot, she glimpsed the sun dipping into the glacial lake’s crystalline waters. She paused to bear witness to the setting sun and whisper a word of gratitude for the day. She’d hoped to make camp before the last light had faded from the wide sky.

  Tomorrow, drive a little faster, she admonished herself, so you can set up the tent and then enjoy the sunset.

  In truth, she’d have preferred to unroll her sleeping bag onto the dry earth and sleep under the canopy of leaves provided by the trees flanking the campsite. But she knew that could draw attention and might imprint her in someone’s memory. She needed to be as forgettable as possible.

  She hauled the tent out of the back of the truck and dropped it to the ground.

  “Howdy,” a cheerful voice called from the other side of the row of trees separating her campsite from the one to her right.

  “Hi there.” She waved a greeting in the general direction of the large brown and tan fifth wheel camper and turned her attention to assembling the tent.

  A moment later, the rustle of leaves announced the arrival of a visitor. She craned her neck to see a man in his sixties pushing his way through the trees. He hooked his thumbs through the belt loops on his jeans and watched her work on the tent.

  “Need a hand?”

  She paused to smile up at him as she inserted the last tent pole. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

  A furrow appeared between his bristly eyebrows. “You sure about that? Maybe you want to wait for your husband …”

  “That’d be a long wait. He’s dead.”

  His pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. She supposed her bluntness was shocking. But she was capable of putting up her own blasted tent. And she wasn’t interested in making friends. She wanted to eat, sleep, wake up, and get back on the endless highway.

  She raised the tent. He was still standing between two maple trees.

  “Uh … I’m sorry to hear that.” He shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

  “Thanks.”

  She kept an iron grip on her impulse to smooth over this stranger’s feelings and concentrated on hammering her pegs into the ground. When she finished, she stood, stepped back to admire her handiwork, and brushed her hands on the front of her pants.

  “So, how long are you staying?”

  “Just passing through. You?”

  He nodded toward his camper. “The missus and I are doing some fishing for a few days. The walleye were biting this morning.”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah. You fish?”

  “As needed.”

  From the expression on his face, he was bursting with unasked questions. She grabbed her canteen from the passenger cab of the truck.

  “Nice meeting you.” She waved the steel canteen at him. “Well, I need to get some water before it gets dark.”

  She speed-walked off her site and followed the trail around a bend. She wanted to be out of view before he could form his next question. At the pump, she took her time filling the bottle.

  She spotted a sign for a hiking trail. She checked the sun. No time for a meandering walk through the marshland. She turned and retraced her path.

  When she reached her site, her fervent hope that the helpful fisherman and his missus had gone up to the inn for dinner proved to be wishful thinking. They were very much still there.

  In fact, no
t to be territorial, but they were both standing on her site.

  “Um, hi?”

  They turned in tandem at the sound of her voice.

  “Oh, hello.” The wife managed a sheepish smile before flapping her hands in the direction of their spot.

  The husband set his jaw and puffed out his chest. “Imma get my gun. Maryanne, you stay here with …?”

  “Rue. Jackman,” Aroostine offered even the alias reluctantly. “What’s going on?”

  Maryanne’s eyes flicked toward the third tree in from the gravel road. But her husband did the talking.

  “Some sort of wild animal got into our cooler—ate the fish—while we were inside opening a couple beers. We startled the thing when we came back outside. It took off with a leap and went up that tree. I think it’s a bobcat.”

  “Rick, I’m not sure …”

  A stern glance from Rick, and the sentence died in Maryanne’s throat.

  “You’re not sure of what?” Aroostine pressed, keeping her tone gentle.

  The woman eyed her then shook her head. “We should go get a ranger.”

  “We don’t need a costumed tree hugger to protect us. I have my rifle.”

  Aroostine edged between the couple and studied the ground between their camping spot and the barrier of trees. She tuned out the couple’s simmering argument and crouched near a mound of dirt.

  “Here, come here,” she said over her shoulder.

  After a moment, the pair walked over and stood behind her. She put up her right hand.

  “Don’t come any closer, you might smudge out the print. But look at this.” She pointed to a deep pawprint in the soft dirt. “Do you see that?”

  Maryanne leaned over to squint where she was pointing. Rick squatted beside her.

  “Yeah, so?” he said.

  “Judging by the distance from the cooler, the animal that sprang into the tree probably made that print before it leapt. It’s no bobcat.” She raised her eyes to the tree. “It’s most likely a gray fox.”

  “Says who?” Rick demanded.

  Aroostine ignored the sharpness in his question. “Tracks don’t lie. See the shape of the pad? The curved claws? A bobcat’s a, well, cat. Its claws don’t show in the print. A gray fox, though, those claws show up.”

  “Foxes don’t climb trees, do they?” Maryanne asked, casting another worried glance at the maple.

  “The red fox, no. But gray foxes do, yeah. They’re good climbers. And they eat anything, including fish. Bobcats are carnivores. I suppose one might eat fish if it was hungry enough, but not when there’s ample rabbits and rodents around.”

  She craned her neck to watch the couple exchange glances. The wife seemed relieved. The husband looked unconvinced. “You didn’t see it. It was big.”

  “I’m sure it was. A full-grown gray fox is probably about three feet long, ten pounds or so. That’s a touch longer, but also a bit lighter than a bobcat.”

  She stood and stared into the canopy of leaves.

  “A fox won’t attack a person, will it?” Maryanne asked softly.

  “No, ma’am. And truth be told, a bobcat would be very unlikely to, either. But I’m sure it’s not a bobcat.”

  Maryanne managed a wobbly smile.

  Rick scoffed. “Fox, bobcat—whatever. I’ll be sure what it is when its carcass falls out of that tree. So you ladies enjoy your zoology talk. I’m getting my damn gun.” He stomped toward the camper.

  “Wait,” Aroostine urged.

  He twisted his neck to look at her. “What?”

  “I’ll flush it out of the tree. It’s just scared. You don’t need to shoot it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You some kind of animal rights nut?”

  “No. But you shouldn’t kill an animal you don’t plan to eat.” She paused. “Not to mention, it’s probably illegal for you to shoot one inside the park.” She hoped he couldn’t tell she was bluffing on that last bit. She didn’t have a clue what the relevant rules and regulations stated. But it seemed as if Indiana’s state park system ought to frown on guests shooting into the trees at dusk.

  “Hon, she’s right.” Maryanne placed a hand on his arm.

  Aroostine didn’t give him a chance to argue. “Go ahead back over to your camper. It won’t take but a minute.”

  She waited until the couple had returned to their spot. Then she moved closer to the trees, making sure to rustle the leaves that were in reach. She turned her face toward the tree Maryanne had indicated.

  In the gathering darkness, she spotted a pair of yellow eyes looking down at her. She raised the back of her palm to her lips and made a squeaking noise.

  She waited, listening hard.

  Shwa. A whisper of movement from the leaves above.

  She squeaked again.

  From behind, she heard one of her neighbors—Rick, if she had to guess. She didn’t turn.

  The faint scritch of nails scraping against bark.

  And then, a gray and brown flash of fur. A blur of motion as the fox ran down the tree trunk and landed lightly at her feet. Its nose twitched. Then the animal shot off across her site, past the truck, and into the dense bushes.

  “There you go. It’s gone—back to its den. I’d keep your cooler inside, though. Even if it doesn’t come back, there’re probably plenty of other critters around.”

  Rick shook his head. “Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Thank you,” his wife added.

  “No problem.” She shot the couple a smile. “Have a good night.”

  The pair exchanged a quick glance that held an entire conversation, the way old married couples do.

  Maryanne cleared her throat. “Rick says you’re traveling alone. Why don’t you join us for dinner?”

  “Oh … I …”

  “Nothing fancy. Just burgers and Maryanne’s pasta salad.”

  “And pie for dessert.”

  She looked from one to the other. She could make out their twin expressions of encouragement and invitation. For a moment, she considered it. Then she thought about the questions she’d either have to answer or dodge. The lies and half-truths that would stick in her throat.

  “That’s very kind of you. And I wish I could. But I’m hitting the road before sunrise. Planning to make it to Rochester, Minnesota, before nightfall. So, I’m going to hit the hay.”

  “That’s a long day’s driving, Rue. ‘Specially without someone to trade off with behind the wheel.” Rick frowned.

  “It is. But I’m on a tight schedule. So …”

  “Well, if you’re sure. But if you change your mind, come on over,” Maryanne urged.

  “I will,” she promised.

  She grabbed her backpack and lantern from the truck and hurried inside the tent before she could change her mind. She turned to take one last look at the fox’s den. As she closed the inner door, she thought she saw a familiar silver shape hunched near the edge of the water.

  She blinked.

  Looked again.

  No beaver.

  11

  Saturday morning

  Roxanne’s cell phone rang on her bedside table. She rolled over and checked the time. 6:00 A.M. On the dot. She scrabbled for the phone and put it to her ear.

  “Good morning, Johnny.”

  “Wha … this is a burner phone. How’d you know it was me?”

  She laughed. “Because you learned the hard way not to call me before six in the morning. I took a guess that the lesson stuck with you.”

  “That’s an understatement. But, yeah, I’ve been sitting on my hands, waiting for you to get your full allotment of beauty sleep so I could give you an update.”

  “You found it?” She sat up, propped her pillow against the headboard, and leaned back. Johnny Arnetto was good, but she hadn’t realized he was that good.

  “Don’t get excited. No, not yet.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Then why are you calling me?”

  “Want to let you
know what I did find.”

  “Which is?”

  “Couple things. I let myself into her apartment. Hard to tell if she barely had any furniture in the first place or if she cleared it out, but it’s mostly empty. Couple of rickety plastic chairs in the kitchen; a futon; a handful of books. No trash in the trash can, no food in the fridge. Stopped by the leasing office and said I was interested in renting a third floor unit, but the lady said they’re all full. So, she took off, but she may have plans to come back. I could watch the place?”

  She thought that through. “Don’t bother. She won’t be back. She’s gotta know she’s in deep trouble. She stole classified government information, Arnetto. People die in jail for that sort of thing. No, she’s in the wind. Breaking her lease is the least of her problems. What else do you have?”

  She was awake now. Blood flowing, synapses firing. She got out of bed and paced around the room while he talked.

  “I went down to the bus station. Took the picture you emailed me—the one from her personnel file. Showed it around.”

  “Did anybody recognize her?”

  “Yeah. The janitor said she was there overnight on Wednesday. Took an early bus out Thursday morning.”

  “Where to?”

  “He couldn’t say. There were long-haul buses headed west to Rapid City and east to Chicago at that hour. But there were also shorter routes that left around the same time.”

  “Well, they’ve got a reservation on one of them, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, so here’s the thing. She must’ve paid cash and lied about her name. Because there’s no Dahlia Truewind on any of the passenger lists.”

  “Can you get your hands on the lists? I’ll take a look at the names. See if anything pops.”

  “That’s the other thing. The feds were already there. They have copies of the lists. I can’t beat their manpower. I need to pick a route and follow it. What’s your gut say?”

  West. She almost said the word but stopped herself. She believed in trusting her instincts, but only when her instincts were informed by the facts.