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  “Most are,” Bryce said.

  As she stepped away, Bryce stared at the hate-fueled devastation unleashed on this individual. Motivations for violence had never been much of an interest to him. Like any good hunter, he focused on following the physical evidence left behind by the killer. He left the higher reasoning to the doctors, defense attorneys, and judges. But if this scene was like the last, there would be precious little physical evidence, and he would need a specialist like Dr. Bailey to point him in the right direction.

  He checked his phone and was not surprised to see he had no service up here. He would have to be nearer to the road for that. The silence this land offered was the reason he had returned home seven years ago. Far from the choppers, explosions, and endless gunfire, he had gladly disconnected.

  But as he walked down the hillside, opened his contacts, and stared at Dr. Ann Bailey’s name, the idea of isolation was not so appealing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Missoula, Montana

  Wednesday, August 18

  10:15 a.m.

  Dr. Ann Bailey opened the front door of her former residence on Beech Street. She had purchased the house with her late husband more than a decade ago and had spent many happy and not-so-happy years in the one-story brick rancher. Ten years ago, she could not have imagined herself living anywhere else. And now it had been a year since she had stepped foot inside.

  She peered into the shadowy interior, half expecting to hear her son’s laughter, or smell the lingering scent of chocolate chip cookies, or see her husband’s discarded work boots next to her son’s sneakers. Instead, there was the hum of the refrigerator, the stale musty air, and the dust particles dancing in unwelcome sunshine.

  Monthly mortgage payments, utility bills, and lawn care services now outweighed any anxieties about the past. Like it or not, it was time to clean the place out and put it on the market.

  Ann clicked on the foyer light, hoping it would buoy her resolve. Instead, it drew her attention to the graphite fingerprint dust marring the pale-blue walls, the crumpled strand of yellow caution tape, and a discarded pair of evidence gloves.

  Though tempted to walk away, she could not let the ghosts, demons, or whatever stalked the house win.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she muttered as she picked up the moving boxes, tape, and box of plastic garbage bags.

  This week’s tasks were simple: clear out personal belongings worth salvaging, interview the woman who would deep clean the house, and get the place on the market. Simple tasks complicated by emotions.

  She assembled her first moving box and then walked into the kitchen, where the sink still contained the empty coffee cup left behind by her late husband. Ann had painted the #1 DAD mug with her son several years ago, and from the moment Nate gave it to his father, it had been a favorite of Clarke’s.

  The cabinets were filled with dusty dishes that she had no desire to keep. Nor did she want the pots and pans or the FAMILY MAKES THIS HOUSE A HOME sign Clarke had given her on their first anniversary. A glance toward the basement door made her anxious to leave.

  She crossed the living room and walked slowly along the hallway lined with a collection of pictures. The images featuring Nate were easy saves. Several made her smile, and she carefully dusted the glass with her sleeve and tucked each in her box. However, the portraits that included her husband triggered a complicated blend of anger and disbelief and were not so easy to salvage.

  As much as she wanted to leave these pictures behind, she settled on one image she had taken of Clarke and Nate fly-fishing on the Bitterroot River under a flawless autumn sky. Both were laughing, radiating pure joy as Clarke helped six-year-old Nate hold up an eight-pound trout. She did not want to remember, but Nate might one day.

  In Nate’s room, the twin bed butted against the blue wall. The navy comforter was as smooth as the day she had made it, and the Power Rangers pillow remained perfectly centered. On his desk stood a globe and a LEGO airplane he had built. The clothes in the closet were all too small now and not worth harvesting, because boys grew like weeds. Still, she selected a few shirts associated with memories of soccer games, school pictures, and birthday parties.

  Next, she packed worn copies of Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are. She grabbed a soccer trophy, the third-grade science fair blue ribbon, Nate’s favorite fishing lures, and a small silver canister containing locks of hair from his first haircut.

  The next stop was her bedroom. The bed had been stripped, Clarke’s closet cleared, and the drawers emptied by the cops. Ann glanced in her closet and drew her fingertips along the bright floral shirts and dresses, realizing she had taken what she had really wanted eighteen months ago, when she and Clarke had separated. All these clothes, like the rest of this house, belonged in the past. Shoes were the same. She had no use for the heels, but she did grab a worn pair of hiking boots.

  Perfume bottles, earrings, bracelets, and brushes scattered across her dresser. She raised a perfume bottle to her nose, inhaling and remembering Clarke. After he’d returned home from conferences in recent years, he had brought her expensive perfumes and jewelry. Looking back, she realized these splurges were intended to satisfy his own guilt.

  “Ann, you’re all that keeps me sane,” Clarke said. It was hours after she’d left, and he had tracked her to her parents’ house. They stood on the front porch, several charged feet separating them. Both had been careful to keep their voices low for Nate’s sake.

  “We need a break, Clarke.” She could not articulate the tangled emotions that had chased her out of the marriage.

  He gripped her arm in an unbreakable hold. Not enough to hurt but enough to remind her he was in control. “That’s bullshit. I know losing the baby was hard. But we’ll keep trying.”

  “Please, give me this time.” In the cool air, her cheeks flushed.

  “How much time?” he demanded.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  He gently placed his hand at the base of her throat. Her pulse pounded under his calloused fingers. “I love you, and this cannot be forever.”

  “It’s a break.” She whispered the lie, hoping he would leave.

  Turning from the memory, Ann hurried through the house and out the front door, drawing in a deep breath. She locked the door and settled her box of precious memories on the front seat of the car.

  An older red Ford truck pulled up in front of the house, and the woman behind the wheel glanced at a piece of paper as if confirming she had found the right place. Ann raised her hand to signal her, and the woman waved back.

  Ann moved away from her car, grateful to be interfacing with a real human and not ghosts. “Hi. I’m Ann Bailey.”

  “Hey, I’m Maura Ralston. We’ve traded phone calls about me cleaning your house.”

  Ann scrutinized the slim woman, trying to imagine her cleaning out closets and sorting through all her belongings and dividing them into charity and trash piles. She was turning this personal part of her life over to a stranger whom she had discovered on a flyer outside her office, and it smacked of cowardice. “I called the references you gave me.”

  Maura slid her hands into her pockets. “Awesome. All good, I assume, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “They were glowing. Methodical, neat, organized.”

  Maura grinned. “I’m all that.”

  “And you’re not a reporter.”

  “No, I’m not.” Maura laughed, her brow arching. “Where did that come from?”

  “Never mind.” Reporters had blown up Ann’s phone last year, and she still received the occasional inquiry, which kept her vigilant. Last week it had been a guy named Paul Thompson, who was producing a podcast. She had ignored his three messages. “The house hasn’t been really cleaned in over a year. All the closets need to be emptied out, major dusting, the appliances . . .”

  “I get it. I’ve done all that before. All you need to do is tell me what you want saved, and I’ll take it from ther
e. A few days from now, the house will be pristine and ready to go on the market.”

  “You’ve been doing this work for five years back east. Why the move to Montana?” Ann asked.

  “A fresh start. Divorce.” Maura hesitated, as if gauging her words. “You too, right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Maura looked toward the house. “I’ve done enough jobs like this to get a sense of my client. You’re divorced or about to be. It was messy, and though you got the house, you really do not want it. But the property is worth too much to pass up, so you deal with the emotions and do the work.”

  Her clear-cut honesty was refreshing after a year’s worth of family tiptoeing around Ann’s feelings. “You sound like a psychologist.”

  “I want to be one,” she said quickly. “And for the record, I know how rough the getting-on-with-your-life part can be. Mine cheated on me, which adds salt to the wound.”

  Ann liked the woman’s candor. “I’ve already been through the house and taken what I want. Use whatever key pieces of furniture for staging. The rest, like I said, toss or donate. I don’t care.”

  “Got it.”

  “The rate you quoted in your text is fine, so I’ll give you the grand tour if you’re interested in the job.”

  “Terrific.”

  Ann returned to the front door and opened the lock. As they stepped inside, Maura’s gaze was drawn to the black graphite, crime scene tape, and gloves. “What happened here?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know.”

  “I don’t do the news or social media. Bad for the soul.”

  “Smart.”

  “Did anyone die here?”

  “No.”

  “But . . .”

  “An internet search will tell you what you want to know. And if you decide this job is not for you, no harm, no foul.”

  “No, I’ll do it. I need the money, and the past is the past.”

  If only it were that simple. “If that’s the case, any questions?”

  Maura gripped the strap of her leather, fringed satchel. “I understand my marching orders pretty well.”

  “Good. Also, I mentioned I’m not fond of reporters. I don’t want any in here. Only you in the house.”

  “No problem. Do you have a Realtor?”

  “Yes. Her name is Stacy Winston, and if she wants to see the house, she’s to let me know so I can call and give you a heads-up.”

  “Perfect.”

  Relieved, Ann fished a spare key from her pocket and handed it over. “I promised Stacy the house would be ready for market no later than the second week of September.”

  “No problem. I’ve seen enough so we can skip the tour. Looks standard.”

  “It should be.” Ann produced a $200 down payment. It was a risk. Maura might take the money and run. She might turn the house into a party palace and ruin whatever value remained. She might sell tours to reporters. She might . . .

  The list would roll endlessly in a negative loop, and it would go round and round for hours if she did not stop it. Ann reminded herself she had dutifully checked out Maura’s references, which had all been great, and if Ann did not get someone, the work would fall to her.

  “You have my number if you need to call,” she said.

  Maura followed her to her car and glanced at the box in the front seat. “That’s all you want?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay. If you change your mind, call.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know I skipped the tour, but mind if I walk around the house?” Maura asked.

  “Have at it. There’s also a basement off the kitchen. There shouldn’t be too much left there.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’ve got to get going.”

  Maura thrust out her hand. “Thanks for the job, Dr. Bailey. It really helps.”

  “Call me Ann, and thank you for taking this on.” She opened her driver’s-side door. “I work at the university, so I’m less than five minutes away. Seriously, any questions, call.”

  “I’m thinking about attending the university in the spring.”

  “If you want the tour, let me know.”

  “I’ll definitely take you up on that,” Maura said.

  Ann slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and switched on the AC. The cool air brushed her skin as Maura vanished inside and passed in front of the display window.

  What would that house reveal to Maura about Ann? All the small choices she had made, from the types of pans she had cooked with to the perfume she wore to the color choices on the walls, combined and told a story about her.

  Her phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, she fished it out of her pocket, not glancing at the display. “Hello.”

  “Dr. Bailey, this is Sergeant Bryce McCabe.”

  “Sergeant McCabe. This is unexpected. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a case I’d like to discuss with you,” he said.

  When she had spoken to the Montana Highway Patrol officers, McCabe had taken a seat in the back of the classroom and paid close attention to her lecture. His questions had been in-depth and displayed a sharp mind.

  “Sure. Maybe sometime later this week?”

  “I was hoping today.”

  “Today?”

  “I’m at the crime scene now, and it’ll be important for you to see it for yourself.”

  She checked her watch. Nate would not be home from computer camp for another five hours. The drive to the state police headquarters in Helena would take a couple of hours. “If I leave now, I can be at your office by lunchtime.”

  “The crime scene’s not in Helena. It’s about an hour and fifteen minutes east of you in Deer Lodge County. I can text you the address.” His voice dropped, and the tone turned serious. “It’s important.”

  “I can leave right now. I’m not dressed for work.”

  “All the better. The terrain requires a little hiking.”

  “Can you tell me anything about it?” Ann asked.

  “Better you see for yourself, but if it will help, Joan said it would be your kind of case.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll leave now.”

  “Good. See you soon.” Seconds later her phone chimed with a text from Bryce.

  The location was near a small town called Anaconda. It was a picturesque area known for the Anaconda Smelter Stack, a masonry structure that rose 585 feet out of a now-defunct ore smelter.

  When she arrived, a deputy directed her to a gravel road toward a collection of cars on the top of a hill. She parked behind a dark SUV, gathered her box of mementos, and stowed it in her trunk. She changed out her sneakers for the old hiking boots.

  After grabbing a wide-brimmed hat from the trunk, she settled it on her head, adjusted her sunglasses, and then rolled down the sleeves of her cotton shirt.

  Ann spotted Bryce McCabe easily. He was taller than most men, standing at six foot five inches, and he had broad shoulders and muscled arms. He normally wore a suit, a tie, and his polished cowboy boots. However, he was dressed more casually today, as if the dispatcher’s call had pulled him off the range on that wild patch of land that he had inherited last fall.

  Anxious to see why he had called, she marched forward past the yellow evidence tents. A dozen steps into her climb, a gust carried the traces of decay and charred flesh.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Anaconda, Montana

  Wednesday, August 18

  12:15 p.m.

  Bryce saw Ann Bailey walking up the hill toward the forensic team’s tent and her long stride slow right about where the coiling scents thickened. She was a doctor of psychology, and though she had studied the criminal mind and understood patterns and practices, she had admitted in her training seminar that she had no real field experience. One thing to theorize about a serial killer and another to see, smell, or touch their vicious handiwork.

  “The first homicide is always rough,” Joan said as she stood beside Bryce.

&nb
sp; “You think she’ll make it?” Bryce asked.

  “Even if it kills her.”

  To Ann’s credit, she kept moving up the hill toward them. It was difficult to read her expression, shadowed by the glasses and the hat, but he suspected she had intended to shield her reactions as well as the sun. I read you—you don’t read me.

  “Joan,” Ann said. “Sergeant McCabe.”

  She gave Joan a quick smile and extended her hand to Bryce. His calloused palm scraped against her smooth skin, and if he had still been on the rodeo circuit, he would have scoffed and teased her about being a greenhorn.

  But Ann Bailey was not totally inexperienced, and she was nobody’s shrinking violet. She had stood up to last year’s shitstorm caused by her late husband, and many who’d been so betrayed and manipulated would have hightailed it out of Montana. She had stood her ground and kept her job, and was teaching her boy to hold his head high.

  Bryce had always been attracted to Ann Bailey’s looks. Blond, high cheekbones, full lips, and striking green eyes were damn nice in their own right. But combined with a stunning set of legs, full breasts, and a narrow waist, she had wheedled herself into his thoughts since he had first met her last year. Now that she was battle tested, she was all the more attractive.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said.

  “You have me until two at the latest, and then I need to head back to town to get Nate.” Drawing her shoulders back, she shifted her attention toward the body. “What happened?”

  “Autopsy will confirm what I’m about to say, but I believe the victim was stabbed to death, and then her remains were set on fire,” Joan said.

  “Fire,” Ann said softly.

  “Judging by the smell, I’d wager the accelerant was gasoline,” Joan said.

  Ann regarded Joan, suggesting unspoken words passed between them. The women were survivors of a fire that had nearly killed them in college. So maybe later they would have a pointed discussion, but it would not happen in front of him.

  She looked past them both to the blackened body lying out in the hot midday sun. “Joan mentioned a case similar to this one. It was in Helena, right?”