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She had been smart.

But not smart enough.

John Millwood was looking at the soupy ground in front of the huge formation of rocks to the south of Copper Peak, about four or five football fields’ length from where the worker had spotted Fiona.

No footsteps, but curious marks in the mud, as if someone had taken a crude broom—made of branches and leaves—and obscured them. Did she do it?

Or her goddamn lover?

Millwood continued in the same direction.

He was enjoying the Blind Fiona scenario.

Probably unlikely. What if he killed her or damaged her brain, and he had to take care of her in that injured state?

Well, it was a fun fantasy.

Ah, there!

Definitely footsteps!

Then they stopped, where a rocky trail led upward into the hills. It was mostly stone but there were some muddy patches, which too had been brushed to obscure the prints left in them.

But not completely.

And the tracks did not return down.

She was up there still.

Gazing into the hills, he got the impression this was an old mine.

She might have found it online. Or maybe her lover had told her about it.

He started to climb.

Panting against the effort—another reason to punish her—he made his way higher yet. At about fifty feet above the ground, the path leveled out. Yes, itwasthe opening to a mine. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to board the place up. But the sheets of plywood had been pulled down—long ago. They were covered with mud and rock. Two large warning signs had been graffitied to near obscurity.

He walked to the entrance and froze, looking down.

Two used condoms.

His skin seemed to boil with jealousy at the sight.

Were they her lover’s?

Slow down, he told himself. The condoms were covered with mud and sat near a variety of cigarette butts. This would be a place for local teens to sneak off to.

Keep your head about you.

Quietly, he started inside.

Yes! She was here! He could smell her perfume. He knew because it was the same as his mother wore. He’d given her a bottle for her birthday. It had taken a few passive-aggressive reminders for her to wear it but finally she’d given in.

The name of the scent was Passion.

Another ten feet, twenty.

Then he eased silently into the large space. Yes, it was what he’d thought: the entrance to an old mine, the shaft, in the back, covered with chain-link.