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B odhi spent more time than he’d intended at the history center, engrossed in the exhibit about the coal town. The photo essays were powerful, and the walk through the replica of the simple company home had made the miners’ stories feel even more visceral and real. After watching the short film about the strikes that changed the industry in the early part of the twentieth century, he sat alone in the dark media room for a long while, absorbing what he’d learned. He sat there so long that a gray-haired man wearing round glasses and a cardigan sweater with leather-patched sleeves came in and apologetically told him that the center was closing.

After leaving the history center, he walked at a brisk pace to make up some of the time. As a rule he didn’t hurry, believing that wherever he happened to be was where he was meant to be. But he made an exception now because he wanted to reach Union Hill before nightfall.

As the sun dipped low and the shadows lengthened, he moved steadily—until he felt someone watching him. He stopped mid-stride and turned, his breath catching in his throat. Twenty feet ahead, a white-tailed deer stood motionless at the creek’s edge where it ran parallel to the trail. The animal’s stillness seemed contemplative. He watched until the doe blinked at him once, slowly, and lowered her head to drink.

He realized that he, too, was thirsty. He eased his pack off his shoulders and retrieved his water bottle, careful not to startle the deer. As he drank deeply, savoring the cool water, a sudden rustle broke the silence. The deer bounded into the understory, her white tail flashing between the trees as she disappeared from view.

As he tracked the trajectory of the doe plunging into the brush, his eye snagged on a flash of color behind the shrubs. Curious, he returned his water bottle to the side pocket of his pack and veered off the path to investigate. A shiny, candy apple red trail bike leaned against a tree trunk about thirty feet off the trail.

When he reached the precariously balanced bicycle, he scanned the area for its owner but saw no one. Looking down, he spotted signs of recent activity. The imprint of shoes in the dirt and a pile of broken twigs drew his attention to a barely visible path leading away from the trail. The path curved up a gentle slope. After a moment’s consideration, he followed it.

The narrow path wound uphill through thickening undergrowth. Bodhi pushed aside low-hanging branches and stepped carefully over exposed roots. After about fifty yards, the vegetation thinned, revealing the dark mouth of a cave set into the hillside.

He paused at the entrance, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. His gaze swept over the cave floor and settled on a messenger bag lying on its side near the wall. Contents spilled from the open flap—protein bars, a phone charger, and what looked like camera equipment.

Then he saw it. Blood. A small, glistening pool with spatter radiating outward. His training kicked in automatically as he analyzed the pattern—the blood had been expelled with force, not from a minor cut or scrape.

He frowned and took a careful step forward, noting a partial shoe print in blood leading out of the cave. Several feet from the messenger bag, a single, blood-splattered cycling shoe lay on its side, its mate nowhere in sight. The shoe’s tread didn’t match the print on the cave’s floor. Next to it, a small rectangle of colorful plastic caught his eye—a driver’s license. He squatted to examine it without touching it.

Aurora Elin Westin. Her photo showed a classically beautiful young woman with striking white-blonde hair, intense blue eyes, and a warm smile.

He drew back in surprise. Rory? The photographer?

He made quick work of searching the rest of the cave but found no signs of Aurora herself or evidence of where she—or anyone who might have been with her—had gone.

Then he squatted beside the blood and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves from the evidence kit he carried out of habit. He pressed one pointer finger into the puddle. When he drew his gloved finger back, it was covered with wet, barely tacky blood.

The blood—presumably Aurora’s—had been spilled recently. In the past minutes, not hours.

He crashed through the trees, calling her name, making no effort to be stealthy. The more noise he made the better if she was injured and trapped somewhere nearby. But after twenty minutes of thrashing around in the woods, he’d seen no sign of her, and the only response to his calls had been an irritated bird scolding him.

He grabbed the items from the cave and returned to the trail, jogging at a steady clip. Union Hill couldn’t be more than ten or twelve miles ahead. He needed to alert the authorities—the sooner, the better.