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Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place—which was a really cumbersome name, by the way, and probably not ideal for a listing on Airbnb—was so far outside of town that it must have been sitting on the city limits. Hemlock House was like that too, but Hemlock House was south of Hastings Rock, sitting on the bluffs, commanding a priceless view of the Pacific. (I’ve never used the phrase “commanding a view” before, but now I’m obsessed.)

Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place—see? it’s cumbersome—was east of Hastings Rock. Inland. Not far from the Swift River, where the ground was marshy, and the conditions seemed to be ideal, even in October, for a mosquito love-fest. The conditions also appeared to be ideal for plants. Millie—and, for that matter, Woody—hadn’t been exaggerating when they’d talked about the overgrown lot. When my phone told me I’d arrived at my destination, the only clue was the edge of a gravel turnoff; the rest of the drive was hidden by thick growth of what I thought might be rhododendrons.

Since I didn’t want to scratch the Pilot (and lose my boyfriend), I parked on the side of the road and continued on foot. It was late morning. The sky was still churning with those grease-pencil clouds, and the wind ran through the brush so hard that it crackled and bristled and looked like a dog’s hackles standing on end. It ripped at my hair and tugged on my glasses, and I don’t want to get into the details, but my current situation in the pair of joggers I was wearing was approaching a wedgie. The air smelled like moldering vegetation and, from farther off, thin, dispirited smoke. I felt like I should have been wearing a cool vest and pants with lots of utilitarian pockets while I huddled around a campfire.

Instead, I pulled my joggers out of my, um, crack and pressed forward.

Up close, I could see where the rhododendron branches were broken where a vehicle had forced its way through them. Below, ancient ruts in the gravel held rain from the night before, with a faint sheen that suggested motor oil. I pushed forward, and leaves rustled around me; if anybody was paying attention on the other side, there was no way they wouldn’t hear me.

It would have been a stretch to call the space beyond the rhododendrons a clearing. It was too overgrown, for one thing—most of the ground was covered in a low, gnarled brush that had turned a rich gold in autumn. I’d been in Oregon long enough to hear the locals complain about Scotch broom—pretty or not, the plant was invasive, and it loved taking over.

The other reason you couldn’t exactly call it a clearing was that it was so full of junk. An old coin-operated washing machine poked its head out from the Scotch broom. A rust-eaten Thunderbird sat on blocks, its windows either down or gone, the interior looking like a veritable bonanza of opportunities to get tetanus, beginning with the rusty springs poking out of the upholstery. A raccoon had gotten into the trash, and a mess of bones suggested fried chicken had been on the takeout menu recently. Farther back along the building, several large plastic barrels had been roped together into a pyramid. Why? To what end? These were the kinds of mysteries we paid archaeologists to speculate about.

Sleepily nosing up out of the scrub and junk was a house. It was a hardboard-sided bungalow, and it had a wood shingle roof that probably met every definition of ‘green’ you could find—it had plants growing out of it, for heaven’s sake. At some point, the structure had probably been painted a color, but over the years, it had faded to a gray that blended in perfectly with the dismal autumn day.

I had a hard time imagining anyone willingly staying there. For that matter, I had a hard time imagining the house staying upright the next time a squirrel sneezed. (Do squirrels sneeze? See, that’s the kind of thing that will make the intrepid writer bravely stop composing to look it up and make sure his story is one hundred percent accurate. And then he can come back to his writing the next day. Or after a long weekend.) On the other hand, if you were looking for somewhere to stay in a small town during its off-season, when strangers would stick out like a sore thumb—well, in that case, maybe it was perfect.

Following the trail of flattened, broken brush, I continued along the side of the house. Where the gravel drive curled around the back, a white sedan was parked. It had a light bar and the words ORANGE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT painted on the side. Foster had said he’d seen a police officer, and while a sheriff—or a sheriff’s deputy—wasn’t exactly the same thing, I didn’t think Foster was persnickety about his law enforcement terminology. I tried to think of a reason why a California deputy would be hiding out in Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place. Nothing legitimate came to mind. I’d done enough research about jurisdictional procedure to know that if this guy, Woody Vance or whoever he was, had come to Hastings Rock for a professional reason, he would have been in contact with Sheriff Acosta. But if he wasn’t up here for a legitimate reason, then why come in his official vehicle?

Great question, I told myself. The only problem was that, to answer it, I was going to have to, you know, ask him.

Which was how I found myself on the porch, knocking on the front door and praying I didn’t Big-Bad-Wolf Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place. (They seriously needed to come up with a better name for it. Like Huckleberry Cottage. Only not that, because that name was cute, and I came up with it.)

The squeak of a floorboard came from inside the house. Then silence for several long seconds. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Certain inconvenient facts began to present themselves: a killer was still loose; someone had tried to kill me (or Keme, or both of us) the night before; I was standing on the porch of someone who might very well be said killer, without any convenient neighbors or passersby to act as witnesses; and nobody in the world knew where I was except Millie, who had once forgotten to go to work because she was chasing her chickens. (It was not a euphemism. Also, it was not a great four weeks when Millie decided she wanted to have chickens.) I was easing my weight back, considering a quick return to the road, the Pilot, and the safety of civilization, when the door swung open.

A man stood there, staring at me. He was a bull-necked Latino guy, his salt-and-pepper hair faded on the sides and combed straight back. His dark eyes made me think of the way Bobby looked sometimes. Like a cop. He carried himself the way some of those guys did too, like their shoulders were too big for their bodies, and they were hoping you’d get in their way. He wasn’t dressed in uniform (a tiny voice in my head said, Duh ); he wore jeans, a tee with a logo I didn’t recognize, and a lightweight jacket. Southern California, I reminded myself. I wondered if his toes had frozen off yet.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Are you Woody Vance?”

He didn’t move, but something about him changed: a hardening of his expression, although it had already been fairly hard to begin with.

“I thought so,” I said. “My name is Dash Dane. I need to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

“Dash—”

“No. Are you a deputy? State law enforcement?”

“No, but—”

“Then I don’t have to talk to you.”

As he started to shut the door, I blurted, “I think Channelle was stealing people’s rent money.”

It hadn’t been a conscious decision—nothing even remotely close to a plan. But people liked to talk, um, crap about their exes, and if this guy really was Woody Vance, and if Channelle Haskins had, at one point, been Channelle Vance, then maybe he’d want to talk crap about her. Of course, if Vance was her maiden name, and she was his sister, maybe he’d be less thrilled about my theory.

Woody stopped. He gave me another, more assessing look. Then he said, “That sounds like Channelle.”

Trying not to exhale in relief (or not too loudly, anyway), I managed to say, “I was hoping you could tell me about her. Anything you think might help. See, the sheriff believes my friend might have been involved, but he wasn’t.”

“If he wasn’t, then the best thing you can do is hire him a decent lawyer, keep your mouths shut, and wait for this to sort itself out. Have a good day, Mr. Dane.” He started to shut the door again.

“What did you mean when you said that sounded like her? Did Channelle steal from people when she lived in California?”

Woody stopped again. His cheeks darkened, but his voice was even—almost amused—when he said, “You could say that.”

“You were married, weren’t you? I know her name used to be Vance.”

Out in the trees, something moved. A branch bent, dipped. Then it sprang back up again, tiny pearls of water flying from the needles. They fell soundlessly into the brush.

Woody nodded.

“You heard what happened to her?”

He nodded again.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Mr. Dash, I can’t help you. I came up here to get my wife to finalize our divorce. She’s dead now. That means I’m going home. I don’t know anything about what happened to her. Frankly, I don’t care. This may make me sound like a bit of a meanie—” (He might have used a different word than meanie .) “—but I’m glad she’s gone. I’m going back home, and I’m going to get on with my life.”

The little writer part of my brain pinged, and a sign lit up that said MOTIVE, but all I said was “Is there anything you can tell me about her? I mean, did she tell you anything about her life here? Or maybe you can help me understand her better.”

“Sure, I can help you understand her. She was a selfish, spoiled child. I met her on a call-out; her dad was trying to knock out her mom’s teeth one by one. She was seventeen when she moved in with me. I didn’t know that at the time; she lied to me right up until her eighteenth birthday, and then she told me we were getting married. She wanted out of her dad’s house, you see. And the other thing about Channelle? She didn’t want to work, but she liked to spend. I gave her a budget, told her that was the end of the discussion, and you know what happened? Credit cards in my name. My cash going missing. Then, one day, I came home, and she was gone, along with—” He cut himself off; from the look on his face, it was a struggle. “That was the last time I saw her. Then I found out she was living up here. Fine. All I wanted was a divorce.”

“That’s why you went to the RV park’s office. That’s what you and JT argued about.”

“I tried to tell him who he was dealing with. He didn’t want to listen.” A struggle played itself out in his body: his hand opening and closing around the door, his lips pressed tight. The words broke from him. “As soon as I saw him, I knew. Another old man.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Somebody with stability, security. Somebody she could wrap around her finger.” Woody blinked, and then he narrowed his eyes. He swung the door back and forth. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. “I think we’re done here.”

“Her necklace is missing.”

Woody didn’t say anything, but he didn’t slam the door.

“It has a heart-shaped sapphire,” I said. “It’s part of a set. Someone took it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Someone broke into the RV park’s office. And someone broke into Channelle’s motel room. And someone has a necklace that belonged to Channelle. So, if you wanted to talk to me about what you’re really doing in town, explain what’s been going on, help me understand—that’s great. And if not, well, I guess the sheriff will be by with a warrant.”

Woody opened the door. It hit the wall with a soft thud, and he planted one hand on it, pinning it there. He was bigger than I’d realized—or he seemed bigger in that moment, like he filled the doorway. When he stepped out onto the porch, I took a step back. My heel came down on thin air, and for a moment, I wobbled and almost fell. Woody moved forward again.

I told myself to stand my ground.

But he kept coming.

And I stepped back again.

I tried to take into account the step down. It wasn’t far, and I was moderately coordinated. (Ignore the sound of Keme laughing in the background.)

Then Woody shoved me. The movement wasn’t fast. It wasn’t sneaky. I tried to twist away, but the heel of his hand struck me just above the solar plexus, hard enough to send me stumbling backward into a fall.

I landed on my butt, and as my brain was still processing the jolt, Woody closed the gap between us. He planted one big boot on my chest and bore down—not quite a kick, but hard enough that the rubber treads bit into my skin through my hoodie. He forced me onto my back. The pressure of his boot on my chest increased until discomfort became pain. My ribs creaked. It was hard to draw a breath. I grabbed his ankle and tried to force his foot away, but it was like trying to uproot a tree with my bare hands. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. The pressure on my chest increased more. Black spots swung in my vision.

And then he lifted his foot.

I sucked in air. The black spots thickened as blood pounded in my ears. I tried to flop over, tried to squirm away, but Woody crouched next to me and grabbed me by the hair. My vision was still clearing when I realized he was holding something in front of me. His phone.

On the screen was a picture. A photo. It showed a staircase and a couple—a man and a woman. They were kissing. A bright red door showed in the background, and I recognized the Bay Bridge Suites. I recognized the people too. The woman was Channelle, of course. And the man was Foster—September’s live-in waste-of-space.

“I’m showing you this so you’ll leave me alone,” Woody said. He shook my head by the hair, and tears sprang into my eyes. His tone was so cool it was almost uninterested. “Threaten me again, and I’ll kill you.”