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The Hastings Rock sheriff’s station was a concrete building with a flat roof and a bit of stone veneer near the door that softened the otherwise severe, authoritarian, designed-and-built-in-Warsaw look. In the spirit of the season, Jaklin Ruiz (who worked dispatch) had put several jack-o'-lanterns out front, the light-up kind that glowed orange in the darkness.

And it was dark. Dark and cold. The Pilot’s clock said it was past two in the morning, and the station’s front parking lot was empty except for a single truck dusted by the overhead security light. Shadows pooled everywhere else, deeper along the edges of the lot, and then swallowing up everything else. I knew we weren’t in the middle of nowhere. This was still Hastings Rock. There was a loan servicing office next door, and on the other side of that was a storefront church, and on the block behind the station there was another church and a run-down apartment building that looked like it could give you tetanus if you walked too close. But right now, the darkness had eaten up all of it, and the sheriff’s station might as well have been an island.

Bobby wasn’t exactly grumpy. Bobby didn’t do grumpy. But he did look tired, and his hair had little spikes at the front that weren’t usually there, and in his Sheriff’s Office windbreaker and jeans he did give the impression that, if I didn’t wrap things up quick, he might throw me in the drunk tank and go home to get some sleep.

He hadn’t been thrilled at being woken up, which was totally fair, because he’d been working nonstop for days, and he was exhausted. And he’d been even less thrilled when I told him my revelation. And let’s just say he didn’t love my enthusiasm to go out and catch a murderer right. now.

But he’d gotten out of bed, which really tells you something about his moral caliber. (Moral fiber? That sounds like something that has a recommended serving from the FDA, although moral caliber isn’t much better. What’s the expression?)

I had noticed, as we’d left Hemlock House, that Keme and Millie were still awake and still talking. At least, I thought I heard them talking. They must have heard us too, because they fell silent as soon as we reached the hallway. But I could have sworn I’d heard Keme laugh.

Now, with the shadowy bulk of the sheriff’s station in front of us, Bobby eased the Pilot into a parking stall and killed the engine.

“Is anybody in there?” I asked, peering at the darkened windows. Aside from what were clearly a few emergency lights, the station looked dark. “What if there’s an emergency?”

“Someone’ll be on dispatch,” Bobby said. He opened his door and slid out of the Pilot—which apparently was exhausted-Bobby speak for, Come on .

He led the way across the lot toward a security fence at the back. I didn’t know a lot about fences, but I knew this one looked like it went above and beyond the call of duty—it had those vinyl slats that made it difficult to see through, and it was topped by razor wire. That much security was probably overkill for a little town like Hastings Rock. But then again, maybe not—what did I know?

Bobby unlocked a pedestrian gate, opened it, and ushered me through. I don’t know what I was expecting on the other side, but it was more of the same: a parking lot, albeit one filled with sheriff’s office cruisers. A few security lights broke up the darkness, and a pair of cameras were mounted under the eaves.

Bobby led me down a row of cruisers and stopped in front of one that looked like all the others: the words Hastings Rock Sheriff’s Office on the sides, with the star-shaped badge behind them. The car itself was white. I crouched, took out my phone, and used its flashlight to inspect the bumper. I didn’t see any obvious damage, but an expert would need to examine it. If any of the paint had embedded itself in Channelle’s clothes or skin, they might be able to match it back to the car, too.

The wind picked up, and I shivered. A hoodie and joggers had seemed like good clothing for sneakery—they were dark, they were comfortable, they, uh, allowed for a good range of movement. Back at Hemlock House, when my adrenaline had been up, Bobby’s suggestion of a jacket had seemed unnecessary.

“You need a real flashlight,” Bobby said as he unlocked the driver’s door. “You’re not going to see anything with that.”

He was kind enough not to add, If there’s anything to see .

We’d disagreed about the urgency of tonight’s mission. I was convinced that waiting until morning might mean losing valuable evidence—and without it, I didn’t know how I could get the sheriff to believe me. Bobby, on the other hand, was a firm believer in letting the authorities handle things. The conversation had ended when Bobby yanked on his jeans and muttered, “Because if I don’t go, you’ll get yourself killed,” which I was choosing to call a compromise.

Somehow, the wind seemed to blow even harder, and I shivered again. In fact, I was pretty sure I could feel goose bumps breaking out.

“You’re going to freeze,” Bobby said as he opened the car door.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Please don’t give me your jacket. I feel bad enough dragging you out here.”

For some reason that got me a lopsided—albeit tired—grin. “I’ll grab yours from the Pilot.”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“I know.” Even the little white puffs of his breath looked amused. “I put one in there for you. I keep it in there.”

“You did? When? Why? No, don’t answer that.”

“First day of autumn,” Bobby said as though it were obvious. As he passed me, he tweaked my ear. “Flashlight’s in the door pocket. And I know you’re going to be tempted, but please don’t shine it in my eyes as a joke when I’m coming back.”

“Okay, rude—”

“And don’t shine it in your eyes because you want to prove you can stare at it longer than Keme.”

“Bobby, that was one time—”

“It’s a Pelican, and it will literally blind you.”

He jogged off toward the Pilot. I pocketed my phone since the little flashlight really wasn’t up to the job and retrieved the much bigger—and manlier—flashlight from the pocket of the door. It was black. It was heavy. It had probably been described in the sales copy as tactical. I immediately understood why Bobby had said what he had; I’ve got all the maturity of a thirteen-year-old boy, and like every teenage boy ever, my first, automatic impulse with a flashlight was to blast someone in the face with it.

But since that wasn’t an option—on account of the possibility of blinding someone—I clicked it on and started to search the inside of the car. The cruiser’s dome light worked fine, I was sure, but the Pelican was much brighter, and it made the search easier.

The first thing I noticed was that the cruiser was spotless. It smelled faintly like the perfume of a cheap cleaner that a government agency would buy in bulk. The seats were clean. The footwells had been vacuumed. From the stories Bobby told, I knew the sheriff’s office cruisers got to experience every aspect of the human condition—which was a polite way of saying a lot of people puked, pooped, and peed in the back of these cars. But you couldn’t tell with this one. And the fast-food smell that I’d noticed on Bobby was gone too. There were no candy wrappers, no takeout bags, no empty water bottles or cans from energy drinks. I mean, Bobby never would have allowed that kind of thing. The Pilot was so clean, inside and out, that it made me think of the few times I’d needed a rental car—freshly washed, perfectly vacuumed, even a hint of that new car smell. Or when I’d visited my grandma, years ago, and ridden in her Toyota Avalon that she’d owned since the second Clinton administration and that had eight thousand miles on it when she died. (Oh, and ask me sometime about the time (once!) I left a cup from Chipper in the Pilot. Bobby hadn’t yelled at me. It had been so much worse: we had a talk .)

After a few more minutes, I let out a breath. This wasn’t working—sure, there were lots of interesting things, like the mobile data terminal (powered off); and the buttons that I knew were for the lights and sirens because one time, after I’d begged and begged and begged, Bobby had turned them on for me, and then he’d floored it, and we’d shot down the highway for half a mile; and, of course, the shotgun (locked into its mount—yes, I checked). The problem was that there wasn’t anything approaching tangible, usable evidence. Not as far as I could tell, anyway. No threads of fabric I could link back to Channelle’s dress. Not a single hair to provide DNA. Every surface in the car looked freshly—and thoroughly—wiped down, and I knew without anyone having to tell me that there wouldn’t be any usable fingerprints.

Channelle had been in this car. The night she died, after she dressed up to go out, she’d gotten in this car. I knew she’d been in this car; the smell on her clothes, the night I’d found her, was all the evidence I needed.

A judge and jury, on the other hand, might want something a little more substantial.

Maybe a trained team of forensic experts would be able to find something—

I wasn’t sure what made me raise my head. A sound, maybe. So soft it was on the edge of hearing. Or maybe it was some other animal sense, the way sometimes you can tell that there’s someone else in a house, even if you can’t see them.

Deputy Tripple stood in front of the cruiser. He was dressed all in black, with a hood pulled up, but I could see his face. He looked tired. Frustrated. Annoyed, maybe, was the best word for it.

And he was pointing a gun straight at me.