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M11 MOTORWAY, ENGLAND

Ryan is speeding down the M11 to the airport. The motorway has two lanes running north, two running south. Trees and fields run along each side. Ryan’s head is spinning. The man who took Ali—The Monster—was real. And now he’s dead. Gruesomely murdered. He visualizes the man who murdered him, the stranger with the axe. It’s like some B horror movie.

He called his parents and told them not to come to England, that the police let him go. The relief in his mother’s voice almost made him cry. They don’t deserve this. He used to be the pride of his basketball-loving father’s life. His parents went to every game, reveled in Ryan “Dodge” Richardson’s glory. Bragged that their son was headed to Division I. But Ryan’s been nothing but trouble for them since that awful night. His parents had to put a second mortgage on the house to pay for his lawyer. Helped him with expenses when he transferred colleges, application fees to law school. He tried to give them his money from bartending, but his parents refused. Told Ryan to go, have fun, live his life.

Ryan’s phone buzzes. It’s a FaceTime call. An unfamiliar number. But it’s a 913 area code—Kansas—so he decides to answer it.

He swipes the device, which is on a cradle mounted to the rental car’s windshield. He’s met with the face of a pretty woman with freckles.

“Mr. Richardson?”

She’s about Ryan’s age, so the “Mr.” is a bit much. But that’s not what catches his attention: The woman knows his real name.

“Yeah,” he says, darting his eyes from the phone to the road and back.

“My name is Poppy McGee. I’m with the Leavenworth sheriff’s office.”

He waits, contemplates pulling over since his heart is thumping now.

“I understand from the UK police that you’ve had quite a night.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me,” Ryan says. “My lawyer told your office years ago that all communications go through him. Anything I say to you would be inadmissible.” First-year law-school nonsense coming in handy: the fruit-of-the-poisonous-tree doctrine.

“Mr. Richardson—Ryan—I don’t care about being able to use anything against you. Are you driving?” She can obviously tell that he is. “Can you pull over?”

Ryan spots an exit, veers off without saying anything.

“I don’t know if you heard about Alison’s car?” Before he answers, she adds, “We found something we hoped you could help us with.”

It’s an effective tactic. Baiting his curiosity.

“Why should I?” he asks, if only to elicit more information.

“Because I don’t believe you killed Alison Lane.”