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“He left you to handle that by yourself?”

Finn’s voice startled me out of my stricken memories. I looked up. I’d never seen that expression on his face before.

I was reminded that there was a side to him I’d never seen. The side that had first chosen law enforcement as a profession. The side that enabled him to carry a gun. To use a gun. To be willing to die in the course of his duties. To be willing to kill.

“He… He was in shock. Terrified. Horrified.”

Finn repeated again without any inflection, “Milo left you to deal with that on your own?”

“I…yes.”

“Was the body ever found?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s something I’ve kept an eye on.”

After what felt like a long time, he said, “How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“How old was Milo?”

“Just turned eighteen.”

He nodded as though this confirmed something. “The fact that you were a minor when this happened is significant. That affects your potential sentencing.”

I said nothing. The words your potential sentencing paralyzed me.

“That said, off the top of my head we’re looking at accessory after the fact, tampering with evidence, abuse of a corpse, conspiracy. That’s three felonies and one possible felony-possible misdemeanor.”

“I know,” I said. “Also, obstruction of justice, misprision of a felony, unauthorized use of a protected area, destruction of wetlands, illegal dumping, water pollution…And if I’m especially unlucky, disturbing a protected species.”

Finn’s brows shot up. “I hope a jury finds it equally amusing.”

I said hotly, “Hell no, it’s not amusing. I just told you my father was the sheriff. Do you think I didn’t understand we were breaking the law? Do you think I didn’t look all this up years ago to see…to find out how many years I might spend in prison?”

“Keiran…”

“I’ve had more than twenty years to think about what I should have done versus what I did do.

That night shaped the rest of my life. Including—I mean, do you think it never dawned on me what a terrible, terrible idea it was to fall for a cop—ex-cop?

I used to lie awake at night wondering if I’d be serving my sentences consecutively or concurrently. ”

Finn’s expression softened slightly. “Most of these charges, except for the murder, likely expired long ago.”

I said, “There’s no statute of limitations on murder. That includes accessory.”

In California, that meant anything from three to fifteen years in state prison.

Depending on the circumstances it could mean more.

This wasn’t an area of expertise for me.

I helped writers craft stories about catching killers—not following the killer’s journey through the legal system.

In most mystery novels, the story ended with the killer’s arrest.

Finn said, “Unfortunately, that’s correct.”

In this particular case, he was sympathetic. That would not have been his usual response.

After a moment, he asked ruefully, reluctantly, “Did you fall for an ex-cop?”

“You were there. You know I did.”

He changed the subject, and I couldn’t blame him. “I understand why, as a kid, you felt you had no recourse. But why didn’t you tell me about this? Why didn’t you ask for my help years ago? You knew how I felt.”

I said bitterly, “Yep, that’s the way to treat someone who cares about you. Drag them into the quagmire, too.”

Finn gave me an odd look, started to say something, but then apparently changed his mind. “Regardless, I’m glad you told me the truth now. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. It’s a fucking mess, though. You’re right about that. This is not the kind of thing that fixes itself with time.”

“I know.”

“That kid’s family has had to wonder for twenty years—”

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.

There was a sharp silence.

Finn muttered, “Christ. At least, in your case, there are mitigating circumstances. I know people. I still have contacts. I can—”

I lowered my hands, said quickly, “No. You can’t get any more involved. I appreciate that you want to help, and any…any advice you can give me will be... But you have to keep a distance.”

“If you think I’m worried about my goddamned writing career—”

“No. You don’t understand. It’s so much worse than…this.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, it’s so much worse than this?”

“About a month after it happened, Milo disappeared.”

“ Disappeared ,” Finn repeated. “What’s that mean?”

“I mean, he left. I guess. Without waiting to graduate. Without a word.”

“He left, you guess ?”

“Yes.”

“Without a word to you or without a word to anyone?”

“Definitely without a word to me. I think without a word to anyone. His family eventually reported him missing.”

Finn prompted impatiently, “And—?”

“I don’t know. I left Steeple Hill the day after I turned eighteen. I never spoke to my father or anyone else from there again. With the exception of Kyle.”

Finn did a double take. “Kyle? Kyle Bari?”

“He grew up in Steeple Hill.”

“Did you know him then?”

That was almost funny. “Kyle? No. He’d have been around seven at the time all this happened. Anyway, the art colony residents stuck mostly to themselves. And probably still do.”

After a few seconds of bleak reflection, Finn seemed to relinquish whatever sinister idea had struck him. He asked, “What did you think happened to Milo?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t know. I thought his nerve gave out. I thought he ran away. He was terrified we were going to be caught.”

“You weren’t terrified?”

“Of course I was.” Terrified. Guilty. Lonely.

Life had been difficult before. After Milo left, it had been all but unbearable.

“I couldn’t leave, though. I didn’t have that option.

I had to graduate. My grandparents had taken out a reverse mortgage and put the money into a trust for when I turned eighteen.

I needed that money for college. I stuck out the last few months and then I left, too. ”

I couldn’t read Finn’s expression at all.

I said, “At the time, I felt betrayed. He’d left me with this horrible thing we’d done.

He couldn’t even say goodbye? Later, I began to wonder.

I tried to find him a few times, but he’d vanished.

There was nothing. No trace.” I met Finn’s gaze.

“I even thought about hiring a private detective. But I was afraid that might lead someone back to me. Eventually, I began to suspect he was dead. That maybe he killed himself. Then I wondered if maybe someone else had killed him. And after last night, I’m sure of it. ”

Finn said slowly, wonderingly, “I feel like I’m in that story about the guy who comes back from a trip and the servant tells him his favorite dog died.”

I laughed shakily. “The Climax of Horrors.”

“Yeah.” He fell silent, thinking. “Locating Milo is a priority. If he can confirm your version of events, that would go a long way toward keeping you out of prison.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said. “I think he’s dead. I believe he must have died that same year.”

“Why? Why do you believe that?”

“Because I think someone tried to kill me last night.”

Finn slowly sat back in his chair. “Go on.”

I said, “I know how it sounds. I swear to you, Finn, I’m not making this up.”

He gave a funny laugh. “I think if you were making this up, you’d probably try not to incriminate yourself so thoroughly. Tell me about last night.”

I told him. All of it. About going by the old house, about tracking Colby down and talking to his neighbor, about the long, terrible drive home and the blowout in the middle of nowhere.

I told him everything with the exception of Judy Jenning’s oblique comments.

Even if I’d felt ready and able to confront the possibility that my father had killed my mother—and I didn’t—wasn’t—things were complicated enough already.

Finn heard me without interruption, though his face grew dark and severe.

When I’d trailed into silence, he said, “Where’s the rental car now?”

“I left it with the valet when I got back last night.”

“And the slashed tire’s still in the trunk? You didn’t dump it along the way?”

Why on earth would I have dumped it along the way?

Oh. Right. To cover up the fact that the tire wasn’t slashed.

That there had been no flat. That I was making it all up.

That was the way Finn’s brain worked. Rudolph had been spot-on in the elevator when he’d characterized Finn’s writing as Those bleak police procedurals.

All that violence and betrayal and corruption.

“It’s in the trunk. Yes.”

I watched doubtfully as he rose, tucking in his shirt, buttoning it. With a businesslike air, he rolled up his sleeves, crisp white cotton against tanned forearms. “Where’s the claim ticket? I want to have a look for myself.”

“I’m not sure that will prove anything. I could have slashed the tire.”

He stopped in the process of slipping on his shoes and surveyed me.

With a shade of exasperation, he said, “Keir, stop thinking like an editor of mystery novels for a minute. You were tired, stressed, and spooked last night. Anyone would have been. You’re not a mechanic.

You might be wrong about what damaged the tire.

And you might be reading more into the fact that the driver of the Cadillac stopped to help. Coincidences do happen.”

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. “We can’t be guessing. We can’t be theorizing. We need to know for sure whether someone really does intend you harm. Because that changes everything.”

He was right. I nodded wearily.

Something changed in his expression. He said more patiently, “It’s going to take me at least forty-five minutes. You didn’t sleep much last night. Why not nap while you can? It’s going to be a hell of a long day.”

He didn’t sound like he was looking forward to it any more than I was. Understandably.

“All right. The claim ticket is in one of my Levis pockets.”

He nodded, turned to go, and I said quickly, “Phineas?”

He turned back; his brows raised in inquiry.