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SAMPSON AND brEE LEFT the Danvers Country Store as full darkness fell and the snow came down in torrents. Bree glanced around before they climbed off the porch, saw Lucille Danvers back at her laptop.

“Poor lady,” Sampson said. “She’s young for that.”

“Too young,” Bree agreed as they crossed to their Jeep. “And I don’t know what to make of Ryan Malcomb coming here several times.”

“And buying all her huckleberry jam,” Sampson said, unlocking the doors. “She really lit up at that.”

“She did, didn’t she,” Bree said, smiling as she climbed into the passenger seat. “I was glad we didn’t have to tell her our suspicions about Ryan’s secret life as M.”

“Better leave her to the good memories she has,” John said.

“Agreed.”

“Do you have cell service?”

“Nothing.”

“We’ll try in Salmon. I saw a Stagecoach Inn there and a diner next door.”

“I saw it too. Said free internet on the sign.”

“Here we go, then.”

He put the Cherokee in gear and tensed as he drove south into the storm. The wind was blowing the powder in big swirls.

“Hard to see the road,” Sampson said, slowing down.

“Take your time.”

They drove on in silence. Alex’s oldest friend stared into the mesmerizing haze of the headlights cutting through the driving snow.

Bree glanced at him. “Are you all right, John?”

“What?” he said. “Why?”

“It’s ten degrees out and snowing, and you’re sweating and holding on to that wheel like it’s a life preserver or something.”

“Hey, I am DC born and raised, my good friend,” he shot back, annoyed. “I have never driven in a storm like—”

Ahead of them on the highway, red and blue lights flashed in the snow.

“Uh-oh,” Bree said. “Accident?”

“Can’t tell,” Sampson said, slowing to a crawl.

They got close enough to see the red lights were flashing on top of a massive snowplow with its hood up. There were men in heavy overalls and hoods working on the engine. A pickup truck with flashing blue lights was parked in front of it.

A smiling guy wearing a heavy parka, a sheepskin bomber hat, and an orange reflective vest and carrying a flashlight stomped through the snow to them. Sampson lowered the window.

“Hey there,” the man said. “Brian Toomey, Idaho Department of Transportation. Our plow shit the bed on us where she stands. But the boys think they know what’s wrong with her. We’ll have the temperamental bitch up and going soon.”

Bree rolled her eyes.

Sampson said, “How far to Salmon from here, Mr. Toomey?”

“Fourteen miles, give or take,” the janitor said, pulling a pistol from his parka pocket and pressing the muzzle to the side of Sampson’s head. “And if you ever want to see your family again, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. Right, John Sampson? Right, Bree Stone?”