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I stood there dripping on the floor, trying to contain my agitated nervous energy so that I didn’t annoy the woman at the desk to the point where she’d call one of the deputies to come and remove me.

I tried not to obsessively check my phone, although I did notice at one point that it had been seven minutes since I’d asked after Hart.

What I was worried about was the fact that Elliot was alive and that I was going to have to convince Hart to come with me without telling him—at least until we got to his car—that Elliot was alive.

And I was betting that he was raising unholy hell in his attempt to get information about Elliot’s death when the cops didn’t actually have any because he wasn’t dead.

And that thought made me realize that whoever had done the crime scene investigation had to know by now that Elliot’s body wasn’t in the car.

Which made me realize that nobody had tried to notify me that they knew that Elliot wasn’t in the car.

I really needed to talk to Hart. Now .

Another check of my phone said it had been twelve minutes.

I didn’t really have another option, given the fact that I had no car— Shit, I have no car now.

Goddamnit. —and I needed to get out to the Hills’ farm.

So I needed Hart, because there wasn’t anyone else I could ask to take me all the way out there, especially because Elliot didn’t want the cops to know he was alive.

Shit .

Sixteen minutes.

I was just about to go back up to the counter when Hart, his hair pulling loose from his braid and his clothing extremely rumpled, with a new stain on his pale blue shirt that looked like it was probably coffee, came around the corner, his brow deeply furrowed.

“What the fuck’s happened?” he demanded.

I stared at him, trying to figure out how I was going to convince him to leave his investigation. I went with the only innocuous thing I could think of that would take us out there. “We need to go feed the animals.”

“Feed…? The fuck are you talking about, Mays?” I’d seen this particular incredulous expression on his face before—the face that said he thought someone had lost their mind or was spectacularly stupid—I just hadn’t ever had it directed at me.

“I didn’t think of it until this morning,” I replied, glancing pointedly at the reception desk with its clearly-listening occupant, then over in the direction of the annoyed deputy who had escorted Hart out here.

“But the animals are up at the house. Goats, chickens. And they probably didn’t get fed yesterday, because that’s where…

” I paused, swallowed, allowing my genuine stress to come through in my voice.

“Where Elliot was going… So I have to feed them today.”

Hart stared at me, either trying to decide if I’d lost my mind from grief or if there was something else going on. I wasn’t sure what he decided, but he let out a heavy sigh.

He turned back to the deputy. “I’ll be back to finish our… conversation,” he said, his voice cold. “But, given the general incompetence with which you’re handling this case, I expect it hasn’t even occurred to you that it’s likely connected to the Mays murder, has it?”

The deputy made a small noise, although it wasn’t clear if he was reacting to being eviscerated by Hart or suppressing outrage.

One advantage of being a federal agent, I assumed, was the fact that as much as local LEOs might hate you, they still had to follow orders when they came from the federal government.

Well, they had to pretend to. At least in public.

“I’m going to examine the scene,” Hart growled out. “And decide whether or not I feel the need to claim federal jurisdiction. You got me, Deputy Grange?”

The deputy nodded, his face twisted with anger or hatred or both.

“Great.” Hart turned to me. “I assume you know the way?”

I nodded quickly.

“Then let’s go.”

Hart closed his car door and started the car, not bothering to wait for me to buckle my seat belt.

“You’d better have a good fucking reason why I’m driving you to feed some goddamn chickens instead of getting access to that fucking car,” he said.

“Elliot’s alive,” I blurted.

Hart turned to stare at me. “What?”

“He called,” I told him. “From the Hills’ farm. But he said it was someone from the Sheriff’s department who ran him off the road, so I wasn’t supposed to say anything in front of them.”

Hart let out a long, shaky breath. “Jesus fuck. Thank fucking God.” He rested both hands on the wheel. “ Fuck . Okay. He’s okay?”

“I think so,” I answered. “He said he was a little bruised.”

“So he’s going to look like fucking hell,” Hart replied, his tone simultaneously bitter and affectionate.

“As long as he’s alive, I don’t care,” I replied, my voice cracking a little.

“Deep breath, Mays,” Hart told me, then put his Charger in gear and backed out of the parking space.

I obeyed, sucking in a long breath, letting it out, then taking another, the low rumble of the Charger’s engine and the patter of rain on the roof helping to slow my racing pulse.

Until Hart grumbled, “That fucker is following us, isn’t he?” half under his breath.

“What?” I turned in my seat, trying to spot the culprit. There was a green minivan behind us, a police cruiser behind that, and a burgundy sedan behind that.

“Fucking Grange,” Hart muttered. That was the name he’d used in the station, too. “Shithead is following us, and not being subtle about it, either.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he’s unfortunately not as fucking stupid as he looks,” Hart answered. “And he’s making sure we’re going where we said we were.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose this farm is anywhere near the murder site?”

“The Hills are our—my parents’—neighbors.” I swallowed, horrified that I’d fallen back into the very, very old habit of thinking of my parents’ house as home . Because it really, really wasn’t. My stomach churned.

“And they’re trustworthy? Or are they in the same fucking cult your family is?”

“No, they’re not Community members,” I answered, trying not to keep checking the rear-view as Hart drove back toward Staunton proper.

“Are we stopping at the hotel?” he asked.

“I don’t need to.”

“Is the cat still there?” he asked.

“Yes? But the hotel staff know she is. They won’t bother her.”

Hart let out a grunt, then turned off Augusta on Pump Street toward the hotel.

“They might not, but I will bet you anything Augusta County’s finest will find some bullshit reason to come up with a warrant to search that room, and I don’t think they’re going to give two shits about the little fuzzball. ”

“You think they’re going to search our room? Why?”

“Because they can and they’re pissed. Mostly at me, but if what you just told me is right, they’re also pissed at you for not being in that car.

And now at Elliot for also not being in that car, since by now they know there’s no body in it.

” I’d thought the same thing myself. I just hadn’t realized that it might have repercussions for me, much less my newly-acquired cat.

I pressed my lips together tightly. “You think they’re going to try again?”

“I think they’re going to try to find a body to put in that car,” Hart replied grimly. “And I’m not entirely certain if they care if it’s yours or Elliot’s or both.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Then we can’t go to the Hills’,” I breathed. “Not if they’re following us.”

“Nope, not straight there, anyway.” He checked the mirror. “We can justify you forgetting your keys or some shit at the hotel, or you need something. I’d stuff the cat in it, if I were you.”

“In what?” I asked him, staring. This was… horrifying? Confusing? Completely ludicrous?

“Backpack?” Hart suggested.

“You want me to just stuff a cat into a backpack?”

“I’d rather you do that than they lose the fucking cat. Or worse.”

I was even more horrified by the implication of that suggestion. “Jesus, Hart. They wouldn’t .”

“Wouldn’t they? The guys who ran Elliot off the road and left him for dead?”

He had a point, so I said nothing. I got out, leaving him in the running car while I went up to our room, grabbed the cat, some cans of food, and both our laptops—since I didn’t want them in my stuff and I was pretty sure Elliot wouldn’t want them in his, either—and shoved them all in Elliot’s backpack.

As I walked back to the Charger from the rear door of the HoJo, I noticed the Sheriff’s Department car idling on the road. Waiting to see if we’d go where Hart said we were going.

Shit.

“Mrrrow!” said the backpack, angrily.

I slid back into the passenger seat, and Hart looked over as I carefully tucked the still-meowing backpack between my feet. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Where?” Hart asked.

“The house?”

“No shit. Where the fuck is it?”

I felt my neck flush. “I can put it mostly in GPS.” I punched the address for the start of the Community’s property into my phone, and Hart gestured toward a holder in his car.

I set my phone in it, then pulled a charging cable out of my bag, plugged it into the car’s USB, and held out my had.

“I assume you’d rather not have a dead phone? ”

He shifted as he pulled it out of a pocket, his ears shading pink.

“Yeah, thanks.” The phone buzzed slightly as the power hit its depleted battery.

He’d briefly plugged in his phone long enough to text Taavi that he’d arrived in Staunton while peppering me with questions that I’d only partially been able to answer.

But I’d assumed—correctly—that it hadn’t been enough power for his phone to still have any battery left, and that was why he hadn’t gotten my text about needing to go out to the farm.

“Tell me about the Hills,” Hart demanded as he started driving us out of town. Checking behind us, I noticed that the Sheriff’s Department cruiser was still following.

“He’s still behind us,” I told him.

“I know,” came his reply. “The Hills. Who are they? How long have you known them? How much can we trust them?”