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That didn’t mean he was not known to law enforcement.

Three years later, Adam had earned another thirty days behind bars for driving the same truck through Clayville, again without a license, and swilling from an open container of Jack Daniel’s.

He’d been on and off probation. His employment history was spotty. He’d worked at the factory, then the feed store, then the factory again, and finally, he’d started taking odd jobs around town doing yard work and light construction for people like Millie Clifton.

According to his probation records, his last known address had him living with his parents.

His father, Walton, was a dentist who often traveled with a group of volunteers to deliver dental services to underserved communities.

Alma, his mother, was a much-loved fourth grade teacher.

She suffered from early macular degeneration, which had affected her vision to the point that she could no longer drive herself to work.

Her son dropped her off and picked her up every day at the elementary school.

The same school where Hannah worked as a teacher.

The same school that Madison had attended.

Emmy looked up at the two-story farmhouse where the Huntsingers lived.

They were in Elsinore Meadows, former grazing land that straddled the North Falls and Verona city limits.

The nearest neighbor was half a mile down the unpaved road.

One car was parked in the driveway, a black Jetta with a thick layer of dust from the dirt and gravel.

There was a chip taken out of the edge of the trunk like the lid had banged against another piece of metal.

Emmy scanned the rest of the car, slowly walking around to the front.

The left side of the bumper was scuffed.

The plastic streaked to the gray primer beneath the black paint.

Narrow, not too deep, the kind of scratch you would expect to see on a vehicle that had struck the back wheel of a bicycle.

Emmy’s heart punched into her throat. “It’s him, Dad. This is the car.”

“Yep.” Gerald’s hand was on his gun as he looked up at the house. “Check the back.”

She unsnapped the safety strap on her Glock as she walked briskly along the front porch, peering into the living-room windows as she passed. She didn’t see anyone inside. Emmy turned when she heard her father checking the front door. The knob clicked. It was locked.

“Open up!” Gerald banged on the door so hard that the house felt like it was shaking. “Police!”

Emmy listened for a response, but she didn’t hear anyone stirring inside.

She swung her legs over the railing and dropped down.

The grass had been recently mowed. Someone had created a path lined with pea gravel to the concrete stoop on the side of the house.

There were two entrances. One up the stairs that led to the kitchen, one down two steps to the basement.

Emmy tried the basement door, but it was locked.

She looked in the window. A single floor lamp provided enough light to show the entire space, which was no larger than a cheap motel room.

Dark paneling on the walls. Crushed beer cans on the floor.

Overflowing ashtray on the coffee table.

Fast-food bags spilling from a trash can.

Discarded clothes littering the floor. Xbox hooked up to a giant television.

Futon for a bed with a filthy-looking blanket.

The door to the bathroom was gone. She could see straight through to the moldy shower.

There was no closet, only a pair of gray gym lockers packed with clumsily folded shirts and jeans.

It looked like a teenager’s bedroom, but she instinctively knew it belonged to Adam Huntsinger.

She was going to find the bastard.

She wasn’t going to let the FBI pat him on the head for three hours and yo-yo between accusing him of rape and murder and asking him polite questions about his love of yard work.

If it took putting a gun to his head, Emmy was going to make Adam Huntsinger tell her what he’d done with Madison and Cheyenne.

“Emmy Lou!” Gerald called from the front.

Emmy could hear another man’s voice as she jogged toward the front of the house. She hadn’t seen Walton Huntsinger since she was a teenager, but he looked almost exactly the same. Big ears, slim build, goofy grin. His hair was wet. He was wearing a bathrobe. He’d obviously been in the shower.

“… just had to wash the road off me,” he was telling Gerald. “I was in West Virginia with the Tooth Troopers. Me and some of my dentist pals go around—”

“Where’s Adam?” Emmy asked.

Walton looked perplexed by the interruption. He gestured toward the driveway. “His truck’s not here.”

“That your car?”

“Yes, the transmission’s been slipping. I’m not one for flying. Had to take a rental the whole way there. I think the clutch is—”

“Dr. Huntsinger,” Emmy said, “it’s imperative we find Adam immediately.”

“Is he in …” Walton’s face went slack. “Of course he’s in trouble. He might be picking up Alma. She’s been in Biloxi this week with some friends from school. Supposed to be back about now.”

Gerald said, “Call her.”

Walton went back into the house and returned with his cell phone. He dialed the number, waited through the rings. “Hey, sugar, it’s me. I just got home. No, the drive wasn’t too bad. Where are you?”

Emmy listened to his tone of voice. It was high-pitched, nervous. He knew that this was serious. He didn’t want to panic his wife.

“Okay, well, do you know where Adam is?” He huffed out a forced laugh. “No, he’s not in trouble. I just wanted to see if he was going to pick you up, or should I?”

Emmy saw Walton’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. He was sweating in the heat.

“Well that’s typical. I haven’t heard from him, either.” Walton looked down at the porch as he listened to her talk. “Okay, sugar, just give me a holler when you get to Trina’s and I’ll swing by.”

Emmy watched his chest rise and fall as he ended the call. He was bracing himself.

“Sheriff,” he said, “what happened?”

Gerald told him, “Call Adam.”

Walton nodded, like he understood that he just needed to accept this. He dialed a number. Listened through the rings. Finally, he shook his head. “Voicemail’s full. Tell me what I can do.”

Gerald said, “Need to search your house.”

“Okay—uh, yes. Of course. Come in.”

Gerald was halfway up the stairs by the time Emmy entered the foyer. She saw a suitcase beside the door. Black Samsonite, carry-on size. A red nylon man’s wallet with the Georgia Bulldogs logo was shoved into the zippered pocket. A colorful golf umbrella was hooked through the handle.

Walton said, “Forecast called for rain in Bridgeport.”

“Do you have any guns in the house?”

“Uh …” He shrugged. “I might have some of my father’s old pistols lying around. He was into target shooting. Used to take me plinking when I was a boy, but I’ve never liked guns.”

Emmy felt like a bird was caught inside her ribcage. She’d thought it was Adam when she’d seen the car, but now she was deadly certain. He’d really taken the girls. He would know where Cheyenne’s body was. He might have Madison trapped somewhere, tied up, chained, still alive.

She asked, “How do I get into the basement?”

“There’s a side entrance off the kitchen.”

“You can’t get in through the house?”

“No, it’s just a tiny room. Used to be my workshop. Adam built it out when he lost his job at the factory.” He looked flustered. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this. I’ll get the spare key.”

Emmy followed him down a long hallway past the living room, then the dining room, then into the kitchen. The walls were painted bright yellow, the appliances were mismatched. Walton opened the drawer by the fridge, but he was looking at the single key fob on the counter.

He said, “That’s to my car. I left it upstairs on my dresser.”

Emmy could hear the strain in his voice. “Dr. Huntsinger—”

His eyes met hers. He was afraid. “This isn’t like the other times, is it?”

“No, sir.”

She watched him rummage through pens, pencils, screwdrivers, scissors and scattered business cards.

He opened another junk drawer and started looking again.

Emmy clasped her hands together, reminding herself of holding Madison’s hand under the oak tree.

The annoyed look on the girl’s face when Emmy had told her that she was loved.

Madison was still loved. She could still be alive.

There was a chance that Emmy could bring her home.

Walton opened another drawer. Emmy was going to give him twenty more seconds before she broke down the basement door.

Every cop in the county was looking for Adam Huntsinger.

There was an APB on his green Chevy truck.

Officers were talking to his former co-workers, his friends, his enemies, his drinking buddies.

The US Marshals were setting up a task force to coordinate with all law enforcement officers in Georgia, Alabama and Florida.

There could be a clue in the basement, a receipt, a note, that led Emmy straight to wherever Adam had taken the girls. Madison could still be alive. She had to be alive.

“I-I’m sorry.” Walton had found the key, but he held onto it. “Whatever he’s done, I’m so sorry.”

Emmy grabbed the key. She rushed out of the kitchen door, then down the stairs, then made the turn to the basement.

She was fitting the key into the lock when she felt a sudden sickness in her body.

This wasn’t a tickle, or a bad feeling, or a Don’t Feel Right .

This was like live wires electrifying every nerve.

Emmy’s brain had needed a few seconds to process what she’d seen.

Not inside the house. Not through the basement door window.

At the bottom of the kitchen stairs. Lying in the grass.

The sunlight had caught a flash of something shiny and gold.