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She turned around, her breath catching. The sun hadn’t moved.

She could still see the glint of gold in the grass.

She carefully went to one knee. She reached for the object, but sanity prevailed.

Emmy didn’t have to touch it to know what she was looking at.

Nor did she have any question about to whom it belonged.

The curly gold script spelled out the owner’s name—

Cheyenne.

Her mouth opened. She drew in air to yell for her father, but then she saw another thing, an even more terrible thing.

There was a large equipment shed tucked among the trees in the backyard.

Emmy’s breath turned to ice in her lungs.

The shed was large enough to accommodate a tractor.

The two doors were held closed by a heavy bicycle lock.

The windows on either side had aluminum foil covering the panes.

To block out the heat of the sun? To conceal the contents?

To keep a fifteen-year-old girl from knowing where she was being held?

To make her feel like she had no chance of being saved?

Emmy felt a weird flutter in her heart, almost like a flower trying to open. It was hope. Just a tiny, budding bloom of hope.

She took off at a full run, arms moving, legs pumping, as if she’d just left her mark at a track meet.

The distance to the shed stretched out like the wrong end of a telescope.

Emmy thought about the heat, that the temperature was ninety-nine degrees, that the metal roof on the shed would be twenty degrees hotter, that it would be boiling inside.

Did Madison have water? Had she passed out?

Had she given up? Was she thinking about the last time she’d seen Emmy, the last time she’d tried to ask for help, only to be told not now ?

Emmy slammed her shoulder into the shed doors.

She bounced back like she’d hit a trampoline.

She stood up, yanked on the lock as hard as she could.

The doors wouldn’t budge. The lock was too strong.

She ran around the side, found another foil-covered window.

The edges had curled up at the bottom. Emmy cupped her hands to the glass, desperate to see in.

“Madison?” she tried, but the word strangled in her throat. “Baby, are you in there?”

She used her flashlight to break the window.

The frame was weak from dry rot. The wood splintered along with the glass, ripping open the skin on the back of her hand.

Emmy frantically looked inside. It was dark, almost black.

She saw the outline of machinery, smelled motor oil and gasoline.

Her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Shadows turned into objects.

A riding lawnmower. A weed eater. A gas can.

There was another set of doors in the back. Another lock. Another room.

“Madison?”

Emmy waited, but there was no response. She took three steps back, then ran at the wall, trying to shoulder her way through.

The boards splintered like kindling. She fell into the shed.

Her head popped against the cement floor.

She fumbled for her flashlight. Blood had turned her hands slick.

Gas fumes burned her eyes. She finally found the button and the beam of light bounced around the room.

Along the floor, into the corners, up to the rafters.

She took another running start and broke through the doors in the back.

Spider webs wrapped around her body. She tripped against something heavy and solid.

Her ankle rolled. She fell to the ground.

The flashlight dropped. Her breath was gone.

Her vision swam. She looked up into the broken webs, the slash of sunlight, the cavernous, lonely space.

The back room was empty.

The shed was empty.

Madison wasn’t here.

“Emmy Lou?”

Her father was standing by the rusted lawnmower. Sunlight crisscrossed his body. She could see the worry in his face.

“I found the—” She was breathless. “Cheyenne’s—I found the-the—”

“Okay, baby. Sit up.” Gerald knelt beside her. He gently wrapped his handkerchief around her hand. The white cotton soaked through with red. He used his thumb to wipe the blood from her face. “You okay?”

“Cheyenne’s necklace.”

“I saw it.”

“I-I thought Madison was in here, Dad. I thought I could save her.”

Gerald held her to his chest. Emmy was too devastated to cry.

She could only listen to the rapid thump of his heartbeat.

He rubbed his hand along her arm, trying to soothe her.

She felt herself slowly return to her senses.

The pain was almost immediate. Her hand was burning.

Her ankle was throbbing. Her head ached.

She had scratches on her arms, her face and neck.

She saw another shadow fall across the light. Virgil picked at his shirt collar. Sweat had turned his uniform into cling film. He did a double take at Emmy. Saw the blood, the broken doors.

She straightened up, swallowing the blood in her mouth, trying to pull herself together. Gerald’s handkerchief was completely saturated. Virgil reached into his back pocket and offered his. The cotton was already wet from his sweat.

“Thank—” She tried to clear her throat but ended up coughing blood. She’d bitten the inside of her cheek. Emmy tested the torn flesh with her tongue.

“Boss,” Virgil said, “GHP spotted Huntsinger’s truck at a dive bar over in Clayville.”

Gerald didn’t answer. Nor did he try to leave. He gave Emmy a worried look.

“I’m fine, Dad. Let’s go.” Emmy struggled to stand up. Gerald lifted her most of the way. She winced at the pain shooting up from her ankle. She put her arm around his shoulders so that he could help her walk to the cruiser.

He didn’t move.

She said, “I can do it. Let’s go.”

“Nope. You’re going to the hospital.”

“What?” she yelled. “Dad, no!”

He told Virgil, “Need the GBI here. Search the house. Process the yard.”

“Yes, boss.” Virgil unclipped the mic from his shoulder as he left the shed. Gerald slipped his support away from Emmy and followed. They were leaving without her.

She called, “Dad, I—”

Gerald cut her off with a look. His expression had gone stony. He’d made up his mind. “Call your mother to drive you.”

Emmy hopped on one foot, trailing after him. “I don’t need to call Mom. Dad, where are you going? What bar?”

Gerald ignored her as he walked through the backyard, talking in low tones to Virgil. She saw Walton standing on the kitchen stoop. She tested her ankle, gritting her teeth as she limped after her father.

“Dad!” Emmy tried. “Which bar? Tell me which bar.”

Gerald disappeared around the front of the house.

Emmy hobbled after him, grabbing onto the bottom of the porch railing so she could get to the driveway.

Her father was already sitting in Virgil’s cruiser.

They were pulling out as Brett Temple was pulling in.

Both vehicles stopped. The windows rolled down. Gerald was giving Brett orders.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Brett pulled in alongside Emmy’s cruiser. He gave a low whistle at the state of her. “What happened?”

“Did they say where they were going?”

Brett shrugged. “Above my paygrade. Virgil said stay off the radio.”

“I need to—” Emmy felt a wave of nausea from the pain. Her hand was on fire. Her head felt like it was inside a ringing bell. “Cheyenne’s necklace is in the grass on the side of the house by the kitchen steps. Mark it off, make sure the scene is protected. The father—”

“Walton,” Brett interrupted. “He pulled my little cousin’s molar last week.”

“Interview him.” Emmy didn’t have time to play Six Degrees of North Falls. “He says he might have some old shooting pistols in the house. You need to search this place top to bottom. Start in the basement. That’s where the suspect lives.”

“Okay,” Brett said. “But your dad told me to call your mom to take you to the hospital.”

“I already texted her. She’s meeting me there.” Emmy had never lied so smoothly. She had to get out of here. “You’re wasting time, Brett. There could be something in that basement that we can use during the interrogation.”

Brett looked skeptical. “I don’t think you should drive yourself.”

“It looks worse than it is.” Emmy started to unbuckle her equipment belt to show that she was off duty.

She took the mic off her shoulder. “Interview the father. He’s been out of town, but he might know something.

We still have to build a case, Brett. Arresting Adam Huntsinger doesn’t guarantee anything.

He’ll try to use the location of the girls for leverage.

We haven’t hit the twenty-four-hour mark yet.

Madison could still be alive. We’ve got to take his power away from him. ”

Brett started nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

Emmy tried not to limp as she walked to her cruiser. She tossed her equipment belt onto the passenger’s seat, clenched her teeth as she got behind the wheel. Her left ankle had been sprained and her right hand had a two-inch gash, but she could still drive.

She backed the cruiser out of the driveway, swinging onto the road.

Emmy didn’t bother turning up the speaker on her scanner.

She knew that Gerald would maintain radio silence.

He wouldn’t want half the town showing up, things getting out of control.

There were at least twenty dive bars in Clayville.

Her uncle Penley owned half of them. Emmy would drive to every single shithole until she found the right one.

Dust clouded up behind the cruiser as she sped away.

She mapped the route in her head. Back toward the interstate, then fifteen minutes to the Clayville exit.

Ten if she used lights and sirens. Emmy was reaching for the switches on the dash when she realized the backroads would get her there more quickly.