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Emmy watched Walton shuffle back up the hallway, take a left toward the stairs.

The orange-branded jar was in the same cabinet as the coffee cups.

Emmy only knew about the instant coffee because her aunt Millie drank it by the gallon.

She grabbed the kettle off the stove. Started to fill it at the kitchen sink. Her gaze wandered to the window.

The backyard was overgrown where the shed had been.

Only the stained concrete slab remained.

Emmy could still remember the absolute terror as she’d busted through the rotted wood hoping, praying, that she would find Madison alive.

Then Gerald was holding her. Virgil was looking down at her with concern.

The heat inside the shed had been so intense that they were all soaked in sweat.

She placed the kettle on the stove, turned on the gas. Emmy leaned her hands on the counter. She looked down at the detritus from Adam’s pockets. Wrapping papers and cigarettes. An Android phone. A red nylon man’s wallet with the Georgia Bulldogs logo.

Emmy suddenly tensed.

The tickle. The bad feeling. The Don’t Feel Right .

She stared at the wallet, but she didn’t see it.

She was back in the foyer twelve years ago.

Gerald was climbing the stairs. Walton motioning Emmy back toward the kitchen to find the basement key.

His black Samsonite suitcase stood beside the door.

A colorful golf umbrella was hooked through the handle.

A red nylon man’s wallet was sticking out of the zippered pocket.

The Georgia Bulldogs logo was printed on the front.

It was the exact same wallet that Brett had taken out of Adam’s back pocket and dropped on the kitchen counter moments ago.

Emmy had to swallow the spit that had pooled into her mouth. She checked the hall to make sure Walton wasn’t on his way back to the kitchen. Her fingers felt clumsy when she carefully peeled apart the Velcro. She waited, listening for sounds in the house.

Nothing.

The wallet had sixteen dollars in cash. A receipt for a pack of cigarettes and gas from the station up the street.

No credit cards. No photos. The plastic sleeve for the driver’s license had yellowed over the years.

The photo was barely visible. She had to break open the plastic to get it out.

Emmy checked the dates. Adam had been forty-nine years old when the license was issued.

He’d measured six-feet two-inches and weighed 190 pounds.

The license had expired while he was still on death row.

The address belonged to the house she was standing in.

All of the obvious explanations fell apart as soon as she could think of them.

There was no way Walton had used the cheap nylon wallet for twelve years.

Even if Adam had found the wallet lying around, there was no reason to put his expired license inside.

He’d been out of prison for less than a week.

The plastic sleeve had pressed against the license for so long that the print had transferred onto the inside.

Emmy studied the license photo. Adam was unsmiling, almost hostile. His hair was dyed jet black. There wasn’t even gray at the temples. His face was already lined, the skin pockmarked from acne. He could easily pass for a man seventeen years his senior.

And a man who was seventeen years his senior could easily pass for Adam.

Same thick glasses. Same unnaturally dark hair. Same wiry build. Just yesterday, Emmy had mistaken Adam for Walton when he’d stood at the door talking to Gerald. She could easily see a harried TSA worker at the airport making the same mistake.

Emmy felt her jaw clench. She drew in a strained breath.

Tried to check herself. Was it really this simple?

After twelve long years, after pulling Cheyenne and Madison out of the pond, after losing her father, after pushing herself to the point of exhaustion in the quest to find Paisley, was it really as simple as a cheap nylon wallet?

And was it all down to a single clue that Emmy had stated at least three times over the last few hours?

Every time Adam had been arrested, he hadn’t had his license on him.

Was that because Walton was using his son’s ID to cover his tracks?

Was Adam telling the truth about being framed?

Was Dale Loudermilk’s accomplice actually Dr. Walton Huntsinger, a white male who worked in a skilled position that required education and training?

Whose job brought him into frequent contact with children?

Who was a trusted member of the community?

Who was married with a family of his own?

Emmy positioned herself in the kitchen so that she could see into the empty hallway all the way to the foyer. She dialed Cole’s number on her phone.

“Mom,” he said, “I’m still with Jude. Are you okay?”

She made her voice low. “Put me on speaker so she can hear this.”

There was a click, then Jude said, “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“I need you to look at all the regional airports within a 345-mile driving range of Clifton County.” Emmy pressed the phone to her chest so she could listen for sounds in the house.

Then she put it back to her ear and whispered, “I think Walton drove the Audi to a small airport. He used Adam’s driver’s license to purchase a round-trip ticket with cash.

He flew to Bridgeport, West Virginia. He took a selfie in front of the American Legion building to prove that he’d been there.

Then he caught the return flight back. Then he drove the Audi to North Falls. Then he abducted Cheyenne and Madison.”

There was dead silence on the line.

Emmy said, “That’s why Walton’s name didn’t come up when I had Homeland Security check all the flight manifests—he was flying under the name Adam Johnathan Huntsinger.

Walton’s the one who put those miles on the Audi.

He’s the man Cheyenne was joking about when she said she wished his penis was as big as his wallet.

Walton sneaked back into Clifton so he could meet her on the backroads.

Then he went after Madison. That’s why Dale was cleaning the Audi with bleach.

Walton was his accomplice. Everything we thought we knew about Adam is true about his father. ”

Jude still didn’t respond. Emmy braced herself for another series of hedges, a reminder that they didn’t really know anything for certain, that this was a marathon, not a sprint.

“Cole.” Jude’s tone was sharp. “Regional airports have a limited number of carriers. It’s easier to look at which regional airlines fly out of Bridgeport, West Virginia, and backtrack it to a smaller airport that’s within our driving range.”

Emmy’s ears were straining so hard that she could hear Cole typing on the laptop.

She looked at her watch. Counted the seconds as they ticked past. The kettle started to boil.

Emmy reached over and took it off the stove.

She turned off the gas. Went back to her position so she could see straight through to the foyer.

Her hands were dripping with sweat. She could barely keep enough air in her lungs.

“Shit-shit-shit.” There was an edge of excitement in Jude’s voice.

“The SouthJet Airlines website says they’ve been flying between the North Central West Virginia Airport in Bridgeport, and the Northwest Alabama Airport since 1997.

They have a Bombardier CRJ that makes two round-trip flights every day. ”

Cole said, “Muscle Shoals is almost exactly 345 miles from Clifton County. That’s around a five-hour drive each way.”

“The flight times can’t have changed that much in the last decade,” Jude said.

“If Walton left on the first flight out of Muscle Shoals at eight thirty in the morning, that would give him roughly an hour to take the selfie at the American Legion in Bridgeport before flying back to Muscle Shoals. The return flight lands at noon. He would’ve been back in North Falls by five.

He didn’t have to meet Cheyenne on the backroads until six thirty. ”

“It’s him.” Emmy couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of her own mouth. “It was him all the time.”

“Mom,” Cole said, “I looked up the distance between the Bridgeport American Legion Hall and the airport. It’s literally point-four miles away. All Walton had to do was walk down the street and take the selfie, then walk back and get on a plane.”

“There’s more,” Jude said. “I had Cole look up the tires on the Audi A4. They use the same brand Michelin all-weather tires as the Jetta.”

“That’s why the treads were consistent with , but not matched exactly ,” Emmy said. “We thought the Bad Guy was driving the Jetta, but he was in Dale’s Audi.”

The kitchen side door opened. Brett was back with a handful of evidence collection kits. Emmy motioned for him to be quiet as he shut the door.

She told Jude, “Twelve years ago, when Dad and I came here looking for Adam, the front door was locked, but the side door leading down to the basement was unlocked. I walked down the stairs and saw Cheyenne’s necklace on the grass. Walton must have put it there when he got home from Millie’s pond.”

Brett dropped one of the evidence kits.

Emmy continued, “Walton told us he didn’t hear Dad knocking on the door because he was in the shower, but that was a lie to explain why his hair was wet.

He’d just come from chaining up the bodies in the water.

And his keys to the Jetta were on the kitchen counter.

He told me they were usually upstairs. He was already pushing us toward Adam.

That’s why he stole Adam’s license. The plan if he ever got caught was to pin it on his son. ”

“It worked,” Jude said.

“Jesus,” Emmy whispered. The enormity of the crimes kept hitting her. Not only the horrors visited on Cheyenne and Madison, but the sadism of letting your own child rot away on death row.

“Focus up,” Jude said. “What’s your gut telling you?”