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Vomit erupted from her mouth. Emmy was doubled over.

She retched into the grass. Bile splattered her boots, stained her pants.

She was on her knees again. Tears wept from her eyes.

All the emotions she’d kept in check came roaring out.

She started sobbing. Over Cheyenne. Over Madison.

Over the fact that she had killed one of the two men on earth who could lead her to Paisley Walker’s body.

He had confessed. He had told her everything.

But he hadn’t told Emmy how to find her.

Emmy sat back on her heels. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She looked up to the dark clouds. A gentle mist caressed her face. She could see the sun trying to come out.

“Dad,” she whispered. “Please tell me what to do.”

There was no answer, but now more than ever, Emmy longed for her father. The rudder steering her in the right direction. The gentle prompts that made her see the clues that were right in front of her.

What do we know? What do we think we know? What are we missing?

Emmy felt the questions working their way through her brain in slow, lazy arcs, the same way that Emmy and Hannah used to coast their bikes down the backroads. She forced herself to stand up. She looked back at Virgil’s house. The lights were off. The curtains were open.

In most predatory kidnappings, the bodies are found within twenty miles of the abduction site.

The area is generally familiar to the kidnapper.

He oftentimes revisits the scene to relive his crimes.

He usually conceals the bodies in some way—covered with leaves, buried in a shallow grave, submerged in water, hidden in an abandoned building or shed, disarticulated and disposed of in a landfill.

Virgil wouldn’t take Paisley to his home.

He would want to keep her somewhere isolated, contained, accessible.

A place where he felt comfortable. A place that he could return to so he could relive his crimes.

A place where Emmy had watched him loop a chain around a hasp lock the same way he’d looped a chain around the concrete block at the bottom of Millie’s pond.

The barn.

Emmy started running down the hill. The grass was soaked.

Her foot slipped. She stumbled, catching herself with her left hand.

Her wrist exploded with pain. Emmy jumped back up, kept running.

She slid down the last part of the slope on her ass, then she was up again.

Sprinting thirty more yards to the barn.

Hope took hold again. Stupid, pointless hope. Virgil hadn’t told her that Paisley was dead. There was a slim chance, a statistical anomaly, that Paisley Walker could still be alive.

The chain was still tied through the hasp lock.

Emmy wrenched it away with one hand. Threw open the barn door.

Light and shadow danced around the interior.

The sun split through the cracks in the old boards.

She felt it strobe across her face as she checked the empty stalls, the tack and feed area, the equipment room, the office.

“Paisley!” she yelled. “Paisley Walker!”

Her voice traveled up to the rafters. Emmy stepped back so she could see up into the hayloft.

Bales of hay were stacked up like a fortress.

The ladder was missing. Emmy searched the barn, ran past the stalls again, pushed open the back doors.

She found the rickety fourteen-foot ladder on the ground behind the barn.

Fire shot through her sprained wrist as she dragged it back inside.

She could barely get it upright, but somehow managed to line the side rails up to the notch in the loft floor.

She used one hand to climb, the other throbbing like a metronome as she navigated her way toward the top.

“Paisley!” she screamed.

Emmy waited, her ears straining for a response.

Nothing.

She climbed the rest of the way. There was only a narrow ledge between the hay bales and the railing. Emmy went up on her toes, but she couldn’t see over the top. The bales were stacked four high, jammed end-to-end. They were at least fifty pounds each.

Emmy jogged down the ledge, pressing her palm against each section, searching for a weak spot.

She didn’t find it until the end of the row.

One of the bales gave way. Emmy shouldered the rest of them over.

She could only see darkness beyond. She took a small flashlight out of her vest pocket.

Climbed over the fallen bales. Virgil had stacked them three deep.

She didn’t think about the fact that they were there for soundproofing.

For cover. For soaking up blood and fluids and misery.

Her boot thumped against solid wood. The darkness crowded in. Virgil had paneled over the walls and ceiling. The sun couldn’t slice through the gaps in the boards. The beam from the flashlight was weak. She started to scan the area back and forth. A glimmer of bright white stopped her.

Skechers sneaker, pink laces.

Emmy tried to summon the stillness, but the despair would not be ignored.

She saw the matching shoe. A blue hoodie with the Eras tour logo.

Wadded-up black leggings. A pink sports bra.

A pair of underwear with a Hello Kitty pattern and pink elastic, because fourteen-year-olds were still little girls.

The light started to shake from the tremble in Emmy’s hand. The beam shifted up. Bounced into the far corner.

“No …” Emmy whispered. “No …”

Paisley Walker lay on her side. Blood spotted her face, her torso, her legs.

Her eyes were closed, lips swollen. Her hands were grotesquely misshapen.

The skin was black where the blood had pooled around the shattered bones.

Her feet were the same, the arches curled the same way Cole’s had when he was a baby.

Emmy went to the girl. The ceiling was low. She had to crawl across the floor. She put her flashlight down, let the beam bathe Paisley’s face.

“Paisley?” Emmy could barely say the name. She pressed her fingers to the girl’s wrist. “Baby, can you hear me?”

Emmy closed her eyes, trying to drown out her own racing heartbeat as she felt for a pulse.

Paisley’s wrist was too bloated. Fluids bulged out her skin like a water-filled balloon.

Emmy laid down beside the girl. Gently turned her face away from the floor, held the weight of her head in her palm.

Pressed two fingers to the side of her neck.

Again, Emmy closed her eyes. She didn’t think about Madison or Cheyenne or even Paisley.

She thought about her precious son. Giving birth to Cole had nearly killed her.

Emmy was supposed to be on bedrest for a month, but she couldn’t stop herself from going to the nursery every few hours to make sure he was okay.

Her first solo call-out as a sheriff’s deputy had been for a baby who’d died from SIDS.

Emmy had been terrified that the same fate would befall her little boy.

She could still remember the elation every time she pressed her fingers to his carotid artery and felt the quick tap of blood pumping through his precious heart.

It was the same sensation she felt now with Paisley.

“Oh, God!” Emmy cried.

She was alive.

“Paisley Walker.” Emmy held the girl’s face between her hands. She made her voice firm, commanding. “Paisley, I know you can hear me. You need to look at me right now.”

The girl did not respond. Emmy was torn between staying and leaving to get her phone. She was saved the decision by the distant wail of sirens. She had terrified Cole by not answering his call. Every cop in the county was probably barreling down the road.

“Paisley!” Emmy shouted. “Do you hear those sirens? We’re gonna get you back home to your mama and daddy, but I need you to open your eyes and look at me, baby. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

The girl still did not respond. Emmy was about to try again when she saw movement behind the eyelids, like two marbles sliding under a silk cloth.

“That’s right,” Emmy said. “Look at me, sweetheart. Show me those beautiful eyes.”

At first, all that Paisley could manage was a narrow slit. Her pupils were giant black circles in a sea of red. Emmy turned the flashlight toward her own face. Leaned in closer so that the girl could see her.

“Paisley,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Emmy Clifton. You’re safe. I’m here to help you, okay?”

The girl’s eyes closed, then slowly opened again. Her lips peeled apart. Her breath smelled stale and sickly.

She whispered, “The … the man …”

“He’s dead,” Emmy told her. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I …” Her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes. But she didn’t stop talking. “I was on my bike and … and he hit me and I … I fell down … and I was … I was so scared and … and …”

“And what, baby?” Emmy wiped the tears that leaked from her eyes. “You can tell me all about it. I’m not going anywhere.”