The door opened. Candace looked at him wide-eyed.
“I just checked the creek cameras.” She turned her phone toward him. “Someone’s up there.”
Without stopping to breathe, they ran to their vehicles and headed for the banquet hall parking lot. Candace parked her Jeep at the far end, next to the dirt trail leading up into the woods. Karl parked his cruiser beside her and got out, pausing at the sight of MacReady’s empty Toyota behind the building.
Candace exited her Jeep wearing a denim jacket and sweatpants. She tugged on a pair of hiking boots and started up the trail. “Hurry, Karl!”
“That girl at the creek, has she moved?”
“Nope. Still lying there.”
“Any clue who she is?” Tightness seized his chest. “Think she knew Mac?”
“Not sure.” Candace checked her phone again. “Looks like a college girl, maybe older. Hope she didn’t drown.”
“Did she trade?”
“Of course not,” Candace said. “That’s impossible with the cameras on.”
“Right, right.” He wasn’t thinking straight. “Let’s see what she knows.”
They hurried uptrail, their boots crunching twigs and squelching through mud. Karl kept close to Candace, checking his sides and rear every chance he got. Until they found this girl, they needed to stay alert. Mac losing his kidneys and a stranger showing up at the creek couldn’t be coincidence.
He drew his pistol.
They climbed deeper into the woods. The exertion sent Karl’s senses into overdrive. Upon reaching the third level, his ears caught every splash of the creek, every whistle of the wind.
Bare oaks gave way to pines. He charged through the thicket and into the creek clearing. There he saw the girl lying prone, covered in shadow. Behind her the water glimmered.
Gripping his gun, he stepped forward, checking his surroundings in case someone tried jumping him.
The creek trickled. Snow dripped from high branches. Something stirred nearby.
He spun toward the sound.
Just a squirrel. The rodent hopped off the ground and onto, of all things, a guitar case. The sight of it reminded him of Ashlee. What if—no.
No, it had been ten years.
He stepped closer.
Spotted the dreadlocks, the tattoos.
Heart pounding, he ran to her.
“Ashlee!”
He dropped to his knees and flipped her over. She hung limp in his grasp, her freckled cheeks pale as powder. A grimy cast covered her arm, misshapen purple fingers poking out. Something terrible had happened.
Candace ran over. “Karl?”
“It’s Ashlee!”
“What? You’re shitting me.”
Karl cupped a hand into the stream and splashed Ashlee’s face. Her left eye twitched. He splashed her again. This time her nose scrunched.
His heart swelled. He didn’t know what to feel. He never expected their reunion to happen like this, with her lying half-dead in his arms.
“C’mon. Wake up.”
Her eyelids parted. She blinked then gazed blankly at him. It reminded him of thirty years ago. Back when he first held her. Back before he adopted her.
Squinting, she croaked, “Dad?”
10
Something was burning. No, not burning. Cooking. Ash could smell melted butter on burnt toast. Breakfast.
She blinked and squinted through blurred sunlight. She realized she was lying on her back, dressed in a tank top and a pair of baggy gym shorts. But she didn’t own any gym shorts. That was creepy. Her scalp tingled as she tried to remember where she slept last night. The van? A motel? She didn’t know what day it was or what gig they had tonight. Philly? Allentown? Harrisburg?
Slowly she realized she was lying in bed. In the house she grew up in. In the upstairs master bedroom.
Sunlight sliced through the blinds, glinting off decade-old photos of her with her twin brother Trent. The pictures hung beside an open closet stuffed with pressed police uniforms. Nearby dressers and bureaus were topped with coupons, TV Guides, DVD cases, and—please, no—her silver trophy from a Battle of the Bands competition ten years ago. That was the night she got wasted, drove her van off the road, and nearly killed her brother.
Groaning, she sat up against the headboard. As she reached up to tie back her dreads, her left hand erupted in fiery protest. She thought she was imagining it until she saw the cast.
Oh, fuck.
Now she remembered.
The bedroom door creaked open. Dad stepped in with a quiet smile and a plate of eggs and toast. “Morning, darling.”
He’d fried the eggs hard, just how she liked them. But remembering her dining preferences wouldn’t repair the tension between them. She clenched her jaw, not bothering to disguise her annoyance. “Morning, officer.”
His smile faded. “Sleep okay?”
“What time is it?”
“Food time. When’d you last eat?”
Her stomach gurgled. He set the plate on her lap and handed her a glass of water. She sipped. Her dry mouth welcomed it, but the liquid settled funny in her empty stomach. She took a bite of toast. Grimaced. He still torched his toast until it was a scratching pain to chew it. Some things never changed.
“Glad to have you home,” he said. “Just in time for Thanksgiving.”
She frowned. He was being too nice. This wouldn’t last. Sooner or later he’d screw this up. Or she would.
“How’s things, Ashlee?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Too late.” He forced a laugh. “Already did.”
She swallowed the bite of charred toast.
“Oh, guess what,” he said. “I bought your band’s albums. Got them on my computer.”
She cut her eggs with a fork, averting her eyes from the deep wrinkles on his kind face. “Following my career, huh?”
“Yep. Always Googling you and your band.”
“Ah.” Didn’t surprise her. Didn’t move her either. “Thanks, Officer.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“What time is it?” she asked again.
He checked his watch. “Seven thirty.”
“AM? Shit, it’s Wednesday?”
“Got somewhere to be?”
“Yeah. Florida.” She set the plate on the nightstand next to her painkillers. She vaguely remembered waking up last night and downing two of them. “Got a monster gig on Friday.”
He eyed her cast. “What happened to the hand?”
“Got drunk and punched a wall,” she lied. “Was planning to trade it to the creek like you did with your knees.”
“Ashlee…” His eyes widened. He set a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever’s wrong, the creek is no way to fix it.”
“Career-ending damage is what’s wrong.” She tried to flex her fingers. The pain made her flinch.
“Darling, even if you trade for a new hand, you can’t leave the area with it.”
“I can’t?”
“If you leave town, the hand’ll start buzzing, then burning. Ten miles out, you’re in a real pickle.”
Nobody had told her this. Then again, when she left a decade ago, she was in too much of a hurry to pay attention to details.