“You realize that makes no sense, right?”

He pounds one fist against his thigh. “Because I’m completely freaking out here. Eric didn’t just wander off. Someone else has him, probably his crazy brother. The one who, in case you’ve forgotten, vowed revenge on Eric. I’ll walk in front of you. Keep the gun on me. Shoot if I try to run. But we need to get moving.”

“Turn around. Raise your hands. I’m going to pat you down and take your weapons. Then you’ll show me where you lost him.”

To say I don’t trust Anders would be the understatement of the decade. He’d spent two years fooling Dalton, who is one of the best judges of character I know. I won’t say the same for my character-judging skills—Diana is proof that I suck at it—but at least I’d known she has her faults. Being a cold-blooded killer is not a fault I’d ever have attributed to Will Anders, and there isn’t a single person in Rockton who would. “The nicest person,” “a real sweetheart,” “just an all-around good guy”—those were the only ways I ever heard anyone describe him. Which must mean he is a helluva fine actor, and this panic is simply an extension of that act.

But is Anders the Rockton killer? It feels like the answer should be a huge “Duh!” He could easily have lured his victims out—everyone trusts him. He proved he’s strong enough to easily haul Hastings into that tree. And he has the medical know-how to have performed that horrific surgery. There is probably no one in Rockton who fits the killer’s profile better than Will Anders.

The problem? Motive.

With Mick, I can hammer the pieces to fit the puzzle, even if my brain keeps rejecting the parts that don’t fit, like why he’d mutilated his victims when, after his partner was horribly tortured, he’d executed the killers with a shot to the back of the skull. With Anders it’s worse, and I feel as if I’m pounding those pieces in with a sledgehammer.

This doesn’t add up for either of them. I’m missing something critical.

Yet I’m still certain Anders knows exactly where to find Dalton. Of course, he can’t lead me there right away. He has to take me to the spot where he last saw him and pace, shining his flashlight around saying, “Shit, he tried to teach me how to track. Why didn’t I pay more attention? Did he show you anything?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then …” An exasperated wave at the forest.

“Sorry, let me start hunting for that trail, while turning my back to you …”

“Goddamn it! Fine. Let’s make this easy. You have cable ties, don’t you?”

He knows I do. I took two from him during the pat-down.

He puts his flashlight away, his hands behind his back and turns around. “Cuff me.”

I do. Then I make him sit on the ground while I hunt. When I find signs, he says, “That’s where we came in.” Then, “That’s where I left.”

“All right.” I walk to the first stop. “He’s doubled back on this trail. Get up and walk ten paces behind me, whistling.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that an inconvenience?” I walk over as he rises and put my gun under his chin. “You know why I’m in Rockton. I hunted down my ex and shot him.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that. You aren’t like that.”

“Don’t play that card, pretend we’re buddies and you know me and I know you. However it went down, I murdered him, and I don’t know if he deserved it, but you do. So do not think for one second that I won’t shoot you. Now you will walk ten paces behind me and you will whistle.”

We find Dalton. I only need to follow his trail for about ten minutes before I hear his voice. When I hear the second voice, I break into a run.

I try to sneak up, but it’s a choice between stealth and speed, and I finally give in, turn off my flashlight and rely on the bright moon to guide me as I tear through the forest. I slow when I draw near enough to see Jacob’s figure in a clearing, and I’m about to call a warning, but I see his arm rise and I don’t think—I’m on the ground, a bullet whizzing past.

“Casey!” Dalton says. “Stay where you are!”

I lay there, heart pounding.

“I’m okay, Casey,” Dalton says. “Just stay where you are. We’re working this out.”

I could almost laugh at that. His brother is holding him hostage. Bullets are whizzing past. But don’t worry, Casey, we’re working it out. So typically Dalton that I’m not sure if I want to smile or cry or scream at him.

“Jacob?” he says. “Focus on me, Jacob.”

He speaks slowly, his voice low, like calming a wild beast, and when Jacob answers, it’s only a grunt. Dalton keeps talking, in that same soothing voice. He tells his brother something’s wrong, that Jacob knows something’s wrong, that he can feel it, and they can get this fixed, that Dalton will do whatever it takes to get it fixed.

Dalton continues with variations on that and doesn’t get more than a grunt or two from Jacob, which tells me the situation has gotten worse, his brother unable even to articulate his rage. But Jacob does seem to be listening.

I can see Jacob through the trees. There’s no sign of Dalton—I’m presuming he’s sitting or lying down. When Dalton speaks, Jacob turns toward him. He even lowers the gun. At any noise from the forest, he wheels my way. Twice he fires. Then his brother’s voice lures him in again, and he forgets me.