“I’ll take it back to the station,” I say. “Her things are potential evidence. We can’t dispose of them.”

“You think she was …” She pushes her hands into her lab coat pockets, wincing as she brushes her cut finger. “Of course you do. I just can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that anyone in town would hurt her. But she was young and she was pretty and I guess, maybe, sometimes that’s enough, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Eric blames himself. He thinks he didn’t try hard enough to keep her out of the forest. He’s wrong, though. The fact she disappeared into it is—for me—the best proof she was murdered. She wouldn’t have worried him like that. Eric was … Eric was special. To Abbygail. The handsome young sheriff who rescued her.”

“She had a crush on him.”

She smiles then, her eyes brightening. “A huge crush. Not a serious interest, though. Yes, she was twenty-one, but she knew he would never see her that way. So it was a schoolgirl crush. The kind she should have had in school, but for Abbygail, that wasn’t an option. She got to have it here, instead, with her white knight. She would argue with him and pretend to rebel against his rules, but it was like a twelve-year-old girl teasing the boy she likes.” She looks at me. “If he said stay out of the woods, she’d never have gone in without good reason. Never.”

Abbygail’s belongings. Almost everything seems to have been acquired post-arrival. There are books—romance novels and nursing texts. Clothing and toiletries, all generic. An equally generic stuffed animal, the kind you get at the fair in those “everyone’s a winner” games—a creature that could be a dog, a cat, or a bear. It’s tattered enough to suggest it was one thing she did bring from home. There’s a necklace around the animal’s neck. A tin heart with a makeshift inscription. JP & AK 4ever. It looks like the sort of thing a preteen boy would give a girl, and I wonder if it’s the same one who gave her the bear—a first love, long gone, relics of another life.

I think that’s all there is. Then paper crinkles in the lining of her old suitcase. I tug it out, hoping to see some secret clue to start me on my path.

It’s a photo. The old-style Polaroid kind. But it was taken here. There are decorations in the background, as if for a party. The girl in it must be Abbygail Kemp. Dark hair. Tan skin. Mixed-race background, and I won’t speculate what it is—I hate it when anyone does that with me. Her thin face is lit up in a grin as she mugs for the camera. She looks happy. That’s my first thought—she’s so happy—and I think that’s why she kept the photo and hid it, because she wanted to remember Rockton after she left.

Then I see the whole picture. There’s someone beside her. It’s Dalton. He’s not posing for the photo. Doesn’t even seem to know it’s being snapped, because he’s looking off to the side, in the middle of saying something to someone. Abbygail is making a face behind his back, fingers raised to give him bunny ears. This is why she kept it. He’s why she kept it. Squirrelled away in the lining of her bag. I see that photo, and my heart breaks a little for a girl I never knew. A girl who was happy here in Rockton. A girl with a cheap stuffed toy and tin necklace and a picture of a man she’d never have, but that’d been okay, because she just liked the feeling of having a crush. Of being a normal girl.

Abbygail wouldn’t want Dalton to see that photo. Wouldn’t want him to know she’d held onto it. I tuck it back under the lining. I’ll keep her secret for her.

I have interviews scheduled for that afternoon. Well, they’re on my schedule. That’s all that counts in Rockton, because I have complete freedom to interview anyone I want, whenever I want, wherever I want.

Dalton tags along for the first few, making sure everyone’s playing nice with the new detective. They are. Then he’s called off on a problem—something to do with resource management, which doesn’t exactly seem like law enforcement, but I get the feeling Dalton’s job description extends well beyond throwing drunks in the cell.

I’m interviewing a guy named Pierre Lang. Two days before Abbygail disappeared, he’d hassled her at the clinic when she refused to refill a prescription without Beth’s say-so. It turned out the refill was legit, but Abbygail had no way of knowing that—the script existed only in Beth’s perfect file cabinet of a brain. So Abbygail had been right to refuse, and the delay was only an hour or two, but Pierre had gone off on her loudly enough for Kenny and a couple of the other militia boys to hear from the street and come running to her rescue.

Now Lang—a tall, fussily tidy man with a goatee—sits in the living room of his apartment, telling me how everyone overreacted.

“Including you?” I ask.

“No, Ms. Butler, I did not.”

“It’s Detective Butler.”

He bristles. I get a vibe that says he doesn’t like women very much. Or maybe it’s not a vibe as much as an extrapolation, given what I read that morning.

Lang is in Dalton’s journal. He’s one of the confirmed cases. And having read what he did, I cannot forget it, as hard as I’m trying to remain neutral.

“I did not overreact, Detective Butler. I need that medication.”

“Fluvoxamine,” I say.

“How—?” He pulls himself taut with indignation. “My medical history is my private business.”